Nobody seemed to know where Industria Cultural was. We must have asked all the native Santiaguino friends we could muster up, but no-one had a clue how to get there. After taking the metro and grabbing a taxi – exclaiming “Industria Cultural, and step on it!” – it turned out that not even the men with The Knowledge knew where Eastern Europe’s most famous gypsy-punk export was going to play.
When we finally got to the venue, it had to be said that it looked far more industrial than cultural. At the furthest end of the hippy part of town, next to the park, sat the big, disused warehouse of Industria Cultural. Staring at each other for a second in bemusement – and having to ask someone if we really were in the right place – my friends and I ventured inside.
There was hope that the place might be some sort of cosmetic TARDIS, but the inner did no more for its outer. The emptied warehouse had nothing inside but a basic stage up front and an even more basic bar that – although with five bar staff – had only one line of people stretching further than the proverbial piece of string. Defiant though, we were determined to have a jolly good time and so joined the absurdly long queue, bought ourselves some rum and got lost in the fray.
A great atmosphere already brewing, the audience were chanting long before the first act, La Mano Ajena, had even come on. A delightful display of strings and woodwind, La Mano Ajena got the crowd plentifully rowdy with their mix of both traditional gypsy and jazz. In fact, their blend of rock and folklore was so piercing that they were able to send the whole place dance crazy, thus warming them up nicely for the arrival of Gogol Bordello.
When the gypsy-punkers did arrive – after a short DJ set sponsored by some quickly forgotten alcoholic brand – the roof (if there really was one) was blown off within seconds. Entering centre stage with a blast of guitars and pounding drums, the dance floor promptly turned into a circus as lead singer Eugene Hütz greeted one and all, introducing the night about to follow.
They kicked off royally with fantastic crowd-pleasers Sally and Not A Crime before moving swiftly on to more of the glorious same. If it were an outdoor festival, the air would have been full of dust from the amount of skanking and jazz hands that were being thrown about. The place went even more wild when the Eastern European punkers finally cracked out Start Wearing Purple. The crowd was so wound up, in fact, that every man, woman and child appeared to be purposefully jumping into each other as they boogied their best moves (all well and good but, when you’ve recently had a million injections to come into the country, and your arm is still quite delicate, you tend to come out of situations like this bleeding – which is exactly what happened to this reviewer).
Not to be put off by either the pain or the funny stares you get when you profusely bleed in public, I found a hanky and thus the dancing continued until the wee the hours of the morning, ending with a decently-sized encore.
As the band left the stage for the second time to screams of “Otra! Otra!” (encore! encore!), I high-tailed it to the toilets, tore off my shirt and proceeded to wash both my arm and sleeve. Being looked upon as funny for my half nakedness as well as a little beaten up almost seemed cool: Gogol Bordello had come to town and I had the battle scars to prove it…
Posted In Live Reviews, Jul 05 2011.
Words - Rich