After the perfect storm on the opening day, calm took over the Primavera venue yesterday at the Forum and the second day unfolded completely normally. Not even a hint of queues, efficient management of public floods, fully operational restaurant areas and even the sun, with its absence, added to the day, benefiting it with a pleasant temperature.
Thus the things, the music, that protagonist to whom sometimes the sun is hidden like yesterday, returned to reign in the enclosure. And there was something for all tastes, but in terms of quantity, a criterion that was certainly not very musical, two opposing proposals triumphed. On the one hand, a man with a troubled face who sings in front of The National. On the other, another gentleman with more vitality and color who is responsible for Beck. Both had in front of their central stages a crowd that was not overwhelmed by itself, allowing these concerts to be followed by not a few people who, like a picnic, sat on the artificial grass of the Maritime Platform. Others were lying down, but neither saw nor heard. Yes, the bars worked.
The thing about The National is funny, although there’s nothing happy about their music. The sorrowful band headed by Matt Berninger proposes a rock with a low palpitation, melodies that seem elusive and a tone of voice that seems to recite only concatenations of anguish. Berninger accentuates it to the point of parody with his staging. He commands his appearance as a philosophy professor with a microphone that, being lower, forces him to sing while looking at the ground, as if the solution to his problems lay there. Or the vanishing point. His forced gestures, ruffling his hair, theatrically tilting the microphone in This Is The Last Time or abandoning him to walk around the scene, as if his presence exhausted him. It is typical of a bad actor who can be seen to be playing a dramatic role, and rounds off a picture that merged into twenty songs. It seems that the sad thing, that which is called a slump, is still trading on the rise. And they call it sobriety.
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Before, a Beck who opened a European tour —and who will repeat on Sunday in the Razzmatazz room—, put the colorful note. concert with groove, hip hop rhythms, jumps and smiles for a show, let’s not be fooled, whiter than the suit he wore, typical of a nouveau riche dressed to flirt in Puerto Banús. Thus, it was a concert with a certain black background, duly softened so as not to hurt, so as not to sweat more than necessary and to wrap the crowd in the color of a successful staging in which the image was unfolded on the screen. A proof of the opening of the Primavera to more pleasant territories that were anathema a few years ago. The crowd, less militant than ever, open like a playlist, danced to vintage hits like The New Pollution, Jack Ass or the unavoidable lose.
There were other minor names, but they marked an excellent artistic level at the festival. For example, the overwhelming Little Simz, an actress and reciter with a wide range who made songs loaded with sensuality, funk, groove Y sampler of soul, with nods also to grime served by a support band that enthroned the dynamism and strength of this woman, a Londoner of Nigerian origin. Her empowerment, her anti-racist messages and her strong stage presence, domineering, confident, exuberant, wearing a Rastafarian profile knit cap that hid her intertwined hair, was one of the memories that will last in the day . The English, and in particular the English women, went crazy for her, making it clear that they see in her a new feminine profile, mestizo, proud and dynamic, musically capable of kissing and also hitting viciously. You had to see and hear her followers sing with her “I said it with my chest and I don’t care who I offend”. And it’s not a flash in the pan, there are four long albums that she has already released.
At the opposite end of Little Simz is Helado Negro, the project of the Ecuadorian American Roberto Carlos Lange, who has the charm of someone who is not handsome. His songs, pop with syncopation, slow flow, melancholy and soft touch, electronic touches and eventually Latin roots, shone under the clouds dazzling the audience on his stage, who he conquered with songs with titles as indicated as cloudy country, of his excellent album This Is How You Smile either There Must Be A Song Like You —There must be a song like you—, a simple delight. One couple even girdled their waists and began to dance.
Returning to the women, they sparked Wet Leg, an indie rock group that, without inventing gunpowder, make theirs explode gracefully. They know how to make simple, without a doubt. Guitars and melodies with some pepper and attitude, a little overwhelming attitude and somewhat tender despite the cracking of the guitars. At the other end of the festival, the electronics area, it was calm in the middle of the afternoon, it smelled of grass, that of the cows, and the space was clear, open to the beach and the sea. In the bars the triple of service that of users. The bridge that communicates with the Forum was not opened to the entire public, only accredited, since the port authorities fear the danger of the funnels that can occur during the night. This space was filled by the voice of Mariah The Scientist, a woman from Atlanta with a prodigious voice, an excellent timbre and a flexibility that allows her to approach any repertoire in the field of R&B. She performed alone, with everything pre-recorded, and songs like Church, Always Forever either 2 you They shone before a few hundred spectators.
Other women like Amaia or Rigoberta Bandini, this one already at night, left some shadow after passing through the scene. The first, shy, sincere and endearing, filled the scene with candor, sometimes insufficient for big stages. The second, an excellent creator of ideas and concepts of complete relevance, has to take seriously an improvement of her direct to prevent fame from chipping away at her. She triumphed, of course, but with a torrential enthusiasm that is already served by her dedicated public.
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