Pimpinela: “Being karaoke material means being classic.”

No one can say that Joaquín and Lucía Galán, the diva and divo of the Pimpinela duo on stage for four decades, lack any diva-like traits. They appear in matching outfits, vibrant blues, but later change for photos, harmonizing equally but in black, to avoid looking the same in the dozens of interviews they have given to promote Noticias del amor, their upcoming tour in Spain this September. Bursting with energy and joy at ages 70 and 64, respectively, they exude professionalism. Both Lucía, who has recovered from a health scare that forced them to cancel last year’s tour, and Joaquín, her older brother, are willing to lie down, literally, on the carpeted floor of one of the salons at Madrid’s Teatro Real so the photographer can indulge in taking a different portrait. They know it all. And not just their songs.

Do you always coordinate your outfits so well?

Lucía (L): Well, no [laughs]. We agree when we work, obviously. We try to maintain coherence aesthetically, besides artistically; we are very meticulous about that.

I imagine it takes more than singing to maintain such a long career.

Joaquín (J): It starts with the passion and enthusiasm for what you do. But without structure, discipline, and responsibility, everything becomes a jumble, like tango. We are children of Spanish immigrants. We absorbed that discipline, that respect for work, foresight, saving, and family unity. We are siblings from old Spain, and that is the key to the duo’s longevity.

So, your first school was your home.

L: My father was from Pola de Somiedo in Asturias, a beautiful but remote village where anyone who could leave did because there were few opportunities to grow. The pioneer who emigrated to Argentina was my uncle Francisco, who worked hard to take his brothers with him. Then there was my dad, who had a girlfriend in León. They maintained their relationship through letters for four years until she, my mom, also emigrated, and they opened an Asturian restaurant. Our home was a branch of Asturias in Buenos Aires. My father played the bagpipe and my mother sang out of pure joy, not for profit. That’s where we come from. We haven’t immersed ourselves in any money-making factory, nor have we ever stopped being the children of Spaniards. That is our achievement: to remain the same.

Did your parents see you succeed?

Lucía: Yes. Our father died in 1985, but he got to see our first year of success here, which was 1984. We were here on one of our trips, and he was in the village. Since there was no TV, he gathered all his friends at a roadside bar to watch us because our concert was broadcast from a bullring. It was as if we were returning home.

You started singing in your twenties and are still performing. How does 40 years on stage weigh on you?

Joaquín: Well, ultimately, our career is our life. Many things have happened to us: divorces, children, losses, sorrows, joys. We have matured, together and individually. In all that, we have understood and helped each other. Our brotherhood has been and is the support of our journey. If we weren’t siblings, Pimpinela would have ended much sooner. A partner doesn’t understand if you’re suffering and need to stop; a brother does. We care about each other, and that shows.

During this time, both of you have been parents and embarked on endless tours. How did you handle raising your kids?

J: My son is 34 now but he was also a baby, and I think it was easier for me because he stayed with his mother. Although I missed him a lot, I think a woman is often expected to be more exclusive and may feel guilt and doubts about whether she’s doing it right. I’m aware of that.

L: That’s true. My daughter traveled with me until she started primary school at six, and then I decided the trips needed to be shorter, no more than 10 or 15 days. Even though she stayed with her dad, from whom I was already separated, and had all the infrastructure to care for her, I felt the pressure. It was a struggle with myself, wondering if I was doing well. Now she has lived in Spain for three years, coming here at the same age my mom went there. She’s returned to the nest.

The duo Camela, who are in-laws, confessed to me that sometimes they go on stage angry and not speaking to one another. Does that sound familiar to you, as siblings?

J: Of course. There have been epic nights when our fighting songs came out impressively well, without pretending or anything [laughs]. We are siblings in good times and bad, but we are also demanding of ourselves. If I think something is wrong with her, I tell her, and vice versa. But it quickly passes. Music restores us because seeing all those people enjoy themselves makes the previous argument feel tiny, like a grain of sand.

Your songs are guaranteed hits at parties, weddings, and karaoke. How does it feel to know that?

J: Pride. I believe it’s because each song resonates with someone, and they feel addressed. We go on living and feeling. Love knows no sex or age. Love is love, and we always seek a partner to experience life better and withstand loneliness, and there will always be breakups, jealousy, lovers’ quarrels, and reconciliations. Being karaoke material means being classics.

But now there are people who don’t argue face-to-face: they break up over WhatsApp or just disappear.

L: Yes, and it saddens me because they miss the most wonderful part, which is the interaction with the other, being able to say to someone’s face, “this is happening to me, I like you,” or, conversely, “I don’t want to be with you anymore.” Now we need to decipher if a green emoji means this or that, or if the thumbs up or down means I have to leave or call you in 10 minutes. We need a hieroglyph translator to communicate.

They also have a legion of imitators. Does that bother you?

J: On the contrary, we love it. There’s a TikTok genre of kids imitating us, dressed like us, arguing with each other or their parents. They are not crude or rude imitations. They are very funny, and I consider them a tribute.

L: Not to mention the drag queens who imitate me, and sometimes they do it much better than I do. Even more histrionic, which is saying something.

Do Pimpinela listen to Pimpinela? What do you enjoy listening to?

L: I like Barbra Streisand, the Carpenters, Mocedades; Amaya’s voice is sublime.

And anything from the 21st century?

Vanessa Martín, Alejandro Sanz, Niña Pastori. I like the voices, but always with a style and interpretive depth behind them.

And you, Joaquín?

J: I enjoy Lady Gaga and her histrionics immensely, but I can’t detach myself from Joan Manuel Serrat and the Beatles. They inspire my music. But I also love Bruno Mars, for instance. I think there’s a difference between wanting to be famous and wanting to grow as an artist. Those are the ones I admire.

Speaking of histrionics, how much of your success do you attribute to your stage presence?

Lucía: I think 80%. If we sang Olvídame y pega la vuelta dancing separately, it wouldn’t be the same. Our histrionics have unified our two vocations: music and performance. That’s what impacts people: seeing me yell at him like a madwoman, and the crazier I get, the more they applaud.

And how do you keep in shape on stage, Joaquín?

J: Very well, because I like to compose for the weaker character, even though deep down they may not be that weak. The victim is much more interesting than the perpetrator for composing. So, I, Joaquín, completely agree with what Lucía says. I mean, I compose against myself. But speaking of histrionics, we are a histrionic family. My mom was melodrama personified. When she laughed, she laughed wholeheartedly; when she cried, it was a full-blown scene, but she was always the center of attention. We experienced that growing up, and obviously, it left a significant mark on us. We are proud children of my mother.