Madrid. Thursday, November 21. The headquarters of Universal. At 2:00 PM, on the landing of a second floor, a voice is heard: measured, fragile, unmistakable. Miguel Rafael Martos Sánchez, born in Linares on May 5, 1943, has sat in a chair since 9:30. He is promoting the latest album, ‘Ayer… aún’, in a cluttered cycle of interviews with a long list of journalists. They are the last to arrive. They stop listening to him and, after a moment, he comes into view, standing. Smiling. Wearing a blue suit and a red turtleneck. You may pass, his team invites. They cross a glass door.
Interviewer: How should we address you?
Raphael: Pardon?
Interviewer: Should it be formal or informal, you or thou?
Raphael: Please. Use informal you, use you both.
The few who know him warn that he can be elusive with the press. Not fond of in-depth interrogations, he tends to open up only when speaking about his world: the artistry. Before the recorder starts, he indulges in stories from the past. “I once took Pastora Imperio to a TV program. She wasn’t dancing anymore, but she lifted her arms and it was marvelous.” To sing his truth, he leans on the songs, petals of his life; the rest remains wrapped in the persona of a man who stands small in stature, 81 years old, impeccably mannered, and quietly reserved. He is nothing like the perennial singer who, today, still tours. Soon he will perform in Seville, with a string of concerts at the Fibes Auditorium.
Raphael is described as a mysterious, almost trivial, force. The character is empowered, the person less so. His career path seems to have little mystery beyond a stubborn resolve that verges on the edge of delirium. Everything clicks on stage. In his cradle, there is little beyond four stars—his wife and three children—and memories of a universal Andalusian who has lived in Madrid since he was nine months old and who began singing before he could speak, in a sacred choir of angelic voices. His latest album, number 86, is a tribute to the idols of his youth: Aznavour, Bécaud, Brend, Yves Montand, and, at the very top, Piaf.
Interviewer: Do you speak French?
Raphael: No.
Interviewer: A little?
Raphael: A little. Go on, I can understand it quite well. I sing it fairly well.
Interviewer: I’ve seen you perform at the Paris Olympia.
Raphael: Yes, yes!
Interviewer: The new album is titled ‘Ayer… aún’. With your permission, shall we ignite the gramophone of childhood?
Raphael: Of my childhood?
Interviewer: He started singing at the age of four, maybe three…
Raphael: Four years old.
Interviewer: Do you remember the first song you sang?
Raphael: No. They were choir songs. When I was four, a test came along because my older brother attended a school of Capuchin Fathers and they needed a high voice for the choir. The friar asked to bring me in. I entered and did not leave until I was ten.
Interviewer: Did the Linares roosters bring with them the marks of French chanson?
Raphael: Yes, but I cannot specify when that style began. When I left school, my taste for music was a core part of me; it wasn’t about traditional church songs. I loved Spanish songs too much. That is why I released Andaluz, an album where I sang all the songs of Rafael de León. I did it in the nineties. I started listening to French songs during radio competitions; I used them because I loved them.
Raphael: My idols grew to include Aznavour, Bécaud, Brend, Yves Montand, and especially Piaf. Once, I was hired in Valencia to open a concert for Madame Piaf during the Fall festivals. She was ill, so I went on, and she did not. That’s how certain moments formed a path that eventually led me here. I always dreamed of going to the Olympia to invite Piaf to sing with me, though she had passed away by then.
Interviewer: A memory that seems to linger.
Raphael: It’s about the way things unfold. When I took the stage, I believed in the possibility of making my mark. Before, people saw someone who moved his hands and that was enough to win them over. People liked it; it mattered.
Interviewer: Manuel Alejandro described you as having “Franciscan austerity.”
Raphael: He is right about some parts—how I approach my career and how I prepare my work. He knows that well.
Interviewer: In those early days, your path looked like a long climb. Why was it so hard?
Raphael: Because there was a belief that one could not stay at the top forever. You record a successful album, and suddenly you vanish the next year. It’s all the same now; what mattered yesterday can be forgotten tomorrow. That volatility is terrible, and it’s still with us.
Raphael: To become someone in this field, there’s a trait common to us Andalusians—solera, a deep sense of history that lets you tell your story to the audience through song. That’s what Manolo does with his songs: he reaches back into his history. When I sing, I reach into mine. It isn’t something you learn in a year. When I began, people thought I moved my hands too much; they didn’t expect a man from their city to captivate them so fully, yet they liked it.
Interviewer: Before fame, you played in clubs that housed prostitutes.
Raphael: No, not there. Manolo Alejandro invited me to the stage elsewhere. I couldn’t get in at first; there was a balcony behind the piano where the street could be seen, so I sat on the floor behind the piano and listened as he played the songs. A year later I had the chance to work at a place called La Galera on Villalar Street, where I sang for the ladies.
Interviewer: Life lessons, then.
Raphael: Yes, the years in those rooms were meaningful. The audience was magnificent; the public was wonderful every afternoon for a month as Manolo played and I sang. They were beautiful times.
Interviewer: In that very early environment, did you ever sing the French songs you’ve since recorded? Some had Spanish lyrics back then.
Raphael: At times I hummed French tunes with Spanish lyrics. Some of them became huge hits for me in Spanish, like Ma Vie, originally by Alain Barrière, and My Way, originally Claude François, later adapted by Paul Anka; the original is Comme d’habitude, ‘As usual’.
Raphael: When those French influences took hold, I had sung a lot already. My idols were French. Later, I dreamed of performing in Paris and even opened a door into Piaf’s world. Those experiences have shaped me. I imagined a future where I would go to the Olympia and invite Piaf to sing, even though she was gone. Those thoughts, in a way, guided me to the here and now.
Interviewer: The zest for copla remains strong in Seville, even now, despite changing tastes.
Raphael: I am Andalusian to the core. I love copla, but I fear it isn’t treated the same as before. The current versions don’t echo the same nuance as the old days. Yet there are beautiful things in it still. The music of Quintero, León y Quiroga, and Solano had a certain tact; today you don’t hear that in the same way.
Interviewer: Do you think the Spanish public struggles with its identity?
Raphael: Not necessarily. The public is simply evolving, and the younger audience keeps surprising me. They still turn up for a modern take on the traditional songs, including the material I grew up with.
Interviewer: Some see a tendency to admire foreign than domestic work. You feel differently?
Raphael: People should celebrate what remains theirs. Yet there are times when the old style feels distant. It’s not about ignoring the past; it’s about how we describe it now. The old poets and composers had a rare touch, but that touch isn’t easy to reproduce today.
Interviewer: Do you still have a strong presence among younger audiences?
Raphael: I am proudly Andalusian in every sense. The audience of today has varied tastes, yet there’s a surprising amount of younger listeners who connect with my music. I feel fortunate for that cross-generational bridge.
Interviewer: You’ve mentioned philanthropy and global appeal; did your family background influence your views on politics?
Raphael: Not at all. At home it’s never about politics; my wife’s lineage is tied to history, but I don’t speak out publicly about such matters. I speak my mind when it matters, but I don’t want to derail what I do with commentary that isn’t relevant to the art.
Interviewer: Do you feel free to express your thoughts?
Raphael: Yes, but I’m cautious not to stray into commentary that isn’t in service of the music. I reserve my votes for elections, and that’s enough for me. There isn’t more to say on that front.
Interviewer: You’ve carved a strong presence in Russia too, where you’re seen as a cultural icon rather than a political one.
Raphael: I am a musical trend there, not a political voice.
Interviewer: If you returned to perform in Moscow, would you sing with more intensity the song that says, Digan lo que digan?
Raphael: Oh, they know those words by heart, I’m sure. Perhaps not everyone who should, though. It would be interesting to see which side they favor, if you did hold elections there. Those questions linger, but the music remains the key—people know the melody well.
Interviewer: Could Manuel Alejandro be compared to Raphael as a painter uses a blank canvas? Is ‘Qué sabe nadie’ the definitive portrait of you?
Raphael: I hope not. Manuel has many songs that stand up, but perhaps they don’t speak of the same things. In truth, what does anyone know about another person? Sometimes the answer is simply no one knows anything at all.
Interviewer: The country bears a curious disease of wanting to know everything about everyone’s life.
Raphael: It’s a global thing, not just here. Still, I’m grateful for the connection I have with a younger audience, and I hope the future will bring more of that resonance.
Interviewer: Is it worth moving from childhood to larger matters?
Raphael: Yes. My childhood was a bright, joyful chapter, and I wouldn’t trade it. It shaped who I am as an artist today.
Interviewer: In the coming decades, might others celebrate your work with the same reverence you have for your inspirations, such as Aznavour, Piaf, and others?
Raphael: I would love that, but I cannot demand it. It remains a hopeful idea, and yes, I laugh at the thought.
Interviewer: The groundwork is there, isn’t it?
Raphael: Yes, you bet. The basket is ready for weaving, and the threads are strong enough to hold a future that honors the past while moving forward with its own voice.