After five years of near silence, Jorge Drexler unveils Tinta y tiempo, a solo runtime meditation on creativity, seasoned experience, and the fleeting elements that surface during a creative crisis. The album resonates with echoes of confinement, depicting a battle against haunted forces like vertigo and a blank slate. The collection of ten tracks stands as a concrete example of this ongoing struggle. The artist has hinted that a true celebration may lie in realizing a dream: forming a band with close collaborators. Across a storied career, the artist has earned an Oscar (2005), five Latin Grammys (2014, 2018), a Goya (2011), and a Silver Biznaga.
You’re back on tour. Is it hard to get back on the road?
The body does not recover its earlier rhythm quickly, yet there is a genuine happiness in moving again. The energy returned, and the experience has felt deeply satisfying thus far.
How did you find your audience?
There is a contagious eagerness to attend concerts and a palpable enthusiasm for live music. The post-pandemic turn in audience energy is striking. In six Latin American venues, crowds reached around 1,500 nightly, an experience never remembered before. After the summer, there are plans to perform in Brazil, Colombia, the United States, and Puerto Rico.
How are the people of Drexler?
The audience spans a broad age range, which is a source of joy. The spectrum is highly diverse, steady, and deeply engaged.
You’ve played in Valencia many times and most remember your first contact with the city almost 30 years ago.
The journey began in Valencia at Café Berlin del Carmen, a place that no longer exists but remains pivotal. It felt essential, almost ceremonial, and I would place a small token at the entrance as a sign of luck. I can recall the moment I performed for five thousand pesetas, a staggering sum for a new artist with eight people in the room, mostly friends and a few acquaintances who were not yet sure what to expect. That night proved I could perform publicly and sparked the long road ahead.
It’s been 30 years since the debut album La luz que saber robo was released. Will you celebrate the anniversary?
I would love to, though I’m not sure how yet.
You spoke about wanting to start a band. Is the anniversary a good prompt for an adventure?
The dream of a band has always lingered—being part of something collective. There is a band that tours with the artist, yet the aim is to weave the repertoire into a collaborative work. The plan is to make that happen soon.
Have you already tried one?
There are many possibilities. A circle of musician friends is ready for collaboration, each idea a potential spark.
“Tinta y tiempo” explores crises, creativity, and the small things that touch daily life. Its cover presents a tabula rasa.
This album honors the blank page. It acknowledges the blank page as a symbol of creative potential, especially after a period of lockdown that reshaped the mind. The collection includes ten battles won against that blank page, while also honoring a hundred lost voices on the cover.
What happened to that quarantine?
Writing during isolation proved extremely challenging. Words and voice seemed hard to find. The period is seen as a product of isolation; the blank page represents the maximum possible creative freedom at that time.
How to overcome such a crisis?
Keep writing. Seek inspiration persistently because it will arrive eventually. After many attempts, a breakthrough arrived on a single day. Hard work and persistence often make the difference.
Does it transform the experience?
Yes, at least it did in this case. The process led to a clear sense of victory and the relief of breaking through a block.
Was it different from what you’ve experienced before?
Yes, in part because expectations intensify over a long career. With three decades of success, keeping the vision fresh and ambitious is a constant challenge. Learning to manage that pressure—the weight of achievement—becomes crucial to sustaining creativity.
You dedicate a song to explaining it to yourself.
In the track Ink and Time, there is an inward reminder: what is written is not carved in stone but cast to the wind. The refrain invites patience and weight in writing, a cue to let ink and time shape what is needed.
Do you think the way people relate today has anything to do with this vertigo, especially with social networks where a single post can alter a career?
There is a sense of volatility in this terrain, and it is embraced rather than feared. Nothing lasts forever, and the ephemeral can be beautiful. Things need not endure to hold value; a solo moment in a jazz club can never be exactly repeated.
Although the artist is not short-lived.
(Laughs) No, but time will eventually erase many things. The ecological footprint of objects and actions matters, and even the humble supermarket bag will outlast us—forgetting isn’t inherently wrong because it makes room for new thought and growth.
And you dedicate a song to the ephemeral. It’s called Art Love. It contrasts people with an insect, echoing a metaphor that mirrors the pandemic’s imagery.
Yes, a song that emerged naturally. It argues that being part of the vast universe is not a fault but a reality. Humans are small—yet their existence is meaningful. The idea is to find happiness in what little we have on this planet, acknowledging the virus as part of that shared world.
How did you live with the virus these two years?
Fear accompanied many, but there was a dawning sense of returning to what felt familiar and possible.
You studied Medicine in Uruguay. How has this shaped daily life in the early pandemic stages?
The medical backdrop proved vital. It highlighted how misinformation and denial can fuel danger, and it underscored the seriousness of the virus. The experience also exposed the frustration of watching people resist understanding when the stakes are so high.