This piece is a follow up to Lilac Camel’s tribute to Jose Padilla that we posted a few years ago. Here a fellow “old school” DJ History forum alumni and “Balearic” obsessive, a Parisian based in London with the online moniker of “Mbike”, takes us through his recent pilgrimage to Ibiza’s iconic Cafe del Mar. 

Wonderful words by the mysterious Mbike.

A. and I parked the car quite a way from the Café. We’d been told that the walk around the port was
most pleasant. First, there were a few grungy guys – gigantic ads for parties – with a slight macho feel about them. There were a couple of gangsters wandering around, bodybuilders exhibiting their tattoos. In the distance were loud beats, coming from a late, or early, open-air nightclub. We passed low quality burger shops, with a smell of rancid cooking fat. A group of pickpockets sitting nearby. 

As A. and I walked between the yachts and small boats, one guy with bloodshot eyes asked me: “Hey boss, do you need something?”. I must have given him that look that José had sometimes, because the guy swiftly disappeared into the languid, late afternoon of San’ Ant. We were in what must have been the centre of the town and I felt we had to go left or we will miss it. We did turn, and arrived in a street of ongoing roadworks.

Then there we are, we saw it from the back: the shop first, the silver-grey letters on that polished glass. We went in. The lady in the shop put some music on. It’s “Offshore” by Chicane. I bought a T-shirt that I didn’t really need; its light blue colour reminded me of Café Del Mar Volume 4.

A waitress then seats us in the first level of the upstairs bar, the only option without minimum spend. She’s super kind to us. I wonder if she sensed that it was special for me to be here, having started to follow José, Phil and the whole Café del Mar story in 1995, thirty years ago? 

I’ve had plenty of time to prepare. José is sadly gone, and I’m not sure if Phil ever came back here after 1996. I was expecting the place to be a capitalistic cash-in, living on its legacy and former authenticity.  Extorting all the money it could from its customers. A mirror inversion of what it once was. A ghost with only remote link to its glorious past. I was expecting a big disappointment. However, I’m mostly pleasantly surprised. 

There’s a really nice vibe at the Café. it has a civilised dignity, especially after touring the town centre and its junkies. Above all, there’s  something cool about the people here today. A relaxed family are quietly enjoying themselves, someone in a wheelchair, and a lone guy is watching the sea. I remember a quote from Phil who said it was all about “the right people at the right time.” I think of John Beltran’s Mallorca, which I’ve listened too many times on my way to Ibiza.

The day is lovely. It’s late May. You barely notice resident DJ Ken Fan’s tracks at first, but their soothing character starts to permeate the air all around. I realised that my emotions have been running high regarding visiting this place, a trip that I’ve dreamed about so much for all those years. Ken drops Cleo Sol’s Lost Angel which could not be more appropriate. I started to chill. It’s 6pm.

A super-agitated fellow is making a phone call. He’s weird, as if wasted, loaded, but no one seems to take any notice. Perhaps he’s high up in the Café’s hierarchy. Who cares? We are in Ibiza. There’s a couple at the bar. They must also be from Ibiza’s nightlife business. Both dressed in Black. She wears a dress with the Pacha Cherrys all over it. Thin and good-looking, she appears tired. A DJ maybe. With one hand she smokes, holding his with the other. She looks into his eyes. He looks older. There is something touching and beautiful about them. Ken plays Nightmares On Wax’s classic Les Nuits, and a feeling of intense gratitude falls down on me: I am so indebted to A., to us having made the trip here together. For years, I didn’t feel the need to visit Ibiza, but José’s passing slowly changed my mind. The journey here has been a tale of dreams, mirages, of freedom and hesitation, of departures and missed opportunities, of life’s choices made at crossroads. Now I understand why most people will sit here for hours, waiting for the sunset.

A. and I stay for a bit longer than an hour, by then we feel that we have what we need. Some of the original spirit is still here. The kind waitress takes pictures of us and we’re gone. While leaving, I spot Ken, wearing a colourful shirt, and absorbed in his records. Later, he’ll move from the lower to the upper deck, when the hordes arrive. 

The journey back to the ME Hotel in Santa Eularia is just Ibiza at its best. All the cars moving with implicit respect to each other, and the views are spectacular and cinematic: the pine groves, the rolling hills, rocky coves at a distance, the sea patched with herbs. The sun is sinking. I hear Mental Remedy’s The Sun. The Moon. Our Souls, am at peace. I promise A. that we will back come again, to see the sunset at the Café, next year. Maybe. Thank you, José.

“When God says “I Am Lived”, we’ll have forgotten what all the parting was about.” 

Jack Kerouac – Satori In Paris