Longevity is not only a grade, it also has its merit. Even more so if, at the time of blowing the candles, it turns out that the birthday party has been a manifest public success. It is hard to believe that events are developing at such speed, but the truth is that Lori Meyers from Granada celebrated their twentieth anniversary last night and did so at the WiZink Center in front of 12,000 devoted fans, which gives them a place in the very first division of indie Spanish in terms of capacity to call.
The most amazing thing is that this reception does not correspond to any manifest excellence, but in any case to the skilful use of mediocrity. Lori Meyers have not managed to stand out particularly in anything, if anything in some facet for evil, but their amiable ability to revive the classic pop-rock of the sixties and a certain vocation to reinvent themselves from some albums to others make them a band of lowest common denominator: they do not invite great enthusiasms, but their formula fits into a wide range of sensitivities and intersections.
The Grenadians took the appointment as self-affirmation and revalidation, did not skimp on time or resources and deployed a scenography of the great occasions: infinite lights, multiple screens and competent graphics, like the disturbing giant silhouettes for one of the most solvent pieces of the repertoire , Woman sponge. For Vertigo, the initial piece, adopts the disconcerting decision not to hoist the front screens, so not only the musicians, but the four dancers summoned for the occasion, remain half-hidden in a strange opening anticlimax. On the other hand, the red Japanese atmosphere for Tokyo no longer loves us It helps to see the first signs of collective enthusiasm.
Lori Meyers will have to be valued even more if we consider that her charisma on stage is very limited. And this has nothing to do with the fact that they are "of the people", in definition (exculpatory?) Of their own singer, but rather in the absence of a moderately articulated discourse. Faced with the most multitudinous and emblematic event of his career, one would expect Noni to have a parliament more tasty than the usual "If we are here, it is thanks to you". But the menu turns out to be affable, without fuss: a somewhat tangled sound, few themes to keep a privileged space in the memory and, yes, the worst-accented lyrics in the recent history of Spanish pop.
The lyrical mediocrity of the Meyers has already been mentioned on other occasions, and it can only be added that not even the experience accumulated over the past fifteen years seems to have served as a palliative element. To compensate, and perhaps for the singularity of the occasion, the group recovers its version of Waiting nothing, jewel of Antonio Vega to which dubious harmonic innovations are contributed and, above all, that flat intonation that in too many occasions Spends Noni, more automaton than interpreter with capacity for vibration, rotation, nuance.
There are, nevertheless, reasons to maintain the faith. Jewels not always evident, like The little death, which could be a dark B side of Los Brincos. Or the central acoustic parenthesis that they offer, with flamenco cajón, Saudade Y Rumba in zero atmosphere, and its immediate transition to euphoria with serious tessitura of High Fidelity. Or the abundant second meritorious voices of guitarist Alejandro Méndez (Ham'a'cuckoo), surely a better vocalist than the owner.
Endeavoring in their big night – preamble of a year in white for the preparation of the next album, the seventh -, those of Loja even offer a visual review of their trajectory in the form of comics when the hands mark and an hour and a half of evening. The successful epic of Thaw It would be more plausible without a gravel like "tell you that I love you and be sincere", so in that chapter of solemnities we are definitely with Oceans and his string arrangements, perhaps the best of the lot.
Of superheroes reconciles us with that fresh and skillful group that rescues the pop of guateque with a patina of electricity and mischief. Y Get drunk, although in some respects questionable, it is confirmed at the close as an unexpected generational hymn. We had 135 minutes of meyerism and there were still encores to stretch the experience, version of The hunt included, until two and a half hours nailed. Perhaps too much, even among the acolytes, but we Andalusians must recognize the assumption of the culture of effort. They have gone much further than their objective qualities suggest. And not even mathematical science is capable of explaining certain phenomena.