José José

Before the tailored suits and the title, there was José Rómulo Sosa Ortiz: a boy in Mexico City growing up within earshot of serious music. His mother was a pianist, his father an opera singer. He inherited an extraordinary instrument, but his childhood also held the strain of a family affected by his father's drinking.

He began finding his own way through serenades, small groups and the work of earning a living. The voice people would one day recognise within a single phrase first had to find somewhere to be heard. When he became José José, the second name honoured his father. Even his stage name carried a complicated kind of love.

In 1970, he stood before the Festival de la Canción Latina and sang El Triste. The performance finished in third place. People remember the voice far more clearly than they remember the result: its reach, its control, and the feeling that every breath had something at stake.

That combination stayed with him. He could make an enormous note feel private, then hold a quiet phrase until it hurt. In songs such as Amar y Querer and Gavilán o Paloma, longing became something a room full of people could admit together.

His records entered ordinary life. They played while somebody cooked, while somebody drove home, while a gathering lasted longer than anyone had planned. Sometimes the person singing along was the one who rarely spoke about their feelings. José José gave those feelings a way out.

Success brought punishing demands. Addiction and illness marked his life, and eventually changed the voice on which so much of it depended. He spoke publicly about his struggles and recovery. The story behind the recordings became harder and more human than the immaculate image on the sleeve.

He died in 2019. The songs kept travelling through the same homes, now carrying another layer of memory. A child who once heard a parent singing could grow up and finally understand the line that made their voice catch.

That is why José José belongs in this archive. We remember the man within the magnificent voice, and the place that voice still holds at our tables. Wearing him is a small way of carrying the people and moments his music brings back.