Fran Perea and the goldmine of fifty-somethings singing pop

Fifty-somethings with grey hair singing pop: the nostalgia goldmine

What drives a man over fifty, grey hair included, to step onto a stage and sing pop wearing his father's trousers and a t-shirt for feeding the animals? Fran Perea's latest concert has sparked that debate: the actor-turned-singer has been the target of mockery over his outfit and his setlist, and he has responded with good humour that the comments have kept his ego in check. He has also recounted how the night ended: an attendee snapped at him, "had you eaten chickpeas for dinner?" The tweet has since been deleted.

The outfit doesn't match the persona

The most repeated criticism isn't about the songs, but the staging. His rock-star, high-energy style, part of the audience argues, suits neither Perea nor the type of song, which is closer to a calm acoustic ballad. And the wardrobe —brown and black, trousers from another era— seals the impression: doesn't anyone advise him on his image? Some go further and quip that with this level of Spanish artistry even Iron Maiden should be trembling. The jab is exaggerated; the aesthetic diagnosis, widely shared.

Why does a fifty-something know Hotel California by heart?

Because the songs you listen to when you're young never leave you. That is the argument made in the singer's defence: there are bands and songs that are part of the individual consciousness forged in youth, and denying someone the right to sing them is denying them their own past. The example is telling: anyone can recite Hotel California down to the commas, that song with which many had their first flings. Nostalgia isn't the whim of a man with a microphone; it's memory.

The generation that bought two houses with a high school diploma

Here the matter stops being aesthetic and becomes economic. Against the mockery of the fifty-something playing the fool, a more uncomfortable reproach emerges: the supposed wisdom of the elders came from a world of war and hunger that hardly exists anymore. Those who truly endured hardship are now 90 years old, or 85 at most. The rest —those who danced ye-ye at the guateques (teen dance parties) of the sixties— neither went hungry nor lived through a war, and on top of that they caught the greatest economic boom in Spain's history: with a high school diploma and being a serious worker, the story goes, you could support two houses, a car, a vvife and three children.

The contrast with the present is the real crux. Because if the reproach against the singer is that he has no past, the deeper reproach is that his generation had it all and everyone else arrived too late. Nostalgia, in that sense, isn't debated: it's monetised. And while some laugh at the brown trousers, others laugh —less kindly— at those who still believe it was the chickpeas' fault.