I first attended a Stones concert in 1990. Mick Jagger was 46 years old (he’ll be 79 next July) and many journalists of the time (‘Come on’, 1963), born the year the band released their first single, have already written what has become a slogan before each of their performances until their last concert at Wanda. : brought together several generations in public, or grandparents attended with their grandchildren. While it may apply to Dylan, Neil Young, or Patti Smith, it’s a recurring mantra that baffles television professionals who connect for a few moments, no matter where the creators of ‘Start Me’ are performing.
In a sports broadcast, he does not waste a second by underlining that his grandson came to the field hand in hand with his grandfather, that there was a Madrid-Barça match there, that there were overtime and penalties, but that he was in the performance of an orchestra. Instead of emphasizing that Jagger, Richards and Wood played ‘Out of time’ for the first time in sixty years, they still find it striking to dedicate 40 of the 120-second link to this ‘generational union’. , which provides much more information. Something similar happens at the summer festivals—and we’ve only just entered the peak period—because they “attract audiences of all ages”, as if MIA fans in general were in the front row with unconditional fans of The Jesus & Mary. Chain to share beers hand in hand and listen to the song ‘Just like honey’ while looking into each other’s eyes.
The generational crossover in such events is only half true, it’s James Bond’s “dry martini”: shaken, not stirred. It is true that a Primavera Sound, a Mad Cool or a Benicassim attracts audiences of all ages, but the oldest continue to look upon the younger in the arrogance of experience, and the old as exotic ornaments. my dad does it here»), especially since he’s a recognizable type of character from year to year, and over time, one wonders if 2011’s FIB, who wore a plaid shirt and displayed a well-groomed beard, was the same hipster. ‘from the barbershop’. He (you, you) he was the innovator.
Two recent literary innovations serve as a pretext to strengthen this argument: ‘I lived here’, Joan Vich’s 25-year behind-the-scenes history at the Benicàssim Festival, and ‘La Enthusiast’ by Cristina V, alias Gala de Meira. . Now fiction, now autobiography, faithfully telling, Miranda chronicles the adventures of a band through festivals and concert halls in Spain. “It was not normal to see people twenty years younger in 2012 or 2015 listening to the music I listened to when I was their age. Now I really like the intergenerational confrontation of young people who reject what their parents heard,” Vich said in a promotional interview.
De Meira’s novel says more in favor of the false Eucharist theory. Between 2006 and 2009, ‘La Enthusiast’ tells the story of a music-loving young man who spent three years chasing his favorite artists all over Spain, sneaking into his locker rooms and locking himself up in hotel rooms, to feel loved, to fall in love. and being disappointed, mistreating his liver and nostrils, waking up next to men and women whose names he can’t remember or what instrument they played, a textbook ‘bag-eating’ who whips himself in his own euphoria, looking for some. They’re the friends they’ll never be underestimated by finally becoming ‘indie’ stars or emerging artists who just want to be simple. As light as the argument may seem, this is an enormous story, almost horrifying in #Metoo times. It’s basically about wanting to see what Los Planetas has to say in ‘Generational Anthem #83’ (“When this is all over and it doesn’t matter what they say…”).
Years later, and already a mom-to-be, the author of the novel is unlikely to maintain any generational ties to the dozens of bands like her, who more than a decade ago attend (and already do) summer festivals every year. ie for ages). ‘swarm of rats’). Not communion, but memory, sometimes nostalgia and relaxation. We are born, we grow, we mature, we age. Shaken, not mixed.