Ray Galindo: The Accidental Historian of the Sidewalk Republic A Lester Bangs-ish Meditation on Songs, Salads, Fires, French Girls, and the Last Honest Power Popper By Somebody Who Stayed Too Long at the Coffee Shop

There are musicians who write songs. Then there are musicians who accidentally document entire civilizations. Ray Galindo belongs to the second category. 

The strange thing is that he doesn't seem particularly interested in mythology when he's living it. The mythology arrives later, after the dust settles, after the girlfriends leave, after the landlords die, after the studios close, after the receipts are filed away in drawers, and after the songs have already been recorded. Only then does the pattern emerge. You start listening to the records and realize you're not hearing a songwriter. You're hearing a witness. 

 The story begins in Tampa, Florida. Or maybe it begins in Greenwich Village. Or perhaps it starts in a Bronx apartment in the 1960s. The problem with writing about Galindo is that every story branches into three other stories before you've reached the second paragraph. The man is a human hyperlink. You ask about one song and suddenly you're standing in front of a Greenwich Village bookstand talking to a French woman named Natalie while a bowl of Bleu Cheese dressing hurtles through space. But let's try. 

Enter Natalie 

We arrive here at what might be the most Greenwich Village story ever told. Galindo was selling books on the sidewalk. Natalie was selling books to Galindo. Not good books for resale. Not hot titles. Obscure hardcovers destined for commercial oblivion. Galindo bought them anyway because he liked her. Soon he was buying her coffee. Soon she was spending entire days at the bookstand. Soon she had her own table. Soon she was helping him sell books. Soon he was falling in love. There was only one problem. Natalie already had a boyfriend. This fact emerged late in the narrative, like a plot twist delivered by a screenwriter with a cruel sense of timing. Galindo continued the friendship. The feelings remained. The song became: "A Serious Case Of I'm In Love With You." 

The Salad Heard Round the Village 

Every great romance deserves an ending. This one got a salad. One afternoon a customer needed change. Galindo asked Natalie if she could break a twenty. She could. She wouldn't. An argument followed. Somewhere in the background sat a bowl of salad adorned with enough Bleu Cheese dressing to lubricate a small engine. Then history happened. The salad became airborne. Natalie became its destination. Time stopped. Dressing dripped. Nobody understood what had just occurred. Relationship over. If you're looking for the exact moment power pop becomes performance art, there it is. A Serious Case of... The remarkable thing about the song isn't that it came from unrequited affection. Songwriters have been mining that territory since the invention of the lute. The remarkable thing is that it isn't bitter. No revenge. No resentment. No accusations. Just acceptance. "Doctor let me be." Most heartbreak songs demand a cure. Galindo writes a song about embracing the disease. That's power pop at its best. Three chords. A hook. A broken heart smiling through clenched teeth. 

Tragedy on 44th Street 

Ray Galindo's album Tragedy on 44th Street sounds like a poetic title until you learn that it isn't poetry. It's reportage. Living in a Hell's Kitchen SRO, Galindo became entangled in events that sound more like a lost Martin Scorsese screenplay than everyday life. A fire erupted in his room while he was out at a store. A tenant died attempting to escape. Authorities initially looked toward Galindo because the fire originated in his room. His salvation arrived in the least glamorous form imaginable. A store receipt. The timestamp proved he wasn't there. The shopkeeper had a copy. Case closed. The real culprit, according to the story, was a building manager who allegedly used fires as a method of removing tenants he couldn't legally evict. Years later the manager suffered a fatal heart attack in the building hallway. He called for help. The tenants watched. Nobody moved. Only after he died did someone call 911. You can argue about morality. You can argue about justice. But you can't say it's not a hell of a song title. 

The Tampa Exile In 2012

Galindo found himself in Tampa living through what he describes as a miserable year. Family disputes had left him effectively displaced from a house with deep roots in his family history. Most people would spend that year staring at walls. Galindo spent it making records. The result was Galindo Cerrato & Shea, a collaboration with John Shea and Matt Cerrato. The story is familiar because it keeps repeating itself throughout Galindo's life. A musician buys recording equipment. The musician has no songs. Ray Galindo arrives carrying enough songs to fill a warehouse. Recording begins. In this case, John Shea had Sonar. Before that, Sasha had Pro Tools. Before that, Ian had Cakewalk. Galindo's career resembles a traveling university where the tuition is paid in songs. People buy software. Ray provides the curriculum. 

The Invisible Professor 

 One of the recurring themes in Galindo's history is that he's always teaching. Not in classrooms. Not officially. Not even intentionally. A friend buys Pro Tools. Galindo shows him how to use it. Another friend buys Sonar. Galindo explains what he's learned. Another friend acquires Cakewalk. Galindo arrives with songs and experience. The records get made. The students become engineers. The songs survive. Nobody hangs a diploma on the wall. 

 

The Songs Are the Memoir 

 At some point during our conversations, Galindo made a statement that explains everything. He said: "If they want to know about me, just listen to my songs. It's all there." That's the key. The songs aren't separate from the life. The songs are the life. The French girl. The fire. The Bronx. The bookstand. The SRO. The recording sessions. The heartbreak. The absurdity. The humor. The survivors. The ghosts. The receipts. The salads. All of it ends up encoded in melodies and lyrics. Some people keep journals. Ray Galindo keeps albums. And if you listen closely enough, the records tell you everything. Not in chronological order. Not neatly. Not conveniently. But truth rarely arrives organized. It arrives the way life arrives. Messy. Funny. Heartbreaking. Ridiculous. And every once in a while, wearing a bowl of salad as a hat. 

★★★★☆