When Miguel Prado and Michael Pisaro released White Metal back in 2014, it was almost impossible to imagine anything past the parameters of their “expertly exploding and reducing noise.” The material was so dense and detailed that pondering the background and the personalities behind each track almost went beyond contemplation. But at least we knew a little bit about Pisaro by way of his extensive back catalogue, his pursuits in field recording, and his continued exploration into the acoustic prickle of bubble wrap, all of which provided a smidgen of context.
Prado, on the other hand, was perhaps a little less known outside his work with Robert Mallo and Julien Skrobek. Although he was well on the way to releasing La Labor De Lo Inhumano as Nzʉmbe — the first in a suite of disembodied voice recordings — his discovery up until that point offered very few clues as to what lay behind his input on the Senufo collaboration. It was always going to be tough to make White Metal any less discernible, but that thin veil of mystery somehow added a layer of intrigue to an otherwise typically “difficult” listen.
As far as divulging behavioral traits and personal idiosyncrasies are concerned, Titubeo is at the opposite end of the spectrum. Prado uses the second Nzʉmbe release to address feelings of embarrassment, melancholy, and desperation — all in his native language, Spanish — within the context of what he describes as “modern baroque love songs.” The resulting tracks allow for a bruised, sullen listen, with Prado deploying a variety of musicians on alto saxophone, accordion, trumpet, and drums to veer in and out of his quivering voice, as he squirms between infections, cruelty, and the abyss.
The album is everything one might disassociate from stereotypically warm and approachable Galacian tones, where Prado dices his voice somewhere between a latter-day Scott Walker and a tormented Jamie Stewart. His lyrics are influenced by the likes of Georges Bataille, Nick Land, and Reza Negarestani (not to mention “Trece Lunas Nuevas,” which draws its name from the very film that infused Jefre Cantu-Ledesma’s latest). But with all of the unburdening and confession that seeps out of Titubeo, the musical arrangements leave a constant reminder of Prado’s involvement in records such as White Metal.
Although Nzʉmbe could be filed under “romantic songs,” there are instrumental moments that straddle the boundary of tenderness and tomfoolery, vulnerability and grandeur. Take the off-kilter beating that drives opening track “Serpientes y Escaleras” forward à la Nick Cave’s “Well of Misery” or the sporadic noise convulsions on “Segare la Ragazza” — Prado’s technical craftsmanship amplifies the drama of each track to frightening levels of hysteria; they’re engaging, sure, but they are also incredibly difficult to stomach.
The music is at once terrifying and depressive; there are gaping shards of strain and emptiness within Prado’s voice that make this an atrociously bleak collection of recordings. Each song presents a character of intense loneliness, where Prado wants you to “remove each possibility of recovery” and remain “oblivious to every threat.” At the same time, he will ward you off with a shrill frequency or uneven accordion keys, drawing you in to catch a glimpse of his cowering swoon before beating you back out the door with unbridled conviction. It goes beyond “sad” or “dark” music; Titubeo drags you into an alarming dimension of the inconsolable. It’s quite amazing to witness, but it’s also wildly overbearing.
What remains is a bewildering assortment of obsession and gut-spillage, filtered through the gauze of modular-synth compositions and insatiable rhythms. It doesn’t matter how much of Prado’s wilted verse you permit yourself to swallow, Titubeo feels like a grotesque thirst that you’d never feel brave enough to quench. Whether you refuse to venture further than the first track or you keep picking at it like a thickening scab, there is no doubt that Prado has accomplished something remarkable here, no matter how morose it might leave his audience feeling once it’s over.
More about: Nzʉmbe
