The smoke that envelops the whole stage, the musicians dressed in rigorous black, the tons of confetti that rain on the audience before the opening piece ends (White Nights), the seductive and measured gesticulation of the head of rows. Dorian They are great lovers of rituals and detailed staging, and that taste for wrapping and fine thread ends up yielding good returns, especially if the facade is supported by a repertoire as solid as yours. That's why last night was only the first of the three consecutive fills with which the Madrid public celebrated in La Riviera the baptism of Universal justice, fifth album of the band and heir worthy of his already illustrious predecessors.
It would be easy to conceive this new album, which only takes a few months in circulation, as a kind of revalidation. The quintet begins its second decade of activity, had taken stock of what has already been experienced with a vibrant live album and seems to seek a subtle reinvention, with a hedonism increasingly spooky.
The central theme, for which yesterday they had the ubiquitous Rayden, is, in fact, an atypical and poisoned soflama against this "neoliberal gray world" that we have to live (or endure). Marc Gili adorned it with a dedication in extremis that many would miss: "Take recordings, Cospedal!". And a middle finger in an upright position …
The Catalans' faith in the premiere ammunition is unbreakable and contagious. Ten of the 11 new creatures sound (only relegated The island) although it implies sacrificing classic until now sacred. And the renewed gunpowder slips winks Radio Futura between the little screams White Nights or an explicit tribute to The Smiths in Signs, which confirms the fascination of our protagonists for the universes eighties and unambiguous refrains. Such as Until the sun goes down, perhaps the clearest candidate to survive in the hums back home.
That fondness for nocturnal and taciturn landscapes, from a temporal perspective but also an animistic one, seems to have passed in the band from loyalty to obsession. In the end, the great asset that squeezed Dorian last night was his ease for contagious melancholy, to dance of pure sadness. It was enough to pay attention to It hurt, song of symptomatic title and dark and depressing spirit, but absolutely vibrant. The contrasts were always juicy when developing creative impulses.
Gili is a leader somewhat just of fervor, but exhibits a discreet, strange magnetism, with little use of the two platforms on stage that allow him to gain half a meter of height to scan the room. Dorian always felt close to The Cure, but Good intentions reveals now its more synthesized and robotic profile, one step away from the tribute to Depeche Mode. Pop synthesized, you know, was always conducive to euphoria. Although they are packed, tinged with blackness. Black negrísima.