Public relations of Chevalier, early retired worker of the Post Office, singer, painter and writer, Leal rescues experiences of the legendary discotheque of Santa Cristina
On Sunday nights Chevalier was at full capacity. They came to work 40 employees to attend to so many customers. Now that we talk about the capacities, the capacity of this discotheque was 800 people, but when there was a party or the week was coming to an end, the number multiplied. Camilo Leal, who was the public relations and alma mater of the place, prefers not to go into details, but he remembers a lot of anecdotes. “Once it happened that the day of the Rosary fell on a Monday and, since it was a holiday, everyone went to Santa Cristina. The bridge of A Pasaxe collapsed twice and there was not a single place to park,” he says. In those Sunday evenings, Deportivo’s players did not fail to show up. “They would come for free, no matter who they were. They dragged a lot of girls and a lot of people. I remember that once in Riazor the fans chanted something like “less Chevalier and more playing”. I have no idea about soccer and I hardly recognized them. I really liked Fran, who was the one I dealt with the most,” he says. Another highlight of the club was the parties, from university parties to costume parties, including bachelorette parties. “We were pioneers in having sexy boys and in giving prominence to drag queens. I organized a porn party and 4,000 people came. A movie was being shot live. But we had a bomb threat and had to evacuate,” he says as he sips a gin and tonic.
Always at the post office
He is 64 years old and looks splendid and has a tan that contrasts with this rainy week. “As soon as the sun comes out I go to the beach. In January and February I usually travel to Bali, Thailand or Indonesia. I go for one or two months. This year it wasn’t possible, but I can’t live without the beach and the sea,” he says. He worked at the post office all his life, from 1976 until four years ago when his aorta forced him to stop. “I had a very serious heart problem that few people get over. I was lucky,” he says. Throughout his time at Chevalier, from the 1990s onwards, he would get home at five in the morning on Sundays. “And at seven o’clock I would get up to go to the post office. And in the afternoons to prepare things for the disco. It’s not like throwing a party and sticking up a poster. We involved a lot of people. I remember when I proposed to my bosses about the open bar on New Year’s Eve. They thought I was crazy, but it was done and it was a success”.
Singer, painter and writer
He was born in Vilalba, but at the age of 4 he was already living in San Pedro de Nós. His name is Camilo Febreiro Leal, but he only uses the second surname because “it is more commercial. I always wanted to dedicate myself to music. I sing and compose, and I worked with Tony Ronald,” he recalls as he shows me on his cell phone photographs of press clippings announcing his performances. He got married (he is now separated) and has a 34-year-old daughter. With his ex-wife he participated in the program Media naranja, by Jesús Puente. “We won 2 million pesetas (12,000 euros)”. Camilo also paints, but he never exhibited his creations. “I am a cubist and I always admired Picasso. I give the paintings to friends. I am also writing a book that is going to be titled Manual del hombre perfecto abandonado. Not suitable for feminists,” she says. Although he tries to lead a quiet life, he rubs his hands together when he thinks of the desire people will have to go out when the pandemic is over. “I have a project on the outskirts of the city to hold events for 2,000 or 3,000 people. The nightlife now is worse than it used to be. I have so many things to do. I’m not going to sit and watch the hearse go by,” he muses. In the meantime he continues to listen to music. “I love boleros, black music and broken voices, like Joe Cocker or Tina Turner,” says this man who saw thousands and thousands of people pass through Chevalier. “The night is about hearing, seeing and keeping quiet. It’s about having a good time and consuming,” he says. I ask him about the amount of money that could be left in the till on one of those mythical Sundays of Santa Cristina. “Between gentlemen we don’t talk about money,” he answers, and takes another sip of his glass.