“You really should review Iguanas,” I said to my shrink, to whom I had given a draft (and a very rough one at that) on my first visit early last year.
“I’m not gonna commit to that,” he said.
‘Hmmm, that’s very close to where “no” starts,’ I thought.
Well, those long years of toiling in the Wal-Mart fields taught me a few tricks.
“You know, your life is not gonna be fulfilled until your read that book,” I said.
He just laughed.
I should have known he wouldn’t buy in. True, he is a bit unschooled. He has only one diploma in his office, unlike the dozens any respectable doctor would have. So apparently he just attended that little school up there by the Charles River in Cambridge, Massachusetts. You know, the one founded by…
Right—so we can move that concern to the inactive list.
If you’ve never done it, the process of seeing a shrink is curiously personal and impersonal. There’s the shrink, who knows a lot about you. There’s you, who may know very little about the shrink. It’s a one-way window—the psychiatrist peering in, the patient seeing his own reflection.
Which may have been why I felt like a bit of a stalker, when I spent half an hour this morning this morning researching the guy. I had looked him up before my first visit; you really should know into whose hands—rather brains—you’re entrusting your psyche.
Here’s what I read:
Alan del Castillo was raised in Puerto Rico, the son of British and Spanish parents. He has pursued a rich variety of musical disciplines parallel to his medical career. He has traveled often in Latin America, absorbing musical influences from throughout the continent. He first fell in love with South American music when he was studying medicine while living in England. There he met Chilean refugees who deeply influenced him. He performed classical music with the University College Choir and Chorus of the Philharmonic Orchestra of London for 3 years, as well as recording for the BBC. After moving from London to Boston, he continued to play South American music with the trio Andanzas, recording and touring widely. He currently lives in Puerto Rico, where he practices psychiatry, though more often than not he comes to the U.S. to tour with Sol y Canto, particularly since the 1999 release of their CD, "En todo momento," which prominently features Alan as a vocalist. A talented singer, Alan's soulful quena and ocarina playing is one of his fortes.
OK—I’m a cellist, he’s a singer; that might work. Then I met the guy, liked him (which is nice) and trusted him (which is everything).
Well, does he pass the litmus test? That is, is he one YouTube? (Confession, I am not—so who am I to judge?)
The answer—very appropriate for a psychiatrist—is maybe. Sol y Canto is there, and is (with the exception of the songs aimed at children) wonderful. It’s clear—these are talented and committed people, the Amadors and company who make up the group. Rosi Amador is one hell of a singer, and her husband Brian is a great guitar player.
And they’ve attracted attention—garnering reviews from Billboard, The Christian Science Monitor, The Washington Post, and People en español.
Right, but where’s the good doctor, with his soulful quena and ocarina? In addition to “En todo momento” he also has recorded “El doble de amigos.” So I went to the group’s official site, logically if not very originally called solycanto.com, and listened to the little snippets they give you as musical samples. Besides Rosi, there’s another singer, a tenor.
But is it del Castillo or Brian Amador?
Fitting, somehow, that I don’t know, as I also don’t the man. I get glimpses, of course—he is blessedly far from being the sphinx that most Freudians are. He’s a gentle man, with a dry sense of humor, and—says Raf, who met him at a party—a very good mimic. He hates to drive, and thinks of retiring in a small Spanish town. He gets my being gringo, but can become very Puerto Rican on seeing an old friend—a receptionist who used to work in the office. He’s my age, but is still running around with a backpack—hasn’t he figured out he’s not back in Harvard Yard?
He uses silence, of course, as a good shrink should do. Which means that he’s quite happy to let the silence grow—he doesn’t return the conversational ball immediately. He’ll wait and see—is there more?
Or perhaps he’s reflecting, testing my comments in his mind. Or observing.
And though I suspect the thrill of being a shrink may have dimmed some for him, he does it with consummate skill. I’m lucky to have him.
Now, doctor, what about that review?
