Caravanas

Juana Molina has been working in silence for years, but in Caravanas time stretches like a loop that refuses to break. The song emerges from those endless hours in her studio in General Pacheco, where between 2020 and 2025 she recorded without haste but without pause, letting sounds accumulate like layers of dust on analog synthesizers. There are no corrections here, only layers of improvisation overlapping: sixty hours of recordings with Odín Schwartz in which Molina explored melodies that repeated over and over, as if each note were another step in a walk without a fixed destination.

The result is a piece that breathes on its own, with an exact duration of four minutes and seven seconds. It’s no coincidence it sounds this way: Molina has always been fascinated by structures that fold back onto themselves, by those chords that spiral in circles until they become hypnotic. Her father, Horacio Molina, taught her tango as a child, but she preferred to get lost in other sounds—those she heard as a teenager on French radios in Paris, where her family took refuge during the dictatorship. She recorded every program she found, amassing cassettes with music from everywhere, as if she knew that one day those echoes would help her build something of her own. Caravanas is that: a journey without a map, where each repetition is another station along the way.