Rewrite
Even with nearly an entire day rained off, Primavera Sound Barcelona continues to be the best festival in Europe. It’s a wild ride, one you’ll never want to get off.
I’m not averse to a bit of rain at a festival. As Brits, the occasional downpour is pretty much your status quo. In fact, a bit of precipitation can help matters. Two years ago, on the same hollowed ground that I now prepare to eulogise, I experienced a personal spiritual breakthrough, thanks to a climactic rendition of ‘90s Midwest emo legends American Football’s seminal track “Never Ends”.
Some 24 months later, in the destructive inclemency of Thursday at Primavera Sound Barcelona, I experienced something of a similar magnitude. For a band that has toured seemingly constantly over the past few years, to label it their favourite show to date is quite something. But that’s what Geese did on their Instagram. It’s hard to disagree.
Hours earlier, I’m sitting in London City Airport, existentially wondering why I opted for a peppermint tea and a ginger shot at Pret rather than the black Americano and croissant that I so desperately need following a crack of dawn wake-up. Health first, I guess. Around 20 minutes after takeoff, a man in a hi-vis requests the bustling gate’s attention. Due to bad weather (a foreshadowing of what’s to come), three passengers are required to volunteer to sacrifice their place on the flight, and instead trek as the city to Heathrow for a flight in several hours. As a reward, they’d be gifted a €250 voucher.
I personally think it’s a pretty good offer, but my workmate, travel companion and spiritual counterpart seems less infused, so I remain quiet. Murmurs spread, glances pierce. Which three will volunteer as tribute? And what happens if no one does? I feel like I’m in a straight-to-Netflix action thriller.
It resolves itself quite simply in the end, with three lucky punters grabbing the cash prize in favour of immediate comfort. And so we’re all aboard the British Airways flight to Barcelona. I spend my plane time devouring Finnish president Alexander Stubb’s fascinating new book The Triangle of Power: Rebalancing the New World Order. A must-read for the politically adept among us in this time of unfathomable change. Anyway, we land, find the glorious A1 bus into the city centre, grab a spot of lunch (and the weekend’s first Estrella, a generational first sip was had), and head towards our hotel.
We’re staying at Generator, which is a chain of hotels/hostels with some of the funkiest internal architecture I’ve seen, from fun swinging chairs, a games room, to vibrant wall art. Everyone seems groovy, too. We’re in top-floor rooms with a balcony – result. A few hours of email catch-up and a quick freshen up, and it’s about time we got stuck in.
Meeting up with our trusted photographer for a pre-fest sangria, we rush our way to meet Bad Gyal for a catch-up in the V-VIP section behind the mainstage. Then we see a bit of Blood Orange, whose gorgeous compositions ring out resonantly around Park Del Fòrum, before seeking the day’s main attraction, for me at least.
The clouds darken as Cameron Winter and co walk out onto the stage to roar from their ever-growing swarm of disciples. Before long, the rain begins to hurl from the sky. I had the brainwave of bringing a brolly, but the majority of the crowd are without cover, and by two-thirds into the set, are sodden through. I received some grotesque looks of jealousy. I try not to act too smug.
Despite the torrential rain and hurricane wind, the NYC quartet deliver a flawless showing, culminating in a transcendent swansong of “Taxes”. I lose myself, screaming back at Winter, unsure whether it’s tears of joy or acid rain dripping down my smiling cheeks.
I need a sit-down and a cup of tea after that, but instead I’m greeted by complete and utter chaos. The weather continues to degrade, and thousands of spectators are searching desperately for shelter and/or their friends. It’s ugly scenes to be frank – too many people in an enclosed place with little security or organisation in place.
We finally find our wider group and the rain begins to lessen, but the main stage is still locked off, with little or no communication via social media or on the large interactive boards next to the stages about what’s happening. Still, spirits stay relatively high with full beer glasses.
Massive Attack, a highly anticipated act for many, get rescheduled to be back on, and then cancelled again, and that’s enough dejection to call it a night. After nearly getting caught in a human landslide while attempting to board the Metro, we make it back to the safe hub of the Generator and call it a night. Disappointing, but at least me and Cameron shared that moment.
The next day and I’m as fresh as a daisy, down at breakfast nice and early, enjoying the tasteful continental options and slamming coffees like there’s no tomorrow. After some work bits, we’re set to meet up with the good people of the Barcelona tourism board for a visit at Palau de la Músic, the iconic classical music building, the only concert hall in Europe completely illuminated by natural light.
A guided tour goes down a treat – it’s a place of utmost aesthetic beauty – as does a delicious lunch that follows, shared with some other journalists as well as Joan Oller, the Director of Palau, and Victor Medem, the General Manager of another of Barcelona’s most cherished spaces, L’Auditori.
Following our classy rendezvous, knocking the elegance down a few pegs feels apt, so I grab a few beers with friends and head into the festival for a special press meet-up put on by Prima, half-listening to Irish band NewDad while shooting the shit. After the drinks round off, we saunter off towards the Levi’s backstage area for a quick catch-up with the eccentric Babymorocco.
Then, the music descends. First, some of Addison Rae – big pop energy, not for me but everyone else seems to love it. I then split off to try and get into The Avalanches, which fails miserably (big ol’ queue), so meet back up with the wider group for The Cure. A pure bucket-list tick, Robert and the gang deliver the goods with a set that spans sleeper gems and stone cold classics alike.
I catch a bit of Amaarae (BLACK STAR sounds amazing) and then witness the entire JADE set from near the front. I’m vastly impressed. She commands the audience. “Angel Of My Dreams” goes off. It’s a show-stopping showing, one of a certified pop star.
Things are pretty loose by this point, and so perfect timing for Skrillex. The set is an immaculate, immersive and intricate weaving of electronic sensibilities brimming with highlights, enough to slam me back into reality after the pop haze of the last few hours. I’m cutting shapes like a stencil.
After that, we see a bit of Viagra Boys, which I think is unreal, but the group wants something else, so I follow. Can’t win them all. We finish the night at the Cupra Colosseum. My shirt is on back to front; I can’t quite remember why. I don’t really care all too much. As the sun threatens to rise, we wobble out of the grounds with smiles plastered across our faces.
Saturday’s start is more than slow. Dragging myself out of bed for a coffee and a sandwich in the afternoon; bar that, not much to report until it’s time to go again. We’re starting the evening classily, with dinner at LORA, a delicious contemporary Mediterranean restaurant near the festival who have kindly hosted us. We start with delicious flatbread, before I opt for an incredible octopus dish as main, accompanied by tenderstem broccoli. Polished off with a fine bottle of wine. 10/10 all round.
Feeling a lot better than three hours ago, we head back into the festival, just in time to catch the last trimmings of Little Simz’ triumphant finale. We then catch a touch of Ruwosky, who is immense at Cupra, before we split off. Some to Olivia Rodrigo for her secret set. I saw her recently, though, so head over to see shoegaze savants My Bloody Valentine. It’s a mesmerising wall of sound, an explosion of emotion and technical excellence. Angsty teenage me is happy.
The highs only continue with the goat himself, Dijon. Last year’s record Baby was undoubtedly one of the year’s best, and it translates wonderfully to the live circuit, backed by an instrumental cohort of double figures, it’s all luscious grooves, stunning vocal work and sing-along sincerity.
We catch the backend of The xx (in top nostalgic form on their return), before settling in for the most anticipated set of the weekend. Damon Albarn and his gang of merry men enter the stage with the feeling that this is an important moment of history, even for a band with such a long-standing legacy. Gorillaz is one of the greatest acts of the 21st century, and their set shows so.
Plucking from the new album – their ninth, The Mountain – and old and gold hits alike (I think I die and go to heaven for the double-edged finale of “Feel Good Inc.” and “Clint Eastwood”), it’s a set of searing magnitude from an act who keep on getting better. A worthy finishing headliner.
There’s time for one more gem – Kneecap are always excellent, but this is the best I’ve seen them. Their recent album went by a bit quietly, but was for me their strongest yet, and the early hours set is littered with stone-cold anthems. Politically potent and artistically articulate, the trio are barely getting started.
It’s four in the morning and I’m flying at 11am ish tomorrow, and so I think it’s best I make my exit. I bid farewell to my Prima companions and set off into the night. The Metro back to the hotel is carnage, and I put my head on my pillow with barely two hours to sleep.
The next day is, as you can imagine, rough beyond adjectives. Worth it though. Primavera Sound Barcelona has become, without doubt, my favourite European festival, with the most vibrant and varied line-up, funnest attendees, and against the backdrop of dazzling Barcelona. Who said a little rain ruins the party, ay?
Words – Ben Tibbits
Profile photography – Emma Rahmani
Performance photography – Gisela Jane / Pamies Garcia / Sergio Albert / Christian Bertrand
in HTML format, including tags, to make it appealing and easy to read for Japanese-speaking readers aged 20 to 40 interested in fashion. Organize the content with appropriate headings and subheadings (h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6), translating all text, including headings, into Japanese. Retain any existing
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Even with nearly an entire day rained off, Primavera Sound Barcelona continues to be the best festival in Europe. It’s a wild ride, one you’ll never want to get off.
I’m not averse to a bit of rain at a festival. As Brits, the occasional downpour is pretty much your status quo. In fact, a bit of precipitation can help matters. Two years ago, on the same hollowed ground that I now prepare to eulogise, I experienced a personal spiritual breakthrough, thanks to a climactic rendition of ‘90s Midwest emo legends American Football’s seminal track “Never Ends”.
Some 24 months later, in the destructive inclemency of Thursday at Primavera Sound Barcelona, I experienced something of a similar magnitude. For a band that has toured seemingly constantly over the past few years, to label it their favourite show to date is quite something. But that’s what Geese did on their Instagram. It’s hard to disagree.
Hours earlier, I’m sitting in London City Airport, existentially wondering why I opted for a peppermint tea and a ginger shot at Pret rather than the black Americano and croissant that I so desperately need following a crack of dawn wake-up. Health first, I guess. Around 20 minutes after takeoff, a man in a hi-vis requests the bustling gate’s attention. Due to bad weather (a foreshadowing of what’s to come), three passengers are required to volunteer to sacrifice their place on the flight, and instead trek as the city to Heathrow for a flight in several hours. As a reward, they’d be gifted a €250 voucher.
I personally think it’s a pretty good offer, but my workmate, travel companion and spiritual counterpart seems less infused, so I remain quiet. Murmurs spread, glances pierce. Which three will volunteer as tribute? And what happens if no one does? I feel like I’m in a straight-to-Netflix action thriller.
It resolves itself quite simply in the end, with three lucky punters grabbing the cash prize in favour of immediate comfort. And so we’re all aboard the British Airways flight to Barcelona. I spend my plane time devouring Finnish president Alexander Stubb’s fascinating new book The Triangle of Power: Rebalancing the New World Order. A must-read for the politically adept among us in this time of unfathomable change. Anyway, we land, find the glorious A1 bus into the city centre, grab a spot of lunch (and the weekend’s first Estrella, a generational first sip was had), and head towards our hotel.
We’re staying at Generator, which is a chain of hotels/hostels with some of the funkiest internal architecture I’ve seen, from fun swinging chairs, a games room, to vibrant wall art. Everyone seems groovy, too. We’re in top-floor rooms with a balcony – result. A few hours of email catch-up and a quick freshen up, and it’s about time we got stuck in.
Meeting up with our trusted photographer for a pre-fest sangria, we rush our way to meet Bad Gyal for a catch-up in the V-VIP section behind the mainstage. Then we see a bit of Blood Orange, whose gorgeous compositions ring out resonantly around Park Del Fòrum, before seeking the day’s main attraction, for me at least.
The clouds darken as Cameron Winter and co walk out onto the stage to roar from their ever-growing swarm of disciples. Before long, the rain begins to hurl from the sky. I had the brainwave of bringing a brolly, but the majority of the crowd are without cover, and by two-thirds into the set, are sodden through. I received some grotesque looks of jealousy. I try not to act too smug.
Despite the torrential rain and hurricane wind, the NYC quartet deliver a flawless showing, culminating in a transcendent swansong of “Taxes”. I lose myself, screaming back at Winter, unsure whether it’s tears of joy or acid rain dripping down my smiling cheeks.
I need a sit-down and a cup of tea after that, but instead I’m greeted by complete and utter chaos. The weather continues to degrade, and thousands of spectators are searching desperately for shelter and/or their friends. It’s ugly scenes to be frank – too many people in an enclosed place with little security or organisation in place.
We finally find our wider group and the rain begins to lessen, but the main stage is still locked off, with little or no communication via social media or on the large interactive boards next to the stages about what’s happening. Still, spirits stay relatively high with full beer glasses.
Massive Attack, a highly anticipated act for many, get rescheduled to be back on, and then cancelled again, and that’s enough dejection to call it a night. After nearly getting caught in a human landslide while attempting to board the Metro, we make it back to the safe hub of the Generator and call it a night. Disappointing, but at least me and Cameron shared that moment.
The next day and I’m as fresh as a daisy, down at breakfast nice and early, enjoying the tasteful continental options and slamming coffees like there’s no tomorrow. After some work bits, we’re set to meet up with the good people of the Barcelona tourism board for a visit at Palau de la Músic, the iconic classical music building, the only concert hall in Europe completely illuminated by natural light.
A guided tour goes down a treat – it’s a place of utmost aesthetic beauty – as does a delicious lunch that follows, shared with some other journalists as well as Joan Oller, the Director of Palau, and Victor Medem, the General Manager of another of Barcelona’s most cherished spaces, L’Auditori.
Following our classy rendezvous, knocking the elegance down a few pegs feels apt, so I grab a few beers with friends and head into the festival for a special press meet-up put on by Prima, half-listening to Irish band NewDad while shooting the shit. After the drinks round off, we saunter off towards the Levi’s backstage area for a quick catch-up with the eccentric Babymorocco.
Then, the music descends. First, some of Addison Rae – big pop energy, not for me but everyone else seems to love it. I then split off to try and get into The Avalanches, which fails miserably (big ol’ queue), so meet back up with the wider group for The Cure. A pure bucket-list tick, Robert and the gang deliver the goods with a set that spans sleeper gems and stone cold classics alike.
I catch a bit of Amaarae (BLACK STAR sounds amazing) and then witness the entire JADE set from near the front. I’m vastly impressed. She commands the audience. “Angel Of My Dreams” goes off. It’s a show-stopping showing, one of a certified pop star.
Things are pretty loose by this point, and so perfect timing for Skrillex. The set is an immaculate, immersive and intricate weaving of electronic sensibilities brimming with highlights, enough to slam me back into reality after the pop haze of the last few hours. I’m cutting shapes like a stencil.
After that, we see a bit of Viagra Boys, which I think is unreal, but the group wants something else, so I follow. Can’t win them all. We finish the night at the Cupra Colosseum. My shirt is on back to front; I can’t quite remember why. I don’t really care all too much. As the sun threatens to rise, we wobble out of the grounds with smiles plastered across our faces.
Saturday’s start is more than slow. Dragging myself out of bed for a coffee and a sandwich in the afternoon; bar that, not much to report until it’s time to go again. We’re starting the evening classily, with dinner at LORA, a delicious contemporary Mediterranean restaurant near the festival who have kindly hosted us. We start with delicious flatbread, before I opt for an incredible octopus dish as main, accompanied by tenderstem broccoli. Polished off with a fine bottle of wine. 10/10 all round.
Feeling a lot better than three hours ago, we head back into the festival, just in time to catch the last trimmings of Little Simz’ triumphant finale. We then catch a touch of Ruwosky, who is immense at Cupra, before we split off. Some to Olivia Rodrigo for her secret set. I saw her recently, though, so head over to see shoegaze savants My Bloody Valentine. It’s a mesmerising wall of sound, an explosion of emotion and technical excellence. Angsty teenage me is happy.
The highs only continue with the goat himself, Dijon. Last year’s record Baby was undoubtedly one of the year’s best, and it translates wonderfully to the live circuit, backed by an instrumental cohort of double figures, it’s all luscious grooves, stunning vocal work and sing-along sincerity.
We catch the backend of The xx (in top nostalgic form on their return), before settling in for the most anticipated set of the weekend. Damon Albarn and his gang of merry men enter the stage with the feeling that this is an important moment of history, even for a band with such a long-standing legacy. Gorillaz is one of the greatest acts of the 21st century, and their set shows so.
Plucking from the new album – their ninth, The Mountain – and old and gold hits alike (I think I die and go to heaven for the double-edged finale of “Feel Good Inc.” and “Clint Eastwood”), it’s a set of searing magnitude from an act who keep on getting better. A worthy finishing headliner.
There’s time for one more gem – Kneecap are always excellent, but this is the best I’ve seen them. Their recent album went by a bit quietly, but was for me their strongest yet, and the early hours set is littered with stone-cold anthems. Politically potent and artistically articulate, the trio are barely getting started.
It’s four in the morning and I’m flying at 11am ish tomorrow, and so I think it’s best I make my exit. I bid farewell to my Prima companions and set off into the night. The Metro back to the hotel is carnage, and I put my head on my pillow with barely two hours to sleep.
The next day is, as you can imagine, rough beyond adjectives. Worth it though. Primavera Sound Barcelona has become, without doubt, my favourite European festival, with the most vibrant and varied line-up, funnest attendees, and against the backdrop of dazzling Barcelona. Who said a little rain ruins the party, ay?
Words – Ben Tibbits
Profile photography – Emma Rahmani
Performance photography – Gisela Jane / Pamies Garcia / Sergio Albert / Christian Bertrand
and integrate them seamlessly into the new content without adding new tags. Ensure the new content is fashion-related, written entirely in Japanese, and approximately 1500 words. Conclude with a “結論” section and a well-formatted “よくある質問” section. Avoid including an introduction or a note explaining the process.
