White sky, not a leaf willing to move, sinister sultriness. It's earthquake weather elsewhere, but not here, here who moves.
At the mercy of the trusty Ektorp, I follow the chain of Santo MySpace until I arrive at Juana Molina's page.
Another slow effort and defying Domino Records I listen to the whole album...
Soporific bliss, if it weren't for those small sweet electronic tremors under the skin.
Voice that breathes transparent. Heartbeat-like percussion. Acoustic guitars.
A bit languid but knows its stuff. I read: "Fourth album, Argentinian", but if they had told me Brazilian, I might not have noticed.
The atmosphere is that of coconut milk sweetness among the sticky leaves, of the white sky, of who moves.
In Juana's park in Pacheco, you find exotic species that sing lullabies with her, but if you look at them too much, they loop you.
Tropical folktronica, hypnotic, sweet, and dreamy, but trust it anyway.