Fito Páez: A book of poems with nods to Fabiana Cantilo, Cecilia Roth, and a map of connections

There's a mystery or two that begins with a post on social media . The man appears, his torso clothed, saying there's a secret to be discovered in his first book of poems . The loyal audience asks in the comments if they can buy it now, if it's available in Colombia, and someone ventures a hypothesis about the mystery posed by the author. There are no answers. Neither to one thing nor the other. Twists and turns. Another cryptic announcement arrives a few days later. It's a reel with a piano in the background, the cover image is animated, a photo of John Cassavetes in an armchair, and a date slowly appears: Monday, August 11. The new questions are where, when. Ellipses.

Ah, the mystique . At the door of the Naesqui bookstore, in the Buenos Aires neighborhood of Villa Urquiza, at six o'clock in the evening sharp on the appointed day, a small group of fans is standing guard . They managed to find out that Fito Páez presents there, at that time, in that place, for a select audience of press, family, and friends, The Man with the Naked Torso . “When he arrives, ask him to sing,” a young veteran tells an older millennial, who grumbles, “Why me?” and receives the most obvious vintage response: “Because you're a woman.”

Inside, on the ground floor, several employees are running around getting everything ready. “Fito is allergic to flowers,” one announces, and others go to get the colorful vases in every corner. “What if Fito wants to draw?” “There are pencils.” And so it goes.

It's time for the meeting. They are punctually present: Adriana Fernández, director of Planeta in Argentina, which publishes the book; journalist Marcelo Panozzo, acting as editor; Ignacio Iraola, the bookstore host ; and various columnists from various print media outlets. The one who doesn't arrive is the star. It's no secret that he'll be late. "I'll be around 6:30," they say.

It's twenty to seven when the "room opens" on the first floor. The place has a window through which you can see the afternoon slowly slipping away. Neatly arranged are 40 chairs and a table with the microphone and the obligatory glasses of water. A heater is on, it quickly fills with people, and the ambient temperature goes from cozy to sweltering . Fito Paéz is playing through a speaker. It's a record; he hasn't arrived yet.

There's Alejandro Dolina , a great asset. Also on hand is writer Martín Kohan ; radio luminaries María O'Donnell and Reynaldo Sietecase ; the multifaceted Cristian Alarcón ; psychoanalyst Alexandra Kohan ; and a long list of others, including directors of cultural supplements and magazines, journalists specializing in music, and others from the "TV world."

Someone sings jokingly, but seriously, "Driver, driver, speed up the engine, we'll die of heat in this cafeteria." There's no laughter. The night has already fallen. The wait drags on a little longer. It's seven. It's a quarter past. Since nothing lasts forever, Fito Páez finally arrives .

“Hello,” Páez says when he enters , as if he hadn’t been kept waiting for an hour and change. He rips off his military-green jacket, marvels at the presence, bows to Dolina—“master, how lovely to have you here, my love” —smiles at this one, blows a kiss to that one.

In the queue left by the passing star, Martín Rodríguez , who comes as poet-advisor, friend, and author of the postface that closes the book, sparkles. They both settle down at the small table.

But things haven't even started yet. There's a general murmur in the audience, which already spills over the seats and fills the place. The family and friends who arrived with the musician, now author, or rather poet, are seated in the front row . He spreads out like a sixty-something teenager, prodding his henchman, who is already ready to deliver his words.

During the wait, there was time to read, scattered throughout, almost the entire book. It's divided into three parts : "The Man with the Bare Torso," with 24 poems; "Gauchesca," with two; and "Songs," which are six. Many are dedicated: to Fabiana Cantilo; to Romina Ricci; to their daughter, Margarita; to Cecilia Roth and part of her family ; to Sofia Gala Castiglione. And more. In these sections, a map of personal connections, in addition to aesthetic ones, is involuntarily and deliberately created.

There is poetry in Páez's songs . At a very young age, he wrote "I Come to Offer My Heart," almost a hymn à la Walt Whitman. And he built his career on the back of many other illuminations, such as "Love After Love," to take just one of the magic tricks from his always effective hat. The Man with the Bare Chest has poems that could seem like songs . For example, when he ends "A Music of Distant Stars" so phytophatically: "A rumor./ A babble./ A mask, a rumor."

He's a reader, and it shows. Or he lets it show. Or both . That information is there as underlying text in the lyrics of his albums, and now also in his book.

There are games, like Jack Torrance's Toc, the protagonist of Stephen King's The Shining , in which Páez shapes and distorts the phrase "everything in its own time." It's also possible to compile a kind of guide to some of his cultural consumption . Música en Libertad is dedicated to the great Entre Ríos poet Juan L. Ortiz, and Pickpocket is dedicated to the writer and film director César González.

Páez will say, later when he speaks, that "poetic poetry is also a mother breastfeeding." Who says all is lost? Anyway , as he will also repeat over and over again, a crutch, a rock gesture. Other poems have a political outlook. Many profess something Argentine, including the play on the back cover, which creates a map with verses.

It's 7:20 when things formally begin. It's Martín Rodríguez's turn, who recounts the work process with the musician , announcing along the way that there will soon be "something important" in the essay genre. He says he's not there, not even in the final text of the book, to help the poet. He doesn't need to. It's Fito Páez. Now the author speaks, "I'm here to show my face," he jokes.

He becomes more serious when referring to his book. "The engine of the album," he begins, corrects himself to "the record," recalculates, points, and gets it right with "the book," laughs, and concludes: "It's the same thing, in the end." He says he hadn't planned anything he's saying, but he says it. He reflects on art and its processes. He talks about current events. He rambles on without losing the thread. He moves on to action. Then comes the moment I do plan.

Fito Páez stands up and announces: “We’re going to make music.” He needs 32 people to participate, he announces. He hands out books, and when they run out, he complains, “You can do what you can,” continuing with photocopied pages. “This isn’t about poetry anymore, and it’s going to be beautiful,” he announces with a smile, and gives it the exact title: “It’s a twelve-tone reading.”

All the voices read, and a murmur of words forms , which gradually end, and the sound becomes more specific until there are three, two voices, and finally one, Ricci's, which breaks a little, moved , and resumes until the final verse: "Love is the exact dimension where I want to live." Applause.

The discussion continues for a while. Páez now reads the poem "Familia gaucha." He announces that it will be in a "tone that many people know from home." There is knowing laughter, and then he interprets his verses with a country accent. There is laughter. He finishes. More applause. "That was it," says Páez. A little more applause. It's eight o'clock. Still, the evening isn't over yet. It has a third movement.

The ground floor awaits select guests with a selection of cheeses and wine for the toast. Friendly groups are forming and chatting. Fito Páez is missing, again, as at the beginning, in a rounded closing. Outside, on the corner, in front of the bookstore, the group of fans remains rooted to the spot. There's also a knife-edge of love: a security guard with a stern expression. There's nothing to control; they're few and friendly. One has a bandoneon, which is a matter of faith. They wait.