Four years and a day later, the boys from Vetusta Morla returned to work as prophets in the city that embraced them. The sextet from Madrid’s Tres Cantos district had engraved the date of June 23, 2018 in their curriculum when they gathered 38,000 believers in the Caja Mágica, an unprecedented number in its history. This Friday, they had to make do with just 35,000 spectators at the Wanda Metropolitano, a sporting temple left to a band with a large madridista majority, whose six members were meticulously dressed for the occasion. Today there is no group in patriotic rock that even comes close to them in terms of musical power, but also in terms of their meticulous disposition, love of detail and scenic liturgy.
Those of Tres Cantos not only had to face the responsibility and nerves of the occasions indicated, but also the dizziness of the imponderables. The sound disappeared in the middle The bogeyman, only the fourth song of the night, and the band, lost in the parallel universe of their monitors, kept playing it, unaware that not a single note was heard. Of course, Pucho, a singer (and commander) with many flying hours, knew to get out of the way shortly after. “Whatever happens, don’t let anything stop you from enjoying this evening. That we are fully aware of how damn lucky we are to be here.”
The commitment of the six to their own artistic path means that they always prefer reformulation to continuity. The band’s desire to reinterpret themselves is intriguing, fundamental last night in a new interpretation of Damn cute “already a classic among the classics”, mysterious and turbulent as if from a David Lynch commission. But that’s it The Virgin of Humanity, premiere theme, had time to change a verse that Pucho now recites instead of singing. All of this suggestive and meritorious circumstance pales in comparison to what awaits a forty-five hour show, perhaps the most impressive moment these evokers of popular music have produced in their two-decade career.
The six old men, some guys used to blowing up festivals, stadiums, squares and pavilions, give the center to the tambourine players from Coruña from Aliboria and the traditional musicians from Palencia from El Naán, gathered around an old Gather wooden table to sing and sing drums hardbread baker, a work song that a great-great-grandmother of our great-great-grandparents would invent long before we had a peek into the mystery of life. And Vetusta Morla uses this call to tradition and ancestors of some musicians, used to celebrating their art and ritual in front of only a few hundred witnesses, to connect with them Finistere, another of those sides that Juanma Latorre raises to compete in a state of grace with fellow composer and guitarist Guille Galván. For that sensational moment alone, the wait would have been worth it after this terrifying brace of heartbreak, loss, tremors and confusion.
But that’s all ground wire, the brand new fifth album by the men from Madrid, is ultimately a song about friendship and empathy, about the rearrangement of priorities, about the value of the hug as a unit of measurement, which the heroes of Davos, the algorithm programmers or the proud ideologues of hate and the lie And in this sense it was postulated At the end of the escape as an anthem for those years to come, a song of unusual lyrical transparency in Galván’s canons, and so beautiful and hopeful that one wants to sing it in those moments when the neighbor is someone truly worthy. The details, we said. Always the details. Reflection, self-analysis, appreciation of symbology: it is not usual for a large event to pay homage to Antonio Gasset (La2’s warning about the imbeciles, a group that is spreading today) in a way we would not foresee on Pucho’s lips a quote from the tarara, a melody that all the mothers of this country have sung to us, but which also serves as a Lorca reference, just when we need Lorca so much and the revisionists so little.
All the culture that suits you awaits you here.
the euphoria Every man for himself add “And the fascists out” as the last verse. The Diana sounds more disturbing and claustrophobic than in its phonographic incarnation. And in Council of the Wise Surprised, Wos, an Argentinian rapper we’ve had almost no news of, bursts in to make yet more memorable another of those pages passed from voice to voice when ours is gone forever. In the end and for not renouncing either the essences or the liturgies, the anger of I’ll tell you (who was born with the spirit of herb rock and now it’s pure guitar screeching) and the monumental collective ecstasy of Brave either Saharabbe Roadthose moments when there is not a soul left without jumping, roaring and sublimating the production of endorphins.
And all this with an acceptable sound at the beginning and almost outstanding in the completion of the ritual, an enormous merit in a stadium designed for top sporting performance and with the greatest contempt for the acoustics. Pucho had time to ask for a long round of applause for the anonymous cultural workers or to claim a music law that has not yet occurred to those of today and those who – except for a miracle – do not even want to think about it. Also allowed in the middle aisle the strange days, the song that always means farewell, a few verses to Héctor Castrillejo, that incomparable bard who transmits the moving teachings of distant Spain. But the really strange thing is the very existence of these people, a band that just keeps getting bigger when there seems to be no room for improvement. And all this, very importantly, without taking the feet of the land they now invoke, bless and consecrate.