The Brian Jonestown Massacre
Give It Back!

THE REVIEW

At one point, I asked myself what I wanted from music. Something new. What. For some years, I have greatly appreciated it. During those same periods, however, I didn't feel the thrill like when I was fifteen, eighteen, twenty-three years old. And the prolonged absence of thrill, of overly ripened youth, made me think that I had a problem with music. Me, of all people. No, I didn't believe it. This made me understand what I wanted from music. A heart-wrenching and exhilarating emotion, the desire to leave home after listening and feel the sensation of seeing everything completely, radically different. My innate craving to be a chameleon, to go out and amaze everyone perhaps by staying silent with a satisfied look, wrapped in spirals of nicotine and sipping an infusion of Central American roots. Even better, my indispensable desire to take a trip, accompanied by an imaginary shaman, into a desert that doesn't exist, to search for a spirit in which, deep down, I don't believe. This is what I want from music: certainties, hallucinations, self-awareness. To nullify the passing years. To know that I can see. Always see beyond the boundary, the barrier of the perceptible and tangible.

That desert, for example, is here or here. The certainties are in the solidity of the project (and I speak abstractly), regardless of the performers. The hallucinations are in my fridge. My self-awareness is that I will never change because I always change.

In this album, the thoughts of a cowboy who is neither good, nor ugly, nor bad. He has other things on his mind. And a solemn and basic music that institutionalizes the acidities and immerses in the warm, dry, and reptilian the crystallized paranoias of many. From the Velvet Underground to Calexico.

For me, these, especially in this album, are a form of freedom that humanity - all of it! - has not yet experienced.