‘Señales Brutales’ is the new album by Aiko the group

In some ways, we feel as if we’ve seen them grow emotionally and musically. Aiko the group from those first moments in which everything happened at the speed of fire until its progressive conscious combustion. “Brutal Signs” It represents the culmination of a career built on ironic electricity and a proverbial ability to convert every daily misfortune into a joke; Only now Teresa, Lara and Bárbara have enough distance under their belts to go beyond the grimace and extract oil from the setback. A “realize, friend” textbook, unforeseen and fallen from the sky, which materializes in his particular opus magna.

In this, their third full-length, the trio decides to pay attention to the pertinent buzz in the amygdala and give its own entity to a whole pantheon of enigmas that they previously dispatched with laughter and sharp jokes. It is not, by any means, a return to solemnity, since, in fact, the thing begins groping and trying not to show the cards too soon (“When I think, without meaning to, that I need you”they recognize reluctantly and crying in “stealth mode”). But it will be a matter of time before the Cantabrian-Cordoban team recognizes out loud its discomfort, putting words to the anger that the other’s cold impatience arouses (“the aWard is for:”), the Olympian indifference towards a past nobody (“I don’t want to give you a hug, it’s like hugging a mannequin / You have the shape of a person, but there is no trace of you”they sing in “Suspiria”), or the suffocating awareness of how current turbocapitalism consumes us (“when a min??”).

At the time, and after “Take it in the ass” (24), a shift towards rage and the will to call things by their name was already sensed, which we now see fully formulated in the doomsayer and daughter of her time. “Patience” (“Future bad news, falling like meteorites”) or in the baroque “Ode to the death of our love” (whose initial pianos lead to an explosive sarcasm in assonance that brilliantly encrypts an anecdote as prosaic as it is satirical). Some of that light is contagious “artificial grass”which shines with the adolescent subidubi of someone who discovers too late that they have rushed into the things of love. “Spectrum”however, represents a turning point in the songbook, dragging us with meditated parsimony towards a more contained and rugged atmosphere in which keyboards of psychedelic progeny confront those corpses that every young person tries to keep under lock and key (“It may be because I grew up in a house so cold that sometimes I feel like my eyes are empty.”).

A lot of therapy, black comedy and domestic customs elevated to the status of slogan in this unique journey to the center of trauma, where hand in hand and with their ear to the sick heartbeat, the trio manages to turn their own wounds into a common language and choruses that end up belonging to us all. A purge of maturity without a moral, the kind that turns the disaster and the pending account into the ideal spell to travel miles.