The opening drums of “Dale Matraca” stomp and stumble like a drunk trying to dance. There’s a pumping, dancefloor-worthy intention in there somewhere, but it’s been dashed by a whiskey-hazed sense of balance, meaning that bass drum limps into snare with the grace of someone falling flat on their face. Guitars cling onto the rhythm’s flailing joints, slurring and twanging as though the band are plucking flimsy metal strings rather than playing actual instruments; this is Ricarda Cometa at their best, with structure clinging on for dear life in amongst the giddy threat of dissonance and bad time-keeping. It’s a US Maple for the ultra-queasy.
We’re halfway through now, and rock band has dissolved into screaming, exorcising ritual. “Mas Allá Vente Mas Pa Acá” is the point of absolute collapse – the very disarray and total loss of logic that Ricarda Cometa always threatened to be, played out through chiming guitar hums and voices hurling fear into the night skies. From here, the band clamber out again: “Glaseando El Camote” aims for funky upstrokes and misfires into crunchy melody Tourette’s instead, “Empina El Codo” is a stupid, wayward marching parade of safari animals, complete with zookeepers bashing up dustpan lids as they career through the bewildered urban streets, while “Los Animales” is the best party you ever puked at, complete with group chants of the track title at regular intervals. Music to make the world tilt sideways ever so slightly.