The reappearance of the Murcians Dog in the festival Canela Party almost two years ago reminded us how much we missed them. And in this era of eternal revival we do not have so many groups that combine hooligan vitalism, intelligence, nerve and personality. Well, the drought has come to an end, and the band reappears with the support of Sonido Muchacho and a fourth album in which they distill and expand their virtues. The best they’ve ever made? Could be. Mastered by Bob Weston himself (Shellac), no less. From the El Mirador studio in their homeland (to which they have returned with their technician Marco A. Velasco) to Chicago.
That they themselves take almost everything as a joke – Rafillo’s grotesque illustrations that illustrate the album make it clear – and that in the lyrics they play with those ridiculous costumbrista references can deceive the clueless. But his songs are no joke. Let’s see how many choruses as glorious as that of “Listen, relative.” They come to us this year. The quartet puts everything on the table in an unbeatable start, completed with “Thanks, you are welcome” (Dinosaur Jr’s footprint is long) and the dark one “Dodgy cars, handsome tops.”
In fact, throughout the entire album certain sinister or sophisticated post-hardcore influences are brought to bear (“Someone is watching you”, “Dramones and dungeons”), without losing sight of that kind of robust kraut of hypnotic passages (“You are going to lose me”) which is its hallmark (along with the fast-paced cowbell rhythms, of course). Of course, they are perfectly capable of getting more pop (“And if it doesn’t burst”, “Mañaco”), a bit mathematical (“Exercises of faith”) o bailongos (“Spain hurts me”), without losing its incorruptible soul. If you have to return, let it be so.