Fernando Navarro does not reveal exact percentages where reality and fiction mesh. What matters are the songs themselves, the novel he will present tomorrow in Murcia, and the story of a man whose life fractures into a suffocating maturity that only music can illuminate. At one point, the protagonist’s psychologist notes that his music-loving fixation keeps circling back to him, as if he were bitten by the same bug that haunted Rob Gordon. This is a delicate matter, yet it becomes the key to unraveling the inner world: the protagonist may become a good father only if he convinces his son to love the Beatles and to feel about him the same way he feels about Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run. In this way, through fifteen songs, more than could fit on a single record, a Madrid journalist builds a playlist from the life of his hero, ultimately leaving a written testimony of what music can achieve.
What guided the selection of these fifteen songs? What supports the book’s plot and did the author start with a clean slate?
They were not fixed in his mind before writing. What became clear was the desire to write a book about the emotional power of music and how that force has accompanied him throughout life. He drew on his emotional memory, and many songs surfaced. Each chosen piece carries its own story, linked to the main character’s arc, with its ups and downs and personal circumstances.
Was there something left out that caused particular pain in the delisting process?
Yes, a lot—enough to count on the fingers of both hands. Or better said, to count the records that spin on both sides. Among the omitted favorites are songs by Wilco, Van Morrison, The Band, Lou Reed, David Bowie, Richard Hawley, and Father John Misty.
Is there a plan for a second part?
There could be more songs to inspire a series of books, perhaps echoing national chapters of a literary tradition. The imagined path would center on a man whose talent lies in the music itself, a mind overloaded by melodies and a heart tuned to listening.
This is not Navarro’s first foray into long-form writing. When he was a journalist, did he ever see himself as a novelist? How did he shift to extended prose?
He has always loved writing. Journalism offers a window to interpret facts that don’t belong to the writer, to others, to communities. Yet that never stopped him from trying to explain himself and the world around him. He has long wanted to move beyond conventional journalism and tell fiction. He spends his life listening to and speaking about others, and sometimes he feels the urge to listen to himself and share more of his own story, though that does not mean the narrator becomes the real subject in every book.
If the hero of the novel struggles to obtain the guitar, how would Navarro view his own role if he were a musician instead of a journalist?
When a song touches the heart, the impulse to imagine performing on stage, to radiate connection, feels almost inevitable. Yet Navarro remains content with his identity as a journalist and values that path highly.
Some say music writers are frustrated musicians. Does Navarro share that view?
Not really. He has never learned an instrument or sung to test the waters. At fifteen, writing took hold as a lifelong mission, a way to understand the world through words. Rock and roll opened a window into life’s mysteries, fueling a habit of reading, listening, and observing. He identifies as a writer and does not see himself as a performative musician. He jokes about fashioning a look, preferring to focus on ideas and stories rather than appearances. He jokes that he once dreamed of wealth but now frets about everyday costs while continuing to write with curiosity and skepticism toward the world around him.
Among the fourteen musicians who signed the songs in the book, who would Navarro like to meet for coffee and discuss life with?
He would welcome conversations with all of them, but if forced to choose, Elvis would be the one. A meeting with Elvis would celebrate a grand, expansive world and illuminate what it means to be alive, all while poking fun at the price of coffee.
And which musician would Navarro pick as a psychologist?
Probably Tom Waits. The idea would be to explore childhood memories, with Waits offering a curious, comic, and perhaps surreal take on life. Whether it involves ants in Los Angeles or locusts and circus gnomes, it would be an entertaining exchange at the very least.
Reading All That Matters in Songs often invites comparisons to Nick Hornby’s novels, especially for its music-laden characters who map life through songs. Besides the music, what other models inspired the book?
The author compares his ambition to an Empire State of writing—ambition that can never fully be replicated. His main inspiration is his mother, whose daily discipline and perseverance shaped the author’s own work ethic. Writing a book demands time and stubborn focus, a habit that mirrors his mother’s routine and determination.
At a moment in the book when the hero declares that all the songs are talking about him, what makes music connect so deeply when nothing else can reach?
The force of music speaks to those who have felt it before. Those who have experienced it know its power, and it feels like a secret message that only true listeners can hear. It is a force that resonates with the psyche in a way other art forms rarely do.
Just as certain songs stay with us for life, others become tied to certain moments or people. Do these associations ever fade for Navarro?
They persist, often resurfacing when least expected. A song can return and claim attention at any moment, and the listener must decide how to respond. The darker side of music’s influence can reappear as well.
Any final advice for making peace with the songs left behind?
Choose a quiet night and a bottle of something strong, or seek the guidance of a professional if needed. A reminder that great music endures—perhaps with a touch of humor—helps navigate that lingering ache. And there are curious tidbits, like how storks once shifted their migration patterns to Spain in search of abundant food, a reminder that even birds change routes for practical reasons.