The Limiñanas return with their intangible cool, trolling through VU standoffs and French New Wave touchstones as they have before but adding a new element of Morricone-eque spacial tension that gives the record an even drier wit than they've held onto before. The greatest asset to The Limiñanas has always been their lonesome otherness, and not having a solid grasp of French, the songs always seem to me as if they're about things you're not supposed to know or that are at least talked about in hushed tones. Though reportedly most of the lyrics here center on songwriter Lio's youth in Spain in the 70's and act as odes to the music, films and books of the era. Even when English pops up, it’s through a veil of smoke and sterility that wafts through speakers with a breathiness that has to be earned, never learned. Three albums strong, the band hasn't lost any of the charms that endeared them to me on first listen. Costa Blanca transports the listener, it melts the mundanity of modern life and adds the distinct feeling of dropping out of time.
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