There was a time, and not just in the original punk era or the hectic hardcore years, when nobody knew what was going to happen at a rock concert. Chaos, the unpredictable, was a fundamental element of the show and people more than accepted it. The cathartic and formidable concert offered by the Londoners in Madrid, recovered sensations in this regard: seeing the shirtless frontman Charlie Steen climb the structure of lights before the horrified gaze of the room staff, or the bass player Josh Finerty literally break his mouth after a of his implausible capers with which he culminates his careers on the stage; or enjoying visually with the insane pogo that many brave men mounted in the most unleashed moments, gave us back those precious sensations: punk in all its variants -which is nothing more than rock in its primary essence- was this.
At a time when it is intended to control and regulate everything -a plan, by the way, doomed to the most resounding failure, as has always happened to the domesticators of humans- what they propose Shame As for self-immolation grabbing the public by the chest, it is priceless. I suppose that even the sore bass player, who spent a good part of the concert with a tape at the corner of his mouth and a knocked-out expression, more than makes up for it. At least while the fire of youth accompanies.
They had taken it upon themselves to warm up the afternoon They Hate Change, consummate and personal hip hop duo from Florida that convinced with half an hour of rhymes and an energy that is also raw, but stylistically far removed from what the British practice. A success, naturally, to look for someone who is not a pale clone of the main artist as an opening act.
Shame burst in with the angular ferocity of Alibis. That is, to death. His great asset is to recover the primary energy of hardcore combining it with very British elements (from post-punk to pop) and certain cerebral notes that never compromise the freshness of the songs. It is as if they had agreed to Fugazi with XTC. Everything flows with prodigious naturalness, thanks to the chemistry they exude, their total commitment to what they do and their expertise as instrumentalists. Steen’s jovial charisma helps. And he is surprised that the level of viscerality that everyone puts into the matter, at moments of overwhelming intensity, does not go to the detriment of the impeccable execution, no matter how expensive the tremendous and hyperactive bassist turned his somersault.
In addition, now they can release three albums as different as they are complementary: a first one in which they were still looking for each other (with great songs like “Concrete”, “Tasteless” o “Born In Luton”), a second more cerebral (with successes on the margins of math-rock such as “Snow Day”), and from a third party in which they have found their own balance and dynamics of tremendous amplitude, such as that of “Adderall” y “Orchid” -from heaven to hell in seconds-, or enjoying the rhythmic frenzy of his hit “Six Pack”.
Tremendous concert, yes, despite two little sins: the lack of an encore (which no one reproached them for after such a display of primal energy) and doing without “All The People”the wonderful cut that culminates his recent and magnificent “Food For Worms”. Not much, if we take into account that they made us relive the wonderful sensation of danger and electrical lack of control that must always accompany rock in its most genuine version.
