Dripping syllables
There was once a club of syllables woven into imaginary rooms. Their horizons were endless curves painted in wet greens, like flowers fresh-washed by the rain. In that world of dream words, there was an artisan soaps shop. If one washed oneself with one of them, the skin becomes infinitely elastic allowing the dreams give shape to their existence without sharp boundaries or conventions made by hand or machine. If you listen well, those syllables could whisper their true in your ear as songs running under the title Miedos y otras fobias (Tsunami Music, 2011). Syllables called themselves Cajon de Sastre and they made music and words their widened world.
One day they decided to make public all their alphabetic and tuned turn. Their press release described such an universe as “un trabajo donde musicalmente encontramos nuestro propio lenguaje sonoro entre el pop melancólico, la pista de baile, los sonidos ochenteros y las atmósferas cercanas al trip-hop”. And there all their words were assembled forming a huge crossword puzzle in the best sense: the verse.
One after another, their songs drew rainy days in the sun. La chaqueta arrugada, Sílabas, Le club, Mínima, Niebla… But under the melodic umbrella, moisture did not penetrate the orphan ears. There was more heat with their syllables than outside full of watery frames. And at the end of the concert, we all went with them to break intransitive verbs and play only with the copulative ones. To be or not to be is not to appear to be, but the living room of understanding. And their album, Miedos y otras fobias, the heat of being a verb.
Text by Juan Carlos Romero
Cover by Brigitte