If Tinkerbell had a band... - Haiku Salut and Kate Goes @ The Buffalo Bar

A few Thursdays ago, a friend invited me to a gig of a band that he described as a ‘nerdy girls band’. I had no plans in the horizon and I hadn’t seen my friend in a while, so I accepted his kind invitation. I have to admit that his description also triggered my curiosity. Nerdy girls band... what would that sound like?

The gig was at The Buffalo Bar, right next to Highbury & Islington tube station. I struggled to find the venue at first, because I relied on that small and thin and rectangular device I never leave home without, which I usually use to answer calls, reply to messages and other delights of the 21^st century. I trusted too much in the technological sense of my little black friend, forgetting my good old common sense. Almost like when you tell your mother to stop calling a friend in primary school because it’s not as fun to play with him anymore. Mistake. I ended up wondering around in the cold like a muppet, looking for secret  entrances in Kebab stores, before realising that I had walked next to a perfectly normal venue entrance 20 minutes ago.

When I finally got in, I left my jacket with the girl at the door, who also happened to be the Cloakroom Manager. She suffered from high cloakroom stress or something. She looked quite annoyed when I gave her my coat and paid. She looked even more annoyed when I asked her to include my scarf in the bundle. Strange vibe, I thought, and I went in.

Shortly after I had bought my first beer (small San Miguel bottle, 3.50, only cash accepted), Kate Goes, one of the supporting acts, started playing. How should I describe them? It was a 3-piece band, playing keys and all kinds of other instruments, ranging from a triangle to one of those rubber cubes for babies that make high-pitch noises when squeezed. These girls would shyly smile to the audience, almost constantly. They would occasionally look at each other and wink both of their eyes, lifting her shoulders up and showing her white teeth in an accomplice gesture. They probably started doing this with their imaginary friends when they were eight. Now that I think about it, they probably keep those imaginary friends nowadays, and they were amongst us in the crowd.

I haven’t yet said a word about the music, but there’s not much to say. The tunes were written for a kindergarten audience, which is not an uninteresting concept at all, but the execution was poor. Even some parts of the show felt a bit like that scene in My Best Friend’s Wedding, in which Cameron Diaz sings Aretha’s “I say a little prayer for you” in the bar, starting scared to death and singing like shit, but then managing not to crack and go on (still singing like shit though) with the support of the crowd. I guess the main difference here is that these girls where never scared. That was good. It was probably because they felt protected by magic fairies and flying unicorns.

Before the main act started I had some time for a second beer, and to look around a bit. The venue was quite cool, very small. The sound was very low as well, so low you could hear all kind of conversations even with music playing. The crowd was female predominantly; a kind of Daria meets Annie Hall type, most of them thin, tall and with thick round glasses in black frames. You could smell yoga and organic courgettes in the air, with bits of Simone de Beauvoir and a hint of suicidal thoughts. Definitely a different crowd from the ones what I´m used to.

After a long interval, Haiku Salut strated playing. Again a 3-piece band, again all girls, but this time not only with keys but with some other “traditional” instruments (classic guitar, a few drums) and the coolest  kid in school, the Mac Book Pro. I had listened one of their songs before the show and I thought it was interesting, definitely worth hearing more of. So I was looking forward to the start of the show, especially after the traumatic childhood regression from a few moments before.

The show started low... and continued like that until it finished. I’ve read somewhere that there’s nothing wrong in “borrowing” stuff from other artists for inspiration; Picasso even used to say “good artists copy, great artists steal”. But nothing of what I heard from Haiku Salut sounded remotely original. I don’t think they even bothered to combine the diverse thefts in a creative way to arrive to something different. Everything sounded too three-four metered and too much like Yann Tiersen and Beirut, but in low res. Pixels all over the place. They even had a problem coordinating the samplers with the live instruments. All this would have been fine if they displayed some kind of energy on stage. Nothing. Flat lines. A black hole. The previous Tinker Bell girls at least had a good time while they were playing. These behaved as if they were undergoing surgery on stage.

Somehow I managed to keep up until the end of the show. After it finished I went straight to the entrance, where the Cloakroom Manager was having an argument with someone who couldn’t find his tiny receipt. I’m glad she didn’t have a Cloakroom Assistant; that would have been one poor devil. I asked for my coat almost timidly, grabbed it and took off, still thinking about the imaginary people that remained inside for one last drink.

Once again, from Brighton with love - Samsara and King Porter Stomp @ Hootananny

It was oneof those Fridays that you start with the score 0 – 1, one man down and yourbest player injured. You know, you go out for a few drinks on Thursday evening,thinking ‘why not, the week is almost gone’, followed by the classic ‘what thehell, one more is not going to kill me’, and by the time you go back to yourcentre, the tubes are ancient history and all you have left in your wallet is apiece of paper reminding that you need to call your aunt for her birthday. Atthat moment your thoughts are not very clear, though you have the certaintythat you will want to kill anyone that speaks to you before 11 AM on thefollowing day.

I got up onthat Friday morning feeling a bit hangovered, and what was worse, knowing I had a bloody long day aheadof me; it looked like the last sigh of the working week was going to score afew more goals on me, giving the match a shameful end. But in one of those miracles, as the day went by I somehow managed to get a bit of energy from a deep hidden corner ofmy body and soul, and right after got back from work I decided to go out andlisten to some reggae in good old Brixton.

Hootanannyhad been - onceagain - thechosen venue by the music promotion agency Wormfood to bring the Brighton reggae,ska and hip-hop crew to London, to make a very clear point: the vibe comes fromthe south.

Samsara was the first band I watched on that rainyFriday. I had seen them before and I had quite liked their upbeat style, in themood of some American reggae bands (they reminded me to Soldiers of Jah Army - SOJA),but with some unmistakable British colours; those you can only get if you grewup in the land where Madness hypnotised an entire generation with their crazy brassmelodies.

The band livedto my expectations. Jez, the voice, guitar and frontman of Samsara, was theconductor of a nicely assembled machinery that made us move (I’m tempted to sayjump) for more than an hour. Good singing, a great muted guitar and some catchywind lines. I was only slightly annoyed by the sound of the snare, whichreminded me (again!) of an old biscuits tin being hit with a spoon. What’s happening with soundengineers and their common drum-sense?

AfterSamsara shared their last tune, I had some time to do the interval must-dos. Imade my way to the bar and got a beer. Two very blond and tall men were about tohave Jagerbombs to my left. I looked them with my elbows on the bar, like I’dwatch the shootout at the end of a western movie. I still needed to go to thetoilet before the next act started, so lined up in one of those improvisedtrains made of people that serpentine through the venue between two or more places. Itook the 12.33 train, from The Bar to The Toilets, calling at Pool Table, Cloakroomand The Toilets. The coach in front of me was a girl with big curly hair, smellinglike sweat and vanilla.

King Porter Stomp took the stage with their 7-piece band a fewminutes before 1 AM. You could feel the power of the band when they played thefirst chord. No Stratocasters; the guitar was a Gibson Les Paul, announcingthat the rhythmic section was going to be heavier this time. The groove hadentered the house, mixing some funky chords with a very solid wind section, reggaekick-drums in 3 and hip-hop lyrics. It was certainly an interesting boat, whichthe frontman and MC of the band steered skilfully with spot on rimes. Withinthe audience you could see loads of American college jackets and baseball caps;I bet Snoop Dog would have liked these guys.

KPS’ set oscillatedcomfortably between powerful bass lines, drums breaks and frenetic ska jumping;energy is the word that first comes to my mind to describe their show. Myfavourite tune? Last Bat Train To Cuba,with its catchy chorus, an amazing intro and riff by the horns section.

By the timethe bands finished playing we were - as usually after a full on Brixtongig -exhausted and ready to go home. I thought about the many good band fromBrighton had seen in the last year. Maybe it’s time I drag myself there and getunder the skin of the South England full music experience. It seems like that’swere all the good stuff is coming from nowadays.

Nada que ver con Miguel Mateos - Zaz @ XOYO

Llegué a XOYO caminando desde la estación de Old Street. Era martes, venía del trabajo. La caminata era corta pero el frio me calaba los huesos, escabulléndose por debajo de mi campera de leñador canadiense. Llevaba los hombros contraídos y los brazos cruzados contra el cuerpo; pero no había caso, el frio hacía de las suyas de todas maneras. 12 de marzo, pensé, cuando va a llegar la primavera? Afuera de la puerta del lugar había una mujer que te sellaba la mano para entrar; con la punta de la nariz enrojecida, esbozó una media sonrisa cuando le di la entrada, y me marcó como si fuera una oveja a punto de ser vacunada.

Bajé unas escaleras largas. Dos mujeres de unos 25 años adelante mío hablaban en francés. Me imagine que no se veían hace mucho, y que se estaban poniendo al día. El recital de la banda que solían escuchar cuando compartían el piso de Pigalle parecía una excusa perfecta para volver a encontrarse.

Entré al espacio donde iba a tocar Zaz, justo cuando la banda soporte estaba terminando. No le presté demasiada atención. El lugar tenía el tamaño justo, y me hizo acordar a algún boliche que frecuentaba en Buenos Aires. Las luces ya giraban; celestes, fucsias, verdes, ambientando el escenario para lo que vendría. Me pareció que el lugar estaba colmado de mujeres. Pensé en mis amigos solteros; los visualicé abriendo mucho los ojos y girando la cabeza hacia todos lados, como chicos en una juguetería. No tardé en darme cuenta que yo estaba haciendo lo mismo.

Zaz subió al escenario con una frescura que hacía mucho que no veía en un artista. Tenía una sonrisa amplia, casi pintada, y una alegría que inmediatamente contagió a toda la audiencia. Mirando al público, Isabelle Geffroy (AKA Zaz) soltó un ‘I’m very happy’, con un acento francés tan marcado (‘aim veri api’) que me enterneció.  

El set comenzó con Les Passants; fue el punto de partida de un show en  donde Zaz demostró por qué es una estrella en ascenso. La voz sutilmente áspera garabateaba sobre bases jazzeras con una naturalidad magnífica. La pareja era perfecta; como la masa del crepe y el Nutella. La varieté había arrancado: había duelos de voz y guitarra, letras traviesas y su clásica trompeta humana - un sonido que Zaz logra poniendo la mano derecha en forma de cono delante de su boca, soltando unas notas que son mezcla de trompeta averiada y corneta de piñata.

La banda, por su parte, exploraba las armonías con aires descontracturados, coqueteando con Django Reinhardt y otros notables del gypsy jazz francés. Con líneas de contrabajo prolijamente rítmicas y una batería simple pero contundente, la base se prestaba para que el guitarrista explorara todas las notas del diapasón, alternando solos ligeros con octavas movedizas y acordes con séptima y novena. Una experiencia cuasi circense para un auténtico flashback al Paris de los años 30.

Luego de los primeros temas ya estaba completamente inmerso en la música, y empecé a notar los matices de la noche. Los buenos y los no tan buenos, claro está. Reparé en la importancia del sonidista para este (y en realidad, todo) tipo de recitales. Asumo que el buen hombre habría tenido una mala noche o se había pasado de cervezas en la previa; el redoblante sonaba como una lata de galletitas Bagley golpeada con una cuchara sopera, y el piano me hacia acordar al Yamaha que mi viejo me regalo a los siete. Una picardía, como diría una amiga mía, porque los músicos eran excelentes, y por los cortes y arreglos se notaba que estaban bien ensayados.

De todas formas, los contratiempos técnicos no me impidieron seguir disfrutando de lo que estaba pasando. Los temas, cantados en la langue de l’amour,  comenzaron a encantar a la gente, como serpientes en un bazar marroquí. En algún momento mire a mi alrededor y observé varias parejas abrazadas en la configuración dada por la música en vivo: la mujer adelante, el hombre atrás, ambos mirando el escenario; los brazos de él alrededor del abdomen de ella, los de ella cruzados sobre los de él; la cabeza de ella descansado, levemente hacia atrás, sobre el pecho de él. Las parejas se movían suavemente, en una cadencia simple, hacia los lados solamente. Los dos sonreían. La imagen me transportó inmediatamente a las decenas de recitales de reggae en mis tierras del sur; no recuerdo haber visto esta imagen previamente en Londres. La reflexión sobre la diferencia entre anglosajones y latinos no se hizo esperar, como tantas otras veces, pero en ese momento preferí volver a la música.

El repertorio continuó en la línea distendida con la que había arrancado. Sonaron Prends Garde A Ta Lange, el hit Je Veux (cantada por todos; los que sabemos de francés lo mismo que de biología molecular improvisábamos algún sonido nasal acompañado de una mueca rara). Luego vino Dans Ma Rue, cantada a puro sentimiento, y hasta hubo espacio para un tema de la inefable Edith Piaf - no podía ser de otra manera. Zaz sonreía y agradecía cada vez que tenía la oportunidad. La audiencia respondía con aplausos e indescifrables gritos en la lengua de los antiguos galos.

En algún momento antes de la medianoche Isabelle y su banda decidieron despedirse, dejándonos a la merced del personal de seguridad del lugar, que nos barrió efectivamente hacia la gélida salida. Gorro, bufanda y coraje; hora de emprender el regreso. Nada de qué arrepentirse: Zaz te deja con una sensación de liviandad y sonrisa interna. No se le puede pedir mucho mas a un martes. 

FunkySoulyElectroBoom - Tru Thoughts @ KoKo

I think it was late on a Saturday, coming back from some bar on Kingsland Road, that I saw a red poster on a wall with the word 'Quantic' printed on it, big enough for me to notice it from across the street. I instantly got really excited; I still had the sweet aftertaste of his amazing gig last summer at The Hackney Empire, with his vintage cumbia project Ondatropica . That night had been like dying and resurrecting in the sixties, in a tropical village of Colombia where people wore short sleeved shirts and played güiros with big smiley faces. This time though, Will Holland (AKA Quantic) was performing on his own, doing a DJ set, as part of a mini festival organised by Tru Throughts, the independent label from Brighton. I thought it was worth finding out what this DJ set would sound like, so I made a mental note to buy the tickets the very next day.

That was a long time ago, but then February came and so the Tru Thoughts gig. The chosen venue had been Koko. I had agreed with a friend to meet at the pub right outside Mornington Crescent station, so I got there in time for a pre-show beer. Once inside he got two Delirium Tremens, a cool ale that comes in a ceramic white bottle with a shiny blue label that has pink elephants printed on it. Only in London, I thought, and I thanked my friend for getting the first round. The beer wasn't only nice to look at, but tasted damn good too.

Shortly after that we got into KoKo, not before having a chitchat with some people at the queue. I love queue friendships; they are forged with alcohol and the excitement of something that is about to happen. Sadly most of the times these friendships finish at the cloakroom; I never met anyone that introduced a friend saying ‘hi, this is Ed, I met him at a gig queue’. The world probably needs some more friends made in queues.

Belleruche was the first act I saw; they were playing when we entered the venue. Right from the top of Koko, the sound was a bit weak and Kathrin deBoer, singer of the band, looked tiny. However, you could feel how the 3-piece band was rocking the stage downstairs. I had listened to some Belleruche records before and I had loved their rusty soul feel, funky basslines and a dash of MAC magic. The first chords I listened when I got in instantly brought me back to that. Kathrin’s voice is a good one when live, kind of in a Billie Holiday’s mood and with a Blondie reminiscence. The band itself has also a powerful presence on stage as well, like owning the bloody place; this is my night boy, Belleruche is in tha house.

To my big disappointed, after a few minutes I realised I had missed the Hidden Orchestra set. I coursed myself for sucking at estimating set times in long gig nights. But then again, I think even the owner’s son was playing that night, doing a Garage Band remix of a cult Swedish band from the 90s. It had never been part of the plan to get there from the beginning, at 9 o’clock; mygroupie days died long time ago, when I decided that Axl Rose wasn't that cool any more.

Quantic came on stage with his classic low-key and relaxed look, showing the smile of someone that is going to enjoy what he’s about to do. I had thought beforehand what his set would be like: the first things I heard from him are at least 10 years old, and the guy has evolved so much ever since, from his early electronic soul to the current tropical explorations. I thought he had a tough one mixing all that and keeping everyone going. Well, I have to say the whole set seemed a bit jumpy to me, and the magic of live playing (like the one I remembered from the Hackney gig) wasn’t there of course, so I got the feeling I had been short-changed. The problem was actually his, because he had done such a great job in the previous gig. I guess I’ll just have to wait until he comes back with his full band.

The night finished with Anchorsong, a young Japanese musician that looks very much like a character of one of Murakami’s books (or at least as I imagine one of his characters). Tall and long haired, looking down most of the time, the teen-looking chap started off with his live samplings and changed the atmosphere of the place. The vintage, unpolished sounds from Quantic gave space to minimal claps and steady kickdrums: it was the change from colour to monochrome, from earth to air. People’s moves were now more controlled, sometimes with closed eyes. Anchorsong takes you to a place where things come and go in waves; long waves, like the ones in a big ocean. You just have to sit in your little boat and let them rock you as if you were a floating on a cradle.

At some point I got distracted and landed back on Earth. I run into my friend and with a short look we decided it was time to go. I left Koko with the feeling it had been a good night, but it felt more like a party than a gig. Maybe it was meant to be like that from the beginning. Or maybe not, but for some reason I keep expecting acoustic drumsets and furious blowing horns from a gig. Either music is changing faster than me, or I’m getting old. Probably a bit of both.

Photos - courtesy of my good friend Rusty Rich

Talking of Balkan

Christmas was on in the last weeks and London decided to die for a few days. Apparently people were too busy eating and drinking, and then shopping like zombies, digging into the sale hangers, looking for life-changing bargains.

So not many gigs going on, therefore my silence.

But today I felt like posting something anyway. Something short and following the line of my previous post. Last time I wrote about the Balkan Beats party I had been to, so I wanted to share a video of an artist that used Balkan music as a springboard to create something quite cool.

Shantel is the stage name of Stefan Hantel, a German dude that was captivated by the gypsy sounds of his ancestors (his grandparents were from Romania), and started DJing and producing music in Frankfurt. One day he decided to go a little further and went on stage with a full band. The result: all the colour of Balkan folk, boosted by electronic bases. Not to mention he’s probably one of the most charismatic artists I've ever seen on stage... but I’ll leave that for a different post; hopefully he’ll play in London again in 2013.

I’ll leave with Disko Partizani, his best known tune, in a video ‘alla Kusturica’. Bloody awesome. If you don’t absolutely love the scene with the flying carpet, there’s definitely something wrong with you.

Winter Balkan Night - The Turbans and Kaligola Disco Bazar @ The New Empowering Church

I thought a lot before finally deciding to sit down and write this post. The problem was that I didn't know how to begin. I thought about starting with a funny anecdote of the night, but it didn't work. Maybe with an album that reminded me of the music I listened to? Neither. I even tried with an historic reference... but then I ceased in my enterprise when I imagined you, my dearest reader, maximising the Facebook tab almost instantly after spotting the words ‘nineteenth century’ in the first paragraph. It’s bloody difficult to keep your attention, did you know that?

So in the end I decided I’d start by saying that I don’t know how to start my post about my Balkan gig…  which actually does express in some vague and abstract way the mood of that night. Balkan music has always been something fascinating for me, but quite difficult to explain. I always get these big eyes and funny faces when I try to answer the question: what does it sound like? A bit like Jewish music? Hmmm. A gypsy feel but in an un-cool, non-trendy way? Eventually I give up and I take my wild card out, ‘have you seen any Kusturica films? Do you remember the soundtrack?’ That usually works 3 out of 10 times. The other 7 I just change the subject or improvise a magic trick.

I learnt there was a Balkan Beats party in East London last Saturday, with a couple of live bands. Why not, I thought, and I remembered I’d been craving for a proper Eastern European gig ever since my musically unsuccessful trip to Croatia, where all listened to was soft pop played in an almost (but not quite) Italian way. Later I found out Croatia does not consider itself part of the Balkan region, but I’ll stop that now… and keep your hands off that Facebook tab for Christ sake!

I got into the venue through a little alley on the side of a big warehouse. It was raining, it was dark, the doorman was scary and there weren't too many of us queuing. I briefly remembered the story about the man waking up in a bathtub filled with ice and a note saying 'we've taken one of your kidneys but don’t worry, here’s 20 quid for the cab to the hospital´. But fortunately I was in London where these things don’t happen, so I showed my stupidest smile to the guy at the entrance (you know... the smile you get when you try to act cool but you actually feel a little awkward), paid 10 pounds, and got in.

If there is such thing as a Balkan shock, I got it the minute I walked in. The performing band was called The Turbans, and at the time I was taking my jacket off they were playing something with the most irregular rhythm I had heard in ages. I tried to count along but never got it; it had the most weird meter, 9/8 or 15/16 or similar, something I would be able to reproduce only  if I was the son of a Serbian drummer. The lead singer was a woman with the highest pitch voice, following the tradition of the region’s female folk singers. I remember looking at one of my friends, mouth half open and eyebrows raised, trying to understand what the hell was going on on stage. Fortunately the next tunes were easier to grasp, and actually really good: simple bass lines, drums and percussion (including a darbuka, which added a distinct colour to the groove), a classic guitar doing the base, an electric one rocking it up. But the main ingredient was a violin, played by a classically trained virtuoso that took me on 4 string journey through Eastern European space and time. Amazing.

The second act was a band from Rome called Kaligola Disco Bazar and they were certainly different. To start with, they were all Italian. Or at least they looked all Italian. Loads of moustaches, expressive outfits, expressive gestures, expressive everything: these guys loved to be on stage and that was infectious for us amongst the crowd.  They were basically a full brass band, plus an accordion and a darbuka, and finally a guy with a Mac giving the electronic kick to the act. It was a rich and festive combination of instruments that fitted perfectly to the performers. Their music had a gypsy feel, but was also combined with more traditional folk sounds from Italy and jazzy arrangements, similar to the ones you’d get from classic big brass brands. They had a different attitude as well. When I think about gypsy or klezmer or Balkan music, there is an element of nostalgia and suffering that transforms into something really energetic, but as a discharge, as a way of forgetting sorrows and pain. I couldn't spot much of that in Kaligola: they were all about having fun on stage and transmitting that to the crowd. We got it, and we danced and jumped until our feet hurt and we hadn't much left to give.

I still don’t think I can explain what Balkan music sounds like, but I don’t care too much about my disability. This music is so rooted in such deep sentiments that words will keep failing to explain. And who cares about explanations anyway? Let me show you this amazing magic trick...

Any given Sunday – Manu Chao + La Troba Kung Fu @ Brixton Electric

Sometimes I wonder if Sundays have a similar effect on other people as they have on me. I've been here for 2 years now and my hypothesis is that Londoners couldn't care less about it: it’s just the second day in the weekend, and hence let’s get up at 8 AM and make the most of it, go for breakfast, go for brunch, munch, I have a hunch this is going to be a nice and productive Sunday. Ehhh... what happened to the so called psychological factor? Nothing, not a clue of it; Londoners are doers. I wish I could always look at Sunday in the eye and say: ‘You are nothing but the seventh day of the week, and you are a free day, so I don’t give a fuck if you feel grey and gloomy today... we are going out’. Well, sometimes I do it: this is the story of one of those Sundays.

I learnt Manu Chao was playing in London, out of the blue and as part of a charity festival in South London. I had never seen them live, so I thought this was a great chance to challenge the dying weekend and finish with some groove.

I got to the Electric in Brixton around 8; as usual, I thought I was arriving late, but this time I wasn't too concerned... even if they tried, Manu Chao would never start on time. My theory was confirmed when I saw a 200 meter static queue, starting from the venue's door. Walking alongside it I started looking at the people waiting to get in, and I was invaded by the most beautiful nostalgic feeling: long curly hairs, untidy beards, baggy trousers, ethnic rucksacks and rustic pullovers, everything embedded in a strong human smell. It was like being back at home, a laid back atmosphere translated into clothing and hairdos, just like before a reggae gig in Niceto Club, back in Buenos Aires.

When I got in I realised there were a few supporting acts (which I didn't know about, of course). I think I've expressed my opinion about supporting acts before. When you go to a restaurant, how many starters do you have? Either you have one, or you might share a few with other people, almost like a nice treat to warm up your belly, because you still want to save some space (end especially energy) for the main course. Well, they had 2 ‘starters’ that night, plus Manu later. Maybe a little too much?

The first act was La Troba Kung Fu, a band from Barcelona. Led by Joan Garriega, accordionist and voice of the band, they do a mix of Spanish rumba, cumbia and bit of reggae and ska; certainly an interesting combination. But I think the best about these guys is that they were able to read an audience that was eager to forget about everything for an hour and let themselves go. We were all sitting in a happiness train, we only needed the driver to show up and start the engine. After the first tune, La Troba had the crowd jumping and cheering as if we were all watching our favourite band from all times. I'm pretty sure most of us didn't know who they were, but these great things happen when the passengers have the right vibe and the driver of the train knows what he’s doing.

I'm not going to write too much about the second act because it was bad, definitely bad. The concept was all wrong: a selection of musicians alternating guitar playing and singing, over a DJ track. I mean, I'm sure they are all good artist separately, but together they did one helluva mess. A complete turn off. Like thinking of your grandmother when you’re about to have sex.

After at least 50 painful minutes these guys decided to put an end to our misery. But it was too late. My spirit was trashed. The second starter had been a lead soufflé, with a thick engine oil coulis. Too much for my poor Sunday stomach.

Manu appeared on stage shortly after that, and spent 5 minutes thanking the warmth of the people, touching his heart with both hands and putting his right fist in the air. You could tell he's a simple man, and he was overwhelmed with the people's love.  It was the first time I saw him on stage, and I instantly liked him. Probably a great guy to share a summer barbecue with.

The show was OK, but it was nothing like those unforgettable marathonic gigs I had heard so much about. I think it was mainly because he didn't have the full band with him (he played with a formation of only 4). And let’s face it, Manu Chao can be amazing, but without a good percussion section, a couple of brasses and maybe a violin, his songs could be a bit Spanish guitar monotone, with too many 3 chord tonic-fourth-fifth transitions. It wasn't bad; lovely people, great energy, but they didn't blow me away.



My Sunday finished later than usual, but left behind a smile on my face. It was definitely worth it, and got me thinking that I should do it more often. Maybe I am turning into a Londoner after all...