A Counter-Current Singer-Songwriter
Some musicians carry their country like a flag; others carry it dissolved in their sound, almost invisibly. Julio Fowler belongs to the latter group. A Cuban based in Madrid and heir to the Old and New Trova, he has made blending his mother tongue: he takes the classic Cuban sound and opens it up to anything that can engage with those roots without betraying them.
He is categorized within the so-called “Mole Generation,” a label that alludes to an underground, marginal status—creators who work outside the mainstream spotlight. In his case, that marginality doesn’t sound like a complaint but rather like freedom: the freedom of someone who doesn’t need to militate for an identity to claim it.
From “Dale Mambo” to “Utopías”
His discography traces a coherent progression. Dale Mambo, his debut album, crosses the Cuban sound with R&B and funk; Fowler himself described it as Son con Grooves or Cuban Grooves. Buscando mi lugar, his second work, is an eclectic and subversive record—produced alongside José Mestre and Yuri Wong—focused on his experience as an immigrant, featuring collaborations with Amaury Gutiérrez, Garrett Wall, rapper Nilo Mc, singers Esmeralda Grao and Nalaya Brown, and Luis Enrique.
It is in Utopías, however, where his voice finds its most fluid form. The album moves between “fusion music” and “world music”: he transitions effortlessly from guaguancó to bolero, flirts with bulería, and lets his passion for jazz peek through in a mix of acoustic and electronic elements. More than a change of course, it is a decantation: the Cuban rhythms do not disappear; they are camouflaged.
The Conversation
In “Bienvenida la locura” you celebrate “the little joint to dream.” What relationship do you establish between cannabis and the madness you sing about?
It’s no secret to anyone that cannabis, as a psychoactive substance, is part of the wide menu of my pleasures, just like music, friendship, or love. Treating myself to some of its effects, especially when it’s shared, is a delight I don’t want to deprive myself of because it makes me happy—though my happiness does not depend on its consumption.
In “Buscando mi lugar” you spoke about the immigrant. What were you looking to express with “Utopías”?
My own way of being and existing in the world: an attitude, a consciousness, and expectations linked to the era we live in and the paradigm shifts—cultural, social, technological, psychological—that emerge despite the inertia of customs and a system in crisis. Utopías aims to be a testimony to those changes taking place within me, as part of a world in transition that is waking up and shaking off oppressions and fears.
Previously, Cuban rhythms stood out; here you bring a more cosmopolitan air. Why is that?
The Cuban rhythms have never abandoned me; they are just camouflaged. Across the three albums, I have fused them with other patterns and combined them randomly. In this one, I think they are more present than ever, although I don’t usually engage in identity militancy: I prefer to open myself to the sounds of the world.
The cover of “Utopías” is striking: the rain lashes against you and you open your mouth as if to swallow it. What does that image express?
Rain and water have a healing effect for me. As a child, nothing made me happier than going out to bathe in a tropical downpour; I felt I was attending a ritual of cleansing, a cure that left me in a state of pleasure and almost ecstasy. It is the gesture of someone who needs an ablution of body and soul. As I said in an earlier song: “a downpour that cleans the city of hatreds, lies, and fears, a map where one can love.”
Brief Questionnaire
A few answers from this quick questionnaire paint a portrait of him. If he hadn’t dedicated himself to music, he says, he would have practiced the same “great profession”: being happy. He defines his work with five adjectives—sensual, optimistic, committed, critical, utopian—and cites Días y flores by Silvio Rodríguez and Brother to Brother by Gino Vannelli as albums that left a mark on him. His favorite time of day is the time he shares with those he loves; his latest book, The Tree of Knowledge (originally Amor y juego), by Humberto Maturana and Gerda Verden-Zöller. Confessable vices: reading and writing. A quirk: correcting himself.
Critical Reading
It is best to read this testimony for what it is: the voice of an artist who integrates cannabis into his creative narrative, not a manual or a recommendation. Just because someone associates a substance with pleasure, inspiration, or a cleansing ritual does not make it harmless. Cannabis has real and varied effects depending on the person, the context, and the frequency: it can affect working memory, trigger anxiety or psychotic episodes in vulnerable individuals, and its early and sustained use is associated with risks to still-developing brains.
Fowler’s own phrase—”my happiness does not depend on its consumption”—marks, almost inadvertently, a healthy boundary: distinguishing between enjoying something and needing it. That distinction, more than any poetic celebration, is the true terrain of harm reduction. Collecting these voices is part of the psychoactive cultural archive; idealizing them is not.
