Miren Iza, known as Tulsa, is a singer and composer who has just received the National Prize for Contemporary Music. She takes the baton from an earlier recipient, the Asturian artist who set the standard for this prize back in 2009. Tulsa speaks with a quiet amazement, saying she is still celebrating and that the party hasn’t finished yet. She notes she is still in shock and feels the weight of the moment as she prepares to perform in Asturias alongside Anni B. Sweet, Valeria Castro, and Iván Ferreiro. They will perform songs by the Catalan musician who won this year’s Princesa de Asturias Award for the Arts, a nod that resonates beyond the stage.
Miren Iza, practicing both music and psychiatry in the public health system until last January, receives the national prize for her album Amadora and its stage adaptation, created with dramaturgy by María Velasco from Burgos. The project brings to life the stories of women who dedicate themselves to caring for others while often setting aside their own desires, sometimes triggering a powerful emotional release. The work also amplifies the voices of women who remain underrepresented in society and honors women who do not seek to become legends but still demand their rightful public space. Tulsa expresses happiness about a prize that could propel Amadora to reach a wider audience.
The jury describes Amadora as an outstanding album with deeply lyrical lyrics. It seems the messages embedded in those songs have connected with the lives of the very women Tulsa highlights in her work.
Who does not understand these women? The sentiment is universal. At concerts, audiences experience a rare kind of listening, a suspended hush because everyone recognizes a woman who lives in or near their own story. Imagine a world without women. At the performances, Clara Collantes and Tulsa seek to redefine that word and remind audiences that these women exist and will stay. It feels essential to share what they have learned and to let those truths breathe onstage.
They talk about women in general, not merely the few who stand out as icons. It is a celebration of everyday resilience and quiet strength that shapes communities. They insist on recognizing the value of ordinary lives and the power of collective presence over solitary fame. In a time when being famous often seems to be the metric, their message lands as a bold statement.
Was it true that Tulsa’s musical path had influenced multiple generations of bands and artists? Not in a simple sense, and that is rare enough to be noted. The feeling is not something she dwells on; sometimes someone quietly mentions it in a small circle, but she keeps it in the background as a personal truth rather than a measured achievement.
The conversation also touches on absolute independence. Has having steady employment as a psychiatrist gave her the freedom to stay true to herself as a musician? She answers decisively yes. Music was her source of happiness, and she wanted to protect it from practical pressures that would strip away its magic. She chose to give it space to breathe, to remain her own sanctuary. That choice, she believes, is what kept her creatively alive. Without that freedom, she jokes, she might have walked away from music entirely.
In Oviedo I took the MIR exam twenty years ago and discovered that music would accompany me forever
The interview then shifts to a pivotal moment in her life. Is it possible to live freely, detached from the market, unaffected by downloads, likes, and the torrent of online attention that marks so many careers? It is not easy, even when one pursues independence. Tulsa admits that the pressure to chase numbers is relentless. She recently read about Carmen Boza, who announced retirement under the weight of industry demands, and she felt a shared sting of understanding and frustration. The state of the music business can be disheartening, but she believes in rebuilding by working on projects that bring joy and love to a creative team, rather than chasing validation from metrics alone.
She asks herself whether the moment of the prize week, punctuated by a Serrat concert, should be followed by returning to a small venue with a modest audience. The answer is yes. Tulsa finds happiness in intimate spaces and notes that she arranged a request to her manager to book a concert at La Salvaje in Oviedo to mark the occasion.
When asked how many people have questioned why she did not devote herself entirely to music, she reflects on the pull from both sides. Fellow musicians and colleagues in film have urged her to commit fully. Yet she has always seen the two fields as intertwined, and after twenty years in psychiatry she senses that chapter is gently closing. Her decision is grounded in a belief that both disciplines can inform one another, shaping a broader, more humane perspective on the world of art and care.
What has changed? She describes a practical shift away from a saturated clinical schedule, where the act of care felt increasingly distant and measured behind a desk. That sense of fatigue led to the realization that she had completed a cycle in that professional mode. At the same time, she felt drawn to devote more energy to music. Creating Amadora has been a rich, formative experience, and she envisions new projects that would extend beyond national borders, exploring a different, perhaps psicoanalytically inspired, creative energy that moves through her work on a broader scale.
She acknowledges that the prize still needs its own celebration, which she hopes will come as part of an ongoing joy. The idea of facing the future with happiness is a guiding thread. She recalls a moment of doubt after a Grammy Latin nomination that she ultimately buried, deciding instead to embrace what lies ahead with a sense of play and resilience. The prize feels like a shared dream with many people, including her partner Ángel Luján, who produced the Amadora album, and whose involvement makes the achievement feel even more personal and communal. The sense of gratitude is so strong that she admits she could cry simply by speaking about it, grateful for the joy she sees in the faces of others who celebrate her success.
An anecdote from Oviedo remains vivid. Twenty years ago she was deep in the MIR process and considered a pause in music to focus entirely on psychiatry. It was there that she met Nacho Vegas and realized that music would pursue her for life, a stubborn, constant companion. The memory holds a truth: music would never truly let her go, and the path she chose continues to define who she is today.