As stated in one of his songs, that mediocre soccer goalkeeper turned champion of the most saccharine light song and currently transformed into the protagonist of various memes, some that are born and others will die. An inexcusable vital equation that on this occasion is expressed under a paradoxical pirouette of destiny, and that is that the inaugural assault on the scene by the Bizkaian band Solomillo Wellingtonthrough a debut EP of the same name, is at the same time the epilogue of the Family Spree Reordings record label, which thus deposits one last seed, faithful to its history as an agitator, in the form of a concise but exhaustive incendiary bomb against faint-hearted minds.
Despite the premiere that these songs represent for this formation of culinary nomenclature, there is no hint of novice in its protagonists, since all of them, in one way or another, have been actively participating in the noble task of shaking, with relish, the local music scene. A conclave that brings together the duo Los Retumbes in instrumental work; to one of the members, Kañon, from that ironic and foul-mouthed settlement that responds to the name of Romanian Camp and that chooses as spokesperson for the combo an Edurne, an active personality of the rock ecosystem, who gives up her vocal cords in the service of a proposal that, With these wicks, it is logical that he finds his preferred language in the primitive and viperine punk – and increasingly necessary – verb.
Four postcards of acidic nature and noisy skeleton that neither want, nor possibly can, separate themselves from certain gestures that adorn those formations from which their participants come. An ascendancy that prevents, under capital punishment, the album from extending much beyond half a dozen minutes. A brief extension that, however, is more than enough time so that from the initial “Bajonazo sidereal”, an organic and torn punk in the best style of Las Vulpes, Desechables or los Espasmodicos without its hardcore roots, serves as an insult to that slab that is usually what others think of you. Insisting on turning the guitar into a rhythmic crusher, the explicit title of “Human Scum” denotes that there is no intention of reaching out to others, much less if they are to blame for the alcoholic self-destruction portrayed in “Too Little Drink.” . Maintaining what seems to be an inalienable pattern, with a penetrating bass that serves as master of ceremonies for the subsequent electric downpour, in the case of “Adiós” the bursts of riffs are the accompaniment for this farewell – in its essence – “French-style.” ” from the album but above all about that romantic love turned so many times into a horror story.
Punk did not arise at all to make friends, on the contrary its purpose was to collect enemies, and the more the merrier. A challenge that in a brief first work, Solomillo Wellington has more than achieved, safely ensuring that its broadsides are difficult to digest by all those reluctant to listen to any truth that crumbles the imaginary ivory tower where it lives. Under a corrosive manners and a no less resounding disdain towards the human race, this quartet needs no more introduction than its own sound that claims, at least musically, that gray and dirty Bizkaia but possibly much less hypocritical than the one infested with brand name stores and franchises where human beings are manufactured by weight.
FSR161 Solomillo Wellington (SG) de Solomillo Wellington