The recent PQR Disques reissue of “Anabelas” has once again shone a light on one of the most innovative and influential chapters of Argentine Progressive Rock. Originally released during a fertile period in the late 1970s, the album remains a benchmark of musical sophistication, blending Avant-Garde experimentation, Symphonic textures, and Jazz-inflected intricacy. With the limited edition colored vinyl and numbered pressing, the record has become a sought-after treasure for collectors and aficionados worldwide. In this exclusive interview, we speak directly with Bubu to explore the origins of the band, the creative process behind “Anabelas,” their experiences performing live during the era, the Argentine Prog scene of the 1970s, and the vision that has kept the band active and inspired to this day.
Can you tell us about the formation of Bubu? What inspired the band’s original lineup and musical direction?
Bubu was born in 1975 out of a desperate need for disruption. The original lineup wasn’t conceived as a conventional band, but as an artistic collective where the composition itself dictated the instrumentation. My ambition was to weave symphonic rock into the fabric of contemporary academic music, chasing a narrative that transcended the standard song format. While we initially staged theatrical performances to capture an audience that was wary of our complexity, time has ultimately proven us right: the music was what truly mattered. Fifty years later, what endures and finds new life is that rigorous, unusual score—with its intricate violins and winds—aiming for a total, almost cinematic experience. Theatricality was merely the vessel; the music was the only truth.
How did the cultural and musical environment of Argentina in the late 1960s and 1970s shape your sound?
To understand the genesis of Bubu, you must place yourself in a time and space of unrepeatable creative fervor. We were the children of the Instituto Di Tella generation; we grew up within a framework where cinema, literature, and the visual arts were in constant dialogue. That environment granted us the audacity to refuse any boundaries. During the late ’60s and throughout the ’70s, Argentina breathed an intellectual freedom—the kind you only possess in your twenties—that drove us toward experimentation. My sound was nurtured by this transversality: we didn’t just listen to rock; we consumed the avant-garde in all its forms. Bubu was our way of pouring that cultural richness into a score, striving to ensure our music lived up to the Argentine modernity that surrounded us.
Who were your early influences, both within Argentina and internationally, and how did they manifest in your initial compositions?
My upbringing was an act of silent rebellion. I grew up in an environment of material scarcity, where my path was already paved toward technical school and, ultimately, the factory floor. However, my true education took place under the cover of night: alongside a group of musician friends, we would huddle around the radio to tune into the UK charts. Those external influences—The Beatles, the Stones, The Doors—became our window to the world and the fuel for my first compositions. Yet, that Anglo-Saxon influence inevitably coexisted with our DNA: Tango and Folklore. It was the collision of international rock structures with the melancholy and rhythm of the Río de la Plata that finally defined my sound. In my early works, this duality manifested as a yearning to reach the freedom of rock, while retaining the emotional depth and complexity of our own roots.
What were your first live performances like, and how did audiences respond to your experimental approach?
My early performances were a study in contrasts. On one hand, there was the theatricality—a conscious strategy to draw the audience into music of immense complexity. But the true turning point came in 1975, thanks to a scholarship I received at the Collegium Musicum. My debut recital was an unusual event: we managed to pack the theater, bringing together my academic masters and peers with friends and family. The response was immediate and staggering; the next day, the country’s leading newspaper dedicated a page and a half of praise to us, signed by a renowned art critic. That endorsement was pivotal: it confirmed that while we used theater as a hook, the true value resided in the musical and technical vision we were presenting. It was the moment Bubu ceased to be an experiment and became a critically acclaimed artistic reality.
What was the conceptual vision behind “Anabelas,“ and how did the different tracks contribute to the overall narrative of the album?
It’s a curious thing, because within Anabelas, two worlds coexisted. The theatrical narrative proposed by our first singer—who never actually recorded the album—was a story that, quite frankly, had no direct link to the logic of the composition. It was an external scaffolding, a tool that helped us seize the audience’s attention, but the true conceptual vision lived within the music itself. To me, the overarching narrative of the album is purely sonic: it is the journey of an ambitious instrumentation seeking the balance between rigor and explosion. Each piece contributes to an atmosphere of ascent and tension, where the brass and string arrangements act as characters in an invisible plot. In the end, the concept of Anabelas became the very architecture of the work; the music outlived the original story because its narrative power resides in emotion and technique, not in a literary script.
Could you walk us through the compositional process of the suite “El Cortejo de un Día Amarillo”? How did the two sections come together?
The composition process for ‘El Cortejo de un Día Amarillo’ was an exercise in synthesis between my two great formative worlds. Side A reflects my training and passion for 20th-century academic music; I was deeply immersed in the structures of Béla Bartók, Stravinsky, and Olivier Messiaen. I was chasing that rhythmic rigor and the atonality that challenged the
traditional ear. Side B, by contrast, captures the energy of the era and my fascination with the British vanguard—King Crimson, Pink Floyd, and Yes. How did these two sections merge? Through my own personal filter. I didn’t want a forced mixture; I wanted both influences to be distilled through my essence as a composer. The suite was unified under one premise: to use the raw power and instrumentation of rock as the vessel for a purely classical compositional complexity. That was the amalgam that gave the work its coherence.
How did Jazz, Symphonic Prog, and Avant-Garde elements inform the arrangements and instrumentation?
To me, jazz, symphonic prog, and the avant-garde didn’t function as external genres that I simply chose to ‘use’; rather, they were languages that integrated organically. Much like my experience with classical music, all those elements were processed and woven into my very being before transforming into arrangements or instrumentation. In practice, this translated into total freedom: I could harness the improvisational liberty of jazz, the grandiosity of prog-rock, and the disruptive edge of the avant-garde to serve whatever the work demanded. I wasn’t trying to make Bubu sound ‘like jazz’ or ‘like symphonic rock’; I wanted those languages to be tools for expressing my own essence. The instrumentation—with all its density and nuance—was simply the final result of that internal digestion of all the music that flowed through me.
The album features a remarkable interplay of winds, strings, and chorus vocals—how did you approach balancing these textures during recording?
It was a grueling feat of engineering and precision. We had one fundamental advantage: the band had spent two years rehearsing and performing the work live, which gave us absolute technical confidence. However, the studio was a different beast entirely. At the time, we were limited to only 16 channels—a significant constraint given the dense layers of winds, strings, and choirs that Anabelas demanded. Our approach was almost architectural: we tracked the bass, guitar, and drums first across several sessions, followed by each soloist individually. To achieve the right balance of textures, I had to design an extremely detailed roadmap—a blueprint that allowed me toknow exactly where every sound belonged. This ensured that by the time we reached the mixing stage, the material was as cohesive as possible. Furthermore, the studio technicians of that era weren’t accustomed to such a complex format, so having ample recording hours was key to experimenting and capturing that expansive orchestral sound.
Were there any specific challenges during the original recording sessions that shaped the final sound of the album?
To be honest, from the first day to the last, the sessions were a succession of technical and human challenges. Recording a work of this complexity in 1977 meant constantly grappling with technological limitations and the raw intensity of a group of young artists in pursuit of perfection. However, fifty years later, those obstacles have lost their relevance. The frictions or technical hurdles of the moment are mere anecdotes left along the wayside; what endures, and what truly shaped the final sound, was the sheer will to bring the work into existence. Today, the album stands on its own merits, proving that the final result was far greater than the challenges we had to face to achieve it.
How did the lyrical content reflect the social or artistic context of Argentina at the time?
It is impossible to decouple the content of that era from the horror that surrounded us. Argentina, like much of Latin America, was torn apart by repressive dictatorships that waged a fierce cultural battle, specifically targeting the intellectual heart of the population. We suffered the disappearance of thirty thousand young souls, and many of us were forced into exile. In such a climate, creating music as complex and free as ours was, in itself, an act of
resistance. They tried to silence us, but they failed: the proof is that today, at seventy-two, I am still making music, reissuing my work, and recording my third and final album alongside a wonderful new generation of musicians. The enduring relevance of Anabelas and my creative present are living proof that art and thought will always, inevitably, triumph over censorship.
Can you share memories of performing “Anabelas” live during the 1970s? Were there particular concerts that stood out for energy, audience reaction, or musical experimentation?
Honestly, it would be unfair to highlight a single performance for its musical energy, as every one of them was vital. However, there is one etched into my memory for reasons that had nothing to do with art: our final show before my exile, at the Luna Park stadium. Playing in a stadium for fifteen thousand people should have been the crowning achievement of a dream, but the reality was a nightmare. While we performed our work from the stage, we watched in utter helplessness as the Gendarmería dragged members of our audience away in the back rows. That image—music coexisting with horror and repression in real time—perfectly defines what it meant to be an artist in those days. It was a painful farewell, but also a confirmation that our music was a dangerous sanctuary for those seeking a fragment of freedom.
How did the Argentine Progressive Rock scene of the 1970s support or challenge your creative ambitions?
The Argentine progressive rock scene of the ’70s was a space of great ambition, but it also posed significant challenges for those of us coming from an academic background. My creative drive was purely musical, but I understood that for the work to be heard, it had to engage with the visual language of the era. That is where the influence of European bands—who turned their shows into total stage productions—served as a support. We decided to incorporate theatricality not because it was part of the composition’s structure, but as a necessary bridge for the audience. The Argentine scene challenged me to be not just a composer, but a strategist: I had to learn how to wrap complex music in an appealing format so that my creative vision could be accepted without losing its essence. Time has proven that the strategy worked, but it was the rigor of the score that truly sustained my career in the long run.
Were there other bands or contemporaries you frequently interacted with or drew inspiration from during that period?
Absolutely. Argentina has always been an essential hub of creativity, and during those years, we shared the road with figures and bands who were pushing the boundaries of popular music. I remember with great respect La Máquina de Hacer Pájaros, Alas, Raúl Porchetto, or Los Desconocidos de Siempre, among so many others. Although each of us had our own quest—some closer to rock, others to fusion or folk—we traversed an era together where the goal was excellence and a unique identity. It wasn’t just about influencing each other musically; it was about feeling like part of a collective
movement that was inventing a new language for our country. Seeing each other on the same stages or in the same studios was a constant stimulus to keep deepening my own creative ambitions.
How did political and cultural events in Argentina influence the band’s live performances and reception?
As I mentioned before, politics in Argentina was not merely a backdrop; it was a physical presence at our concerts. The reception of the band was shaped by that very tension: the audience sought in Bubu a space for intellectual freedom, while the powers that be viewed any manifestation of thought as a target for repression. The fact that our journey in the country culminated in exile, following a besieged performance at Luna Park, says it all: culture was a battlefield, and our music was our form of resistance.
What are your thoughts on the recent PQR Disques reissue of “Anabelas”? How do you feel about the album reaching a new generation of listeners?
The recent reissue by PQR Disques is quite simply marvelous; a luxury edition that truly honors the work. I have nothing but gratitude for the label and, especially, for its founder George Rossolatos, for the respect and passion with which they have handled this material. It is a deeply special feeling to see Anabelas reach a new generation of listeners. It comforts
me to know that, fifty years later, this music—born from a desperate need for disruption—continues to find an echo in young ears. To see a European label so invested in rescuing this sound with such high quality confirms that the effort and artistic honesty of those years were worth it. The music has managed to travel through time on its own strength.
Looking back, how do you perceive Anabelas’ place in the broader Progressive Rock canon, both in Argentina and internationally?
To be honest, I don’t believe it’s my place to judge where my work stands within the progressive rock canon. That space belongs to the listeners, the critics, and to time itself. My task was, and continues to be, to compose with honesty and rigor. What I can say is that it brings me profound emotion and gratitude to see how Anabelas has transcended Argentina’s borders to be valued on an international stage. Having been a part of that history—having contributed my grain of sand to our music’s identity during such a difficult era—is my greatest reward. I feel privileged to see that, fifty years later, a work born out of a need for disruption is still remembered and celebrated. My place in that story is, quite simply, that of a grateful man.
What projects, recordings, or performances are Bubu currently working on?
I currently find myself in a very vital creative process. I am in the midst of mixing what will be the third and final album of my career, titled ‘El último Cortejo’ (The Final Procession). It is a work that fills me with pride because, just as with ‘El eco del sol’ in 2016, I am creating it surrounded by wonderful young musicians. Working with these new generations—first with the 2016 lineup and now with this new group—has been a rejuvenating experience. It allows me to see how my compositional language continues to engage in a dialogue with the present. ‘El último Cortejo’ is not just a recording farewell; it is the culmination of a journey that began in 1975. It is my way of closing the circle, handing over my final work to those who will keep the flame of creative music alive.
How do you see the band evolving musically in the coming years, and are there any new directions you are exploring?
Rather than an evolution toward the unknown, my current direction is a return to the essence, guided by the wisdom of the journey already traveled. As I mentioned, I am currently mixing my final album, ‘El último Cortejo’, and it possesses a particularity that truly excites me: while utilizing the same instrumental format and complexity as Anabelas, I have fully immersed myself in Argentine Music. It is a profound reunion with Tango and Folklore, but distilled through my own compositional filter. It is my way of closing the circle: returning to the sounds that cradled me in my beginnings, but with the structure and freedom I have earned over these fifty years. This is not a traditional genre record, but a work where our Río de la Plata identity meets the rigor of contemporary music. It is, ultimately, my final legacy.
For fans and collectors, what message would you like to convey about Bubu’s music and the enduring appeal of “Anabelas”?
The message I leave for the fans and collectors is the same mandate I imposed upon myself fifty years ago: follow the path of creative necessity without wavering. In art, one must ask for nothing in return; the true reward is the total surrender. I would tell them that every stumble along the way was, in reality, my greatest teacher. If Anabelas retains an enduring appeal, it is because it was born from that brutal honesty, with no concessions to trends. My gratitude toward those who treasure my music today is infinite; they are the ones who complete the circle of a work given with the soul. In the end, the only thing that remains is gratitude for having had the strength to give it my all.
Bubu’s journey, from the creative ferment of 1970s Argentina to the present day, embodies a rare combination of technical mastery, innovative spirit, and timeless musicality. The reissue of “Anabelas” not only preserves the album’s original brilliance but brings its intricate textures, daring arrangements, and visionary energy to a global audience. Our thanks go to the band for sharing their insights and stories, offering a direct glimpse into one of Progressive Rock’s most compelling and enduring legacies.
Purchase “Anabelas Deluxe Edition” here: https://pqrdirect.my-online.store/
Read our Review of the album here: [Review] Bubu – Anabelas (PQR Disques Limited Deluxe Edition)