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A fluid mixture of influences and identity, with tropical flavors and delicate pop sensibilities layering up with street-tough attitude for some songs, like a leather-jacketed hoodlum holding a bouquet of roses.
As expected, it sounds like the first half of a Ray Bradbury novel, where the bright colors, joyful sounds, and easy smiles let you know something is deeply, deeply wrong, or possibly just inexplicable, or mysterious, but unabashedly psychedelic.
Like many Australian things, this band is somewhat recognizable yet clearly evolved in a different context. There are many different influences interleaved, from the Caribbean to the Highlands to Eastern Europe and of course, a tinge of that Oz punk.
As the name successfully implies, this outfit is a heady blend of Chicano funk and other sources. Pumping bass lines that could drain the Baltic Sea in minutes and horn stabs that could be entered as evidence in a court of law fill out the package.
They couldn’t figure out why they kept returning. At first, the hookah lounge was a noxious hangout, bearable only for the crushed-on bartender. Then, suspicion of nicotine addiction. Finally, the realization that it was the music on the jukebox.
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