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Rating: Ok, here should be a pseudo-review of the first night of the Flippaut Festival, stuff from almost a week ago.
If a concert leaves me enthusiastic, the pseudo-review comes quickly. If perplexed, it takes me a couple of days to digest it. Imagine how much I must have enjoyed the FlipDown. Shall we start with the price? Ok, let's do it. Forty euros flat (luckily I paid half), sixty for the two nights. Not bad I'd say, considering that Iggy pop wants 32 in September. And Iggy pop is worth just a little bit more than Fatboy Slim or Paul Weller, right? Now that I think of it, even Iron Maiden goes for thirty-six, so... you get it.
Shall we talk about the music? Ok, let's talk about it. We arrive when Paul Weller (whom we'll call Paolo Guallera from now on) is about to finish the sound-check. Premise: I had never heard anything by The Jam or The Style Council, nor have I ever dabbled in the solo career of the aforementioned Guallera. The live show proved to me that I hadn’t missed much. Guallera looks a lot like Jeremy Irons, so at least in appearance, he’s sufficiently cool not to look ridiculous at fifty with a guitar slung over his shoulder. He plays powerfully for half an hour, then age catches up with him, and he strings together ballad after ballad that not even the Scorpions at the end of their career could match. Sleepiness sets in. And for the record, you can reach the front row by walking calmly, so sparse is the audience.
Well. Guallera steps aside among yawns, and after the inevitable half-hour stage change, the fat but slim guy arrives (top right, his expression just as he realized that playing on Pluto drew a bigger crowd). He proves to be quite a showman, starts with his dancefloor fillers - and they rock a lot - and mixes them with the POOOO, PO PO POOO, PO POOOO, POOOO that we all still have in our heads from July ninth.
Entertaining show, stratospheric console, Pirlo on the mega-screen celebrating in a loop to the rhythm of music, people dancing, people jumping... but still, only a few people remain. In short, it feels like a poorly attended country fair, a country fair for chic couples who drop a fortune just to spend a different evening, and then there's Fatboy Slim, how cool is that?
A description of the post-concert DJ set is still missing. Now, if there were already few people for Guallera and Fatboy, imagine for Boosta at the turntables. All of this went on until two, not a minute more, because then the little coots of the seaplane base don't sleep and the ecosystem gets pissed. Fuck.
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