El Pais on Madrid
brianinatlanta2001 at yahoo.com
Fri May 18 06:03:40 CDT 2007
(Via Google Translator)
The Who: To the sixty like in the sixty
IVÁN CASTELLÓ - Madrid - 18/05/2007
The rock is something bad. Satanic. All the Popes have denounced it in their encyclicals from their invention (the one of the rock). He will be for that reason, because they have sold his soul to Beelzebub, the one of the enviable form and spirit of two old by DNI like Roger Daltrey (RD) and Pete Towshend (PT). The time happens, laminating its body of beautiful wrinkles or in form of deafness, although not in its suspicious minds of as much musical talent.
In his second attack to the Madriles, The Who did not fill all terraces of the Palacio de los Deportes, but the soul of which day and hour with Pad Party, Antonio Vega, Luis Eduardo Aute, Duquende chose to be spent between 40 and 80 euros in spite of the competition in and until Pepe, salt marshes. He was cheap with so recalling classic of the history of pop music (I can't explain, My generation, Won't get fooled again - C.S.I., thus anyone! -, “5: 15”, real The me or Pinball Wizard) and to enjoy the intact sound mark of the house in their last album of study, Endless Wire. Because The Who got to be like The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. In addition to the icon of the aristocracy mod, that tribe of suit of three bellboys, excited hair (as much they as they), to scooter and shoes of bowling, surrounded all the disguise by one parka green M-51 olive of the U.S. Army.
The ecstacy will arrive if, as is barruntando PT and RD, they shortly propose on the scene an exclusive session with the opera Quadrophenia rock, referring an only one about a life form, the one of “mods”. And a delight for the ears.
In the titular equipment of the concert in the Palace of Deportes, in addition to the axeman Townshend and Mr. Booming Voice Daltrey, other four perfectionist musicians left: the guitarist Simon, small brother of Pete; the bearish Pino Palladino; the keyboardist John Bundrick; and the drummer Zak Starkey, son of Ringo Starr. Everything was, then, on per them. No longer they are (“and I remain in hell, because always it makes good there”) the deceased Keith Moon and John Entwistle, devoured by the excess that accompanies to them in the ultratomb band which they over there form down other types like Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison or Brian Jones.
Opening, and fantastically well, the Americans Rose Hill Drive, so powerful that Jimmy Page would want to play with them. Another one of the discoveries of one night inhabitant of the capital in whom these The Who revived demonstrated to be the form of the dream of eternal youth. Like in Cocoon, the film.
-Brian in Atlanta
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