Album Review: Dos fios invisibles das cores by Mónica de Nut e Virxilio da Silva
Alright, buckle up, because this one’s a wild ride through the hazy, smoky world of contemporary jazz. Dos fios invisibles das cores—or, as I like to call it, "The Invisible Threads of Colors"—is the brainchild of Spain’s very own Mónica de Nut and Virxilio da Silva. Released under Free Code Jazz Records, this album isn’t just music; it’s more like an emotional kaleidoscope that hits you in all the right places.
Let’s dive into the tracks, shall we? The album opens with “Que non vai,” which is basically jazz with a side of existential crisis. It’s moody, unpredictable, and makes you want to sit by a window with a cup of coffee while pretending you’re in some artsy European film. But the real standout for me is “A tormenta do Virxilio.” Oh man, this track is pure chaos wrapped in beauty. The saxophone solo sounds like someone’s soul is crying, but in a good way. You know, like when you cry at weddings because everyone looks so happy? Yeah, that kind of beautiful mess. Every time I hear it, I feel like I’ve been transported to a rainy night in Barcelona, even though I’m just sitting on my couch in sweatpants.
Another gem is “Lévame.” This one sneaks up on you with its soft piano intro, only to explode into this intricate web of sound that feels like… well, like invisible threads weaving colors together. (Props to whoever came up with the album title—it’s weirdly accurate.) There’s something about how Mónica’s voice dances around Virxilio’s instrumentation that feels intimate, like they’re letting you in on a secret conversation. Spoiler alert: the secret is probably about heartbreak or nostalgia, or maybe both.
Now, let’s talk about the vibe. Contemporary jazz can sometimes feel like a pretentious dinner party where no one laughs at your jokes, but not here. This album has soul. It’s got grit. It doesn’t take itself too seriously, even though it clearly knows it’s brilliant. Tracks like “We are lost” and “Dido’s lament” bring in these haunting undertones that linger long after the music stops, while “Cántocha de mala ghana” throws in just enough sass to keep things interesting.
And then there’s “Afortunado quen non ten,” which closes the album with a bittersweet bow. At first listen, it feels like a goodbye hug from a friend who’s moving away—but then you realize it’s also a reminder to appreciate what you’ve got before it slips through your fingers. Deep, right?
So, would I recommend this album? Absolutely. It’s the kind of music that makes you think, “Wow, I should probably start journaling again,” but also, “Nah, I’ll just hit replay.”
Final thought: If jazz had a love child with poetry, Dos fios invisibles das cores would be it. Except instead of diapers, it wears sunglasses indoors and sips red wine at 10 a.m. Cheers to that.
