First gig in Madrid and they went down a storm. Of course.

The capital city’s smart set turned out in numbers for this fund-raising tour by Ukraine’s most popular musical export.

It was something of a surprise that people got there at all.

Oooh, lu-la!

Club Lula – nothing to do with the president of Brazil – fancies itself as a rakish, poncy hotspot for ‘classy’ rich madrilenos. Brothel chic masquesrading as a swanky night. Red decor everywhere. Dry ice fogging everything up disco globe hanging over the dance floor. Thankfully that wasn’t in use.

Bouncers were nice, that’s a career first. I nearly banged my head on the wall to check this was not a dream.

The Botoxed beauty on the door looked like she’d ironed her filtrum and wore a massive coat that may later in life give her back issues.

Lula didn’t bother publicising the event on its groovesome flashing thingy above the entrance (see pic). The day after its Saturday night disco wonderland event the show – Myd – was still being advertised on the LCD display unit above the entrance. At four minutes past 8, a club official noticed and went back inside to switch it all off.

Mamma mia!

But we got the ultimate support act – Abba.

As a big queue formed outside the venue (it took 30-plus minutes for some of us to get in), we were treated to the fag end of Mamma Mia! at the Teatro Rialto next door in Gran Via

Dancing Queen throbbed through the walls of the neighbouring venue. Followed by Waterloo, the performance of which at the Eurovision in the 70s sparked a lifelong interest in blondes. I must joing that Agnetha Faltskog fan club.

Then the exit doors of the theatre were opened and hundreds of Abba fans disgorged into the street. Mainstream mingled with mongrels of the alternative arty set.

Let’s move on. This event was part of Madrid’s Inverfest – a string of concerts in the city presumably intended to banish the post-Christmas what-the fuck-do-we-do-this-year blues.

Well, it’s almost like the gig never really mattered at all. The mix was the worst I’ve experienced at their gigs. The instruments tended to drown the voices, which is where Dakha Brakha’s magic really kicks in. On my death bed, I want to here these ladies’ voices usher me to the other side. It might help.

Quieter stuff faced competition from the camel’s wheeze emerging from the rather too loud air conditioning – presumably required to keep the dry ice settling in your lungs and giving you a nasty cough. It failed in my case.

The best sound to these post-Covid-disrupted ears actually came if you retreated to the back of the auditorium and then stepped into the back bar area decorated bordello-red.

But this one was good. It’s always good. Live, this has to be seen to be believed, and heard. It’s extraordinary. This Youtube version doesn’t quite do it justice but is the best I can find.

Given what we know about what’s happening in Ukraine, it reduced me to tears. And went down a storm.

Slava Ukraini!

Another triumph, another city conquered. Hoodies at 50 euros a pop were on sale and the proceeds from this tour, which finishes in France this week, go to help fight fascist Russia

Dakha Brakha never cease to win over neutrals and astound in the 15 years I’ve been watching them. It’s a joy to see them ‘click’ with new fans as their recordings, even their filmed performances, never quite capture the band’s true magic.

Let’s hope the cause they’re supporting emerges victorious some time in 2023.