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By michael senese Photos by Daniel Silva For a few months I knew Radiohead was coming to Madrid. My fanatical friends had e-mailed with proposals to meet at a spot somewhere on their European tour, and their Web site listed Madrid: Ventas Bullring -- Wednesday, July 16th in between France and somewhere else. 
At the time I was living with friends one block away from the Ventas Bullring, a magnificent and grand structure that is worthy of being in the capital of the nation, even given the daily carnage that occurs inside its walls. Of course, I had never been, but I couldn't think of a better place to get with some friends and enjoy an evening of great music.
Through the distracting course of time, plans to rendezvous fell aside to final exams and season finales and moves to Malasaña and Hollywood, depending on the person of focus. I moved as well, and my new neighborhood took me further away from the bullring. Ventas is a neighborhood of families and older couples who take leisurely Sunday strolls and stare at you jogging by with no shirt on while they rest on the benches facing inwards on the wide sidewalks. Malasaña is the Haight/Telegraph/Sunset/Greenwich Village section of the city, populated by younger adults who spend most of their time drinking, smoking, and making too much noise passing below my bedroom window (when I'm not doing the same). Concert promoters must have noticed these demographics because in the weeks before the show any free surface had a thick stack of concert posters pasted on top of one another. Because of someone's strategic work on the walls in front of my front door, I had a daily reminder of the Radiohead concert. After a little more than a month of casually observing the nightly poster war making the streets ever-so-slowly more narrow, I decided I ought to get one of these Radiohead concert posters for myself. I don't know the words to all their songs and I doubt I could even remember all the names of their albums, but the previously mentioned fanatical friends have made Radiohead's music the perfect soundtrack for the last few years of my life, years that have been as wild and unpredictable and wonderful as any of us could have imagined. A poster would be a nice memento. At 4:00 a.m., after a stumble home from the regular Thursday night bar, 45 minutes were used sloooowly peeling a recent posting, with the gracious help of a fellow foreign resident who had been watching me from the opposite corner of the street where he sells sandwiches every night to my drunken neighbors. It occurred to me, after a few days of staring at the rolled-up, dirty poster in the corner of my bedroom, that perhaps I should seriously consider going to this concert. Only under very special circumstances do I enjoy standing for hours with obnoxious strangers watching the same band play the same songs, and I don't think I've been to a large concert since I saw Café Tacuba in Tijuana three or four years ago. But my decision became more certain during an evening of drinking and listening to music at my friend Paola's apartment. During the Radiohead selections, I mentioned that they were playing in a few weeks. She cried out that we should go, and as she was one of the many girls I had a crush on, I quickly responded, "Of course!" and then tried to make out with her, even though she had a boyfriend. A few weeks passed without incident. Then one afternoon I was engaged in a rare but always wonderful IM conversation with my close friend Peter, many time zones to the west. I mentioned the concert, which was the next day, and asked if I should go. He said, "Of course" just as I had to Paola. He added that they were playing at their best with the release of their newest album, Hail to the Thief. Not wanting to disappoint, I had all but made my decision. I sent a text message to Paola reminding her of the concert, and she responded that she wanted to come. I spent the night with a group of friends, a few of whom were moving away the next morning, so the night stretched out quite late. Incidentally, we were back in the Ventas neighborhood, and while searching for a karaoke bar that was still open, we passed the bullring a couple times. The night ended at 4:00 a.m. with all of us standing in the courtyard for the bullring, saying goodbyes and flagging down taxis. I hoped to catch a glimpse of equipment trucks or a tour bus pulling in after a late night trip from France, but not surprisingly, at 4:00 a.m., I saw nothing. On Wednesday I woke up for my morning Italian class, a bit groggy from the evening before but accustomed to it after a year of such mornings. There was a ticket booth on my route to the school, so I stopped by with my fingers crossed, hoping tickets were still available. It seems that the Spanish prefer their own music to that of other countries, and although I'm generalizing, tickets were still available even though Radiohead tours always sell out across America. I got two tickets, went to class, met a friend for lunch, took a much-needed siesta, then rendezvoused with Paola at 7:45 p.m., in time to take a bus from Sol to Ventas. On the ride we talked about our favorite songs and how we both weren't the hugest fans in the world but were very excited for the show. She had just returned from Pamplona, trying to run with the bulls but not seeing any due to the crush of tourists that form the intoxicated logjam the bulls plow through. She added that in part because there was no time for eating she was so drunk every night of the weekend that she woke up intoxicated in the afternoons. We went into the bar across the street from Ventas and ordered a couple drinks, the giant-sized baseball game beer cups but with rum and coke. She only had one given her aversion to alcohol after Pamplona, but I followed mine with a baseball-game sized sangria. We shared a cheese sandwich on a baguette while the opening band played across the street. 
At 9:00 p.m. in July in Madrid, the sun is still as bright as it is at noon, and I had no desire to sit for two hours waiting for the main band to play. We got into the bullring with about 20 minutes before Radiohead was slated to begin. I bought a beer and we found our seats, toward the center of the stage, at the top of the cement rows. We overlooked the entire stadium and stage, although we were quite a bit back from the action. After the drinks I was feeling more emotional than usual, a feeling that always makes me smile, and told Paola I apologized in advance for crying through the entire show. She said she didn't mind.
To prove my sincerity I looked over the crowd, at the sky blending from a lightly dark blue to the west into an indigo blue speckled with stars to the east, and studied the architecture of the bullring. I started to think about all the moments of the last few years, the winter nights sleeping next to the heater on my friend Jeff's floor in L.A., the late nights sitting in my office in San Diego chatting with Eric and Noah while writing my grad school applications, visits to Rhode Island and New York as things started to develop for everyone, reading Jason's story about him and Jeff flying to Canada to see Radiohead, my move to Arizona, winter visits to New York and Europe, a summer sleeping on the floor in Hollywood, moving to Spain, finishing grad school in Madrid, all leading to the moment where I was sitting above a crowd of fans waiting to see the band that created the music that for some reason was playing during the entire sequence. And in a moment, I conjured up two eyes full of tears, which started to roll down my face just as I turned to smile at Paola with satisfaction that I had made myself cry. 
She laughed and put her arm around me in unneeded but welcome consolation and the band came on stage with the song There There and I couldn't help but bounce around and swing my arms to the music with a huge dumb grin and the remains of tears on my cheeks. The setup for the show was great, with the ground level where the bulls are usually gored by skinny Spanish bullfighters opened to the crowd, plus the seating around the edges. The stage was placed on the north side of the ground level, with a background of vertical lights, like you might picture for a graphic equalizer on your home stereo, only they would change colors and flash in fancy patterns that your home stereo doesn't do. The sound, beautifully clear, wasn't cranked up past the point of recognition, which enhanced the mood rather than making it offensive and antagonistic. During the second song, 2 + 2 = 5, Paola asked if I'd want to move to the front of the seats. Seating was assigned but she spotted an open area so we stepped down to the front, a noticeable improvement for viewing. Her favorite song came on and she jumped up to dance while I happily sat staring at the scene and bouncing to the music. After Talk Show Hostand Exit Music, Paola still wasn't satisfied with our location. She had mentioned a couple times the ground floor, then said we should go down there. Our first thought was to jump the rail, but we realized there was a channel between the ground and the seating, I think for when the matador loses control of the bull and needs to get to safety. So we walked around the corner and found the opening to the ground was open to all, and she pushed forward with my hand in hers and snaked her way to the middle of the crowd, as they played National Anthem and Myxomatosis.
We had a great spot to see the second half of the set, with Paola dancing and somehow zigzagging her way forward with me, slightly apologetic, holding her hand and following behind her with an "I'm sorry" look on my face. As the band played my favorite song, Everything in its Right Place, she had somehow brought me to the center of the stage, front rail. I danced and sobbed and felt the goosebumps and drunken happiness that make these moments feel like the best in the world. I also had to piss like crazy but there was no way I was leaving. The band thanked the crowd and left the stage, which I felt would have been a perfect end to the show, although it would have been short, maybe 15 songs long. The crowd sang the classic "olé olé" soccer/futbol chant and the band returned moments later, for a four song encore, focused more on their recent material than their older music (a general theme throughout the show). A second set of soccer chants lead to the second encore, very crowd-pleasing performances of Sit Down, Stand Up and Street Spirit. At one point I looked up at Ed the guitarist/percussionist/shaker/telephone operator, who was kneeling in front of his gear, surveying the crowd. I can't help but wonder how the crowds and shows must blend into one another for a band that is on tour playing the same songs night after night. I gave him a thumbs up with my arms raised above the crush of people pushing me forward and he gave a half-smile and a thumbs up from his hip like a cowboy shooting his gun from the holster. Goosebumps and another huge smile. Being able to stand at the front row felt like sweet retribution for my first concert ever, Mötley Crüe, when I was 12 years old and got shoved to the back of the crowd and ended up sitting in the seats alone for hours. The frustration all suddenly disappeared. 
A few minutes after the second encore, Thom came back out alone with his acoustic guitar and played True Love Waits, peacefully and beautifully, then thanked the crowd in English. The lights came up and the crowd lingered, and I introduced myself to the guy standing next to us, Daniel, who had driven from Portugal for the show and had been taking pictures the whole time with his digital camera. I had noticed the pictures seemed to be coming out exceptionally clearly so I asked if he wouldn't mind sharing some with me. We got each other's info and then I thanked him and walked Paola to the metro. I gave her a kiss goodnight and thanked her profusely for being the best concert accomplice ever.
They say that Radiohead is great in concert, and yes they were. There's no way to know if everyone has an embarrassingly lame and emotional connection to their music like I do; yet I know that while I'm not their biggest fan I still ended up crying through the entire concert like they were the Beatles back in 1963. Someone once called them the greatest rock band on earth, and for at least one night to one person in Madrid, they were. |
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