No wording surplus necessary to urge the immediate grabbing of one of the 300 copies of this LP, apparently named after an Argentinean Werewolf myth. After a start which finds Menche stomping through snow, “El Relincho” grows in potency and drama through an increasingly chiming union of nail-breaking manual activity and violent metallic clangor (sourced from pizza cans, of all things). Picture a group of speleologists surprised by a horde of unhinged robots, fiercely thrashing their poor victims while self-destructing at the same time. Only small fragments of bone, assorted screws and disconnected electric cables remain when it’s all over. “Runa-Utrunco” maintains a degree of naturalness thanks to Menche’s walking on rocks, though he sounds like he’s washing dishes made of shell and clay in the filthy water of an oasis rivulet. The distant growl-and-thunder generated by Courtis’ guitar is fortified by his military occupation of every available space with frequencies ranging from medium to ultra-low, without overstated brutality but intimidating nonetheless, such is the wuthering majesty of those cyclopean groans. The conclusion is more akin to the alteration of some kind of motorized appliance, organic tinkering returning to the fore at last.