As electrifying and explosive as they’ve ever been, the Mexican duo step up to the headier confines of the UK’s theatres with nary a glance backward. Having outgrown the Academy, Rodrigo y Gabriela embrace a heaving Apollo. Support act Wallis Bird wins over - and fires up, so credit due – the “f***ing scary-looking” crowd with her breathless acoustic take on (it seems) song about tossers who don’t deserve her love - most excellent motivation, of course. “Are you looking forward to Rodrigo y Gabriela ? Are you gonna go f***ing wild for them?” Do you kiss your ma with that mouth, young lady? (And do you have any other daft questions?) I make a note to look her up. Anyone who finishes a song with just two strings left is a trooper.
Manchester goes so wild for the headliners, you feel a little concerned for first-timers who’ve just picked up on them and maybe start to question just what’s going on when they walk in and take note of the heated atmosphere brewing downstairs in the packed stalls standing area. Two classical guitars, right? The Bridgewater Hall and a nice seat, yes? Those of us smug enough to have been in from the off know better. The R y G live experience is as physical and sweaty an adventure as you’ll get from just about any ‘full’ rock band and is testament to their metal background. Tonight, two years exactly since they last blazed through the city, Manchester is high on expectation. They enter - to all intents and purposes still looking like the scruffy pair who busked on Mexico City streets after their band fell apart – to a roar. And - a beautiful moment, this - they make brief, knowing eye contact as they head over to their guitars, as if to say “Whoa …” And we’re off.
Seriously, no, I mean, seriously – beyond f***ing belief. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve stumbled out of venues in 2009, head spinning, heart racing, blown to smithereens by daredevil acts of real live performance.The Killers stomping all over an on-fire MEN Arena, The Airborne Toxic Event writing their own little pages of history wherever I ended up seeing them that particular night, the mighty Scarce confirming their return as a long-awaited thing of beauty and splendour. But this pair tonight play as if all of our lives depended on it and if you were there, well … you were there. They meet stage centre and noodle around, delicious teasing, before settling in to the groove of ‘Santa Domingo’. Something extremely energised and communal settles over the event. Mass clap-alongs sound like such a shit idea on paper but they punctuate the evening with delirium and joy. Hey, when your stock in trade is latin flavoured classical guitar spiked with a robust base of heavy metal, you can hardly expect your audience to sing along.
They play most of this year’s career best ’11:11’ (“I hope you know it,” deadpans Rodrigo. “Or else you’re gonna be f***ing bored.”) Performed live, as hoped, it catches fire. ‘Hanuman’ and the Hendrix inspired ‘Buster Voodoo’ get the place bouncing. For the delicate ‘Logos’, they sit. You take note : they used to play the entire show seated. Now, no doubt aware of the growing need to interact, they stand pretty much throughout. Another sign of growing confidence is a lack of covers played. Apart from a daring raid on Metallica’s ‘Orion’ (“What do you wanna hear ?” “Orion !” “Okay …”) and a tease of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ later on, they stick to their own stuff. Which makes perfect sense. ’11:11’ demonstrates more clearly than ever that they can now write ‘em like they play ‘em. Trotting out ‘Wish You Were Here’ would just seem like cheating now. Fittingly, the Floyd inspired title track is a highspot.
The second half of the show burns that much brighter. There are, as always, solo spots that enthral. They play on. Every time you think it might be time to call a halt while in front, you go “Shit! ‘Hora Zero’!” Other must-mentions : the staging is impeccable with the smartest light show I’ve seen in an age, along with the usual fret board close-ups projected onto the back of the stage. The banter with the audience, made so much easier by a clearly growing command of English, is genuine, charming and funny. (Gabriela’s rambling explanation of where they’ve been and where they still have to go, resulting in cheers or boos for each country mentioned is wonderful. She laughs but I suspect she doesn’t know why. For the record, cheers for Ireland and Greece, boos for Australia and Germany.) The backdrop of a setting sun and the haunting atmosphere that builds during ‘Anoushka’ makes hairs stand on hairs and you really, really wish you knew the bloke on the sound desk.
There are encores but, to be honest, I can only discharge so much professional endeavour. When you’re gone, you’re gone. I think it ended with ‘Tamacun’, as crowd-pleasing a nugget from the back catalogue as they have to offer. Half a dozen false endings and it’s done. Flying, circling, never coming down. That’s me, that’s everyone. House lights come on but they’re still stood centre stage grinning and clapping like it’s us who’s just done the best part of two hours on the high wire. My palms start to sting. They exit to AC/DC’s ‘For Those About to Rock’, a coda as wry as it fitting and everyone turns and look at their neighbour as if to say “How f***ing good was that?” Rodrigo and Gabriela’s acoustic alchemy remains as inexplicable as it is exquisite. Be careful with that axe, you fiends.
Manchester goes so wild for the headliners, you feel a little concerned for first-timers who’ve just picked up on them and maybe start to question just what’s going on when they walk in and take note of the heated atmosphere brewing downstairs in the packed stalls standing area. Two classical guitars, right? The Bridgewater Hall and a nice seat, yes? Those of us smug enough to have been in from the off know better. The R y G live experience is as physical and sweaty an adventure as you’ll get from just about any ‘full’ rock band and is testament to their metal background. Tonight, two years exactly since they last blazed through the city, Manchester is high on expectation. They enter - to all intents and purposes still looking like the scruffy pair who busked on Mexico City streets after their band fell apart – to a roar. And - a beautiful moment, this - they make brief, knowing eye contact as they head over to their guitars, as if to say “Whoa …” And we’re off.
Seriously, no, I mean, seriously – beyond f***ing belief. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve stumbled out of venues in 2009, head spinning, heart racing, blown to smithereens by daredevil acts of real live performance.The Killers stomping all over an on-fire MEN Arena, The Airborne Toxic Event writing their own little pages of history wherever I ended up seeing them that particular night, the mighty Scarce confirming their return as a long-awaited thing of beauty and splendour. But this pair tonight play as if all of our lives depended on it and if you were there, well … you were there. They meet stage centre and noodle around, delicious teasing, before settling in to the groove of ‘Santa Domingo’. Something extremely energised and communal settles over the event. Mass clap-alongs sound like such a shit idea on paper but they punctuate the evening with delirium and joy. Hey, when your stock in trade is latin flavoured classical guitar spiked with a robust base of heavy metal, you can hardly expect your audience to sing along.
They play most of this year’s career best ’11:11’ (“I hope you know it,” deadpans Rodrigo. “Or else you’re gonna be f***ing bored.”) Performed live, as hoped, it catches fire. ‘Hanuman’ and the Hendrix inspired ‘Buster Voodoo’ get the place bouncing. For the delicate ‘Logos’, they sit. You take note : they used to play the entire show seated. Now, no doubt aware of the growing need to interact, they stand pretty much throughout. Another sign of growing confidence is a lack of covers played. Apart from a daring raid on Metallica’s ‘Orion’ (“What do you wanna hear ?” “Orion !” “Okay …”) and a tease of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ later on, they stick to their own stuff. Which makes perfect sense. ’11:11’ demonstrates more clearly than ever that they can now write ‘em like they play ‘em. Trotting out ‘Wish You Were Here’ would just seem like cheating now. Fittingly, the Floyd inspired title track is a highspot.
The second half of the show burns that much brighter. There are, as always, solo spots that enthral. They play on. Every time you think it might be time to call a halt while in front, you go “Shit! ‘Hora Zero’!” Other must-mentions : the staging is impeccable with the smartest light show I’ve seen in an age, along with the usual fret board close-ups projected onto the back of the stage. The banter with the audience, made so much easier by a clearly growing command of English, is genuine, charming and funny. (Gabriela’s rambling explanation of where they’ve been and where they still have to go, resulting in cheers or boos for each country mentioned is wonderful. She laughs but I suspect she doesn’t know why. For the record, cheers for Ireland and Greece, boos for Australia and Germany.) The backdrop of a setting sun and the haunting atmosphere that builds during ‘Anoushka’ makes hairs stand on hairs and you really, really wish you knew the bloke on the sound desk.
There are encores but, to be honest, I can only discharge so much professional endeavour. When you’re gone, you’re gone. I think it ended with ‘Tamacun’, as crowd-pleasing a nugget from the back catalogue as they have to offer. Half a dozen false endings and it’s done. Flying, circling, never coming down. That’s me, that’s everyone. House lights come on but they’re still stood centre stage grinning and clapping like it’s us who’s just done the best part of two hours on the high wire. My palms start to sting. They exit to AC/DC’s ‘For Those About to Rock’, a coda as wry as it fitting and everyone turns and look at their neighbour as if to say “How f***ing good was that?” Rodrigo and Gabriela’s acoustic alchemy remains as inexplicable as it is exquisite. Be careful with that axe, you fiends.
