In a time when so much music arrives engineered for playlists, AKIRA storms in from the margins like a ritual fire. His debut album, Niños del Bosque (Children of the Forest), refuses compromise: a dense, unruly spellwork he dares to call Psychedelic Cumbia. It’s not a mere fusion but an insurgency—Los Espíritus’ swampy guitars entwined with the spectral tenderness of Studio Ghibli, dragged through dub’s echo chambers and spat out as resistance rock.
The album opens with “Kumbia de los Pájaros,” not so much a song as a ceremonial invocation. Drums stumble into trance, flutes whisper like birds behind the veil, and AKIRA lets it unravel as though summoning—not entertaining. From there, “Mononoke” advances like a warrior oath, full of jagged riffs and bass that feels older than speech. “Cumbia Negra” delivers a dark, tangled waltz of honor and lament, where sorrow and defiance embrace as kin.
If ritual can wound, it can also heal. “Abuelita” strikes at intergenerational memory, peeling back the scars of colonized histories, its pulse laced with ayahuasca visions. Here AKIRA is less performer than conduit, channeling the forest and its ghosts. The effect is unsettling yet luminous—what García Márquez might have heard if he’d traded prose for percussion.
Born between Zurich and Argentina, AKIRA grew up hearing Marley’s reggae heartbeat, Gardel’s tango melancholy, and Prince’s limitless daring. Niños del Bosque contains echoes of them all, yet it is nobody’s inheritance but his own. This is borderless music that grows wild in the cracks of empire, declaring that to dance is not to escape but to survive.
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