To be a young man in the fucked-up Argentina of 2016. The old “No future/nihilistic/hedonistic” thing was already done to death by your father, brother, cousins, and whatnot. What’s left to do? Smoke some pot with your friends and record lo-fi garage rockers about your fear of falling asleep ‘cuz that’s the time you are not with them? It’s pretty much what you guys already do.
// You can’t really play any musical instrument, you say? Hey, you know enough to imitate those watery DeMarco-esque guitar licks and that might just do the trick. Trust me, there’s a reason the Canadian goofball became the unlikeliest/most pervasive influence on Latin indie this side of Juan Wauters. Lyrics won’t be a problem at all, I’ve heard you guys shoot the shit. // So… singing about drugs and booze while being underage makes you feel gangsta? Go for it, dude!!! It may actually be as gangsta as one can get in effin’ Mendoza, for all I know. // Nah, you need not worry about that; you can’t be too lazy for this. On the contrary, you guys could knock-out a whole album before you even need to go buy more cigarettes. //
Of course you can dedicate the record to Australia, kangaroos, and King Gizzard. Gonna throw in a heavy metal rev-up to close that song about having a bad trip because you bought the wrong pills? Damn, son! That sounds like the shit I dig. EOY-list material, if you ask me! What’s next, a bossa nova version of the whole album or something?
More about: Perras on the beach
