Cigarette ash piles on top of a few discarded CDs inside a darkened room where the members of a rock band, Los Planetas, struggle to make tracks for their new album. That brief shot conveys more than the mere disarray of the space. Those likely ruined discs symbolize a certain anarchic disregard for music as it exists in its contained, marketable and profitable form. For this group, music only matters as long as it’s pouring from their not-so-hidden inner wounds and taking shape under the influence of drugs and the ferocious dynamic between them. It’s from the chaos — both visible and hidden in their minds — that the
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