The Delirious Genesis of Siniestro Total Revived in a Book

Vigo, November 1975. More precisely, the twentieth of November. The city is filled with children at odd hours: classes have been cancelled due to Franco's death, and a certain Alberto Torrado urgently contacts a certain Julián Hernández. They are fifteen years old, and what he has to say almost matters more than the dictator's death: he has just been gifted an electric guitar. Julián does not hesitate to show up immediately, and fascinated by the world's most coveted gadget, they make their first recording. The primordial embryo of Siniestro Total. When discussing the post-Franco creativity explosion, few times can one be so precise, pinpointing a countercultural Big Bang just a couple of hours after "Spaniards, Franco is dead." But that's how it was.

The book by journalist Sara Morales begins with this episode, 'Cuándo se come aquí: el gran golpe de Siniestro Total', published by Efe Eme. The book focuses on one album—the debut—but as a bonus, it tells us all the origins (yes, including the sinister car accident). Morales has a long career in music journalism and experience investigating this era: she was the creator of 'Conversaciones con Ana Curra', where the legendary member of Pegamoides and Parálisis Permanente opened up for the first time to tell her devastating story. For Morales, it was a key experience: "It was the great enigma of our rock, because she had never spoken, she was very comfortable in the underground world, as opposed to an Alaska of reality shows and Wizink Centers. The book helps us both and creates a beautiful friendship between the two, and she certainly has a brutal vitality and a sense of humour that puts us all to shame."

So now it was time to delve into the history—and mindset—of Siniestro Total in their very first stage. And, just like in Curra's book, the direct style is used: Morales makes introductions to each episode, but then gives free rein and very well orders the testimonies collected over months, asking all the involved parties. "I always knew they were the ones who had to tell it. It's one of the albums of my life, I know it by heart, and I could have spent pages and pages writing, but the beauty in this case was to gather them all, even if they are in different places and times, and compose the story through their voices and memories." This way, we get to know them even by how they speak, what they remember most vividly, what still amuses them, and what doesn't.

Far from being a collection of anecdotes, the narrative is fascinating from start to finish. Moreover, if it wasn't obvious, those who had the nerve to write 'Los esqueletos no tienen pilila' are still genuinely funny, and it shows in the text. For example, the most visible face: "Julián has enormous mental agility, exquisite memory, and is very outspoken. His humour moves between darkness and acidity, but always towards intelligence." This might surprise some, but one of the keys is that these youngsters were full of culture and influences, and they voluntarily chose silliness because they also found it interesting (it could be compared, saving the distances, to the Manchegos of Muchachada Nui). "You can talk to Julián about anything, and it's all cultural, cinematic, musical, of course literary references… you can talk about history, because he loves it… he's a great sage." It was difficult, though, to organise the events in a very fast-paced era where the young's hunger for cultural novelty seemed insatiable.

"See? You're already idolising," comments Sara Morales, as both Curra and Hernández tell her. "Don't be so nostalgic, it was tough back then, we came from a time where we weren't allowed to do anything, and when we could, there were no means." But it's very hard not to fall in love retrospectively with a context of great creativity with little money, with craziness like composing over a landline (Madrid-Vigo), debuting in the Salesians' auditorium, chasing radio hosts down the street, or that, quite naturally, in a bar someone tells you "there's a guy who comes by sometimes who looks like you. Maybe you'll get along" and find your singer that way.

And it was, of course, Germán Coppini (who passed away in 2013), who is portrayed in the book as a true stage beast. Shortly after the album, he left in favour of Golpes Bajos, where he could explore different concerns (his new bandmates, Teo Cardalda and Pablo Novoa, also participate abundantly in the book). It was a natural step, though tough, as Sara Morales recounts: "Coppini was getting tired of 'Los chochos voladores' and 'Matar jipis en las Cíes', he wanted something a bit more intense. They [Siniestro Total] lived it hard at the time, of course, because they were just starting, everyone was beginning to pay attention to them, and they lost their 'frontman'. And on top of that, he went to a place where everyone played very well." But it wasn't the end: very few bands in history have split into two and both have managed to continue with great success (and with such different styles). And partly because Coppini arrived a bit later, and the most involved were the others. He didn't seem obsessed with stardom either, and he didn't even sing all the songs on the album, as Miguel Costas, according to Morales "the great punk, with that innate mischief" provides the voice on a good number of them. Costas and Alberto Torrado—according to Morales "more prudent"—also left the group in subsequent years, but participated in the final concerts of the 40th anniversary in 2022 and, of course, in this book.

At the presentation in Madrid, at the Antonio Machado bookstore this January, many of the links that made the group's success possible gathered. Óscar Mariné as the designer of the cover inspired by Lucky Luke, one of the great successes (he commented that many children asked their parents for the album, to absolute horror when played at home), Servando Carballar, great genius of Aviador Dro and the DRO label, who decided to record them, and Jesús Ordovás, who in the early days of Radio 3 decided to risk dismissal by broadcasting the demo (and weeks later, he said, hundreds of recordings from all over Spain imitating Siniestro Total arrived). In an afternoon full of humour, also with Julián Hernández, Ana Curra, and of course Sara Morales present, the legendary host said with a big smile: "take a picture of us all together, soon we'll start to be missing."

The album was a success because, as Morales says, the stars aligned. It's a "great blow" against the decorum of the time perpetrated by some hooligans who "didn't even expect to reach the second album", in times of spontaneity and recklessness, and there was a craving for that. However, a leisurely listen reveals a more complex and varied album than it seems, and at the same time with a certain unexpected internal coherence. "They don't show it, but through the music they leave clues that there's much more behind. It's more elegant than lecturing. Costas puts it very well, 'We were tired of everything being a hardship and a misfortune. Let's have fun, let's live life, this lasts two days'. They didn't talk about Proust or Kafka, but you can talk to Julián about Kafka, you can talk to Costas about Larra…" The book also reflects the aging of the songs, and what they remember about each one, and if they still find them funny (almost all of them do). It's the kind of product that anyone would say can't be made today: "The album today wouldn't be censored because there's no censorship, but it would remain buried, very underground, because it's really cheeky. And nowadays everything is limited, restrained, very correct," Morales comments.

Reading the book and immersing oneself in the era, it's striking how processes, music distribution, and ideas have changed. There used to be few channels, they were paid more attention, today paradoxically you're nobody if you don't go through very few channels (Spotify, Instagram…) and with brutal competition. Sara Morales is a music journalist—and director of the Efe Eme magazine—and in our conversation, we try to be optimistic but find it difficult. "The industry has changed because of the issue of networks. There's too much noise around now, and we're stuck in our little screens and our ego and vanity, yes I notice that inertia. I see we're heading, if we're not careful, towards many isolation issues, anxieties, depressions from stopping socialising. I see many shortcomings and many evils, but, how do you get out of the mess? Also, I tell you I'm in a very nihilistic moment…"

She receives musical news, a real avalanche especially on Fridays. "There's an overabundance of everything: information, offers, stimuli, festivals, and bands." And also, she acknowledges, of music books. "And in the media, we are people with children, with obligations, bills, doctors… And you have to have time to sift through, because not everything is good. Everyone deserves a chance, of course, but if everything is good you devalue the one who truly matters." Nonetheless, she is very happy with today's scene: "Many wonderful things are happening and we have to pay attention to them. Bands like Biznaga, Las Odio, Alcalá Norte, Repion. Let's give them a voice."

Manuel Azaña is credited with that wonderful and sceptical phrase: if someone wants to hide a secret in Spain, let them put it in a book and publish it. And in this volume, there's a huge one. "It's the book's great exclusive, and not all of you have reached that conclusion," says Morales smiling. The thing is, this revelation isn't about Siniestro Total's album, but about Golpes Bajos' most famous song (with permission from 'No mires a los ojos de la gente'): 'Malos tiempos para la lírica', one of the pinnacles of Spanish pop rock of all time. Julián Hernández argues that it wasn't written by Coppini, the quintessential lyricist especially recognised for this song, but that a classmate—an absolute mystery—passed it to him on a piece of paper, a lyric rejected by Siniestro Total for, let's say, not resembling their usual line (remember: 'Me pica un huevo', 'Las tetas de mi novia').

Teo Cardalda's version is different: in one extraordinary afternoon, they composed the two songs hand in hand: 'No mires…' and 'Malos tiempos…' (hats off), although the origin of the lyrics remains unclear. More details, of course, inside the book. And a hint at the presentation: Hernández said that at some moments the reading was like 'Rashomon', that fascinating Kurosawa film where four versions of a crime are presented without ever clarifying what happened. Morales put each one's statements, didn't close the case, but when asked which version she believes more, she sharpens her perceptive gaze and is clear: "Julián's."