This time, Sixto Rodriguez is dead. The forgotten singer, resurrected in 2013 by the Oscar-winning documentary Sugar Man, died on August 8 in the United States at the age of 81. The news was announced through a statement posted on the artist’s website.
Born in Michigan in 1942, the Mexican of origin finally tastes the joys of success at 70 years old. His two albums, Cold Fact and Coming From Relity, published in 1970 and 1971, had had no impact when they came out, forcing the man to give up music to work in construction in order to raise his children.
During the 1980s, in South Africa, his records became a password, the rallying signs of a whole generation who had had enough of apartheid. By who knows what mystery, by a kind of unexplained miracle, he is transformed into a symbol. There, freedom is spelled in three syllables: Ro-dri-guez. The 33-laps are selling with a vengeance. The Beatles, next, zero. In Cape Town, Elvis was not worth a nail. The songs of this ghost recounted the misery, the failed loves, the drug dealers that we waited for whole nights. No one could have said where he was. Crazy rumors galloped. He would have immolated himself on stage, would have pointed a revolver against his temple.
Upon learning this strange story, Malik Bendjelloul went to investigate. He traveled to Cape Town, met fans. Some have moved heaven and earth, making blind phone calls. They ended up finding the artist in his Detroit hovel. He had not moved, had chained odd jobs on construction sites, continued to show up in crummy clubs. No resentment. At the time, the label did not lift a finger for its colt. The producers pretend to wonder. In their eyes floats a hint of regret.
The director puts the testimonies under the microscope. There are crocodile tears. Where did the money go? Why was this prodigious cross between Neil Young and Bob Dylan dropped? These questions remain unanswered. In 1998, Rodriguez was invited to give a concert in Johannesburg. He doesn’t believe his ears. The public wonders if it is not a question of an impostor. A first guitar chord, and the doubt dissipates. Youth returns, intact, despite the weather, the disappointments, the touch of disaster. Hopes rise again. “Thank you for keeping me alive,” he shouts to the spectators who clap their hands. This is a delayed coronation.