Funeral De Estado by Medievo Pablo Und Destruktion: A Sonic Protest That Sticks With You
Let’s get one thing straight—Funeral De Estado isn’t your typical electronic album. Released in 2014 under Jacquard Recs, Truco Espárrago, and Pauken Grabaciones Y Conspiraciones (try saying that three times fast), this Spanish masterpiece is more than just beats and synths; it's a political gut-punch wrapped in soundscapes. And yeah, I said "gut-punch" because this record doesn’t mess around—it grabs you by the collar and forces you to listen.
First off, let’s talk about “Espuma Por La Boca De La Clase Obrera.” This track hits like a brick to the face. The bassline rumbles beneath layers of sharp synths, while Pablo G. Díaz’s vocals feel raw, almost desperate, as if he’s shouting from the middle of a protest march. It’s chaotic but intentional, like controlled anarchy. You can practically hear the tension between hope and despair—the kind of song that makes you want to smash something but also hug someone at the same time. Weird combo? Sure. But damn does it work.
Then there’s “Nadie Está A Salvo,” which feels like the quieter sibling who still manages to steal all the attention. The drums here are relentless, pounding away like they’ve got something to prove. Backing vocals from Fee Reega add this eerie layer, making the whole thing feel cinematic, like you’re walking through some dystopian cityscape where everyone’s hiding secrets. By the end, you’re left wondering what exactly you just witnessed—but trust me, you won’t forget it anytime soon.
What really stands out about Funeral De Estado is how alive it feels. Every track has its own personality, thanks to the killer lineup of contributors: Javi Royo’s artwork sets the tone visually, Rafael Martínez Del Pozo nails the mastering, and Dani Donkeyboy on guitar? Absolute fire. Even the credits read like a manifesto—a reminder that art is always collaborative rebellion.
But here’s the kicker: for all its intensity, the album somehow leaves room for reflection. Listening to it feels like staring into a cracked mirror—you see yourself, sure, but distorted, fractured, maybe even uglier than you’d like to admit. And yet, isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why we turn to music like this?
So yeah, Funeral De Estado isn’t perfect. Some tracks drag a little, and the production occasionally feels rough around the edges. But honestly? That’s part of its charm. It’s messy, unapologetic, and brimming with heart—and sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.
Final thought: If this album were a person, it’d probably be banned from most parties—but secretly, everyone would invite it anyway because it knows how to start a conversation. Or a riot.
