C. Tangana tells in the interview with Jordi Évole that in one of the best moments of his career, when he recorded that cool Tiny Desk video, in which he sang around a table with Kiko Veneno, La Húngara, Alizz or Antonio Carmona , He was a fool.
Évole, I don’t know why, was caught a lot of attention: one can be at the top and be terrible at the same time. Like Puchito. The story is not new: many of the people who acquire massive fame communicate with us again from above to tell us that it is cold up there. It doesn’t matter: people get it in one ear and out the other, and they keep trying to be famous, no matter what. You’ll have to experience that firsthand, right? Rich people cry too.
The very famous have a lot of money and a lot of recognition and a lot of parties, but, alas, that’s not all: they suffer from anxieties and depression, lack of vital meaning, extreme loneliness, imposter syndrome, addictions, stage fright, bankruptcies. All my life chasing fame and lo and behold, it’s not that big of a deal. These types of stories are already a genre in themselves: articles, documentaries, biopics, books that narrate rises and falls, the walk through the hells of those who are the idols of our time, from Elvis Presley to Britney Spears, from Freddy Mercury to Eugenio, the “do you know what diu?” Virtually everyone who achieves a certain level of fame is then published about their miseries and bad experiences. And the genre is engaging, I suppose because of its morbidity and because it represents a form of intimate revenge for those of us who make up the shapeless masses of Morlocks: yes, they may be famous, but they are not happy. We stay much longer flex.
Anxiety about fame grows for several reasons. When famous people were mythological and unattainable beings (they did not have social networks) it seemed impossible for us, mere mortals, to achieve fame. That left us very calm. It was unthinkable to be Lola Flores. They were people from a different background. The shine in her eyes does not change. But now we see that we have the instrument (social networks), and that many normal people, even more despicable than us, and that is to say, become famous. At least famous in her niche, because another of the characteristics of contemporary fame is that it is not global, like that of Lola Flores, but rather it goes by neighborhoods. After all, much of Instagram is about pretending to be a celebrity.
We are offered a competitive and individualistic society, so we have to generate our personal brand and compete with any neighbor’s son to achieve success. I wouldn’t like to be young now, and I feel sorry for those who attend the petalo courses to dummies like those taught by influencer Amadeo Lladós (who we already talked about the other day). In any society there is some individualism and competition, and it is natural that this is the case, because that is a facet of life, but in ours, right now, that becomes a religion that seems to want to structure everything. If you don’t admit it, you are basically lazy or ignorant.
The curious thing is that, despite this radical individualism, the insistent refrain that we can do it alone, we need others for almost everything, especially to be successful: the politician looks for voters, the writer for readers, the journalist for followers. , the musician, fans, the influencerand all the above, followers. Followers. Followers. Lots of K’s. Or an M. Our success is usually measured in the ability to convince others to appreciate us, to accept us, to buy us as the product we are. Now we have an almost scientific measure to measure our impact on our peers: the number of followers on networks that, we know, influences when advancing in the world of music, literature or journalism: a dystopian world, type Black Mirrorwhere Our destiny depends on a number that others give us. And in the end, if we succeed, we discover that fame is shit. Having said it before. Oh, they already tell us.