Las Nietas del Charli belong to that breed of musicians capable of silencing a small venue using only their two voices and their two guitars. Like Pauline en la Playa, María and Raquel Rubio are sisters, in this case from Madrid, and they recall above all a band that also functioned as a family, in that case a marriage, the tragically disappeared Low.
The authors of ‘Things We Lost in the Fire’ remember the affinity for the acoustic in Las Nietas del Charli, the way they make use of silence and a spare percussion, which in a very isolated way is provided by Borja Barrueta.
Campi Campón’s production (Jorge Drexler, Vetusta Morla, Natalia Lafourcade, Valeria Castro) knows how to leave all the protagonism to the voices and lyrics of the Rubios, who indulge in the sensation of intimacy when they whisper, murmur, or begin some tracks laughing or counting “one, two, three.” Exactly ‘Distancia’ is one of their most relevant pieces, the portrait of a love scene, of a bedroom, and above all of protection toward the being we love: “How I want to see your face / Walk my fingers / And see how sleep enters you / Gently drawing out the poison.”
Throughout this composition, there are a couple of changes in rhythms and registers, with the hum in the last minute and a half being the most overwhelming. Because Las Nietas del Charli’s songs do not rush to end nor to arrive at a specific place. Many run five or even six minutes, defying current fashions. They have not cared about fitting into a trendy playlist, either. The best track may be ‘Rabia’, one of the most vehement and expressive, in which their voices hold the greatest range of possibilities, protesting the use of violence. The stark percussion, absent from most of the rest of the tracklist, lands with even greater impact for that reason.
Their lyrics do not necessarily speak of love or “rage.” There is also space for mythologies (‘Lauri’), learning (‘Camino’ turning “fear” into something that “like the sun, burns, but gives warmth”), or the superstitions drawn from our folklore (‘Conjuro’).
There is something of national tradition, something of Anglo-Saxon tradition, but above all there is a great deal of patience and calm in conveying their concerns with a very personal language and certain doses of mystery. It is difficult to penetrate the lyric of ‘Trece’, but ‘Montaña’ could be an appeal in favor of being a little intense (“The mountain does not ask for forgiveness, I have not seen the sea apologize / so why should I be ashamed of my immense depth”), and ‘Pájaro de plata’, a song of encouragement toward freedom.
