Pescado Rabioso - 1973 - Artaud

Pescado Rabioso

1973

Artaud

01. Todas Las Hojas Son Del Viento

02. Cementerio Club

03. Por

04. Superchería

05. La Sed Verdadera

06. Cantata De Puentes Amarillos

07. Bajan

08. A Starosta, El Idiota

09. Las Habladurías Del Mundo

Original copies contained a small (14,6x15,7cm) six panel booklet with recording notes and full lyrics. Two of the six panels are blank.

Let’s dive into Artaud, the 1973 album by Pescado Rabioso that’s less a record and more a cosmic diary scribbled by an Argentine rock poet with a penchant for surrealism. Named after the French poet Antonin Artaud, this album is a wild, introspective ride that’s both a middle finger to commercial rock and a love letter to existential musings. It’s like if Bob Dylan and Salvador Dalí got stuck in a Buenos Aires elevator together and decided to jam. Here’s a deep dive into the album, the band members’ backstories, and its towering legacy in Argentina.

Artaud is Pescado Rabioso’s third and final studio album, released in October 1973 on Talent-Microfón. But calling it a “band album” is like calling a Picasso painting a group project—it’s essentially a solo effort by Luis Alberto Spinetta, the band’s mastermind, after the rest of the group bailed faster than rats off a sinking ship. Spinetta, undeterred, grabbed his acoustic guitar, some old mates from his previous band Almendra, and his brother Gustavo, and crafted an album that’s equal parts folk rock, art rock, and “what did I just listen to?”

The album’s nine tracks clock in at a tight 37 minutes, but don’t let the brevity fool you—this thing is denser than a Buenos Aires steak. Inspired by Antonin Artaud’s writings, particularly his ideas about the “theatre of cruelty” (think art that slaps you awake with life’s raw brutality), Artaud is a reaction to the bluesy, punch-you-in-the-face energy of Pescado Rabioso’s earlier albums, Desatormentándonos (1972) and Pescado 2 (1973). Instead, it leans into a more delicate, poetic sound, with moments of electric grit to keep things spicy. The album’s packaging, with its bizarre, irregularly shaped sleeve, was Spinetta’s way of saying, “Good luck fitting this on your IKEA shelf, conformists.”

“Todas las hojas son del viento” (2:17): A tender folk opener about maternal love and life’s fleeting nature. It’s like Spinetta’s whispering sweet nothings to the universe, with a melody so warm it could thaw an Antarctic winter. For Argentinians, this is basically a national lullaby.

“Cementerio Club” (5:02): A bluesy, riff-heavy track that’s like a haunted tango in a graveyard. Spinetta’s raw vocals and existential lyrics about mortality make it a standout, though it’s not exactly the tune you’d play at a kids’ birthday party.

“Por” (1:44): A surreal word salad of disconnected nouns and prepositions. It’s like Spinetta threw a dictionary into a blender and set it to music. Forgettable? Maybe. But it’s weirdly captivating, like overhearing a poet’s fever dream.

“Superchería” (4:26): This one’s a groovy bridge between Almendra’s melodic vibes and the rhythmic punch of Aquelarre. It’s got a swagger that makes you want to strut down Avenida Corrientes with a leather jacket and zero plans.

“La sed verdadera” (3:38): A reflective, almost meditative track that feels like Spinetta staring into the void and finding a nice cup of mate instead. It’s hauntingly beautiful, with minimal instrumentation that lets his voice shine.

“Cantata de puentes amarillos” (9:18): The sprawling centerpiece, a poetic lament weaving Van Gogh, Heliogabalus, and Artaud’s philosophies into a folk-prog epic. It’s like a nine-minute therapy session with a side of yellow bridges. The maracas are slightly off-beat, which is either genius or a happy accident.

“Bajan” (3:35): A catchy, radio-friendly bop with Gustavo Spinetta’s drums giving it a bouncy vibe. It’s the kind of song you hum while stuck in Buenos Aires traffic, dreaming of simpler times.

“A Starosta, el idiota” (3:21): This track is peak Spinetta weirdness—complete with reversed Beatles samples and Spinetta sobbing like a baby in a sound collage. It’s artsy, it’s pretentious, it’s Argentina’s sociopolitical turmoil in audio form. Love it or hate it, it’s unforgettable.

“Las habladurías del mundo” (4:08): The closer is a riff-heavy rocker that brings back some of Pescado’s early feral energy. It’s like Spinetta saying, “I’m done being deep—let’s crank it up and annoy the neighbors.”

The album’s flow is like a conversation with a brilliant but slightly unhinged friend—moments of profound beauty (like “Todas las hojas”) bump up against quirky experiments (hello, “Por”). Spinetta’s voice, with its emotive timbre, ties it all together, making even the oddball tracks feel cohesive. The production is raw, sometimes to a fault, but it’s that unpolished edge that gives Artaud its soul.

Pescado Rabioso was less a band and more a revolving door of musicians orbiting Spinetta’s genius. By the time Artaud was recorded, the original lineup had scattered like confetti at a rock funeral. Here’s the lowdown on the key players involved.

Luis Alberto Spinetta (guitar, vocals, maracas, cymbal, piano, everything else): The man, the myth, the “Flaco” (Skinny). Born January 23, 1950, in Buenos Aires, Spinetta was the heart and soul of Argentine rock. Before Pescado Rabioso, he fronted Almendra, one of the founding bands of rock nacional, with its psychedelic folk vibes. After a soul-searching trip through Brazil, the US, and Europe in 1970, he formed Pescado Rabioso as a grittier, bluesier outlet. By Artaud, he was in full auteur mode, writing and playing most of the album himself. Spinetta’s career spanned Invisible, Spinetta Jade, and a slew of solo works until his death in 2012. Think of him as Argentina’s answer to Dylan, Bowie, and a shaman rolled into one.

Gustavo Spinetta (drums): Luis’s younger brother, Gustavo, was drafted for Artaud to bang on the drums for tracks like “Bajan” and “Cementerio Club.” Not much is documented about Gustavo’s musical career beyond his contributions here, but imagine being the sibling of a rock god—probably equal parts pride and “Luis, stop hogging the spotlight.” He added a catchy, grounded rhythm to the album’s more accessible tracks.

Emilio Del Guercio (bass): A former Almendra bandmate, Emilio was one of the OGs of Argentine rock. Born in 1950, he brought his bass skills to Artaud after Pescado’s original lineup imploded. His work with Almendra gave him a knack for melodic, folk-infused basslines, which fit Artaud’s softer moments like a glove. Post-Artaud, he pursued solo projects and stayed active in the Argentine music scene. Think of him as the reliable friend who shows up with a bass when your band falls apart.

Rodolfo García (drums): Another Almendra alum, Rodolfo (born 1946) was a drummer with a knack for keeping things tight yet expressive. He joined Artaud to help Spinetta realize his vision, adding subtle percussive flourishes. After Artaud, he played with Invisible and other projects, cementing his status as a rock nacional stalwart. Picture him as the cool uncle who always has your back in a jam session.

In Argentina, Artaud isn’t just an album—it’s a cultural artifact, a sonic manifesto, and a collector’s nightmare thanks to that wonky sleeve. Widely regarded as the pinnacle of rock nacional, it’s the kind of record that makes Argentine music nerds misty-eyed and vinyl collectors weep over their scratched copies. Here’s why it’s such a big deal.

Released during a turbulent time in Argentina—think military dictatorships, social unrest, and a rock scene fighting for legitimacy—Artaud was a bold statement of artistic freedom. Spinetta’s manifesto, Rock: Música dura, la suicidada por la sociedad (Rock: Hard Music, Suicided by Society), handed out at the Teatro Astral shows, argued that rock was a countercultural force against societal oppression. It’s like Spinetta was saying, “Screw the man, let’s make art!” The album’s raw honesty and rejection of commercial norms resonated with a generation of alienated youth, making it a touchstone for Argentina’s rock identity.

Artaud is often ranked as the greatest Argentine rock album ever. Rolling Stone Argentina and other publications put it at the top of their lists, and it’s rated #6 among 1973 albums and #219 all-time on Rate Your Music. Fans call it a “mythos” of surrealism and existentialism, blending folk, blues, and art rock in a way that feels timeless yet distinctly Argentine. It’s like the musical equivalent of a Malbec—complex, bold, and unmistakably local.

The 2015 vinyl reissue was a smash hit, outselling even AC/DC and The Beatles in Argentina. Why? That iconic, impossible-to-store sleeve, which Spinetta fought tooth and nail to keep intact. Collectors lost their minds, and stories abound of record stores chopping the edges to fit shelves, only for Spinetta to throw a fit and demand they stop. It’s like the album itself is a rebellious teenager refusing to fit in.

Artaud inspired countless Argentine artists, from Soda Stereo to Los 7 Delfines, who covered Pescado’s tracks. Its poetic lyricism and genre-blending set a blueprint for rock nacional’s evolution, proving you could be artsy without losing grit. Spinetta’s later bands, like Invisible and Spinetta Jade, built on Artaud’s experimental spirit, but none matched its raw, unfiltered magic. It’s like the album whispered to every Argentine rocker, “Be weird, be free.”

Fans call it “one of the most original albums in any language” and a “masterpiece” that taught generations “todo camino puede andar” (every path can be walked). Some admit its quirks—like the off-sync maracas or Spinetta’s baby sobs—make it an acquired taste, but the devotion is real. One user gushed it’s “fascinatingly corny and cringe” yet “extremely raw and honest,” which sums up its charm perfectly.

Artaud is a glorious mess of a masterpiece—part folk hymn, part surrealist fever dream, all Spinetta. It’s not always an easy listen; tracks like “Por” and “A Starosta” might make you wonder if Spinetta was trolling. But its highs—“Cantata de puentes amarillos,” “Todas las hojas,” “Cementerio Club”—are transcendent, capturing the beauty and chaos of life in 1970s Argentina. It’s a reminder that great art doesn’t need to make sense; it just needs to make you feel. For Argentina, it’s more than an album—it’s a cultural beacon, a vinyl-shaped rebellion that still resonates 50 years later. So grab a copy (good luck storing it), pour some mate, and let Spinetta’s poetry wake you up. Just don’t expect it to fit neatly anywhere—neither the album nor its legacy ever did.