Me and Julio
The Latin crooner talks to Grant Smithies about life, love, good wine and the legend that he’s bedded 3000 women.
We have never met, yet it feels like a phone call with an old mate, or perhaps a favourite renegade uncle, incorrigible but charming.
Here he is, Julio Iglesias – the most successful Latin singer in history – on the line from one of his many mansions around the globe, full of playful mischief.
‘‘How are you, my friend? How is life in New Zealand? I sincerely hope the sun is shining and you are happy and well.’’
I last talked to Iglesias two years ago, and it was a blast. More than half of that interview was him asking ME questions. Who was I, exactly? What did I look like? What was it like being a journalist, talking to famous people like him?
Why had my son married a Colombian woman? And why hadn’t this fortuitous turn of events spurred me on to learn Spanish, which, incidentally, was the loveliest language on God’s green earth?
‘‘I remember this phone call very well,’’ he says, his voice deep, smooth, slippery and warm. ‘‘I remember you! Has your son had a baby yet?’’
He has. I am a grandfather before my time. ‘‘Yes, but this is a marvellous thing. Children are a blessing to any family. Perhaps I can be the godfather?’’
This is not a bad idea. Certainly any godchild of Iglesias’ would want for nothing. Born in Madrid and a gargantuan global star during the 80s and early 90s, Iglesias is richer than many entire countries.
He has sold more than 300 million records worldwide in 14 languages, played for kings, queens and presidents, sung with such greats as Frank Sinatra, Diana Ross, Stevie Wonder, Placido Domingo and Charles Aznavour.
He has enough money to do some spectacularly mad things. Iglesias once put one of his many houses up for sale, on an exclusive island off the coast of Florida, and when it didn’t reach the asking price of US$25 million, rather than accept lower offers, he knocked it down and bought the house next door.
Iglesias is not only richer than a Pharoah; he’s funny as a fit. He brags and cajoles, teases and giggles. He sings little snatches of his favourite songs, his voice swooping down to a purring baritone at the end of each line, because ‘‘this is sexier, no?’’.
He sets up jokes where he is the willing punchline. Between roars of laughter, he takes the p... out of himself, his songs, his wealth, his world domination when it comes to romantic ballads.
Every thirty seconds, one of his love songs is played on the radio somewhere in the world.
‘‘That was 35 years ago, my friend. These days, maybe every hour. But Grant, I am 73 years old. My brains are better now than my body. My brains talk to me every day and they say ‘you are free! You have worked hard, and now, you are free’.’’
Me and Julio, down by the schoolyard. He’s such a playful fellow, bursting with the sort of open-hearted enthusiasm you more readily associate with a child than a creaky old geezer of 73.
I feel like a gloomy old cynic in his company. Iglesias even chuckles over the fact that his audiences are now a 10th of what they once were. Why should he care? He’s still singing.
‘‘If you are a musician and your audience disappears, you will sing in your shower, you will sing for your friends. Of course! I used to play to stadiums of 100,000 people in Madrid or Barcelona, all through Latin America and Europe. Now it’s 10,000. I played to 25,000 people in New Zealand in the 80s, and now, I suppose, 2000 might come to see me down there. But I have never been happier. Before, my ego was in power. Now, the brains and the heart are in power. I am happy, happy, happy, because I am alive, and people still want to hear me.’’
And the reason they still want to hear him is simple enough, he says. In a word: love. He writes about it, sings about it, thinks about it all day long. Love is what makes the world go round.
‘‘Whoever you are and wherever you are from, if you are human, there is a little place in your heart for love music. In my life, I have written hundreds of romantic songs. People imagine I was born with a guitar in my hand, but really, I was going to be a lawyer, and a football player. But then I found an acoustic guitar, and I was a positive person, and love was a thing it made sense to sing about. I was flirting with life every day, so love songs came naturally. I still write songs of love to this day. Why? Because I was born that way.’’
Over the years, many journalists have suggested that this lusty Spaniard has not only made a career out of singing about love; he also liked to keep up the physical practice.
His favourite game, they imply, is ‘‘hide the chorizo’’. Routinely portrayed as an insatiable Latin Lothario, Iglesias is rumoured to have slept with more than 3000 women.
‘‘And that was in 1972! That is when this number first appeared, and people just repeat it ever since. But it is not true. No, no, no. It is a legend, and you cannot fight a legend.’’
Perhaps we should make up a new number for this story. How about, say, 300? Or even 30? Will he be happy if I write that Julio Iglesias, legendary Latin lover, has grown tired of these rumours and has really only ever slept with 30 woman?
‘‘Say what you like, my friend. You can say I have just slept with five or six, if you like. My wife will like this story a lot.’’
When I talk to him, Iglesias is still looking forward to playing shows in Auckland and Christchurch, a tour that has subsequently been cancelled because of ‘‘technical issues.’’ He’s delighted to be touring at his age, he tells me. Every day you can still walk out onto a stage is a good day.
‘‘To come back to a place is always a privilege. You play somewhere, it is hard to say if you will ever return. After all, I am not the king anymore. Perhaps it is like being a boxer. You do not know if you will get back in the ring. I do not sell the records I used to sell in the 80s. But I am very happy because I have a dog in the house, and every time I play the guitar and sing, he moves the tail. What is this word in English?’’
Wag. ‘‘He wags the tail, yes. So I keep singing, because he loves it. Other people might have decided I am too old to sing, but the dog, he loves it! When he stops wagging the tail, I will stop. But I always carry a treat for him in my pocket, so even if he does not like the song, I can get his tail moving again.’’
Besides the trusty wag-o-meter, Iglesias can gauge his success in other ways. His sales might have tailed off significantly in Europe, but he shifts lorry-loads of units in Russia, Japan and South America.
He is the most popular international artist in all of China. When he played a live gig on Chinese television a few years back, 400 million people tuned in to watch.
He sounds genuinely shocked when I suggest that a day will eventually come when he retires.
‘‘Grant! Please! Imagine the guy who owns your newspaper, he brings you into his office and he says to you ‘we do not need you anymore’. He says to you: ‘Get out!’ How would you feel?’’
Actually, this sort of thing happens to journalists every day.
‘‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that. But my point is, you would feel like crying. Someone had decided you were not needed any more.
‘‘This is how I would feel if I stopped singing. If I stopped singing, my body would still live, but my soul would be dead. I have all these things to be thankful for – great kids, happy marriage, lovely wife, you know. But if
I stopped singing, I would be miserable.’’
And if I stopped writing, I would be miserable, too. If I lose my job, perhaps I could move into a wellappointed room in one of Iglesias’ many houses. After all, I would not go thirsty.
In every mansion, Iglesias has a killer wine cellar. He once boasted to America’s Decanter magazine that he spent more than US$1m per year on fancy vintage plonk.
‘‘My cellar is amazing, it’s true. I love wine. If you have a good wine cellar, I will come and visit you. I love the pinot noirs from New Zealand. They are some of the best in the world. I have some in my cellar, of course. Every time I go to New Zealand, I buy wines, put them in a container and ship them home.’’
He is not home as often as he would like. ‘‘Most of the time, I live on the moon, but it is very cold. I do not recommend it. No, truthfully, most of the time, I live in my plane. I have a part of my life that is music, another part that is business, another part that is family, and the rest of the time, I am in my plane, travelling to a show.’’
And all sorts of people show up to hear him sing his love songs, from presidents to paupers. What is it he thinks that attracts people to his music?
‘‘Attraction is something you either have or you don’t. You are just born with some natural situation with the brains and knowledge and heart and some good timing, and you smile to yourself because things go good for you. Next thing you know, you are in China or South Africa and people are shouting your name.’’
And when he’s not on stage, or at home, singing to his dog? What else does Iglesias do with his time?
‘‘Swimming, exercises, you know – taking care of the natural things. Drinking a good wine with my friends. I have eight children, and my son Enrique is also a big singing star, of course. I find as many ways as possible to enjoy these opportunities life has given me, and that I did not expect. I try to stay happy, and I usually do good at this, because so much of life is funny to me. If I did not have a sense of humour, it would be a disaster in my life.’’
And then, just before our time runs out, Iglesias does something extraordinary. He asks me out for dinner.
‘‘We have talked two times now, and I love it both times. It is time for us to meet. When I come down to your country, it will be great if you come to the show and we go afterwards for a meal. Come with me to dinner, and I will give you some incredible wine. I always travel with wine, you know? We will have dinner, then we will have a blind tasting with the wines from New Zealand, and my own wines that I bring along. OK? I promise you, my people will phone you, and we will have dinner together, anywhere you want. In the meantime, a big, big, big, big kiss for you, and a kiss for New Zealand.’’
The late cancellation of Julio Iglesias’ New Zealand tour meant the writer never got to go out for dinner with him, so he’s still drinking cheap reds from his local supermarket.