Legendary Pink Dots

A psychedelic affair. That's perhaps the best way to describe the impact, at least visually, of the Legendary Pink Dots. Barefoot, wrapped in a black cloak with a pink scarf trailing over it and hair of some indeterminate shade between red and pink, Edward Ka-Spel comes across as something between David Tibet and Antony — an indie Renato Zero with a certain leaning toward darkness. Flanking him, a bald saxophonist (in a hypnotic black-and-white diamond-patterned suit) and a somewhat aged freak keyboardist (grey onion-shaped hair and a faded yellow-orange spiral T-shirt). At his side, a tall, skinny young guy in jeans and a T-shirt, who looks like he wandered in by chance, handling the guitar strings.

I don't really know the Legendary Pink Dots — well, I mean, it's a name that gets around, a legend to some, probably a great band, essential to others still. The fact remains that we're maybe fifty or a hundred people, and considering that a third are there by chance or curiosity, like me, and a third are the classic well-heeled crowd who can't miss a fashionable show (yes, I'm being ironic), well, the fans of the unmissable blah blah are decidedly few. Credit nonetheless to Galleria Toledo and Wakeupandream, organizers of this and many other remarkable concerts in the area, against all odds. Okay, this sounds like ass-kissing, and it is, but it's free, with nothing expected in return — the ticket was paid for, and I have no idea who these people are, and anyway it doesn't seem worth selling out for ten euros; had I gone to see U2, any malicious suspicions would have been more justified.

After a brief speech about creation, which drags in Pink Floyd and DVDs, the engines are ready to start and launch into another world. Indeed, because this has been the power of the Dots: the ability to transport the spectator, in total immersion, into Ka-Spel's world. It's the simplest and clearest proof of talent — having something to say, and making an audience understand it and see it with their own eyes (in this case one might say hear it with their own ears, but really it's more than anything a matter of the mind).

The script showed no major variations, mostly an amalgam of electronics underpinning the leader's vocal excursions — a theatrical creature of the forest displaying a range of tones, from shamanic to childlike, from pastoral to gothic — plus intrusions of nocturnal, quivering sax. On top of that, a certain dose of irony made everything more familiar (and thus shared), like when the sax suddenly spat notes into the curly hair of a vaguely distracted girl in the front row, then went on to repeat the trick with nearly everyone in attendance, making the rounds among the seats. Little room was given to the guitar, except when the acoustic card was played to bring out a couple of childlike lullabies, and a liberating strum on the final track.

I couldn't tell you the songs, or the albums that were given more or less space. I decided to write about this concert, even as a layman, precisely because, beyond the quality of the songs (which, yes, were beautiful, some really quite so), the sound quality (and the sound was nice and tight), the value of the musicians (the three or four instrumental excursions they pulled off speak in their favor) or the singer (exceptional), the Legendary Pink Dots struck on a mental level, sweeping away any and every critical objection. Proof of this also came from the audience's response: in that same venue, with quite a few of the same people present, the crowd had remained guiltily cold in the face of the excellent Faust, whereas this time they cheered with real conviction (someone even shouted "strip" at Ka-Spel, advice thankfully not heeded), both after every single track and during the various finales (the Dots came back onstage twice more, for a total of about two hours of concert, an hour and a half of actual playing with no breaks between songs).

In short, if they come to your area, there's nothing to do but recommend them, because it's probably true — they are a great band — and because even if they weren't, their artistic performance is worth seeing.

P.S. Credit also to the gentleman, let's say, a bit up there in years, who, clearly in tune with alternative worlds, treated us to three field invasions — two onstage (one at the start, after the first song, to hand Ka-Spel a bottle of wine, and one at the end to hug the saxophonist) and one down on the ground, crawling belly-up to the sound of the sax. True, he was wearing a Morrison Hotel T-shirt, but I don't think that's quite what Re Lucertola had in mind.

Correction: word from the production team is that the aforementioned gentleman isn't actually that far along in years — it's a hair issue. In any case, anyone wanting to know more about the character should go on YouTube and search for “capajanca”. Enjoy the viewing.

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