Groove Parade, 8: techno and dust teodosio sigüenza
There are two things you can't avoid when you decide to go to Grove Parade: one is you're going to have a large ball of dust nestling at the back of your throat when you're leaving, you know, as if you had been chewing earth balls - this is one of those side effects caused by hopping around at a festival held in a desert, and the other is not to give in to the rules laid down by the festival itself. It's impossible not to be dragged into the euphoria of the event, not to wring every last ounce of strength of your body so as not to miss a single moment of the best DJs in the world. And this lot generally come to Los Monegros as pupils about to take an important exam in front of a very demanding public. This only means they get even more into what they're doing. This is an electronic spectacle of the highest order. Pre-festival expectations were more than fulfilled and the attendance was the highest ever to date (about 20,000 dance addicts). The artistic element of the festival also outdid itself. It's just that Groove Parade is not any old festival.
First observation: a festival that starts with the most hip in digital sound, courtesy of a+r who acted the eejit and went down a bomb, cannot go wrong. Second observation: a festival that finishes with Mistress Barbara lashing out adrenaline at eleven in the morning and who succeeds in getting a numerous group of survivors on its feet in a last-grasp explosion of energy, cannot be a bad festival. Five stages that pumped out music non-stop for fifteen hours and offered a bit of everything for everybody is certainly deserving of a few medals. Let's take it bit by bit.
The Row Area, zone set aside for sounds a bit removed from the 4x4 (accorded other areas outside the barn), got off to a great start because the entertaining MC Millan really knew how to win the crowd over. Even though things later rambled off down more abstruse alleys (Los de Sox, the journalist with the goatee Luis Lles and the Spanish Jungle duo The Drama), nobody was left alone at any moment. Much more so in the case of Fabio, the godfather of Drum `n¥ Bass and a serious pressure pot when it comes to plugging vinyl after vinyl. A great success that left the crowd nicely warmed up for what was about to go down outside that area.
The always-packed Beach Club is once again worthy of the highest praise. Before the sun had managed to filter through the straw roof, Angel Molina, Loe and, above all, Stuart McMillan (Slam) made it very clear that Techno is not just some fierce animal-like creature by DJs like Jeff Mils or Marco Carola, but something that can also be adopted to the souls and feet of the people. He sent us on a three dimensional trip through time and space that ended up with Christian Smith (infallible) and a very elegant Sideral who were really on form.
And as the human mass expanded and contracted in the San Miguel Tent (it has to be said that while groups from the nujazz collective like Wagon Cookin', Jazzanova or the eternally inspired Rainer Tr¸by who all brilliantly traced lines between house, broken rhythms and seventies funk, it's sometimes really difficult to compete with the drawing power of Richie Hawtin), the jam-packed Paradise Tent was almost rife with delirium, first of all with Sideral who knew how to combine pop with house in an exemplary session that was the perfect bridge between Sidone (Mods with a synthetic soul: they surprised) and a more lysergic than ever Fangoria and, secondly, with Claudio Coccoluto who showed in three hours why he is legendary in house. John Acquaviva was, as always, a party animal.
Having said all of that, the really mad party was held at the main arena Open Air with artists of the highest calibre from here; Robert Lamart, Toni Verdi and an Oscar Mulero who put in a groovier than usual set, and from there; even though Derrick May didn't make it out of Detroit, Stacey Pullen and, above all, Richie Hawtin added rhythm and soul to the event. The Canadian managed his collection of tracks of terminal minimalism masterfully and had a direct hit on the satisfied people's feet. We swear that they'll all repeat next year.