A regular fixture of the Birmingham gig circuit for some time now, previously I bring the rain, and previous to that The Wrong Brothers. They may be lacking in decisiveness they make up for it with upbeat shouty indie personality. Unlike a lot of the bands around here they don’t care much for style, pretentious lyrics, preening or posturing. Also they perform the unique feat, usually only found in pool players, of actually playing better the more drink they consume.
“Los Crocodilos Our name is a fiction; it is our own criolle, a bastardization of two different tongues. So too is our music. As a song begins on an acoustic guitar, an English troubadour remembers the vibrance of the Rio Carnival. The percussion rattles, more primal still, stretched on a skin from Africa. The bass fat and funky drives away, then a flute trickles down, cascading in a whirlwind of sound as it dips and soars. Voices sing of times of violence, and of bruised hearts unbroken. At times, we lie in the sun, our jaws agape, with something akin to a smile. At times we twist beneath the surface, every roll and spin cutting through the flesh. There are no borders. The lines on the map mean less and less, scuffed away by so many crossings. The music we love lies on such blurred frontiers, it is the language of No Man’s Land.”
I think they’ve explained it more poetically than I could,