Opening night, Arc de Triompf:
The Walkmen
It’s opening night and I’m perched on raised eyrie of
concrete and grass to the stage right. Gum on my shoes, I’m drinking warm Estrella Dam from a
carrier bag and kicking the desiccated dog turds from my makeshift dancefloor beneath the palm trees planted by Ajuntament de
Barcelona - to one of the most charming and under-championed acts of the last
decade.
The Walkmen work
their way through slow burning vintage tracks such as the skeletal “Donde Esta
La Playa” and the Johnny Casha-thon of “Blue As Your Blood” it’s easy to
understand how they can still feel a bit like an undiscovered secret, even
amidst a huge crowd like the one that’s assembled here. Their songs are full of
languorous Americana but with enough space and breath to feel timeless.
The epiphany is inevitably shattered when they play “The
Rat” and every man, woman, and child with a voice and a beating heart bellows
Ham’s own words back in his face with twice the bile. It’s a song that
ostensibly deals with how it feels to lose touch with people, and its
perpetually weird then, that whenever they play it, precisely the opposite
effect can be observed in the audience. Everyone appears united in their love
of the song, with arms flung around friends and smiles in abundance. It’s the
most fun form of group therapy ever invented.
I hope they never tire of playing it.
The Black Lips
One hour later and I’m a bit worse for wear and non-plussed
by my decision to simultaneously smoke a cigarette and suck on a Chupa-Chup. It
seems natural at the time, but in retrospect it was the perfect gastronomic
dichotomy for the Black Lips; a band that can be both sickly sweet to your
mother’s face and have that scuzzed up and filthy only-doing –this-to-get-off-with-your-sister
air of menace at the same time.
So the sugar high from the Chupa-chup and the nicotine
dizziness plays out to the tune of the Ramones being tickled by teenage surfers.
To be honest I have no idea what any of their songs are about but its clear
that they are here to party and the crowd in the Arc de Triompf is willing to
oblige. They look and behave like mercenaries sent from the future to destroy
the music of the past by mashing it all together with a big punk hammer.
By the time “Bad Kids” makes an appearance and the toilet rolls are flying into the crowd from the stage, its clear that Barcelona loves The Black Lips, no matter how many smashed up hotel rooms and puke filled taxis result.
By the time “Bad Kids” makes an appearance and the toilet rolls are flying into the crowd from the stage, its clear that Barcelona loves The Black Lips, no matter how many smashed up hotel rooms and puke filled taxis result.
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