For some of those mysteries that make human behavior unfathomable, Bastille is a band designed to burst stadiums that fails to materialize that goal in the peninsula. They are cordial, affable and clean; they make hymns as if the apotheosis were a customary circumstance and dress their repertoire with all the salt and pepper of the songs conceived under the mathematics of success. Well, his landing on Thursday at the Palace Vistalegre, on a night so very correct that it lacked some fat and wrinkles, it ended with the enthusiastic jumps of 3,600 fans, a figure that does not reach even half of all the souls that can house the site.
Let's say first of all, because it's news (of good news), that Vistalegre He showed on Thursday night an extraordinary sound, a phrase that after so many black days we had lost faith in getting to write. But the deficiencies, which have become between obvious and bothersome, have finally led to a serious investment and the inclusion of this space, for the first time, among the places where it is worth paying a ticket for attending a concert. And being the Londoners some boys so prone to bombastic discourse, they took advantage of the favorable circumstances to envelop us with a simply overwhelming sound wall. The pity is that neither the perfection nor the decibels are enough to scratch the skin, to feel that the music is nailing us the nail.
The quartet, which grows a quintet on the boards, opts for a diaphanous scenario and a little showy scenery, inspired by the candid digital technology of the eighties. The way is left clear to look at what really matters: the repertoire, the sound, the complicities, the communication. Dan Smith, undisputed leader of the cotarro, is a thorough and close guy ("Excuse me, my Spanish is a shit! "), but only limited in the meters of charisma. We can not say a single word about him in the key of reproach. There is also no way to feel seduced, cajoled, predisposed to the crush. It's right, sing well, jump a lot, ask for palms. But the spell is for better time. He does not even want to adopt it as guilty pleasure at all. Because we do not feel guilty, but neither Gustirrinin.
The two discs that until now have conceived Bastille they reached the top of the English lists. It is an incontestable merit. Their listeners place them among the 35 most followed world artists through Spotify, another superlative milestone. Last night they unfolded the complete menu: strong presence of synthesizers, electronic percussion bursts, vocal harmoniesis processed, some vocoder. They are perfect. They need to be memorable.
And they try. Things we lost It was an orgy of drums to end up jumping with the fistor to the air. Smith invites us in The currents so that we extend our heart finger skyward so that Donald Trump Y Nigel Farage, ideologist of Brexit, the opinion they deserve is clear to us. Even Blame starts with a robotic air borrowed from Depeche Mode, although the eagerness for the excessive chorus ends up chafando the good intentions.
World gone mad it served to introduce us to the very young Akine, a girl of 18 years who turned out to be great once between her and the musicians clarified with the tonality. And even more promising seemed Lewis Capaldi, cuyo buzzer remembers a bit in Bad blood to Jackson Browne, which raises expectations for his October solo performance.
Quedto the final feast of Pompeii, of course, although Happier and above all, Goodgrief, with his falsetto soul white, they seem better exponents in Daniel's good speech. The band has announced that will have a new disc, Doomdays, sooner rather than later, and it seems little risky to forecast a new avalanche of islets fullness. It is necessary to discern if Smith discovers the drawbacks of perfection and the dizziness of the curve is encouraged.