Raül Refree: "I woke up after playing the piano and all the keys were covered in blood."

BarcelonaThe musical biography of Raül Fernandez Miró (Barcelona, ​​1976), known professionally as Raül Refree, was born amidst frustrating piano lessons and the speed of melodic hardcore, and also touches on the musical biographies of artists such as RosalíaSilvia Pérez Cruz, Albert Pla, and Rodrigo Cuevas. A champion of contrast, this composer and producer so soon shares stage and records with Niño de Elche com composes soundtracks for the Javis (in the series The Messiah). Now it is also expressed in a book: When everything falls into place: Notes on creativity (Debate, 2025).

In the book you explain that you were asked to play a song by Los Enemigos at a friend's funeral, and that at that moment you understood the meaning of music.

— A friend died suddenly, abruptly, and I was asked to play at the funeral From the mattress, from Los Enemigos, because he liked them a lot. At first, I said no. It didn't seem like it was my place. And a friend, Abel [former singer of Corn Flakes and currently a programmer for Primavera Sound], made a point that convinced me completely. He said: "Look, you do something, which is making music, and that has its greatest importance and meaning in these kinds of celebrations. In joyful celebrations, like weddings and parties, and in funerals, because music is a unifying element of the community."

And when you create, have you ever had a moment where you noticed that everything makes sense, that is, that everything fits together?

— Yes. I give an example in the book, but I could give others. I was working on the music for The Messiah, the series by Los JavisAnd there was one scene that was very important to them: the moment when Montserrat, the mother of the family, noticed that she was beginning to connect with God. They had included the Messiah, by Handel, but it was a reference, and I composed other pieces. They would tell me, "That's fine, yes, yes." But we all knew there was something that wasn't quite right. And that's when I reread the Messiah Suddenly, we realized that's what it was, that it couldn't be anything else. It fit.

You also mention that you feel comfortable on the tightrope. What does this mean?

— In the albums I've made in recent years, I've liked what I decided not to do more than what I ended up doing. Sometimes, the decision not to do something is more important than the decision to do it. Another lesson I've learned throughout my life is to embrace the unexpected and mistakes. Instead of expecting everything to always turn out the same and wanting to repeat what I did one day that more or less worked, I've found my way to enjoy making music, which for me is a 100% playful act. After the interview, I'll be in the studio working on the film's soundtrack. The black ball, From the Javis, I imagine doing it with a real desire for something playful. When you embrace mistakes, you accept that you're walking on glass, that it's very fragile, but you can also take it in an interesting direction. I think that a large part of the compositions I've created in recent years have emerged from mistakes.

If this book were a superhero story, your arch-enemies would be music teachers and academic musicians.

— I understand that teaching should establish a method that works for a very broad range of people, but it still surprises me that after so many years I still encounter advanced students who decide to stop playing the instrument they're studying, only to end up bored with it. I think the playful aspect of teaching is forgotten in favor of technique and a search for something that ultimately homogenizes the student. It was very difficult for me, but I accepted that I was a very poor reproducer. Even now, many years later and with a profession, I'm still quite incapable of doing things the way they should be done. But, on the other hand, I'm capable of doing something different, something new. Often, when people think about my vision of popular music, they think I've broken with it or wanted to dismantle it. That's not it. I don't approach a genre and say that I'm going to tear it in half. My way of playing it is perhaps to listen to Niño Ricardo playing the guitar, and then I play trying to do the same, and something else comes out. It's my nature. It's neither better nor worse, it's about accepting yourself.

When you've pushed a convention to its limits, it's often been alongside artists who have deeply internalized the convention. For example, Rocío Márquez with flamenco And Rosalía with the ancient songs. You act from a place of ignorance, as you explain in the book, but alongside someone who has a very deep knowledge.

— The lack of knowledge I'm referring to is somewhat deceptive. I'm not against learning. There are many ways to learn. It's not just about studying music, but also about listening to it. I see many musicians, even professional ones, who stop listening to music. In the end, the more I've learned, the more I've listened to others. I'm a music lover first and foremost.

When you've made these intuitive explorations, you've received fierce hatred, like when on tour Los Angeles With Rosalía, there were people calling for the guitarist's hands to be cut off—that was you. Understanding that musicians and creators always work on a fine line between narcissism and vulnerability, how do you take these kinds of comments?

— This line between the two is interesting. It sounds good in interviews to say, "I keep my ego in check, I don't have an ego, I don't know what." And I think, "Wow, you don't have an ego? How do you do it?" Because ego is absolutely necessary precisely in these fragile moments. It's like a life preserver; you're in a storm and you can grab onto your ego. If you don't believe in yourself, it's very difficult. My relationship with the more orthodox or purist types has been complex. And in flamenco and traditional music in general, there are a number of people, whom I think are very necessary, who decide that things must be maintained in a specific way. For example, they want to keep flamenco exactly as it was in the 1970s, as if this were the original flamenco, and they forget how the old masters played. And the most striking thing is that, as Pedro G. Romero told me, and as others have also said, my playing style—much less orthodox, much dirtier, much more punk—linked me to the flamenco guitarists of the 1940s, who played thinking much more about the voice, less about technique, less about dynamics, about creating emotion. The purists now see me as an outsider, as someone who does his own thing, but they don't criticize me anymore. But there was a tough time, that's for sure.

The thing about ego and punk is interesting. Let's start with punk. How do you remember those early years playing with Corn Flakes, a band of hardcore Melodic? What remains of that Raúl?

— I think there's still a lot to learn. I've actually learned the foundation of who I am now. Sometimes I listen to things I did back then and I understand that I wasn't able to communicate what I wanted; I didn't have the tools yet. But I see things I wanted to say that aren't so far removed from what I say now.

Raül Refree is defined by both your own work and all the projects you've done on other artists' albums. I'd like to give you a brief overview, especially so you can explain what each project has contributed to your career. For example, Albert Pla.

— Albert is the epitome of a personality where, above technique and convention, what truly matters and is exciting is the person. He's a unique stage animal and a tremendous transmitter of emotions. Let me tell you an anecdote. Los Javis, when it aired The MessiahThey had in mind something called the New Year's Concert: a concert in which scenes from The Messiah They are happening in real time with the actors, and the corresponding soundtrack is performed with an orchestra and heartfelt emotion. It was performed only once in a Madrid theater. In rehearsals, one of the songs we played was Religious experience [Enrique Iglesias' version]. We were doing it with a group of 60 people, a string section, a huge number of people... and then Albert, who was singing the song, appeared. I started playing the piano, and Albert began to sing, but very softly, almost whispering. I could see the other musicians looking uncomfortable, glancing at each other: what's going on here? They couldn't understand how someone could start singing like that, and it caused the group to suddenly sing completely differently, much more softly. And when Albert started singing, it was like a release for the group. I mean, Albert's style and personality are captivating, just like great artists captivate everyone else.

Silvia Pérez Cruz, with whom you had a very intense musical relationship.

— We played together for ten years, with Silvia. I learned a lot from her, and I hope it was reciprocal. We made the Las Migas album, Queens of the smugglingWe did the project ImmigrationWe played live for a long time before recording, we did theNovember 11 we also did GrenadeThis is surely the culmination of a very intense relationship, because we understood each other very deeply. And well, like all intense relationships, it's not forever. I always told Silvia this. But I'm very happy with the legacy we created. Silvia has a spectacular voice, and I think she's also a musician with a very powerful creative mind.

Rosalía?

— There's a story about Rosalía that I like to tell because I think it's very beautiful. We were introduced by the journalist and composer Luis Troquel, who was certain we should meet. But I was with Grenade At that time, Rosalía had no idea about making an album with me either. We started meeting up: she'd come to the studio maybe once a week, and we'd spend the afternoon together listening to music. We didn't play. We spent months watching YouTube and listening to tracks on Spotify. She showed me a lot of music, and I showed her things I liked, but we didn't play together. We became musical friends without any interest in making an album. One day I lent her the CD. And see a darkness, from Bonnie Prince Billy. And completely spontaneously, she started singing and I started playing. We finished, we just looked at each other and felt that connection. And we said: "Well, we have to do something about all this."Rosalía is a contemporary artist who has a very clear concept, and who, aside from being very talented, understands that everything is linked to a concept, and that the artistic concept is very important. I think she has never abandoned this. She has achieved something very complex, which is to reach the public without losing that artistic force.

Reclaiming the ego. On the cover of Grenade Your name and Silvia's appear. And both names are on the album with Lina as well. However, in Los Angeles Only Rosalía's name and face appear, and The interviews were now only done with herHow did you take it?

— This was my decision. I could have put my name on it, but at that time, coming from playing Grenade With Silvia, from such a powerful duo that had had such a huge impact, I felt it could be too much of a burden for a new voice. And I also didn't want anyone to think I'd just replaced one voice with another. It was my decision. Look, let's take all the weight off your shoulders, let's make sure you're able to start cleanly, and we'll remove my name, even though we're both in the back cover photo. It was good to take all the weight off what I had done before.

With other artists, you've had a producer relationship in the more conventional sense. For example, Roger Mas, Els Pets, Cocanha... What positive things do you take away from these experiences? And what wouldn't you want to repeat?

— Roger Mas was the first major artist who asked me to produce an album for him.Domestic Mysticism[in 2006]. For me, it was very important, and I learned a lot for many reasons. One, precisely because I think I did things well and things badly. Perhaps things badly that I've learned in retrospect shouldn't be done. You have to adapt to the artist's pace of assimilating what you're doing. And at that time, I think I made decisions at a speed that made him feel a bit out of touch with what was happening. And perhaps that album sounded a bit external. That's why, when it came time to mix, he told me, "Listen, Raúl, I'd rather do them myself." And I understood. I've always been mindful of making sure the other person felt comfortable with what was happening. I like to think of music as a shared journey where you arrive at unexpected places, which are sometimes not easy. And it has to be very intense, and you also have to be very psychologically astute. But I've learned things from each of the artists and albums I've worked with, and that's very important. These are things that have influenced the things I've done in the next step. In the end, no matter how much I've worked for other people, these are still albums in which I've put everything I had.

In the book, you recall your natural shyness. You also explain that, even when you're leading a personal project, you still place great importance on a tour you did with Josh Rouse, and the one you did later with Lee Ranaldo. Does not being a leader free you from some burden?

— Absolutely. I remember one of the last concerts with Refree singing. It was at the Auditori, and it wasn't full; maybe half the audience. And I thought, "I'm tired of this, of putting in this effort, of leading something that's so difficult sometimes." Over time, I've come to understand that with my approach to music—free and unafraid of experimentation—this is what happens: some concerts have 200 or 300 people, and others have 1,200 or 2,000. I've accepted this, but at the time I thought I was exhausted. And then suddenly I started playing with Josh and later with Lee, and being able to do an extensive tour in the United States and Europe, but without the stress... I enjoyed it because I love playing, I love the music I was playing, and I didn't have to be thinking about interviews or whether there would be an audience or not, or whether the numbers would add up.

What is your best memory related to music? And what is a memory, also related to music, that you would like to forget?

— I'll start with the second one, which is easier. My mother tells me I always remember the bad things. I don't know why, because I remember many good things. The bad memories I have are those endless piano lessons where I was incapable of doing what they wanted, and the person next to her couldn't see any talent or interest in me. I would arrive at the lessons without having the sheet music clear, but with an idea for a very simple little song that perhaps wasn't very important, but then you have a kid who brings you a little creation and maybe you have to encourage it. And I remember that not only was this not well-received, but I was booed and told I wasn't cut out for it.

In the book you talk about a bad experience when you were about eight years old, when in music class you decided to make a piece of the Mikrokosmos, by Bartók, but when it comes time to play you don't get ahead.

— I can't do it, and the cold sweat starts. At that moment, I couldn't imagine that what was happening to me then is what happens to me constantly now, creating something new that actually works. For me, going on stage for a long time was synonymous with suffering. Miles Davis said that creation shouldn't be suffering, but something playful, fun. And for me, doing a concert meant suffering and getting sick the day before. This is perhaps the worst part. And surely the best part of making music now is when I manage to free myself from myself, from my body, from the stage. I feel a bit awkward explaining this because it might sound a bit much. hippieBut then you get rid of the ego and end up in a kind of disembodied space. Like I said, it's a bit... hippieBut sometimes I'm performing live and I have a real trip; I forget I'm playing in that place, that there are people in front of me, and I'm simply reacting to something I feel. With Paco, Niño de Elche, it's happened to me several times: I'd get up after playing the piano and all the keys were covered in blood, spattered with blood. How powerful it can be to have this trip where this incorporeality makes you not even feel the pain.