Massive Attack at Juan les Pins

Needless to say, you had to be motivated to go to Juan’s nights last Sunday.
When you love something, you don’t count the cost, as the 4000 persistent people must have told themselves after enduring the long journey through traffic jams and then resuming their turn in particularly long queues.

The opening act’s notes ring out while a large part of the audience is still outside. Remarks circulate freely about the organization that didn’t anticipate the human influx. We would later learn that the doors’ opening had to be delayed by a good hour for safety reasons.
Dangerous barriers had been delivered. The organizers therefore, as a precautionary measure, made the wise decision to let the public wait.

NEIMO, opening this evening, announces defending their first album. Parisians “not on vacation” according to the singer, whose English lyrics are difficult to appreciate unless you’re perfectly bilingual; however, the music goes down like milk.
The guitarist, having adopted the Steve Vai-style 80s haircut, sends beautiful waves of sound; as for the drummer, a pure marvel. Enclosed in the midst of their instruments, they are rarely so present, and what a shame one thinks in the face of this phenomenon.
This kid gives of himself like the greatest recognized artists after a long career.
Without complexes, he reveals a cheerful and extroverted personality. He takes pleasure and plays divinely well. Jokes and other choreography accompany this character who communicates his positive energy.

When asked: “But what do you do to discharge your energy when you’re not playing drums?” he answers with a smile that he still plays, and that’s what he loves. “Music is my passion, I also have projects, maybe on guitar.”
I wish music lovers will cross paths with him one day in his natural environment because the evidence is clear—he plays as he breathes.

An intermission to allow technicians to set up the heavy artillery. Two drums kits, two keyboards, a DJ, a bass and an electric guitar, several microphones. The bleachers are stormed and the pit fills up. The audience is calm. A fresh breeze sweeps across the heads emerging from the crowd. 9:50 PM a small wave of screams that explodes in the silence that follows, 9:56 PM second attempt, patience is beginning to reach its extreme limit, then a couple minutes later, like contractions announcing delivery, another sound movement. 10:10 PM the crowd is plunged into darkness, the band arrives and the singer says in French…
“Thank you, good evening… good evening”—the courtesy of the effort he makes to greet his audience in the local language is touching.

In absolute silence, Massive Attack comes in gently, drawing out the audience members one by one. The atmosphere settles and everyone occupies a space where they dance, smile, or sing.
Some don’t know them at all and observe sometimes perplexed, sometimes won over.
The magic of Juan’s summer nights and the live discovery of a musical entity neither plagiarized nor stripped of its style.
Massive Attack is immediately great art; the trends are multiple. Several voices and personalities follow one another. There is in their music a respect for the moment and for whoever takes the lead. Usually in a conventional group, it’s the singer who centers attention like a leader, then passes the baton to the musicians according to the piece for a guitar solo or a piano emphasis. Here it’s like a scenic tableau where attention depends on the angle of view; everyone plays and agrees to leave equal space for the other.
Time passes quickly when you’re in good company, and already it’s time to leave.