Los Planetas - The indie-rock solar system of Granada

Musically, comparing Los Planetas to homegrown acts like Afterhours, Verdena or Marlene Kuntz might seem like a stretch, especially at the start of a monographic profile on the Andalusian band. A useful stretch, though, to give a sense of the scale of the group's audience and the enormous significance they've held for the Spanish independent scene over the past 25-plus years. A long stretch of time during which the Granada natives have constantly evolved their sound, while always preserving their noise-pop nature, never disavowed, but rather reshaped time and again according to the band's changing tastes, studies and interests.

The early days of Los Planetas were rather foreign-facing, offering a raw, thunderous sound inspired as much by the psychotropic shoegaze of Spacemen3 as by the dark post-punk of Joy Division and the American neo-psychedelia of Mercury Rev and Flaming Lips. Things changed, however, towards the end of the 90s, with an opening up to much poppier sounds, melody placed firmly at the center and easily memorable lyrics, all elements that put the band's Spanish identity at the heart of the project.

It's a rather patriotic consistency and stubbornness, after all, with which Jota has chosen to write and sing his lyrics exclusively in Spanish - a decision that, needless to say, has kept a sound with potentially huge international appeal from crossing the Iberian borders. Yet it's precisely this obstinacy that has allowed the creation of a unique sound, one that, without the warmth and tonal palette offered by a Romance language, might not have been so special, probably blending instead into the ocean of 90s noise-pop bands.

A similar experience, contemporary with the first stirrings of Los Planetas, is that of Argentina's Soda Stereo, whose flirtation with shoegaze would, however, last only for a limited period of time and not, as was the case with the Granada band, for their entire career.

Another hallmark of the band is undoubtedly their lyrics. Delivered by Jota in an unmistakable nasal drawl, they're often small, funny and poetic gems that blend everyday life, pop culture and eccentric science fiction – the kind closer to Douglas Adams than Philip K. Dick.

1990–1994: from "sotterráneos" to "Super 8"

Juan Rodríguez (Jota) and Florent Muñoz, the two founding and ever-present members of Los Planetas, met in 1990 at the University of Granada, where they were studying sociology and law respectively. Both more interested in literature and psychedelic music than in their actual studies, the two began meeting up and rehearsing their first songs together. Partly out of their great passion for Velvet Underground, and partly for the Jack Kerouac novel of the same name, Juan and Florent decided to form a band and call it Los Subterráneos – a line-up soon completed by bassist May Oliver and drummer Paco Rodríguez.

Three fairly talked-about singles had already come out ("Mi hermana pequeña", "El centro Del Cerebro" and "La Caja Del Diablo Y Espiral") when, in 1992, the band decided to change their name to Los Planetas. The fortunate decision was made by Jota and co. after learning that pop star Christina Rosenvinge (one half of the duo Álex & Christina, who dominated Spanish radio in the 80s) was about to release her debut solo record under the name Christina y Los Subterráneos.

"Mi hermana pequeña" and "El centro del cerebro" ended up together with "Pegado A Ti" and "Cada Vez" on the band's first EP: Medusa. Thanks to this debut release, the songs and the band's name began to circulate insistently on the independent radio shows of the era, such as Discogrande and Diario Pop. Although the quartet's songwriting skills were still in their infancy, the four songs on the EP are remarkably fresh, with immediate melodies – no small feat, given how thick Muñoz's distortion is. The opening of "Mi Hermana Pequeña", for instance, is anything but what we'd call easy listening. Less rhythmically turbulent than the other three, the most interesting track on the record is undoubtedly the closer: "Cada Vez". A dragging melody that moves slowly, leaving behind debris of noise and a pulsing, plastic bassline that mimics the lovestruck heart the song's romantic protagonist never tires of listening to.

The four songs revealed the band's crystalline talent, drawing in legions of fans and, consequently, the attention of RCA, who, having noticed the growing Spanish indie scene, were on the hunt for a horse to back. The band had already recorded Super 8 and was ready to release it on the independent label Elefant (which had already put out Medusa), when Jota got a call from their future manager, Javier Liñán, asking him to hold off because of RCA's interest. It was the start of a partnership destined to last a full seven albums.

Given premises like these, it's easy to understand just how anticipated the album was, even though Los Planetas were practically a band making their debut. However, as mentioned, by the time the contract was signed the record had already been recorded, so it would only benefit from RCA's resources during post-production and a handful of extra sessions. To see what the band was truly capable of with such well-funded producers behind them, we'd have to wait for the following album, Pop. But let's take things in order...

Created by Basque artist Javier Aramburu (who would go on to work extensively on the band's artwork), the cover of Super 8 wraps a stylised little figure playing an electric guitar in warm, saturated concentric circles of colour: red, orange, purple, yellow. The figure's head is bowed and sad, caught in a pose that almost literally illustrates the origins of the word shoegaze, yet the notes he plays on his guitar radiate bright colours and positive energy, just like those unleashed by the record's mighty guitar work. The title of this debut, which inevitably evokes the blurred tints of 80s home-made movies, suits Jota's lyrics perfectly, centred as they are on memories and romantic musings, sometimes pleasant, sometimes melancholy.

Indeed, especially in the first half of the record, many of Super 8's songs are devoted to love stories, break-ups, or simply romantic daydreams. Among the latter is the ringing opening track "De Viaje", in which Jota invites his beloved to set off with him towards the sun, towards another dimension, where they could be together forever (“Tú y yo de viaje por el sol/ En una nueva dimensión/ ¿Qué podría ser mejor/ Que estar siempre juntos tú y yo?/ ¿Qué estar siempre juntos tú y yo?”).

Despite the festive riff that won over thousands of new fans, the following track, "Que puedo hacer", instead carries the bitter taste of an ex who can't come to terms with the irreversible end of his relationship (“He pasado por tu casa veinte veces/ Siempre voy al andador por si apareces/ Pero nunca más”). The struggle to process the end of a relationship is also at the heart of "Si Esta Bien", carried along by a plaintive melody, as well as of "Desorden", where, however, major chords and the cheerful intervention of a Hammond organ flood the scene with light and offer the protagonist a glimmer of hope.

"10.000" (pesetas) is the price of a gram of cocaine or of a prostitute, perhaps underage (“Me dice ven/ ¿quieres hacerlo con mi amiga?/ No está nada mal/ Vamos a hacerlo con mi amiga/ tiene 15 años ya”), as well as the title of the record's most cryptic and controversial song. Here a sweet, elegiac guitar melody is made to slide over shrill guitar feedback, while Jota sings Los Planetas' first hard-hitting, politically charged lines. Equally dark and mysterious is "Rey Sombra", a track with a particularly cryptic lyric and a relentless chord progression, dedicated to Shadow King, the psychic-energy entity from Marvel comics who feeds on hatred for humanity. Closing the record is the explosive "La Caja Del Diablo", nine minutes of sonic delirium and blistering drumming, with backing vocals seeping through the gaps left open by the wall of sound.

Setting aside less remarkable episodes like "Estos Ultimos Dias" and "Brigitte", Super 8 is a flawless debut album, one that many longtime Los Planetas fans still consider the band's best work, probably because the spontaneity and grit that define it have never been matched since. Fortunately, though, the 1994 record was merely the beginning of a career that would come to be dominated by an insatiable urge to explore new paths and new colours.

1995–1999: from "Pop" to recognition

With the bright, summery cover and the title as brazen as the one Pop ends up with, "db" is the opening track you really don't expect. Nine wobbling, lysergic minutes, in which a lazy melody creeps along amid screeches and flashes of white noise towards an ending drowned in flanger. It's one of the most psychedelic moments of the band's entire career, oozing with the devotion Los Planetas held for Spacemen 3 and the earliest Mercury Rev. "db", in fact, are simply the initials of David Baker, singer and deus ex machina of the Buffalo band's wildly distorted first two albums. Baker, brought on board by the record's producer (Kurt Ralske of Ultra Vivid Scene), was actually meant to sing on Pop, but was forced to back out due to numerous production commitments on the other side of the ocean.

Pop does break into Pop (forgive the terrible pun) very early on, right from the fizzy follow-up track “Una Nueva Prensa Musical”. The rest of the record's songs only exceed four minutes on one occasion, sometimes even clocking in at under three, and are always packed with instant melodies and choruses. The fresh-sounding “Hymno Generational #83”, for instance, lasts barely more than two minutes, a playful jab at the era's bands obsessed with the ghost of writing the great generational anthem. The same goes for the sinuous jangle-pop of “David Y Claudia”, dedicated to Copperfield and Schiffer, who thus join Bardot, namechecked in “Brigitte” from the previous record. Even shorter is the closing “Punk”, which snuffs out its hopeful little choruses, and the album with them, in under ninety seconds.

“Ciudad Azul”, with its soft, undertow-like reverbs, and the languid, liquid “Aeropuerto” are the record's two most relaxed and atmospheric moments, in which the band proves capable of conjuring moods that go well beyond the noise-pop of Super 8. “Jose Y Yo”, “Ondas Del Espacio Exterior” and “8”, though more polished, sound more recognizably shoegaze and closer to Jota and Florent's older songwriting style.

Worth a mention too is “La Maquina De Escribir”, a turbulent, hot-blooded track whose controversial lyrics, utterly unrelated to the title, have Jota playing a chauvinist asking his woman what she'd be willing to do to make him happy (“Tú, dulce y tierna niña/ ¿Qué puedes hacer por mí?/ ¿Hasta dónde llegarías/ Para hacerme feliz?/ Podría hacerte daño/ Dejarás que te haga sufrir/ Mi dulce y tierna niña/ Dime que sí”).

Lively and multifaceted, Pop is a classic second album, one that finds the band venturing down new paths — some of them very interesting and successful — but ultimately failing to achieve real completeness and cohesion, living instead on individual highlights. For this reason, and probably because it was less immediate, it wasn't embraced by the band's earliest fans the way Super 8 had been, but it won over new ones, reaching number 40 on the Spanish charts that year. Things would go much better two years later, with the legendary third album.

If we were called olarock.es, Una Semana En El Motor De Un Autobus would certainly rank among the milestones chosen by our editorial team.

Having settled at number twenty on the national sales chart, it's regarded by much of the Spanish press as one of the most important records in the history of Spanish pop music. The renowned magazine Rockdelux named it the best album of 1998, and later ranked it eighteenth among the best albums of the twentieth century. For the famous local music critic Jesús Llorente, it's the best Spanish-language album of the century produced by a band of indie origins.

Although the band's intentions were more or less the same as those that had set the tone for Pop — namely, to write a handful of gloriously noisy songs with a strong melodic imprint — the step forward is remarkable and obvious with huge impact from the very first listen. This comes down to a mix of factors.

First of all, it should be noted that the album was recorded at the extremely well-equipped Zabriskie Point studios in New York, where producer Kurt Ralske and the band (by this point made up of Jota, Florent, Kieran Stephen and Eric Jiménez, the new bassist and drummer respectively) were able to benefit from a sizeable budget courtesy of RCA.

Florent recalls that it was precisely during these New York recording sessions that the band tracked all the instruments simultaneously for the first time, managing to capture on record the long-sought synergy between melody and noise, with the former forced to elbow its way through thick blankets of feedback. Satisfied and enriched by the experience, Los Planetas would go on to use this method from then on, and began self-producing their own records.

Then there's the songs factor. Quite simply: Jota was going through a period of explosive inspiration, such that both the melodies and the lyrics are charged with great vitality and brimming with fresh details. Spotting a weak moment across these twelve songs is in fact a tough, if not impossible, task.

Una Semana En El Motor De Un Autobus condenses into an hour of music a week in the life of the album's protagonist — the week of his birthday. It's a very simple concept, but one that proves the perfect device for packing the songs with the most disparate emotions: anger, love, disillusionment, abruptly severed relationships, euphoria, dysphoria. All of it under the influence of alcohol and the odd soft drug. In a word: youth.

It opens with an instant classic: “Segundo Premio”. The bitterness and anger of not having taken first place take musical shape: bursts of noise and a euphoric guitar riff riding the rhythm alongside a bristling, joyful string section. Because, despite a slightly bitter aftertaste, a second prize is still a prize. The strings return in the second part of “Linea 1” too, enriching with sophisticated shades a mournful yet achingly sweet acoustic ballad set on the outskirts of Granada.

“Desaparecer” is a jolt of energy. Dazzling power pop at two hundred miles an hour, with a driving riffing that betrays another of the two guitarists' passions: Husker Du. Also firmly among the album's most muscular, spirited tracks is the overexcited “Cumpleaños Total”, more great power pop and another riff that would go on to set a trend.

Among the more sophisticated tracks, it's up to you to decide whether you prefer the repressed anger of “Parte De Lo Que Me Debes” — a cry on the shoulder over the end of a relationship that takes shape amid aching guitars and an arsenal of retro-futuristic little effects — or the lopsided rhythm and ultra-liquid guitar of the psychedelic “Montañas De Basura”. The warm, forlorn arpeggio of “Toxicosmos”, which suddenly ripples into long sonic surges, suggests an evocative, if somewhat fanciful, comparison with Mogwai and the most irascible strain of post-rock.

Closing things out is “La Copa De Europa”, one of the band's longest, most ambitious and most moving songs. Practically a pop symphonietta, with a triumphant finale in which the guitar melody is enveloped not only by strings but also by gauzy horns, until it dissolves into the amplifier's insistent hum.

It's the end of an emotionally gruelling, unforgettable journey, one that, with its mood swings and sudden swerves from one genre to another, from one feeling to another, can only conjure up the most turbulent days of our youth.

2000 – 2006: riding the crest of the wave

When Los Planetas went into the studio to record Unidad De Desplazamiento, they were a mature band, fully aware of their technical abilities and buoyed by overwhelming critical acclaim. Yet neither they nor the critics could have imagined what the album would end up meaning.

Virtually hailed as saviours of the nation's music scene, J, Florent and the rest of the crew approached the recordings determined to push even further beyond the horizons opened up by Una Semana En El Motor De Un Autobus. Some of the innovations are already hinted at on the cover, which, with its flying car and vintage colours, introduces the sci-fi theme and, by extension, the space-rock sounds used (in particular, an insistent drizzle of analogue keyboards à-la Spiritualized). The newfound self-confidence Los Planetas had built up comes through in the markedly driving rhythms ("Vas A Verme Por La Tele", "Maniobra De Evasion") and, above all, in Jota's bolder vocal delivery, which at times takes on an almost epic tone ("Santos Que Yo Te Pinte"). If one had to find a flaw in Unidad De Desplaziamiento, it would certainly lie in its sprawling length, likely the result of the band's overzealousness.

It opens with one of the most evocative tracks in the Granada band's catalogue: "Flotando Sobre Loscos", a watercolour blend of post-rock and dream-pop, with ethereal, languid vocals suspended mid-air between little clouds of organ and spiralling guitars.

A major novelty is the large number of slow tracks on the album, which make up a good fifty per cent of it — an unthinkable proportion back in the band's roaring early days. Such is the case with the dejected acoustic-guitar-and-violin ballad "Que No Sea Kang, Por Favor", where the lord of the comic-book universe is the recipient of an interstellar plea. The same goes for the closing one-two punch, following the pastel-coloured indie-pop of "La Cara De Niki Lauda" — an unexpected guest in the album's lyrics, joining the now sizeable roster of pop and sporting icons name-checked across the band's other records. The record then closes on a sweet note: first with "Canción Para Ligar (O Para Que No Me Dejes)", another plea, this time addressed more mundanely to a partner; then with the psychedelic farewell of whistling and field recordings on "Paseo Por El Parque".

As if the album were running short on oddities, the motorik bass of "Plan De Fuga" imports a charging kraut rhythm into Spain and adds none other than Neu! to the band's already sprawling bouquet of influences.

Yet it's the most immediate and ordinary song, at least in compositional terms, that was destined to permanently change the status of Los Planetas. "Un Buen Dia" is essentially a track they could have written back in the days of their first EPs — only, obviously, with the roughest, noisiest edges sanded down. It tells of a day spent among friends, seemingly carefree, where everything seems to be going right. At one point, Mendieta even scores an incredible goal (he would, after all, join Lazio just a year later). But the good mood radiating from the lyrics and melody is a smokescreen: the friends, the carefree spirit, and even the "cuatro millones de rayas" (lines of cocaine) censored by radio stations can't soothe the pain of an important relationship drawing to a close.

Unidad De Desplazamiento would peak at number 17 on the charts, but "Un Buen Dia", thanks precisely to its accessibility and the universality of the feelings it describes, would become a genuine generational anthem. Played on the radio day and night, it would bring the band a level of exposure no Spanish indie act had ever achieved before.

By the time the Planetas' fifth LP, Encuentros Con Entidades, was released in 2002, the band was on everyone's lips. Not just indie kids, but their little sisters too, and even the odd mother. Number 5.

For number 3, they would only have to wait another 2 years, with Los Planetas Contra La Ley De La Gravedad.

From their titles and covers alone, both albums continue what could rightfully be considered a sci-fi trilogy.

A bit bloated, partly due to its less-than-light running time, and lacking the courage shown previously, Encuentros Con Entidades isn't a bad record, but it's certainly far less dazzling than what the band had delivered up to that point. Almost the entire sonic framework of Unidad de desplazamiento is retained here, along with the alternation between floating ballads and power-pop broadsides, but unfortunately with much less inspiration and fewer thrills.

Across fifty minutes of music, though, there was bound to be a handful of excellent moments (the hypnotic "Dulces sueños", "Mis Problemas Con La Justicia") and one devastating fan favourite titled "Pesadilla En El Parque De Atracciones". An incredible noise-pop bolt made to be sung word-for-word at concerts, where Jota once again proves himself a masterful chronicler of small everyday dramas, as well as a keen student of the alchemy of Teenage Fanclub.

Although it too falls well short of the creative heights reached by the one-two punch released between '98 and '00, Los Planetas Contra La Ley De La Gravedad sees the band regain (at least in part) their lost form and, above all, their appetite for experimentation and charting new territory.

The sixth Los Planetas album can be ideally split into two parts. The first, which runs up to "Experimentos Con Gaseosa", floats in a graceful psychedelic bubble, with the guitars murmuring less abrasively than usual and the ever-present Hammond organ further sweetening the air. None of the six tracks making up this section is particularly brilliant or memorable - in fact they're all rather similar - but the atmosphere is decidedly pleasant, and the attention to detail is such that it captivates every time, always drawing focus to different little touches.

The opposite practically happens in the second half of the record, where the songs appear completely disconnected from one another, each bringing novelties and small, quirky experiments; like the Kid A-style beat that opens "Cumplimentando Compromisos Contractuales" before evolving into a concerto for old video games, or the piano of the indie lullaby "Deberes Y Privilegios". It is "124", however, that stands as the most disorienting track of the bunch, with flamenco echoes immersed in an open space sketched out by reverb and wah wah, bridging into the extraordinary next phase of the Andalusians' career.

Los Planetas Contra La Ley De La Gravedad is also marked by several notable collaborations. The finest of these are concentrated in "Y además es imposible", where Irantzu of La Buena Vida duets with Jota, while Nacho Vegas adds a guitar to the mix.

2007 – 2016: rediscovering flamenco

With Los Planetas Contra La Ley De La Gravedad, the Granada band definitively close their pop phase. Three years of absorbed research and exploration would follow, delving into that invaluable Andalusian musical heritage known as flamenco, which from that point on would shape - to a greater or lesser degree depending on the album - the work of Jota, Florent, Eric and Miguel. Flamenco would become so important and crucial to the band that Jota would soon declare that Spanish rock is nothing but a palo flamenco, that is, a genre that can be traced back to flamenco's own legacy.

The album that opens the flamenco phase of Los Planetas, and the one in which the traditional genre of southern Spain plays the most prominent role, is the majestic La Leyenda Del Espacio from 2007. The project's numerous references to flamenco also extend beyond the music itself. The title is a clear nod and tribute to "La Leyenda Del Tiempo" by Camarón de la Isla, a landmark 1979 masterpiece fundamental to the evolution of modern flamenco, precisely because of the gitano musician's opening up of the genre to rock. Besides sharing part of the title, the two albums also share the work of photographer Mario Pacheco, who shot the cover image for "Leyenda Del Tiempo" and all the promotional photos for La Leyenda Del Espacio. Moreover, the cover art of La Leyenda Del Espacio depicts nothing other than the spotlight that, on the cover of "La Leyenda Del Tiempo", illuminates the imposing figure of Camarón.

While de la Isla, on "La Leyenda Del Tiempo", grafted shoots of popular music (in particular, progressive rock) onto his visceral flamenco, Jota and his bandmates here performed the opposite maneuver. Every song on the album draws on a different flamenco palo (tientos, verdiales, mirabras, fandango, etc.), immersing their characteristics, rhythms and at times fragments of traditional lyrics into an abrasive blend of psychedelic rock. The result is that Los Planetas' sound had never been so distorted, hypnotic, violent and repetitive. Besides offering listeners an intriguing novelty, this fascinating sonic restyling works perfectly to recreate the almost tribal atmospheres of the autonomous communities of Andalusia that gave birth to the genre.

In "El Canto De Bute (Tientos)", the repetitive cadence of the tientos - essentially a tango in slow motion - is recited and warped by a granite-hard riff over which Jota can raise an almost priestly, ascetic vocal, while in "Se Estaba Loco Por Ti (Verdiales)" the more danceable verdiales is launched into hyperspace by searing shoegaze guitars. Equally cosmic is "Ya No Me Asomo A La Reja (Fandangos)", with a searing tremolo-laden finale. Thanks also to an insistent '60s keyboard, "Deseando Una Cosa (Cantiñas)" brings a touch of joy to the record, granting it a playful, street-flamenco interlude. Far more solemn are the mystical tones of "Negras Las Intenciones (Soleares)", where, amid sinister vibrations with an Indian flavor, Jota delivers one of the most spiritual performances of his career.

Closing the circle of reinterpretations (and the album itself) is "Tendrá que haber un camino (Cañas)", on which an inspired, laconic Enrique Morente is invited to sing (a flamenco sacred monster, to whose work the band would later dedicate a side project called Los Evangelistas); he shows himself completely at ease amid reverberating guitars and spatial effects, letting flamenco float in total weightlessness.

Skilfully placed throughout the tracklist, we also find a series of songs unrelated to the flamenco theme and more typically in the style of Los Planetas, probably included to lighten the reverent tone and ease the fans' disorientation. Among these, particularly notable are the protest power pop of "Reunión en la cumbre" and "Sol Y Sombra".

Probably the best Los Planetas album alongside Una Semana…, La Leyenda Del Espacio is one of the most important Spanish alternative records of the 2000s. Commercially, its performance was naturally lower than that of the two preceding albums (it only reached number seven), but press and public alike agreed in regarding it as an instant classic.

Despite a monster runtime of 59 minutes, Una Opera Egipcia from 2010 instead reached number 2, representing the absolute chart record for Los Planetas. A gitano expression used to denote masterworks or supernatural feats, the title confirms the band's ongoing reflection on the roots of their homeland's musical tradition. The atmospheres, however, are lighter and more reassuring than those of its sterner predecessor.

Tracks like "Soy Un Pobre Granaíno (Colombiana)", refreshed by a darting flute, and the bouncy, springlike "Siete Faroles" are indeed far removed from the tones chosen three years earlier. The sweet duet with La Bien Querida, "No Sé Cómo Te Atreves", takes on more liturgical tones, though still far from the dark sonic magma of La Leyenda…. Ana Fernández-Villa (real name of La Bien Querida, the indie-pop singer whom Jota truly mentors) reappears in the lo-fi electronic sketch "La Veleta".

An hour of music inevitably comes with its share of low points ("La Pastora Divina", "Atravesando los montes"), but also ventures into musical territory left unexplored until then. This happens, for example, in "Los Poetas", the nine-minute space-rock behemoth that closes the album, in which a storm of electronic lightning bolts is set off.

2017 – 2019: from "Zona Temporalmente Autónoma" to Granada's return to the Primera Division

The seven years between Una Opera Egipcia and Zona Temporalmente Autónoma mark the longest gap between two albums ever recorded in Los Planetas' discography. Still, it was only a recording hiatus, given the band's intense live activity and the busy schedule of their own label, Ejército Rojo.

After such a long absence, other bands would have taken the easy route of an album aligned with their most fruitful past, playing it safe to comfort their fans. Los Planetas, instead, seem to have reasoned the opposite way, promising themselves that if they were to come back, it would have to be worth it. Zona Temporalmente Autónoma almost entirely does away with the whirlpools of guitar noise—never so restrained—and builds its atmospheric depth on rich keyboard landscapes, at times dreamy, at times with an Eastern flavour. Telling in this respect is the closing track, “Guitarra Roja”, which, despite its title and unlike other Los Planetas records (which save their most incendiary guitars for the grand finale), reaches its climax through the juxtaposition of numerous layers of cybernetic keyboards.

There's also a lovely acoustic sketch, “Hay Una Estrella”, which reveals what the band would sound like as singer-songwriters. Also fascinating is the genesis of the single “Islamabad”, which lifts and rarefies the melody of “Ready Pa Morir” by Andalusian trapper Yung Beef, stretching it out into an enveloping, atmospheric post-rock piece. Without a doubt one of the peaks of the band's output in the 2010s, once again confirming their ability and their voracious curiosity in looking around them.

Awaited next October with the album debut of their side project Fuerza Nueva, shared with the brilliant flamenco singer and experimenter Niño de Elche, this past June Jota and co. released the single “Eterna Lucha (Himno Para El Ascenso Del Granada)”, a fun and devoted tribute to Granada's historic return to Primera Division in La Liga.

One of the singles with which Fuerza Nueva (who are none other than Los Planetas joined by Niño de Elche on vocals) introduced themselves to the public is titled “Una, glande y libre” (Fuerza Nueva), and its cover features a giant penis with two Francoist peseta coins as testicles. In case anyone was wondering, yes, Fuerza Nueva is also the Spanish counterpart to Italy's own Forza Nuova, a name the Granada-based ensemble stole in order to mock it. Unlike the other singles that preceded the band's debut LP, “Una, glande y libre” is not part of Fuerza Nueva, though the album follows the same rhetorical and ironic vein as that single, going on sale on the very weekend of the Fiesta Nacional de Espana (12 October). The work of Javier Aramburu, the album cover shows the Iberian nation pierced by the band's lightning-bolt symbol, filled in with the lines of the iconic artwork from “Unknown Pleasure”. It's the crowning touch of a genuinely remarkable thematic graphic effort, carried through from release to release, which has turned every Fuerza Nueva release into a true gem for completist collectors.

The Los Planetas of Fuerza Nueva obviously have a precedent in “La leyenda del espacio” (the band's masterpiece, in which flamenco palos meet psychedelic rock), though here they opt for even more extreme guitar stretches and very slow tempos, in which Nino de Elche's prodigious range can echo monumentally, at times solemnly (“Los Campanilleros”, streaked with sinister drones and highly distorted electronics).

“Santo Dios” and “La Cruz”, which share with “Los Campanilleros” a setting somewhere between the sacred and the profane, are less dark, with guitars tracing more serene trails and keyboards that are lighter and more soothing; on the former, Jota timidly joins Nino, offering a velvety support to the latter's vocal flourishes. “Mariana” is a more strictly flamenco track, yet still immersed in cosmic dust, though the vocal movements, as well as certain Andalusian guitar and keyboard scales flirting with North African flavours, leave no doubt about its heritage.

The political high point of the record is “Cancion para los Obreros de Seat” (an adaptation of “El himno de 'Els Segadors'”, a traditional Catalan song dedicated to a group of workers who forcibly expropriated banks and businesses to help the proletariat), with Nino de Elche deploying his voice with authority across an ocean of slowness that sharpens the guitars only in the chorus. It's a sacred march, slow but unstoppable, like the crowd in Pellizza Da Volpedo's painting.

Well placed throughout the tracklist, we also find catchier songs, closer to Los Planetas' more pop side. Certainly “La Cancion de los Gitanos”, which despite its title lays down a liquid-smooth indie pop riff, but above all “El Novio de la Muerte”, driven by a punchy riff and a more sustained rhythm, with Jota splitting verses with Nino and taking the lead for a stretch.

In the five years separating this new Las canciones del agua from its predecessor Zona temporalmente autonoma, Los Planetas haven't exactly been sitting around. Whether as producers, running their tireless label El Ejercito Rojo, or as musicians, especially alongside Nino De Elche, with whom they created Fuerza Nueva, a fine side project built on flamenco and shoegaze.

But even in their capacity as Los Planetas, Jota and the rest of the Granada crew haven't stood still either. The road to this La canciones del agua, which brings the veteran Andalusian indie-rock outfit to ten albums, actually began back in 2020, when, in the thick of the pandemic, the band started releasing a series of singles tightly tied to Spain's socio-political and health situation and current affairs.

The first of these, “La nueva normalidad”, is a melancholy, sarcastic indie-pop ballad that captures the sense of disorientation felt by the population—especially its younger segments—in the face of what Spanish politicians, after the first deadly wave of Covid, dubbed the new normal. The amusingly revolutionary lyrics sway between ragged fanfare brass and reverb-soaked guitars, recreating a feeling of bewilderment.

Even more peculiar and oxymoronic is the choice of arrangements on “El rey de Espana”, which sarcastically recounts the old king's sexual “exploits” amid floating shoegaze guitars and bucolic flute lines. Far livelier than the other two singles, “El negacionista” is a noise-pop track of a kind the band hadn't written in years, complete with a delightfully catchy chorus: “Voy a convertirme en un negacionista/En un seguidor de Miguel Bosé/No voy a hacer ningún colaboracionista/De un régimen que tiene que caer”.

The aforementioned tracks, which preceded the album's release by one or two years, are all clustered in its second half, acting as a counterweight to a first section that is less rowdy and more stately.

The album's opener is in fact a musical setting of Federico Garcia Lorca's poem "El manantial," a track that pairs the poem's message of reconciliation between man and nature with twelve minutes of elegant, piano-driven post-rock. For every lofty reference there's a "lowly" one to match: "Se quiere venir," a cover of a track by Granada trapper "Khaled," an operation not unlike the one carried out on the previous album with "Islamabad," which lifted a verse from a song by another local trap icon (Yung Beef).

Drawing on Andalusian tradition, "Alegrías de Graná" and "La morralla" represent the album's customary folk quota, while "El apocalipsis Zombie" and the closing "El antiplanetismo" cover the sci-fi angle, with the final track looping back to the poetic sensations of the opener as if closing a circle.

Flamenco, noise-pop, shoegaze, psychedelia, space-rock: Las canciones del agua contains every musical territory Los Planetas have explored across their nine previous albums, forming a collage that's perhaps a bit fragmentary, but decidedly creative and worthy of the valuable body of work from one of the most significant Spanish bands of the last 30 years.

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