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Streaming + DownloadIncludes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.Purchasable with gift card
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LP 12" Moon Galaxy Gatefold
Record/Vinyl + Digital AlbumSpecial Edition Moon Galaxy (limited to 100)
Gatefold LP 12" 140 gr. with printed inner inside.
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Compact Disc (CD) + Digital AlbumCD Jewelcase Special Edition (limited to 500)
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T-Shirt/ApparelT-Shirt Gildan Heavy Cotton
Illustration by Mario C. Vaises (Svdestada's vocalist)ships out within 7 days€15 EUR or more
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LP 12" Exclusive Eclipse Edition
Record/Vinyl + Digital AlbumGatefold + A/B Yellow/Black exclusive edition (100 copies by Pundonor Records)
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LP 12" Splatter
Record/Vinyl + Digital AlbumSplatter Transparent / Black
Gatefold LP 12" 140 gr. with printed inner inside.
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lyrics
El punk ha muerto. Nuestra es la venganza y la resurrección, que va del luto al negro y olvida a media asta cualquier otro color. Devolvednos la cizalla, aún le puede morder el cuello a esas cadenas que arrastráis por placer. ¿Dónde está la libertad?, pájaro extinto, si apenas lo vimos volar... Yo aún te busco en la maleza que crece fuera de control entre la palabrería hueca, o donde pierde la cabeza tanto corazón... La sinrazón. ¿Prenderá el fuego en alguna conciencia o dormirán ya para siempre, abrazadas a una respuesta cualquiera? Yo seguiré en la disidencia, me niego a agachar la cabeza, soy el mismo hereje, no importa la secta, me quedan pequeñas siempre las ventanas de todas las celdas. Vengo a decir lo que no queréis oír, he estado afilando versos hasta llamar a la puerta con un ramo de flechas y jazmín, que atraviesen como el alba la negrura que se aprieta en las ventanas y no os deja salir. Vengo a arruinar la fiesta, ¿queda una oveja negra sin esquilar?, alguien que tenga un mal pensamiento o una buena idea entre renglones tan rectos, como colar palomas por la frontera mientras las balas sueñan con guerras. Me niego a comer de la mano del rey, no seguiré al rebaño hasta el borde del barranco; prefiero volver a la causa de ayer, perdida pero mía, como el mundo que abarcan mis pies.
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Jet black
Punk is dead. Ours is the vengeance and resurrection which goes from mourn to black and forgets any other color at half mast. Give us back the shear, it still might bite the neck to those chains you drag for pleasure. Where is freedom? An extinct bird- we barely saw it fly... I'm still looking for you through the weeds growing out of control, among the hollow talk, or where many hearts lose their minds… The insanity. Will the fire ignite in any conscience or will they sleep forever, embracing a weak answer? I’ll continue in my protest, I won't bow my head; still the same heretic, no matter the sect. I find the window too small in any cell. I'm here to say what you don't want to face, sharpening verses until knocking on doors with a handful of arrows and jasmine that pierce like dawn the blackness and that squeezes on the windows and won’t let you leave. I'm here to ruin the party, is there a black sheep left unshorn? Someone who has a bad thought or a good idea between lines so straight, like sneaking in pigeons across the border while bullets dream of wars. I refuse to eat out from the king's hand, I won’t follow the flock till the edge of the cliff; I rather go back to yesterday's cause, lost but mine, like the world that my feet encompass.
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Jet black
Punk is dead. Ours is the vengeance and resurrection which goes from mourn to black and forgets any other color at half mast. Give us back the shear, it still might bite the neck to those chains you drag for pleasure. Where is freedom? An extinct bird- we barely saw it fly... I'm still looking for you through the weeds growing out of control, among the hollow talk, or where many hearts lose their minds… The insanity. Will the fire ignite in any conscience or will they sleep forever, embracing a weak answer? I’ll continue in my protest, I won't bow my head; still the same heretic, no matter the sect. I find the window too small in any cell. I'm here to say what you don't want to face, sharpening verses until knocking on doors with a handful of arrows and jasmine that pierce like dawn the blackness and that squeezes on the windows and won’t let you leave. I'm here to ruin the party, is there a black sheep left unshorn? Someone who has a bad thought or a good idea between lines so straight, like sneaking in pigeons across the border while bullets dream of wars. I refuse to eat out from the king's hand, I won’t follow the flock till the edge of the cliff; I rather go back to yesterday's cause, lost but mine, like the world that my feet encompass.
credits
from Azabache,
released February 5, 2021
license
tags
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