The sounds that this quartet produces are probably the ones heard by an aching tooth’s nerve before the dentist’s machinery comes to devitalize it. Sometimes it gets really next to impossible distinguishing who plays what: is that sound of broken bones in a reverse closet Garcia’s bass or Fages’ clicking on pickups? How to separate the protrusive hiss of an almost dead accordion (I got you, Alfredo) from Ruth Barberan’s strangling of her valves? And what about my ears ringing after being bombarded with splitting fits of mega-highs? The fact is that I’m lost for words to describe the almost surreal dynamics elicited by this poker of noise-gnomes; Ruth, Margarida, Alfredo and Ferran could carve the fat off an obese person with their scorching splinters, then burn it to use its fumes in another record. Now, where did I write the phone number of that tinnitus specialist?