Villagers: There's nothing like it (for now) | Culture

There are very few people who can write right now as Conor O'Brien writes. His may seem a crossroads of styles, but the difficulty of encapsulating him may be due to the fact that he has ended up developing a language that is rabidly his own. Nothing of what he played last night Villagers in his Madrid debut (finally!) Was similar to each other, but everything, absolutely everything sounded to him. And, confirming the serious suspicions that contributed their phonographic records, it is the best thing that can happen right now on some tables.

In the Changó Club room, which has become beautiful, some wonders happened. The main one, undoubtedly, the deployment of Conor and his four cronies on stage: that prodigious intersection of author song, electronic packaging, scholastic classicism, some tenuous Irish dream and various apotheoses. Very few young artists are capable of weaving such labyrinths in their work, which in the case of Villagers more seems astonishing filigree. The other event, not so big but almost, was silence. The Irish left us absorbed, stealthy, knocked out. Immersed in its fabulous emotional spider web. What should always be a good concert, go, but that almost never gets to be, neither on stage nor in front of him.

Nothing of what Villagers played last night in his Madrid debut (finally!) Resembled each other, but everything, absolutely everything sounded to him

It happens that O'Brien (34 years old, small, premature grind) is not only an enviable vocalist, but a lover of the show. That volatile voice, crystalline and prone to the perfect falsetto can never be confused, unless we have internalized it. It is an envy, a manifest treasure. But for once it comes off its acoustic guitar, on the occasion of the very electronic Long time waiting, it is even encouraged to act as a spasmodic interpreter, bailongo; like moonwalker in the germinal state. That's how our friend is spending it, backed by a drummer who is also a trumpet player (!), A charming voice keyboard player and an accomplished computer sorcerer.

It turns out, in addition, that O'Brien uncovers himself as a great guitarist, like when he confronts the devilish arpeggios of Again under a bed of crazed electronics. And as a musician of integral formation, because he must have drenched himself of French impressionism to write the piano accompaniment of Walk unafraid. The DNA and the formation of singer-songwriter will end up surfacing with Hot scary summer, that moment in which every good Irishman demonstrates, and only with his way of strumming the acoustics, that he knows by heart all Moondance. But even better ended up being the stretch of unbridled emotional intensity, right at the heart of the night. That was when the half thousand attendees chose to breathe softly, not to miss a sob. Not a tear.


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