Beginning with a Lupen Crook-esque eerie acoustic guitar, Carmina Alegriá starts as it means to go on.
Dramatic and daring, it is a scenic, cinematic masterpiece, and this is just the opening track. You know what, actually, before we wax lyrical about the album’s offerings, let us provide a bit of context…
The following text is taken from the Spotify artist bio of Carmina Alegriá:
“Carmen Sánchez Barrera (Huelva, 1929 – Valencia, 2025) never stopped singing. In her youth, she sang so well that people from the radio wanted to turn her into a star. They even had a stage name ready for her: Carmina Alegría. That’s how she always told it. But life had other plans.
After his grandmother’s passing, Yo decided to give her the album she never had: Carmina Alegría. This profile isn’t a fake – it’s a gift, and a promise fulfilled. Carmina Alegría is, at last, a star of song.”
Now, if you can’t get behind this album based on that beautiful sentiment alone, I don’t know what to tell you. You may very well be actually dead inside. Or made of granite. Or both. Anyway, now that we’ve painted a bit of a picture, let’s get back to the music.
The first tune – Desaparecer – serves as an instrumental introduction (apart from some operatic vocalisations) to the album and, as we mentioned earlier, it really sets the scene. A myriad of instruments are layered in a delicious lattice of sound. There’s so much going on here: harp (courtesy of Jaume Gimeno), flute (from Guillem Smiles Peña), and loads more. Eventually, the other instruments drop out, and the electric guitar steals the show, but only momentarily, for when the other musicians come back in, the drums return with a vengeance (shout out to drummer Miguel Giner). They sound absolutely HUGE even over everything else that’s going on, and, backed up by a wall of amazing choral vocals, this is quite the opening salvo.
The title track is up next. A spoken word recording plays over a carefully arranged collection of acoustic instruments. The warmth and affection that Yo had for his dearly departed grandmother positively radiates from the speakers. Eventually, the acoustic ensemble is joined by another powerful – albeit less abrasive – electric guitar, and the puzzle is complete. Over the course of the song’s epic almost 8 minutes, there are distinct emotional peaks and troughs, hills and valleys – just like life. It’s amazing how so much can be said using words that we don’t understand. We don’t speak Spanish, but this song speaks volumes to us. What started as an ever-so-tender, barely-there ballad has morphed into a widescreen post-rock monolith. We’re sure Grandma would’ve been proud.
The cinematic feel of the previous song continues on the next. Coágulo De Un Instante (which, according to the internet, translates to Clot Of An Instant) is a haunting, ethereal piece that feels as ghostly as it does humongous. It sounds like what we imagine an out-of-body experience feels like. Or perhaps it’s what one hears when one’s soul leaves one’s body. It’s undeniably heavenly but at the same time quite disconcerting and slightly uncomfortable sounding, and this, we think, is what evokes such sensations and suspicions. Of course, the background to the creation of the album influences this too, but alas, we feel what we feel.
Volver Al Aire starts with a new age soundscape that recalls the sound of a PlayStation 1 turning on. (Listen to the beginning of Frank Ocean’s seminal work Channel Orange if you don’t understand the reference, or, you know, find and boot up a PS1, whatever you want). Following this, we meet a pair of voices. One female and operatic. One male and rather varied – at first smooth and subtle, but in time, it becomes markedly more ragged and rocky. Electronic percussion is introduced, and the song descends into a pulsating electronic piece built around these contrasting vocals and the atmosphere that they create. We can only speculate on the lyrical content here (as it’s “En Español”), but the overall vibe is extremely evocative. Also, for the record, we *never* listen to opera, so we’re not experts, but that female soprano vocal – who we think is Belén Roig – is absolutely breathtaking. Towards the end of the song, we’re suddenly reminded a little bit of Evanescence and – in a flash – we’re 16 again. A choir comes in and adds a lovely element to a song already full of lovely elements.
Siempre (La Mano En El Fuego) is up next, and apparently it translates to “Always (The Hand in the Fire). “Putting your hand in the fire” is a Spanish idiom meaning to have complete trust in someone’s honesty or integrity, and therefore always completely trusting them and always being willing to put your faith in them. We recognise we made the point earlier about never listening to opera, and we must confess that we also have limited experience of “world music”. Which is what this largely feels like to us. Imagine the spirit of the soundtrack to The Lion King (yes, we know that Elton John, Tim Rice, and Hans Zimmer are not exactly World Music, but just go with it) blended with the soundtrack work of Danny Elfman, and maybe a little Led Zeppelin III, and you’re there or thereabouts. Cinematic, atmospheric, and energetic, Siempre is an unmitigated force of nature.
Los Muertos Siempre Son Verdad (“The Dead Are Always True”) is a touching post-rock journey that feels cathartic to listen to, so we can only imagine how volatile Yo and Co.’s emotions must’ve been during its creation. It sounds like the sort of music that might soundtrack a last goodbye in a film or a slow-motion departure, or perhaps a missed connection that leads to a series of unfortunate events unfolding. We rue our missed chances and curse the way things pan out when they don’t go our way. But it’s the positive things that we must really hold onto. Just as when someone dies, we’re supposed to celebrate the experiences that we were lucky enough to have, rather than commiserate over the ones that we now won’t. It’s sometimes hard to do, but we must; otherwise, the grief can swallow us. It’s what they would’ve wanted, right? We have to look back on them fondly and carry on. To make the best of the world they leave behind. That’s what we think anyway. This song makes us feel all that. Again, the context is clearly at play here – but that doesn’t take anything away from the composition. It’s all relevant. Towards the end of the tune, a soaring lead guitar takes centre stage and shreds your heart into tiny pieces, as if it needed any more punishment.
Decirlo A Veces Sin Palabras (which, rather fittingly, translates to Sometimes Saying It Without Words) is another heartstring tugger. The penultimate track on the album features more spoken word (what sounds like audio from old home videos, maybe?) and the return of that operatic female soprano vocal. In an album full of epic moments, this is yet another. Sounding like it could soundtrack a medieval battle scene or a particularly gruesome Game of Thrones episode, it paints a picture with blood, sweat, tears, and, most importantly, love. The arrangement, production, and engineering on this one are particularly spectacular, and it’s well worth mentioning that this is also attributable to Yo (real name David G. Borrero, by the way).
Now, the last song – Levantando Las Manos – is listed as a “bonus track” and, we must say, it feels very separate from the rest of the record. It turns out that’s because it’s, essentially, a jokey cover version. Sort of. Allow us to explain. So, Levantando Las Manos (“Put Your Hands Up”) is basically a well-known summer party song in Spanish-speaking countries. It’s synonymous with good times and frivolity and is described by Yo as “almost the perfect example of empty music for parties”. The lyrics are essentially centred around dancing, and that’s kind of it. But, what Yo has done with his cover is essentially turn it into a Spanish language collaboration between infamous miserableists Conor Oberst and Leonard Cohen, in the words of the artist: “completely inverting the mood (musically and emotionally), to represent that moment when you’re depressed but have to pretend everything is fine. And, spoiler alert: it’s a true story. I actually had to sing these songs in moments like that…” So basically, this song is the sound of trying to force a smile through tears. We empathise. It sounds like he’s really had to go through some shit.
When I asked him why he felt the need to tack it on to the end of a record that was quite different tonally from the bonus track in question, he responded. Rather than paraphrase, I thought I’d include his verbatim response here:
Wow, there are so many reasons, and I wouldn’t know where to begin…
In a way, the whole album describes a grieving process that happens inside the mind…
For me, Levantando Las Manos is the counterpart seen from the outside, happening outside: there’s no reverberation of nostalgia, but the violence of seeing someone on the edge of the abyss.
I think I have a certain phobia of fool-happy endings. If it hadn’t ended with Levantando Las Manos, it seems the album’s message could have been, “Oh, how cathartic! In the end, she survives in the memories of her loved ones. How beautiful.” But Levantando Las Manos puts a close-up of raw reality and says, “No, it’s shit, fucking shit. That’s all.”
So, all in all, the closing track serves as a bookend to this enchanting tribute. Albeit, one that requires a bit of explanation.
When we agreed to take on this review, we conceded that the material was outside of our usual comfort zone, but we think it’s good to push oneself, and we consider ourselves that much richer for knowing this record. A testament to a woman who was obviously very important to her creator, it’s a beautiful legacy and a startling piece of work.
Written by Kinda Grizzly
