Hocico
Sangre Hirviente

THE REVIEW

With an inviting intro title like "Musica para un suicidio (primer acto)" the emblematic album of an emblematic band opens: "Sangre Hirviente" is the masterpiece of Hocico, a devilish Mexican duo dedicated to a fiery and uncompromising EBM.

The cousins Rasco Agroyam (programs and keyboards) and Erk Aircrag (vocals), whose hot blood does not lie, represent the most raw and anarchic expression that EBM can offer. Rawness and anarchy that we hardly find in the works of their European colleagues, who are colder, more measured and methodical; rawness and anarchy that, alas, we do not find in the band's subsequent works, "penalized" by a higher professionalism. Every imperfection, every smear, every naivety is indeed the true strength of this work, whose compositions, extremely simple, sometimes even childish, manage to shine for an energy and anger rarely found in the genre. It is the flaws that make this work great, which if it had only enjoyed a polished production and elaborate arrangements would have lost half of its charm.

If even by itself in the EBM scene there are not abundant electronics geniuses, around here the artistic caliber and technical preparation are even more lacking: boasting an almost live impact (the sounds are rough and the production not very refined - which is unusual, to tell the truth, for a band dedicated to electronics!), they serve us a sparse and stripped-down sound: pounding beats, lethal offbeats, third-grade level keyboard riffs, cheap gothic settings and Erk's shriek like a slaughtered eagle. An attitude closer to the most boisterous and declamatory punk than to the dark world of EBM. And if the dish thus described does not seem among the most enticing, rest assured that when the right rhythm kicks in, staying indifferent will be difficult. And pieces like "Spit as an Offense" (opened by a keyboard riff that seems to echo the famous theme of "Tubular Bells" by Mike Oldfield), "Sucios Pensamientos" and "Where the Angels Don't Sing" clearly demonstrate it, a breathtaking trio that won't even give us time to think about what crap we are listening to: the galloping bass and the relentless kick drum throw us into a smoky and ecstatic Hell, in a rave of the Abyss that vibrates within us and gives no respite to our limbs possessed as if by the Devil. Hocico's music is visceral, physical, it bypasses the brain and goes straight to those dark places where the spinal cord reconnects to the asshole.

Like in a Z-grade horror film, where a throat-slitting is followed by a belly hammering which in turn is followed by a chainsaw decapitating a head, where all these killings captivate and shock us, drawing attention away from the nonexistent script, the implausible plot and the lack of talent among the actors, the music of Hocico stuns us without giving rise to any reflection. What counts are the gory effects, the tempo shift that devastates, the scream that scalds the skin. The triteness of solutions and the approximation with which everything is assembled clearly take a back seat. As long as there is blood, there is attention, as long as there is rhythm, there is tension.

And it is no coincidence that the moments of weakness occur precisely when Hocico stop and we/they take a pause with the hackneyed and antiquated horror settings as old as the world itself. This is the case, for example, with "Ojos sin lágrimas", supported by a piano riff that couldn't be more cliché, airy keyboards and an angelic female voice; or "Legion", whose staggering orchestrations, worthy of a Das Ich album (to which our young cousins owe more than one insight), bore quite a bit. And it is precisely from the art of two madmen like Das Ich that the sonic chaos we are discussing seems to stem. Only here we are not in Germany, here we are in Mexico, where the dust burns the throat and the cacti poke the ass. Hocico are not artists, Hocico are containers of hatred, they scream their anger, their frustrations, the poor living conditions of many peers who were less fortunate than them.

Perhaps today Hocico have lost their minds and are simply clowns sold to the music business, perhaps this end was inevitable precisely because of the premises for which their art was born (to escape, to run away from the shit), but here, in 1999, there is still an air of underground, you can breathe the dust of Mexico raised by the pill-popping madmen, the thorns of the cacti on which the pill-popping madmen collapse blasted by drugs, to forget the hardships of a life that is not as desired, and that is impossible to change.

"Sangre Hirviente" is nothing more than another reincarnation of the spirit that animated the various Stooges, Sex Pistols, Suicide, Black Flag and all those pockets of youth discomfort and despair that are generated and grow in the shadow of concrete and smokestacks. And I bet my head that Hocico will not be the last in the series!