Picture caption - Lee Mavers and the sunburnt kids PUBLICATION - SOUNDS ORIGIN - UK DATE OF PUBLICATION - 1st. July, 1989 SUBJECT - Live concert review, VALENCIA BARRACA Bar, Spain TITLE - SAVE THE LA'S DANZAS FOR ME AUTHOR - David Cavanagh PHOTO - Mary Scanlon YOU COULD really get to like Juan Santamaria. Every year he flies a clutch of UK journos and flashmen out to Valencia (temperature 100 degrees Fahrenheit and rising) to have a few drinks, meet his extraordinary DJ acquaintance Jorge Albi, have a few more drinks and, for those still capable, attend the Valencia Rock Festival, La Conjura De Las Danzas. La Conjura De Las Danzas doesn't actually mean anything. Jorge who thought it up, thinks it means "The Conjure Of The Dances", but then his English isn't too together. It's his obsession not only with British indie music but also, weirdly, the British music press that gives the proceedings their unmistakably surreal edge. As soon as everyone's off the plane, Jorge wants an interview. I was ready for the heat but I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition. He's also MC at La Conjura, cautioning the frisky audience to shelve momentarily their Andrea/Tracey preoccupations and give The Pop Guns, pretty girl singer and all, a cracking chance. They're from Brighton and have a slight celebrity factor in drummer Shaun Charman, who used to be in The Wedding Present. In fact, Wendy Morgan's wistful lyrics ('Landslide', 'Someone You Love') have a bit of Gedginess about them, although the three guitar putsch gets a bit wearing after a while - you've really got to be Blue Aeroplanes to carry off that caper. Nevertheless, an auspicious start. With Shaun Ryder crippled by sunburn - rumour had it someone had Mickey Finn'd his Ambre Solaire with Spry Crisp 'N' Dry - it was left to Inspiral Carpets to be the Official Tour 'Lads'. Good blokes all, they utilised their minimal Spanish vocabulary of "una", "cerveza" and "grande" to heartwarming effect. They hit the stage after Machine Gun, a mediocre English rock combo who came to Valencia some years ago to appear in a talent contest and immediately scored a recording contract. The Inspirals could do with luck like that; at the moment they can't even blag copies of their first single. But in their 'Inspiral Carpets - Cool As F***' T-shirts they did one of the speediest, jauntiest six song aperitifs imaginable. 'Whiskey' and 'Joe' saw the bar staff pausing respectfully in their nook just underneath the stage to make wow noises in the direction of Clint Boon's Vox. The bowl-headed boy sure can play, and singer Tom Hingley provides a suitably mobile foil. The La's flew straight in, looked pissed off and, as usual, let their staggering arrogance breeze through their songs. 'I Can't Sleep', the one with the 'Can't Explain' riff but better harmony singing, got a typical "nice one" from bassist John Power, and 'Callin' All', 'Knock Me Down' and 'Son Of A Gun' all moisturised the lips for the much-delayed La's debut album (to date: five producers, all sacked). But Lee Mavers claimed voice loss, or no access to decent lager or something, so the set was curtailed before they could get to the brilliant 'Looking Glass'. I suppose it's this impossibly perfectionist approach that makes them so wonderful. Whatever, they're revered to such an extent here that the new single, 'Timeless Melody', was released in Spain before Britain. Jorge's probably playing it even now. Happy Mondays wound it up, somewhere around seven in the morning. Never very happy with the proceedings (anyone educated in Valencia's synthetic standards could possibly hazard a guess as to why), they played four songs during which they regularly scowled and snapped at each other. "We've got a f***in' sequencer", drummer Gary was reminded archly after 'Do It Better' was done extremely sloppily. 'Moving In With' wasn't a great improvement, although the groovers and groovesses from local press and TV were visibly enchanted. It was only with 'Mad Cyril' that they started to gel, although Bez's languor and Shaun's sunburn agony (some genius would later suggest wrapping his fried legs in bandages, with the result that all the skin stuck to them; mega-ouch!) dampened Mark's consistently danceworthy guitar. The night's last number was 'Wrote For Luck'. I'm not sure, but something in the air - the alcohol, or the sticky paella we'd all been served for dinner - did a resuscitation number on us and, as a result, this song sounded astonishing and life-enhancing. Appropriately enough, when Mark was congratulated afterwards, he couldn't even remember playing it. It was that sort of picnic: the real met the surreal, the legal met the dodgy and Happy Mondays remained oblivious throughout. Valencia, you were an experience. DAVID CAVANAGH