Cataplàusia is probably one of the wildest bands the Mediterranean has produced in recent years. Wild by their very nature and Mediterranean in their urge to recover nothing less than the legacy of Barcelona’s best decades, only to dilute it on a black-grained pallet and a white needle…
This debut work is much like an unexpected eruption, a continuation of the legacy of the Catalan free-jazz and jazz-rock groups of the 70s, who were outsiders on the Catalan rock scene. It is an unconscious outburst that leads us, blindfolded, to the wide-ranging mixture of psychedelic sounds, jazz, hard rock and Nigerian folk boils down to the hilarious musical sagacity of the band’s leader, Pasto Martí (Sonio). No holds barred, Cataplàusia is willing to imbue every one of their songs with humor and contempt in order to bring them to life, and they do so at will and without stopping to consider what the outcome might be. Their music is what it is.
The album begins like a soundtrack for an imaginary film, but soon we begin to get a glimpse of certain cognitive automatisms, a transfiguration, playboys, that come in the guise of impossible stories and musical poems. The listener quickly realizes that one listen is worth far more than a thousand words. It is a well-toiled self-homage that goes beyond mere irreverence. A first album like this is only possible from the unpremeditated intuition of genius. Everything here is reflected in their hairstyle: Cataplàusia cares little for cosmetic accessories. They look at the past from an obvious anti-revivalism perspective. They are a child of their time. Cataplàusia wear their influences on their sleaves, but they energetically spurn any yearning for a past zeitgeist that has long since reached the age of majority.
