The opinion seems unanimous in all the Sanhedrines, from the smart ciberopinadores to the best groups of WhatsApp: the 2018 vintage of OT (Operación Triunfo) it has not been, for God's sake, as prosperous as its predecessor. In other words, in the promotion of 2017 was Amaia and not in this, so we must be satisfied with good looks, uniformity and mediocrity. But these musical plains, by dint of adding hundreds of hours of television broadcast, do not lack adhesions. 14,900 souls, a shocking figure yes or yes, yesterday turned into a hotbed the absolute premiere for the new tour of the cathodic girl, adjective that at this point of the game is pronounced "instagrámica". So are the rules of the game in a show that had little theater, some circus and a lot, a lot of varieties.
Not everything is irrelevant in the OT universe, what is it. For now, this year the cherubs made their debut at the WiZink Center, a pavilion with all the honors, while the poor creatures of last season had to make do in that museum of all the horrors and cacophony that is the Palacio Vistalegre. The show is developed with astronomical observatory accuracy, without a single lapse between performances and a reasonable 136 minutes for an avalanche of 39 songs, a test of fire for any companion who wants to certify unconditional love for their partner or adolescent offspring. And all the members of the cast, all of them, are very cute and very cute, which confirms the scrupulous musical rigor followed for the selection process.
It is easy to identify with some of these emerging theorists, who for that reason are young, photogenic and sing well. The difficult thing is to distinguish them, identify some personality trait, dissociate them from the recurrent sensation that we attend a high-budget karaoke. There are exceptions and everything will move, but for now the kids collect mimic tics and movements that are sometimes more stilted than choreographed: they seem to be looking for the camera instead of the crowds that see them in front of their noses.
Varieties, as several generations of television viewers know on Saturday nights, are constructed from clichés. That is why the selection
of the repertoire is of a desperate predictability. In the menu there is Latin pop (the Venezuelan Alfonso de la Cruz handles it well), ballads of divas, some nod to Pompeii pijerío and little flag on the bracelet (The crocodile girls), a scale in the soundtrack of The Land (Of course!), One of those emphatic collective hymns that invite more to the blush than to the hunch (We are) and even one by Michael Bublé, which for that is the sublimation of the casino artist.
As for the nonsense, oh, better go on tiptoe. There is so much rocky authenticity in the Rock 'n' roll boomerang (Miguel Rios) Dave as gay colleague on the agenda of Santi Abascal. And so many calories in the Respect of Noelia and Alba as in a cream of aubergines with crudités. It is a similar process of lyophilization, by the way, to the one who experiences September (Earth, Wind & Fire) when it falls into the hands of Marta and Famous.
But with three dozen long proposals, if only for statistical probability, there is some loophole for hopeful annotation. Africa dreams of sharing a bit of genetic code with Amy Winehouse when she approaches God is a Woman, by Ariana Grande. Julia is intuited by a personal and beautiful voice, although they always focus on that trilled air of flamenco. And Damion, who a year ago sang on Preciados Street, at least has the holy noses of defending with the acoustic guitar and in solitude a very correct version of Give me love, although the day will be fabulous when the academic thinking minds discover the existence of other singer-songwriters besides Ed Sheeran. In fact, Damion's next breakthrough, shared this time with Africa, was Perfect, with the same red-haired sender. But the rapture of the couple helped to ignite the flames of delirium in the bleachers.
And so, the only genuinely hopeful figure turns out to be Natalia, who arrests Seven nation army and dares to look in Florence Welch's mirror for a remarkable The scientist (Coldplay), alone at the piano. "I want to apologize to all the pianists in Spain," he noted with humor at the end, a self-parodying gesture that sets him apart from the boring parliaments of his classmates, plagued by "dreams come true", "prepare the scarves", "for this there are no words "and so on greatest hits of empty oratory.
In contrast, Alba does not seem to understand Llorona, which in his voice could be renamed Screaming, according to how a traditional moving piece becomes hieratic. Just listening to the Lila Downs version would do her good for the next one. And more incomprehensible still seems the triumph in the Famous contest, only toned in Feel it still (along with Natalia) and that you discount Uptown funk, the fabulous rhythmic injection of Mark Ronson and Bruno Mars, to a monument to inappetence.
Encodes were still missing, in which Miki supplies The band, our Eurovisiva trick of this year: that balbuceous letter thing that is to the verbena and the Balkan folklore what the tintorro reheated to the enology. But everything works in the arcade of Triumph operation, that paradise of the beautiful singers who profess lasting love and convince us, Coldplay by means of, to shout a sonorous "Viva la vida". We'll see how things go when they step out of that happy microcosm.