I spent this afternoon indexing invoices and relearning the sultry heat of Josh Groban’s Spanish music. Traditionally weaker than his Italian fare, his Spanish work is easy to overlook, particularly when the track is tucked between other, more immediately accessible hits.
Si Volvieras A Mi. Let me walk you through this.
As always, Josh eases you in. He’s in no rush, girl. Have a bit of gitano guitar, a little wandering piano. It’s twilight. You’re on a balcony in Mallorca, overlooking the blue-green glow of the Mediterranean. The scent of roses hangs heavy in the air.
Oh girl. Don’t look now, but Josh Groban just took your hand.
The first chorus. It’s here that you first get a sense of what’s coming: a relentless sexual onslaught in a language you only partially understand. You can get a really solid air smang going to this beat; I’m positive Groban specifically requested this, setting his Cuban down between takes, the studio shrouded in a thick haze of smoke.
And then, as quickly as he came on, he lets off again. He knows you have some thinking to do.
Percussion. Are you doing a slow milonguero tango with multi-platinum recording artist Josh Groban? Moonlight illuminates the room. The sea breeze billows the curtains. Your steps snap on the hardwood. 23-year-old Josh Groban is sure of his glides, his hold is firm; how can one so young look so wise? You close your eyes.
SUDDENLY, MULTIPLE JOSH GROBANS. Like Cinderella echoing in the bubbles, thirteen Josh Grobans are now serenading you in perfect Spanish harmony, a dense, pressing throng of heat. Este loco que se muere de amor.
Strings. An extended soft-lens montage: You’re eating paella in the shade. You’re laughing on the steps of El Prado. You’re riding smooth-flanked Andulusian stallions on the shore—correction: one stallion—a gleaming palomino, his mane streaming, his hooves kicking up sand and surf. Josh Groban’s arms are slung low around your hips. The horse prances in the sun.
Instrumental interlude. Open windows in San Sebastián. The first steps of your son. Your thirtieth wedding anniversary. A white sailboat off the coast of Valencia, Josh Groban at the helm, golden in an open linen shirt. The sail flaps softly in the breeze.
CRESCENDO. YOU ARE A HUNDRED AND EIGHT FUCKING YEARS OLD AND YOU AND JOSH GROBAN ARE AS IN LOVE AS EVER, DID YOU THINK HE WAS FUCKING PLAYING? Your gnarled hands are clasped together as you wander the gardens. My god, you are the cutest old people ever.
It’s honestly baffling to me that not everyone on this planet has been obsessed with this angel-faced gangster and his ride-or-die opera since the onset of puberty. Child King of the Pop Classical game; Buble is dust beneath his heel. If this were “Hero,” Buble would never even accomplish enough to get within assassination range. Enjoy the dusty alleys, peasant.
Don’t ask me to come back to you, Josh Groban. I never left.