ARTAUD

You know the story, Vincent Van Gogh painted his final canvas with a flock of crows raising from a wheat field, and shot himself, dying two days later. Antonin Artaud refused to call him suicidal, it was rather society, symbolized by the flock, that suicide him. Luis Alberto Spinetta, as a young reader, felt strongly this unequal conflict between artist and society, as well as the need to purge the pain caused by it. But to sell the project to his bandmates in Pescado Rabioso, that was a whole different matter. According to drummer Black Amaya, after being presented with the new material, they just left.

First Cutaia, then Lebón and finally Amaya himself, who had been on board since the very inception of the band. Left alone, and owing one more album to the Microfon label, Spinetta recruited two of his former mates in the band Almendra, plus his own brother Gustavo, and did Artaud with those same songs.

How could result, from such a turmoil, a recording in state of grace? Who knows, the songs were amazing, that helps. Working at home, with brother and old friends, that too. But in the end, there's no explanation for beauty, if true. And no need for one either, just wide open eyes and ears are required.

The cover sleeve was designed with an irregular edge, by Spinetta's request. It wouldn't fit any standard rack, because, you know, art shouldn't fit. From the edges to the inside, on the other hand, the album flows seamless, yet through very different moments. Even the acoustic songs are each one of a kind. Todas Las Hojas Son Del Viento, with tender innocence and anti-drug message. Por, almost a symbolist stream of consciousness, slipping through naked acoustic beauty. La Sed Verdadera, presumably inspired in Rimbaud, serene, contemplative, soaked in delicious lo-fi electronica towards the end. Cantata De Puentes Amarillos is the piece de resistance for acoustic guitar and vocals, but with the most amazing electric and percussive incrustations, turning it into a joyous ride, focused in the hope for a better tomorrow.

The electric element in the equation blossoms in Superchería, walking a fine line between the melodies of Spinetta's old band Almendra, and Aquelarre's rythmic drive, contemporary by then. That drive mutates at the end of the album, in the fascinatingly bouncing riffage of Las Habladurías Del Mundo. Bajan used to jumped the airwaves in different times, thanks to a graceful melody, supported by catchy drums, courtesy of Gustavo Spinetta. Can Artaud poetry be set in a cheap horror comedy scenary? Don't know really, but that is what it seems to take place in the other piece with Gustavo in drums, Cementerio Club, and it's delightful. If, besides progressive, the term art-rock can (and should) be applied to this album, that is in A Starosta El Idiota, with a rare performance in piano by Spinetta, existential lyrics, and delicious bassline in the middle section, preceded by a concrete music incursion loaded with references.

After this, García and Del Guercio resumed their day job playing drums and bass in Aquelarre, and Spinetta went to form Invisible.

A delicate record that screams "Play me loud!", and never dissapoints.