Hidden stories.

Thirty seconds with Frankie Knuckles & Masters At Work

There are moments in life that remind you why you fell in love with music in the first place. For me, one of those moments happened in June 2001, when I was invited to play at Sónar Festival 2001 in Barcelona. At the time I was just over twenty-two years old. I was young, completely obsessed with House Music, and hungry to conquer every stage I could find.

Back then, playing Sónar was the dream. If you were a House DJ in Spain, there wasn't a bigger stage. Then I saw the lineup and reality suddenly hit me: Frankie Knuckles. Masters At Work. Artists whose records had shaped my taste and inspired countless hours behind my turntables. Somehow, my name was sitting alongside theirs.

I remember every second of that day. My set was going exactly as planned until Masters At Work arrived for the handover and a technical issue occurred in the booth. The instruction I received was simple: "Keep playing." Then I saw Louie Vega and Kenny Dope walking toward the stage.

I had packed two treasures from my personal collection: the Masters At Work limited edition gold and silver vinyl box sets. Louie Vega couldn't have been kinder, smiling and signing both box sets immediately. Kenny Dope, however, wasn't in the mood. But being stubborn, I waited for the right moment until both box sets were fully signed.

Later that night, as the festival closed, I caught a glimpse of Frankie Knuckles walking off stage. We shook hands, and with the shyness of standing in front of my greatest hero, I simply said, "Thank you." Those two seconds remain one of the most valuable memories of my entire career.

Dreams don't come true because somebody opens the door for you. They come true because you keep knocking long after everyone else would have walked away.

A night at Shelter New York

If you know anything about House Music, you know what Shelter represents. For years it was one of the spiritual homes of the underground scene, led by the legendary Timmy Regisford. As a young DJ from A Coruña, the idea of playing there was something I could never have imagined. Looking back at this flyer still gives me goosebumps.

Sharing the lineup with Jesse Saunders was surreal. Jesse produced "On and On" in 1984 on Jes Say Records, widely considered the first House Music release in history. I was standing behind the decks with one of the people who helped write the very first chapter of the music that changed my life.

The bill also featured Pal Joey, whose timeless '90s New York productions like "Party Time" defined an entire era of groove; Alexi Delano, with whom I connected instantly speaking Spanish; and Andy Hanley, the unsung hero who opened those legendary Body & Soul nights, patiently building the atmosphere.

Before the music even started, everyone gathered to watch a documentary called House Music 101 about underground US house culture. More than two decades have passed since that night, but looking at the flyer transports me straight back to that room.

Sometimes you spend years chasing your dreams, and one day you discover you were already living them.

Linda

Almost twenty years ago I found out I was going to be a father. I remember sitting there with that news, not knowing what to do with so many feelings at once. So I did what I always do. I made music.

I started imagining my daughter before she had a face, a voice or even a name. All I could think about was how beautiful she would be. That is where the title comes from. Linda means pretty in Spanish, and no other word fit.

I did not write it alone. I asked two jazz musicians I admire, Sergio Delgado and Marcelino Galán, to be part of it, and their touch gave the song a warmth I could never have found by myself.

Linda later found its way onto Café del Mar Dreams 4, one of the most famous compilations in that world. It was a dream for a young producer from Barcelona. Still, for me it will always be the song I wrote while I was waiting to meet her.

It is the first song I ever wrote for someone I had not met yet.

Sin Palabras

If Linda was the song I wrote while waiting, Sin Palabras is the one I wrote the moment she arrived. My daughter Valentina had just been born, and I was a father for the first time.

Sin palabras means without words, and that is exactly how I felt. Nothing I could say came close to the size of that feeling, so I put all of it into the music instead.

Once again I had Sergio Delgado and Marcelino Galán next to me. They are two jazz musicians who understand that sometimes the most honest thing you can do is play what you cannot say.

Almost twenty years later, it is still one of the most personal things I have ever released. Every time I hear it, I am back in that room, holding her for the first time.

Some feelings do not fit into words, so I wrote them as music.