lunes, 10 de mayo de 2010

Reseña del concierto en Dallas: Bullet for My Valentine da una lección contagiosa en metal

Una enfermedad estuvo en el aire en House of Blues el viernes. Se dispersó rápidamente y salvó a algunos. La gente actuaba de forma imprevisible, incluso enfermos. Entonces, ya no estaba.

La fiebre (Fever) se está extendiendo. Bullet for My Valentine es contagioso.
A malady was in the air at House of Blues on Friday. It dispersed rapidly and spared few. People were acting unpredictably, even sick. Then, it was gone.

The Fever is spreading. Bullet for My Valentine is infectious.

The Welsh power-metal quartet pummeled a sold-out main hall with riffs and harmonic angst so unbridled that the gathered nearly came unglued at times. The unprepared and uninitiated constantly dived out of the mass of fan-cattle on the floor, exhausted and sweat-soaked. Mosh pits swirled not just on the floor’s center, but on the side, where fights nearly erupted.

A solid chunk of the show’s attendees plainly don’t frequent concerts like this. That made Bullet’s 12-song, 65-minute set – short and encore-less, which was probably good for all involved – more a study of demographic unpreparedness and less a simple session of brotherly catharsis, which is what most metal shows are.

Bullet’s brand of European heaviness isn’t supposed to do well in America. But its new CD, Fever, debuted at No. 3 on the Billboard 200 last week, and the band’s airplay has risen steadily since its debut here four years ago. The act’s classic-favoring style, essentially a hybrid of Iron Maiden, Slayer and Killswitch Engage, is melodic and straightforward enough for U.S. palatability beyond the hardcore metalhead, particularly on the new album.

So the casual, comparatively tender hard rock fan is involved. What those received Friday was good enough: five Fever tracks (including its standout song, “Alone,” to close the gig) as well as singles from its first two discs and “Hand of Blood” off a semi-obscure 2005 EP, delivered with a workmanlike edge in front of dual 12-unit speaker-cab monoliths that bookended drummer Michael Thomas’ efficient beating.

Though singer-guitarist Matt Tuck’s baying range is limited (throat issues force him to sing clean now; bassist Jay James barks most of the screams these days) and the oversaturated sound favored guitar chunk over vocal hunk, the show delivered what it intended: a refined introduction to the Euro-metal aesthetic, like Cliffs Notes for such aural calamity.

The casual fan probably felt it was concentrated. The hardcore fan probably considered it watered down. Either way, this show proved that it’s contagious.

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