The New York-based Colombian rock band updates its powerful live chops with careful studio experimentation, balancing psychedelic sounds with a sense of sociopolitical urgency.
Combo Chimbita’s music is often called psychedelic, and for good reason. The New York-based Colombian rock quartet’s guitars are subsumed in delay, their synths sprawl, and Caroline Oliveros’ piercing vibrato is almost always cloaked in reverb. The p-word can have unflattering connotations, denoting music tailored for altered consciousness or meant to soundtrack journeys peripheral to the songs themselves. But Combo Chimbita’s performances demand your undivided attention. Their energy can be so intense that it’s nearly exhausting. They show the palpable focus of a band intent upon playing a new world into being, if only for a moment.
Combo Chimbita are a transfixing live act with dynamic players, and their third album, IRÉ, faithfully captures the band’s powerful presence—even the overwhelming intensity of Oliveros’ voice, which imbues every word with a metaphysical drama. IRÉ sounds more polished than previous releases; Oliveros’ voice is colossal, surrounded by ghostly, swirling harmonies. They have sometimes seemed hesitant to record anything in the studio that can’t be recreated on stage, but they’re gradually overcoming that hesitation. In an interview for their previous record, Ahomale, the band discussed learning to use the studio as an instrument, and you can hear that approach continue to creep into the songwriting on IRÉ, whether it’s the subtle multi-tracking of Oliveros’ voice on “Oya” or the flash of Prince of Queens’ modular synths on “La Perla.” It’s in the moments that Combo Chimbita allow themselves to experiment—when Prince of Queens’ electronically pitched-down voice thunders at the end of “Memoria,” or when Oliveros’ echoing cry is transformed into a sorrowful counterpoint in the frenetic chorus of “Mujer Jaguar”—that IRÉ feels most transportive.
Since Ahomale’s release in 2019, Combo Chimbita have been motivated by an increased sense of sociopolitical urgency. On IRÉ, the band claims inspiration from Black Lives Matter protests of 2020 along with Afro-Indigenous spirituality and storytelling, including Oliveros’ own study of bullerengue, a Colombian drumming tradition; in their music videos for the album, they have sought community with queer and trans artists of the Afro-Caribbean diaspora. These gestures toward a sprawling but connected Afro-Indigenous future are evident in the music—the band folds in new influences from other Afro-diasporic sounds across IRÉ, like dub on “Indiferencia,” while “Memoria” is built around a dusty loop that sounds like an homage to New York boom-bap hip-hop.
What is often called psychedelia in Combo Chimbita’s music might more accurately be identified as a conscious and considered approach to innovation. They pull earnestly from deep wells, and the weight of representing all that energy is apparent in their swirling modulations. The future seen from the present seems like a dream. On IRÉ, Combo Chimbita don’t just herald the coming of this future; they usher it into existence, note by electrifying note.
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