Banda de la Muerte – “Pulso de una mente maldita”
Granite, pure stone. Casting of concrete.Additional reinforced steel bulkhead. Bulletproof. Absolutely impenetrable. Massive drumming, dynamic bass and monumental guitars. Scratchy voice, subtle. This is the sound of these four guys from Buenos Aires, singing in their own slang, rather their own language Porteño. Low tunings. Kind of Sludge, Stoner, punk. And Doom. In the end just mere labels, a simple price tags pulverized by the energy of the first chord of the opener‘Te estàs dejando mentir’. I am familiar with the Buenos Aires scene. I know the local bands. I know their underground. I’ve been touring with ‘em. Backstage devastation, while the hot South American sun penetrates the ozone hole, cooking brains, altering minds, distorting wits. A country where a gig is always THE gig. A song is always THE song. Art of entertainment and fun, skillful involvement in the huge party called Rock'n'Roll. The Argentine one. The one that is still true. The one you hear in ‘Parte de mi historia’. These Banda de la Muerte guys, starting from the moniker they chose, are really the expression of Argentine hard rock, both the produced and consumed one. Argentina is a purely rock country: all the fake-cool work outs, forcibly built, emo-nailed, makeup-damned, do make the Argentine rocker laughing out loud. The true rocker. Dirty blue jeans, faded tshirts, consumed sneakers. Fertile soil that grew unique events: Ramones were a daily issue. And they still are on the radios. AC/DC recorded an epic live. Most famous rockers do sold-out for three days in a row, any tour, any city of the country. Kids with ancients Motorhead t-shirts, black that turned to grey. Angus Young Tattoos. This gruffly purity , this damned innocence, this spirit free from commercial and fashion pollution is the essence of Argentine rock. The one of ‘El Miedo’ and ‘El sol saliò del sur’. Banda de la Muerte conveys this street rebellion, rash, pure, straight forward, violently distorts it, and mercyless shots it into the marshals. Nine tracks of guitars-bass-drums, an open wound, honest, bleeding. A gloomy sound constantly wanders through the melody, making it extremely rough, biting. And absorbing: ‘En contra del destino’, ‘Tiempo Muerto’. This is rock. The salvation expressed by songs like ‘Pulso de una mente maldida’. This is the awakening in the morning, wear two rags, and pick up the guitar. All the rest? Lies, money, fiction, death of consistency, suicide of the rock soul.