It has been a decade since the double and surprising release of Cada can que lamba o seu carallo and Os corenta e oito nomes do inimigo (Matapadre, 2016) by the Santiago-based duo Malandrómeda. Today we stop to reflect: what is the footprint left by these two works birthed in the same year? How has their proposal aged with the passage of time?

How do you define an avant-garde at its birth if, by definition, there are no benchmarks?

Costumbrismo, avant-garde, psychedelia, surrealism… these are labels that habitually orbit around this hip-hop duo, and all of them are accurate, yet they fall short of encompassing their work.

Malandrómeda actually breathes an air of experimental music. Starting from a hip-hop foundation, they manage to weave stories with the mastery of great narrators, immersing you through their beats into atmospheres as disparate as horror cinema, a village fair, or a bed with Barry White. All very eclectic, as you can see.

This amalgam of genres and concepts could result in something incoherent, but it is their most prominent facet—the narrative—that acts as the glue, giving everything meaning and marking the true difference.

When you hear a Tom Morello riff, a Hendrix solo, or a Jamiroquai track, you instantly identify their signature. In the case of the Compostela-born outfit, it is not technical flair that stands out, but their brilliant way of telling stories and, in a very special way, their deeply personal worldview.

‘Os corenta e oito nomes do inimigo’: The Bearable Lightness of Being

Take the track ‘Pelegrín, Pelegrín, Pelegrín’ as an example. In it, Hevi (the duo’s MC) introduces us to an unemployed character over an instrumental that evokes a gloomy scene from Dracula, but it is the focus that really draws attention. Is he talking about precariousness or helplessness? No; it is, at its heart, a peculiar ode to friendship. The protagonist observes the empty bars because everyone he knows is working, and it is that profound, temporary loneliness that haunts him.

Another flash of brilliance is ‘Encontro con *!@#$%!!’, a nostalgic piece about a past relationship that, stylistic distances aside, recalls the emotionality of ‘Mi Caramelo’ by Bersuit Vergarabat. Once again, it is their way of telling things that stands out. How is it possible to create a deeply sentimental track using sounds taken from cartoons and come out not just unscathed, but having created a piece of redemption?

It is these points of view that elevate Malandrómeda’s proposal.

‘Cada can que lamba o seu carallo’: The Happiness of the Cyclic Here and Now

If the previous album works as an intimate refuge where that signature “happy pessimism” surfaces, Cada can que lamba o seu carallo reveals their more festive side, without ever renouncing that intrinsic morriña.

In ‘Bótalle caldo’ we witness a precise sociological radiography of a day at a Galician verbena (village fair), delivered to a cumbia rhythm. It is here where the duo shows their most danceable version, a seed that would germinate strongly in their subsequent works.

But emotion, and not just dancing, backbones this album. It is evident in ‘Máis millor’, where Hevi delves into those ephemeral moments that are burned into memory; those anecdotes we repeat on a loop with our friends year after year, deepening those fuzzy feelings—that “I don’t know what”—the certainty of having lived a perfect day, summer, or era without knowing how to define it, a state of absolute flow that ennobles friendships.

There is also room for biting social commentary. In ‘Golibuz’, they launch a critique of the art world and hollow modernity, always from their unmistakable everyday perspective and, for the occasion, creating a sort of Bollywood-electronic rhythm.

Is this double release still ‘in shape’ ten years later?

In my opinion, they are already timeless works. Malandrómeda’s themes, beats, ironic twists, and worldview remain absolutely relevant a decade after being crowned as national albums of the year by Rockdelux magazine in 2016.

It is curious that, after such a milestone, they haven’t published a traditional LP again. Their recent releases have taken the form of EPs—more concise formats where they give free rein to their more festive side, less intimate than what characterized Os corenta e oito.

But the duo hasn’t lowered the bar because of it; tracks like ‘En días libres’ or ‘Unha casa no camposanto’ (included in the San Amaro EP) reveal their more dancefloor-oriented facet, embracing Daft Punk-esque rhythms and enormously catchy choruses.

For its part, their latest release, Rapeiradas, represents a nod to their origins (their debut Chegan tarde dates back to 2006), venturing into a more classic style of hip-hop, but soaked in that non-negotiable retranca (Galician irony), shining especially in lyrics like ‘Trampa pra turistas’.

CODA: The Indestructible Avant-Garde

It is a massive achievement to ensure that such a disruptive proposal still breathes avant-garde ten calendars later. Conquering that aforementioned timelessness is the exact frontier that separates a good album from a masterpiece.

• Yes, Os corenta e oito nomes do inimigo and Cada can que lamba o seu carallo are undeniable children of their time.
• Yes, diving into their atmosphere might require a leap of faith from some listeners.
• And yes, they use autotune, as loathed by some as it is revered by others.

But their originality, their “schizoid coherence,” and ultimately, their narrative talent and worldview, keep both works more than relevant.

Extra: Below you can watch a clip of the presentation of both albums, which they did via a 14-bar crawl through Santiago de Compostela. Unique even in this.