Things always look different from the outside in. Juan Zelada says there’s a mystique to the people who live in London and that’s why he chose to move here. Sitting on the inside of the particularly ring of fire I don’t see that of course, but I do see the red and gold passion of Spain, the fervent hearts that burn with the fury of flamenco and their long sultry nights where the party goes on until the break of dawn. However wrong or cliché our preconceived beliefs are, it is human nature to try to make everyone fit into a neat little box of ideas like all Scandinavians are blond (no they aren’t) or all Americans are loud (Europeans tend to perceive American tourists as being very loud, which, of course, is not always the case). Juan Zelada is defying stereotype by sounding more Jason Mraz than Julio Iglesias. His love song to the artsy end of London, the urban cool Spitalfields, warbles and sways in the manner of Jack Johnson’s island breeze. His gruff and husky voice adds a hint of blues to the otherwise dulcet tones. It is not music to set your soul on fire, but it’s a sweet and soft reprise on a cruel Monday morning when the week seems to extend before you like a row of windmills facing Don Quixote.