creo

The first track on Señales —Daños— was no accident. They wrote it in November 2003, when the band still didn’t know that three years later, the República Cromañón fire would change everything. But that night in the Villa Celina neighborhood, with borrowed guitars and lyrics that already sounded like a warning, it became clear that something different was in the air. The album, which was just beginning to take shape, had been brewing for months between rehearsals and trips through La Matanza, but Daños arrived before the rest: it was the first finished song, the one that opened Señales and, unintentionally, became a threshold to what was to come.

They recorded it in the early months of 2006, at a breakneck pace that broke records: the album was released the same year it was finished. There was no time for doubts or last-minute tweaks; the studio was a borrowed space, and copies started circulating before the dust of Cromañón had even settled. creo, the song that closes the album, was born in that same feverish period of creation, between July 2004 —when they composed Límites— and August of that year, when they finished 9 de Julio. But while those other songs had months of maturation, creo seems to have been written in one go, as if the silence after the tragedy had made room for the band to trust again in what they always knew how to do: raw rock, with choruses that tangle around Juancho Carbone’s saxophone and a backbone that asks for no forgiveness. They sold over twenty thousand copies and earned a gold record, but what remains is that feeling that, amid the chaos, they found a sound that was truly theirs.