Half a Million Reasons

The Camino a Ítaca is in no way linear, it circles and loops and starts all over again. As spring turns Cáceres into the allergy sufferers nightmare, another event takes places, one that has been going on for more than thirty years. It's quasi-religious in the way that in some sectors it can't be questioned for fear of dispelling the myth that they seem to think we don't deserve. It's no longer the World of Plastic and Piss that I once wrote about, but the colonial tinge remains. The brand still takes the piss and gives nothing in return. Click over to read the original piece in Spanish in the HOY or read the English translation below. (PDF en castellano abajo)

This wasn’t your typical, “Is everyone feeling alright? Let me hear you say, yeah!” It was more a plea than a rousing chant. Halfway through her set it sounded less like a chant than a last-ditch appeal to connect with the swelling crowd. She shaded her eyes against the late-afternoon Thursday sun, spun on her heel, artfully flicked the fringe of her dress and shouted, “I love the landscapes of this region, vamos Extremadura!”

Silence? No—its opposite.

Her heartfelt appeal was met with heroic indifference in the form of an incessant drone of humanity. Her words vanished into an insectile hum—cicadas fed through a distortion pedal and Marshall stack. She had hauled her art up from Andalucía only to meet a giant, collective mute button.

This was lip syncing in reverse. The performers were trying to sing, making every effort possible to connect with the audience. The band nailed every note, but the PA returned nothing except a muffled sludge—felt in the gut, unintelligible in the brain. The stage became a rolling Instagram backdrop for the considerable number of people who, despite the ban on the botellon, still seemed to think the stage was simply some sort of elaborate photocall for their corrillo selfies. Any hope of a real cultural exchange fell from the sky like strangled doves, the notes dying before they cleared the first row of concert-goers.  

Thursday’s sonic fiasco was merely prologue. On Friday evening, after a cursory sound-check during the break, the band struck up to welcome Africa’s premier diva, five-time Grammy-winning Angélique Kidjo. Draped in vivid African print, she strode to centre stage, leaned back, and loosed that titanic voice—only for the impotent mix to shrink it to a whisper. It was a Zoom call out of sync: her mouth moved, but neither the lyrics, the snare, the percussion, nor keyboards survived the journey across the plaza.

Those who cared about the music faced a no-win choice: wander the plaza in search of a sonic sweet spot that never materialised, or stand rooted in front of the stage, forced to watch Angélique Kidjo endure the slow humiliation of being reduced to lip-reading practice as her roar arrived as a rumour.

“WOMAD isn’t what it was,” you hear. How could it be? Thomas Wolfe was right: the road back home is closed for renovation. Thirty odd years have rewritten Cáceres and its people. The provincialism that was once turned on its head is now resigned. The franchises and outside world have moved in. The festival itself has been outsourced in layers, until all that remains of Gabriel’s founding vision is a logo rented by the hour.

The festival’s supporters cling to the brand like a VIP wristband—never mind that the bar ran dry years ago, terrified that any criticism might cancel Cáceres’ only mass gathering not dedicated to the celebration of death, be they prophets, virgins or bulls. If WOMAD really preaches tolerance and respect, it should start at the mixing desk and give the artists the basic courtesy of being heard.

If WOMAD can’t or worse, won’t fix the faders, perhaps it’s time to stop renting nostalgia and look beyond the franchise.