This Saturday, two very different cities came together on the spine of Madrid: the colourful, protesting, boisterous and proudly show-offy city waving rainbow fans and, just a couple of kilometres further north, the other, posh and made-up city with expensive perfume, party clothes and silver-brown lordliness that swirled around the figure of Luis Miguel Gallego Basteri at the Santiago Bernabéu. A good man who knows no self-esteem crises and presides over both ends of the coliseum with his official logo, that gigantic medallion on which the initials LM shine in flamboyant golden tones, like doubloons of unattainable value. How beautiful it is to love each other so much.
Luis Miguel is a distinguished and respectable gentleman who, at his no longer inexperienced 54 years of age, sports a handsome figure, snow-white teeth and a great head of hair that spreads envy and sighs among his neighbours, the vast majority of whom are heteronormative, enraptured and sugary in the stands and seats on the dance floor. People turn to the Mexican artist to know that they are conveniently in love and spend the entire concert with a sweet half-smile and a slight swing of the waist during both the fast and slow songs, which in reality are not very different from each other. Because the idol acts as the epitome of a happy and unobtrusive life, as an example of a gentleman who dresses from the feet up, believes in love in a thorough manner and becomes as irreproachable as that fitted black suit, with a matching tie, that seems immune to wrinkles.
It is a different thing when impeccability is synonymous with fun, because for an hour and three quarters nothing dislocated, unpredictable, daring, mischievous or non-standard happens in the stadium to convince us that this concert in Madrid is a unique experience and not a systematic and millimetric reproduction of any other evening in Toronto, Miami or the Condomina stadium. And so, being so allergic to shock, a Luis Miguel concert ends up showing properties suspiciously similar to those of melatonin or passionflower.
The romantic balladeer granted 25 minutes of courtesy for the parishioners to settle into their seats, because it is not so easy to seat 45,000 souls. And he opened the night with It will be that you do not love me, their Spanish-language homage to The Jacksons, making the 45,000 synchronized bracelets with lights that they had given us at the entrance blink. It is a resource that not long ago still seemed showy and surprising, but now, so repeated, it makes one think of mass events that avoid it as real rubbish. It would have been better to divert greater efforts to the sound of a show in which the deep voice of its protagonist sounded hollow and reverberant, often unintelligible. And covered by twenty musicians who were surely effective, but indecipherable beyond those keyboard cushions that, far from rounding out or supporting, produce an uncontrollable desire to put into practice that verse by José Alfredo Jiménez: “Te vas porque yo quiero que te vas”.
But no, no one turns around with Luis Miguel, because the level of adhesion towards this tireless artist since his years as a child prodigy seems unbreakable. If our calculations are correct, the first visit to Madrid of the interpreter of Now you can go. o You can not leave me like this (today he repeats the script, and never better said, in front of another forty thousand or so faithful) makes the number 134 of a world tour that will reach the chilling figure of 180 dates. And in view of the results, he is eager to introduce revolutionary or disruptive elements. The Coca-Cola formula works and the constant medley, too, although the first one swells the belly and the second, a little bit the nose. Even the shower of confetti and giant black balloons that splashes the last batch of chained hits is much more innocuous than the mixture of Now you can go. (curious translation of I only want to be with youde Dusty Springfield) con When the sun heats (here on the beach).
Except for giving a minimal greeting to the city’s public or granting a sad encore (despite the several minutes of suspense, which feels even worse), Luis Miguel is capable of singing like a crooner American, a melodic balladeer (Guilty or not was the first of a very long list of loving nonsense) or a popularizer of a light and harmless funk, that of SuaveTand I need it, Dame o I propose to you tonight, this even with minimal exercise tappingthat electric bass that is struck rather than plucked. But the great assets remain the appearance of the mariachis towards the end of the evening, with another medley –of course!– archetypal, and the virtual duets with Michael Jackson and Frank Sinatra, who knows what they would think.
Except in Only one timewhere LM even introduced a few retardandos, threatening not to scrupulously respect the measure, it is highly probable that what is referred to here, for better or worse, will serve without variation for the remaining 46 concerts. So tonight the gentleman Gallego Basteri will appeal to a classic axiom, that of “If today is Sunday, this is Madrid”, before preparing to draw on his trade. Again.