Piel de gallina

Piel de gallina begins with a sharp charango strike that pierces the silence, as if someone had dropped a handful of coins onto a tin can. That sound, which in other contexts might be a folk detail, here works as a trigger: the song doesn’t ask for permission, it bursts in and puts you on alert. What follows isn’t a simple Rock track with Latin influences, but a collision where Uruguayan murga, candombe, and Argentine rock blend without warning, as if the band had decided genre rules didn’t apply to them. Pepe Céspedes’ bass weaves lines that twist between rhythm and melody, while Carlos Martín’s drums mark a pulse that refuses to be boxed into 4/4, as if the meter were alive and breathing.

The recording of Piel de gallina took place in a studio that wasn’t the band’s usual one, where the heat from borrowed equipment and the urgency to finish quickly ended up becoming part of the sound. There were no last-minute corrections or overdubs: what you hear is what came out of the room in that moment, with its imperfections intact. The lyrics, written in a single night during a tour between hotels and airports, speak of that skin that prickles when something truly touches you, but without falling into the obvious. It’s not a song about chills, but about what those chills leave behind as they pass: a mix of rage and tenderness that runs through the entire track, from the opening riff to the charango that closes it.