FRIPPADA ANDALUZA

So here comes Malabriega, flamenco freaks from Seville who've clearly been mainlining old Triana records while crashing headfirst into a stack of King Crimson LPs and emerging on the other side with their knuckles bleeding and their duende intact. You want fusion? This ain't your dad's polite jazz-prog patty cake, this is sweaty, jagged, rockful combustion.

They started off with La duda, an EP from back in 2016, four songs that whispered "we might be onto something," and by the time they dropped Fiebre in 2017, they were already elbowing their way into the Spanish prog circus with the kind of swagger you'd expect from a band raised on both Camarón and Zeppelin. But now?now, we get Frippada Andaluza, and it's a whole different beast.

This thing doesn't walk, it stalks. This ain't no retro-fitted Triana tribute. Sure, the ghosts of Andalusian rock past hover over the mix, but Malabriega grabs that sacred lineage, spikes it with delay pedals, jazz sneers, and post-rock crescendo worship, then screams it into the 21st century. It all starts with the title track. Frippada Andaluza, is the real deal, the album's soaring manifesto. A ten-minute voyage through acoustic valleys, post-rock plateaus, and six-string sorcery that Robert Fripp himself might politely nod at before retreating into a cloud of melancholia. It's like someone slipped Fripp a flamenco bootleg and locked him in the Alhambra overnight.

"Tu Pelo" and "El Duelo" strut like flamenco matadors wearing Yes t-shirts, while and I blew right past "La Levedad del Ser". "La Levedad del Ser" translates to "The Lightness of Being," but don't be fooled, this thing doesn't float, it sinks. I'm talking cinderblock-in-a-bathtub heavy. I blew past it like a hangover you can feel in your teeth, because that damn riff just loops and loops like a broken record in a locked room. Repetition can be transcendence when done right, think Can, think Miles in a mood, but this ain't that. This is the unbearable heaviness of being stuck in a riff that won't shut up. It doesn't elevate, it grinds. Less existential bliss, more rock 'n' roll purgatory.

"La libertad" clocks in at 4:18 and yeah, it's a beauty, a swirling kaleidoscope of Andalusian dreams and prog ambition. "Reencuentro" is the revelation. No vocals, no flamenco wails, just the band stripped bare and jamming like they've got something to prove (and they do). Look, the vocals, Juan Castro's out there doing the cantaor thing, and sometimes it works like thunder rolling in from the Sierra Morena. Other times it's like your uncle who thinks he can sing José Mercé after two brandies. It grates. It wails. It feels. But yeah, after three tracks, maybe you wish he'd pass the mic to someone else.

"Reflejo vacío" struts in like it knows it's the heavyweight champ of the album, and for good reason, it's a powerhouse, no doubt, built like a prog cathedral with metal rebar. Raúl and Joaquín tear it up here, slicing and slamming like they've been waiting the whole damn album to let loose. Noly and Sergio keep the floor steady while the others go flying overhead, like tightrope walkers with distortion pedals. My favorite piece, no doubt.

And then they drop Calamidad, last track, final punch, the moment you realize Malabriega's been loading the slingshot this whole time, waiting to fling your expectations straight into the sun. You want "Frippness"? You get some of it here, baby. Delays, textures, tension, Robert himself might raise an eyebrow in ghostly approval.

It kicks off with acoustic guitarist Manuel Soto Noly alone in the spotlight, wringing every ounce of heartbreak and grit from his guitar like he's exorcising a demon that only speaks in Phrygian. Pure flamenco, no chaser, 20 seconds of fire-and-brimstone soul. And then the band comes in like a gang of prog pirates, hammering that stripped-down Spanish motif into something forged in the same molten mess that birthed '80s and '90s prog metal. It's as if Paco de Lucía showed up at a Fates Warning gig with a bottle of fino and a mission.

But here's the kicker, Frippada Andaluza doesn't wallow in retro worship or dress itself up in vintage velveteen to impress the old guard. It doesn't care about rehashing the glories of Andalusian prog past, it absorbs them, metabolizes them, and spits them back out with fresh scars and new breath. This record doesn't care what lane you think Andalusian prog should drive in. It crashes through walls with guitars and palmas and lets the dust settle later. Frippada Andaluza is alive, awkward, epic, and real. It's flamenco for the freaks. Prog rock-folk for the passionate. One of the best things you'll hear this year if you're into music that sweats, bleeds, and doesn't apologize.

Recommended, with a shot of sherry and a middle finger to convention (Jose Zegarra, Progressive Music fan. Filmmaker+Executive Producer of the Romantic Warriors documentary film series).

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