Somewhere in the distance, a car radio plays a song you half-remember from childhood. The melody drifts through an open window, the day is warm, and, for a second, everything makes sense. A boy with curly hair is waiting on the bus, blowing bubbles the size of his headphones. A girl runs down the street, chasing a melody she forgot the words to, holding a melting ice-cream. Grazing eyes, they share a kiss that tastes like summer: the taste of something sweet that fades too fast. Kuduro shimmer with memories of hot summers and cold kisses.
de.gelo is a kaleidoscopic batida fever dream, where soft-spoken auto-croon meets shattered glass and quasi-incantations, where bass-heavy explosions give way to eerie, frozen silences, full and hardened in its rhythmic shell but cocooning something softer, more distant, emptier, just out of reach - maybe it’s the past, maybe it’s the future.
frost.y builds a world of profound samsara, drifting through cycles of rebirth as to unfurl and blossom - from winter to spring; from ice to water, from silence to sound: Almanaque is blessed to present de.gelo.
