REYNOLS - the bolomo mogal f hits CD, Audiobot




“Once in a galaxy far far away. More famous than a frozen glass of wool the utterly mysterious Argentinian outrock ensemble Reynols present yet another puddle of sound atrocity that leaves stains of otherwordly improvisation, not like rock as we know it but colossal in backwards spelled capitals. Reynols have always drawn their energy from the non-linear logic and mystical neologisms of their spiritual leader Miguel Tomasin. Miguel is the messiah of a new state of human mind and consciousness. Whether they’re dragged into a swamp of damaged psychedelic noisy guitar jamming, primitive claustrophobic kraut drums, or shamanistic vocals and slurred syllables, they always tag the sonic arsenal with their own charmingly alien signature. Ultimately punk in it’s execution, Reynols move cardboard mountains up and down a busy traffic street, while rhythmless choruses and cosmic blues boogies extract your gelatins. Fierce feedback and fuzzed-out chaos are only enlightened by the raw almost from the inside out production. Soundcanyons that from ashes rise into amphetamine visionaries and battered doomsday science-fiction, with a Chihuahua that’s as intelligent as Lassie and transcendental unorthodoxy played well with sunglasses, you know Reynols are the true cosmic Argentinean wizards. Pass the bathub and towel to the band, sharp and on point ‘We are Reynols and we don’t understand Reynols. How can anyone understand Reynols if we don’t understand’. Tip for crate diggers, place the pumpkin in the middle, kick out the jams and when the first throttle of ‘only the lonely’ kicks in you ask for their dematerialized disc. Now get those animal costumes out of the closet and let this document give you the best post-everything self-awareness trip you’ve ever had. These freaks are fit. Superhuman.”