Oscar Briz Trio

Sunday lunchtime in Carcaixent. Paella waiting. Cold drinks flowing. A packed El Café and Òscar Briz standing in front of a room full of people who clearly came to do more than listen. They came to sing.

From the opening notes, this felt less like a conventional gig and more like a musical family gathering that just happened to have one of Valencia’s most enduring songwriters at its centre. Briz, joined by his trio, looked genuinely moved by the response, while the crowd responded to song after song with the sort of enthusiasm you simply cannot manufacture.

And given what Briz has been through recently, there was an extra emotional weight hanging over the afternoon.

Only days earlier, thieves had stolen two of his guitars — a Godin LGX SA and a Rickenbacker 330 FG — instruments that aren't simply expensive objects but part of the machinery of his working life. Yet here he was, back on stage, playing, laughing, singing and doing what musicians do when life decides to kick them in the teeth: carrying on.

If anything, the circumstances seemed to make the performance feel even more personal. The room sang with him. Not politely, not occasionally, but properly — voices bouncing around the walls as familiar songs turned into communal property. There was emotion everywhere, particularly in the quieter moments, when Briz's songwriting was allowed to breathe and the audience seemed to hang on every word.

Then came The Waterboys’ “Fisherman’s Blues”, a beautiful curveball that fitted the afternoon perfectly. Briz and the trio gave it the kind of treatment that made you forget for a moment that you were sitting in a café in Carcaixent. It felt like one of those songs that had always belonged in this room, surrounded by people who knew every word.

And perhaps that's the secret of El Café. Enric Casassús has created something here that goes beyond putting bands on a stage. The venue has become a genuine grassroots music hub, a place where musicians, neighbours, old friends and complete strangers can sit around the same tables, share food, swap stories and listen to live music without the invisible wall that often exists between performer and audience.

The lunchtime format only strengthens it. There is something wonderfully un-rock'n'roll about playing a gig before lunch and then sitting down for paella afterwards — until you realise that this is exactly what live music should feel like. No VIP barriers. No corporate polish. No giant production. Just people, songs, food, conversation and a room full of humanity.

For Briz, it was also a statement. The guitars may have been stolen, but the music wasn't. And watching a packed El Café sing those songs back to him, there was a powerful sense that whatever had been taken, the community wasn't about to let the music disappear with it.

That's what made this particular Sunday special. It wasn't simply a good performance by a veteran Valencian songwriter. It was a room full of people quietly saying: we've got your back.

Music, after all, is supposed to bring people together. At El Café, it actually does.

Words and photos: Rhyan Paul