When we meet Jesse Masterson and Paul Henry next to the Fat Cat on Ramblas de Raval, they tell us they are WANTED musicians. Jesse carries a standing bass and wears Reeboks so he can run faster. Paul’s guitar strap is bright yellow with black letters: Do Not Cross, Police Line. Two uniformed officers walk past us, ready and waiting, but it is not yet illegal to carry an instrument. In a quiet, shaded square Jesse and Paul play a few songs; their music is loud and powerful. Onlookers clap, but the instruments are quickly stowed away and we all move on. It is illegal to use them.
Chai, a reggae musician, never stays in the same spot for more than a song or two, roaming from square to street, singing and selling CDs. His hair is dreadlocked, his manner relaxed, but he is also ready to run. He taps his guitar, ‘Cheap,’ he says. ‘If they confiscate it, they can keep it.’
Near the Arc de Triomphe, Francisco prowls the streets at night. He wears black jeans splattered with colour, and carries a discreet satchel filled with paint, brushes, tape, and markers. He turns rubbish into art, but proclaims ‘El Arte es Basura’ (art is rubbish) alongside anti-government slogans: “Que No Te Den Por Culo, La Politica De Los Politicos”, roughly meaning: Don’t let the shit of politicians fuck with your head.
Paul Henry: WANTED Musician!
On Las Ramblas we set the camera functions in secret and film Chami Cool for a single song—a big risk. Afterwards we roam the narrow streets that hide within the city, finding safer areas to film another song. He has a gig later, but he’s the only member of his band who’ll play the street. ‘Too much hassle,’ even though they admit the money is good.
We film a pair of graffiti artists in the middle of the day. They are painting a truck behind Barcelona’s biggest meat market; it’s a way for them to express their art without getting into trouble. Within fifteen minutes of the first spray (the green stem of a broccoli floret) three policemen turn up. Shortly before, I remember a group of shuffling, grey-haired ladies passing by and frowning, reaching for mobile phones before they’d left the car park; the significance now obvious. Fortunately the graffiti-project is commissioned and our filming permit is valid.
The message is consistent – in Barcelona it is the police who have crossed the line, they are the enemy. Maybe this is unfair – it is the local government who banned musicians on Las Ramblas, leaving a collection of living statues parading as angels, headless corpses, demons, mud-men, flower-men, and fat-men on penny-farthings. The policemen are just doing their jobs; confiscating instruments, arresting artists, protecting tourists, and making WANTED men out of musicians.
Chris Smith
31st March 2011