Motociclón - Suburb Anthems (CD, Album, Dig)

Label: Beat Generation

Motociclón is a band that, at its core, blends punk and heavy metal. But not punk and heavy metal—not atmospheric gothic ancient guts-of-a-goat-bursting-from-the-bell-tower metal, nor that punk that makes you drop your pants, dye your hair, and stretch out your pinky finger to add, "You know what I mean?" No, punk and heavy metal. Punk and heavy metal for the love of God. On the other hand, Motociclón don't sing in Spanish. Nor in English or any other barbarian tongue. They sing in whatever language is spoken in their neighborhood, though no one knows what the hell that language is. And they sing about their neighborhood, which is no ordinary neighborhood. It is the neighborhood punished first by the dismantling of heavy industry, then by heroin, then by street gangs, and now, in our day, by the evening programming on mainstream television. It is the kind of neighborhood that forges real men, tough men of steadfast values. So, as can be heard on the album, they sing about the "bocachanclas," that damned traitorous cop's son of a nun; "the rock police," those fucking academic-minded, ass-kissing pricks of popular culture; or "the Flying V drilling into a jacket-wearing poser." In their neighborhood, you are either a man or a girl, you speak by slapping your bare chest with the palm of your hand, and anyone who goes off script gets drilled with a Flying V, for fuck's sake. If we're going to be snobbish, Motociclón are reminiscent of Banda Trapera del Río or the now-underappreciated Rockcelona. What they add, however, is a rather important New British Wave component. It's the thrash guitars, playing riffs and solos of that ilk with singular mastery and, above all, with an elegance possessed by very few in this country—and it's not for lack of guitarists, precisely. Then there's the rhythm section, which is also good, thanks. Ramón and Dani on stage look like a Comanche tribe. They've played in ten thousand bands of forty thousand different styles, and what matters is that they perfectly understand the concept of playing the drums well. And as for the vocals, crowning this beautiful Christmas card, there's Robértez: ugly, bastard, loudmouthed, unkempt, belligerent... everything but a citizen with a French passport. In short, Himnos de extrarradio is exactly what its name suggests. Songs to carry deep inside you, songs to proudly and incorruptibly belt out when the first sun of the day colors the dumps and rubble heaps in all their shades, in the spirit of Crapulismo.