Iron Maiden in Madrid: the honor of being among those who are heavier than the wind

A message to those who aren't heavy metal fans or haven't felt heavy metal at least at some point in their lives: you're missing out. Heavy metal is about what happened last night at the Metropolitano stadium. About feeling the transcendence of the moment without having to come up with an intellectual explanation. You had to be there, wearing Eddie's black T-shirt; let the rhythm pound in your stomach; sing along to the lyrics even if you haven't the slightest idea what they're talking about (it also happens if you speak English); make a fist and shout "run to the hells" in your neighbor's face and have them respond "run for your liiiiiives"; let Bruce Dickinson's bellow unleash your demons; feel, as German sociologist Hartmut Rosa, an unrepentant heavy metal fan , says, "existential transgression." Exaggerated? That's because they weren't there last night at Atlético de Madrid. The 55,000 who filled the venue felt exactly that. The liturgy was offered by Iron Maiden, the greatest active members of the genre.

This happened despite, you guessed it, the venue's poor sound. The Metropolitano is not a place to hold concerts. It has a lot of bounce, and the echo, especially in the upper stands, is unpleasant. Instruments suddenly disappear. This happened especially last night to Dave Murray's guitar. We won't tire of repeating what a rip-off it is to pay 150 euros to receive this treatment. We should demand perfect sound. We should demand a refund if they don't guarantee it. At least a refund. It's just a thought...

Despite this serious drawback, we're going to say something to those who believe heavy metal has been dead for years. Given what happened last night, the fact is that the dead man still has a pulse. And he's living his life oblivious to Bad Bunny, Taylor Swift, Spotify, TikTok... He's doing his thing and convinced he's gotten away with it. He certainly has. As long as the kings of the genre (in terms of attendance) in their classic version maintain the momentum they demonstrated last night, anyone who comes here to give heavy metal their last rites will be kicked out the door.

It's hard to find an artist who sells so many T-shirts. At the Metropolitano, the one who didn't wear Eddie, the English monster-mascot, the perfect trademark, on his chest was out of place. And no T-shirts bought at an Inditex store. No, no: purchased at official stands at the band's other concerts. Someone even showed off their 1980s tour T-shirts at the Real Madrid Pavilion. Wonderful. Just as beautiful as seeing, in addition to a large audience, teenagers with their parents, screaming as a family. And may the cell phone go to hell for one night.

The tour is called Run For Your Lives, it celebrates 50 years of the band's career and focuses on their first nine albums, from Iron Maiden (1980) to Fear of the Dark (1992), the most sublime period of their career. They displayed classics, well-known songs, not a single off-beat moment in two hours of show. Iron Maiden lives with the challenge of not coexisting only on the income of the past, and the best proof of this can be heard in their complex, risky and splendid latest work, Senjutsu. (2021). This tour, however, is an exception, a challenge they posed to their fans: Hey, friends, we're going to fill stadiums all over the planet, we're going to show the world that heavy metal can't be beaten. And for that, they needed their most recognizable repertoire.

Even though some of the six members of the group are approaching the seventies, the band retains their long hair and wears heavy metal gear: leather jackets, studded pants, bullet belts... The group showed impeccable fitness. Steve Harris, the leader, with his foot pressing a monitor and his black and white Fender bass pointed at the audience. He moves his still-long hair up and down. He's the image of heavy metal. At least one of the most iconic. Beside him, Bruce Dickinson, clutching the microphone stand with his hands, his voice perhaps losing some power, but gaining depth and conveying emotion. The three guitarists move discreetly (except for Janick Gers, who doesn't sit still), concentrating on sliding their fingers with precision. Behind him, Simon Dawson, the new drummer after the resignation of the amiable Nicko McBrain due to health issues. The start of the concert was impetuous, fast: Murders in the Rue Morgue, an old song from 1981, from the English band's second album, Killers.

Dickinson acted as an effective, charismatic spokesperson, addressing the audience and joking: "What's in this canteen I'm drinking from is water, believe it or not." The stage invention consisted of a huge screen in the back. While there was natural light, its contribution amounted to little. When night fell, accompanied by a pleasantly cool air, things changed. It happened right at the midpoint, during the performance of "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," with progressive rock sequences (Harris is a fan of the genre), where a ship sailed through a raging sea that seemed to engulf the audience, especially those on the grass. From that moment on, the realism of the projections created striking dramaturgies inspired by the songs. In Iron Maiden, a panting and hungry Eddie seemed to throw himself at the audience. Some dramatizations offered somewhat ridiculous images, such as when Dickinson performed "Hallowed Be Thy Name" while locked in a cage. Gosh, as fantastic as the song is, it was hard to enjoy it with that man caged there.

In a repertoire of greatest hits, every fan was sure to miss something, but the truth is that they offered what everyone there needed: Killers, with a three-meter-tall Eddie threatening the musicians with an axe; the colossal Phantom of the Opera; The Number of the Beast; The Trooper, where the vocalist first waved a Union Jack and then a Spanish one: perhaps a rainbow would have been appropriate, considering the day it was; Powerslave, 2 Minutes to Midnight, Run to The Hills, Seventh Son of a Seventh Son , where Dickinson's voice reached an admirably long and penetrating note, tremendously praiseworthy for a man who years ago suffered from throat cancer.

The last two songs produced a communion of hugs, exchanges of sweat, raised fists and rhythmic "oeeeees": Fear of the Dark, with a striking projection showing a full moon illuminating a cemetery while Dickinson strolled around and sang dressed as an undertaker with a top hat, a cape and a lantern in his hand, and an a-po-the-s-ic Wasted Years . The last image we saw was Steve Harris machine-gunning the audience with his bass. And next Saturday, in the same venue, AC/DC.