Metallica, supreme kings in the return of Mad Cool

• The Mad Cool moves to the south It will be held from 2023 next to the Marconi industrial estate in Villaverde

• Mad Cool 2022 Schedules, how to get there, parking, payment at the festival...

A strong wind and a downpour greeted the arrival of the

Rain and then sun to mark the happy return of outdoor music, after three years of the pandemic.

Three years like three bugle calls, dubbing dead for a communion and a trade, that of music and musicians, which seemed to go down the toilet.

Until the summer of 2022 arrived. Not even the oldest remembered an edition so bristling with nerves, millionaire audience.

esplanade ,

not far from that

that served as a trench against the pandemic, 60,000 people sought the proximity of the amplifiers.

While people sipped their first beers, Londoners

offered a no less reliable menu.

Pop jewelry and candy synthesizers typical of the British scene from the mid-nineties to the mid-2000s. At 8:30 pm it was

The group, rejuvenated after the tremendous

, a resounding and mature artifact, found

and

more sure than ever of their powers.

With these guys it's possible, even optimal, to shuffle the deck of contradictions, you know, wild intimacy, post-punk introspection, darkness and light for an alternative chassis rock to the most hackneyed mainstream.

At times depressing and at times euphoric, Placebo hasn't changed much, but the trick still works and the storms fit with stylized precision into melodies that at times echo Berlin's

and at times convey raw paranoia.

And then came

And he ordered to stop.

And the crowd, ecstatic and happy, children and parents, couples of old rockers and kids with the

posh, jevis, poppers and even kids with

ran to crowd under the speaker towers to the rhythm of

.

These aren't the exhausted Metallica of 20 years ago, when they didn't know whether to become soluble in modernity or hang up their boots.

There was suicidal speed, raw aggression and adrenaline by the hundredweight in a rejuvenated gang attack.

A group that comes from publishing a wonderful work in 2016,

where they even enter by paths that are not excessively hackneyed.

Live, on a platform in the middle of the audience, the Angelenos demonstrated why they have reigned as supreme gods of thrash metal.

Theirs are songs of seemingly rocky, monolithic and furious structures, but behind the concrete wall there are tons of classicism not exempt from supersonic flights.

At an age when we are left for soups and

and co.

they galloped over boiling, bubbling, toxic magma.

Of course, it wasn't a matter of continuously surfing at two hundred kilometers per hour either.

Hence, at times they tightened the brakes.

But not to fall asleep or rub the respectable, but to explore heavy rock fractals and trips with a lysergic point.

There was no other place in

to concentrate than in front of the main stage of MadCool, while Metallica launched a cavalry of guitars like a tsunami, capable of shaking the subsoil.

Somehow it was redemption and revenge, the escape at the end of the tunnel and to the promised land of a way of being in the world that seemed to have been destroyed by the damn plague.

Of course, a festival is much more than the roller that sweeps the main stages.

In an adjacent one, in front of a younger crowd,

spewed out a thick, stringy hip-hop concoction.

And the crowd grew, until it saturated the space, with the Sevillian

A steamroller, throwing choruses like cluster bombs and crawling, verse by verse, over a highly placed mass of joy, euphoric with hip hop whiplash on bases that at times taste of

and at other times smell of the south and the street.

More wild, even intimidating,

aka

appeared ready to subdue the audience, blending in and taunting his guitarist, playing with the audience and making good use of a riding crop.

BDSM pop, industrial cacophonies and rubbery electronics to form a mass that is as satisfying as it is enervating.

Server came from reading that his latest proposals are more accessible.

Perhaps, but there is no doubt that the artist, ambiguous and dangerous, makes no concessions.

And the delighted staff, hey.

So that later they say that all people want are freeze-dried choruses.

We believed that we would never meet again in front of some musicians, and the artists summoned by MadCool, commanded by Metallica, blessed be they, with their skeleton of stylized grandparents and their report of unrepentant rockers, freed us from the viral spell.

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