Tales from Barcelona 4

Chapter 2: Under the Shadow of the Arc de Triomf, part one

Living in Manchester means the novelty of tapas wore off many years ago, once a glut of establishments realised they can sell piddling amounts of food for massively inflated prices to gullible customers convinced they're trying something exotic. For example, the following is a list of what £25 of my hard-earned money got me during a recent trip to a tapas restaurant in Chorlton:

1 chunk of chorizo
2 chunks of fried potato
2 bites of chicken stew
2 bites of lamb stew
1 calamari ring
Some bread
2 pints

Money well spent, I'm sure you'll agree. So is eating tapas in Spain a revelation that words can barely do justice? Certainly not in terms of taste; despite my varied slurs, Manchester is capable enough of delivering delicious tapas (and it's not like many of the dishes are particularly complex to put together in the first place). It's just that it always feels so forced. You can replicate the food, but you can't match the experience of actually being in a foreign country, nor can you benefit from the decent weather, and whilst it would be foolish to assume that eating tapas in Barcelona is as authentic as it was before the place became such a massive tourist hotspot, there's still a value to sitting outside in the sun, drinking beer and eating what are essentially bar snacks as the city bustles around you.

After arriving at the hotel and dumping our bags that's exactly what we set out to do. The nearest spot for it was Rambla del Poblenou, which proved to be everything La Rambla isn't; quiet and unhurried, the closest point of comparison in Manchester would probably be Burton Road: an area with all the local amenities you need and an abundance of food and drink options, albeit somewhere you wouldn't want to spend every night.

The winner of the evening was La Buena Vida (which translates as "the good life," I believe), a little bar and restaurant helpfully subtitled Oh My God Tapas! that delivered us artichoke crisps and an inexplicable dish of gyoza-style liver dumplings with a strawberry, paprika, and creme fraiche dip (all of which worked very well together). Before that, we'd sampled various Spanish sausages; afterward, we made a decision that in retrospect might have been influenced by our alcohol intake, strolling into a fish place and ordering a platter of deep fried seafood. After the trauma of our Ryanair flight, it was the perfect way to unwind.

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The next day we mooched around the city, collected our festival wristbands, and ate and drank plenty more before making our way to the Arc de Triomf, where a free gig marked the opening of Primavera 2012. We caught the majority of Jeremy Jay's set, which was entertaining enough, proving a solid accompaniment to the slowly setting sun and the cold beers we'd bought from a nearby shop filled with revellers who'd had the same idea, eschewing the expensive on-site stalls. His brand of alt-pop is probably best described as "infectious," given that a few of his songs are still stuck in my head over a month later, the highlight being "Caught in a Whirl," which is basically a Wes Anderson movie distilled into four minutes of evocative music.

Having seen The Wedding Present tear through Bizarro in Berlin a couple of years back, I had pretty high hopes for their latest run-through of a classic album. In comparison, Seamonsters is a much slower and heavier affair, the sort of thing Lou Barlow sang about in "Gimme Indie Rock." This worked against it in the early going, with the sound a little muddy to begin with, but things quickly improved, allowing the material to become as powerful and imposing as it is on record. Gedge was as on as ever, singing songs of heartbreaks twenty years gone, breathing new life into their meaning and validating their existence by holding on to them.

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I first caught The Walkmen, when they supported Idlewild at the big Academy in 2002, and was so impressed I talked one of the members of the band into selling me a copy of their debut album Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me is Gone at a slightly reduced price due to a lack of funds on my part. Since then, it's been a case of diminishing returns; neither that record nor any of their subsequent efforts have ever lived up to that transcendental first experience. I give each new album a shot upon release, typically enjoying it but not being moved by it in any way. I like the idea behind the band more than the execution, the way they're described on paper more than the music they produce. To my ears there is an emptiness at the heart of their music that I just can't move beyond, and with a few exceptions their output leaves me cold. Still, in marked contrast to my All Tomorrow's Parties 2010 experience (stay for "The Rat," leave immediately afterward), they struck a chord with me this time. The vastness of the setting gave their songs space to breathe, allowing their grace and elegance to shine the way it deserves to. Maybe I'll come to love them yet.

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Deciding to call it a night so as not to burn ourselves out before the festival proper, we headed to the nearest Metro station, where we were lucky enough to hear a busker play the most approximate cover of "You Shook Me All Night Long" of all time. Meanwhile, on the station platform a big screen played basketball highlights, and under the influence I decided that I missed my calling coaching the sport. Before heading back to the hotel, we couldn't resist another trip to La Buena Vida, stuffing ourselves with Iberian kebab and the most delicious chicken strips in the world. Even though we didn't need the food, it seemed ridiculous to order drinks and not grab a bite to eat. It's what they do in Barcelona, after all, and why go against tradition?