Reserva Espiritual de Occidente nace a principios de la década de los 2000 en Madrid. Tras una larga serie de grabaciones la banda autoeditó en 2012 el LP “La Noche blanca”, un disco considerado de culto en la escena underground española. Desde entonces autoeditaron otros dos EP’s, han compuesto bandas sonoras para películas, han realizado performances artísticas en diversas cuevas y salas de arte contemporáneo, han actuado en lugares tan dispares como multicines, nidos de ametralladoras de la Guerra Civil o la pasarela Cibeles y es en estas ceremonias, sus directos, donde mejor nos atraviesa la fuerza sanadora de su música. Tras 7 años sin publicar un disco largo, volvieron con “El Cristo de la Atlántida” (Humo, 2019) su trabajo más ambicioso hasta la fecha.

El Cristo de la Atlántida (Kali Yuga) is born from the urgent need to leave behind humanity’s dark age, and like any rite of passage, it demands from the initiate an unprejudiced approach, total surrender, and the full acceptance of the beast lurking within. The descent into the underworld, the battle against the shadows, and the contemplation of barbarity are trials to be endured in order to be reborn—transformed into a thaumaturgical being capable of dissolving the boundaries between good and evil, God and the devil, the feminine and the masculine, the established and the ephemeral. To reconcile dualities so they no longer hurt. Like a polyphonic incantation that merges into an endless mantra, El Cristo de la Atlántida begins where the previous LP, La Noche Blanca, left off. Its opening unfolds from the “Atalaya,” a vantage point from which one glimpses the path toward a new place—an Eden of “blue skies, summer breezes, blossoming trees, and white clouds.” The pristine, wondrous voice of Svali—at times cradled by melodic guitars and tender choral arrangements, at others wrapped in monumental fanfares or driven by hypnotic, impassioned percussion—acts as a siren song that enchants, a redemptive Ariadne’s thread. Her symbiotic alter ego, Wences Lamas, embodies instead the gravitational force that anchors us to the earth—a Theseus who, having slain the Minotaur, takes us by the hand and guides us through the arduous pilgrimage toward the light. Echoes of Franco Battiato’s early instrumental work, the unrestrained experimentation of Pierrot Lunaire, and the intelligent psychedelia of Opus Avantra intertwine with fragments of Spanish acts such as Música Dispersa, Asfalto, or Lole y Manuel; the measured romanticism of Joaquín Díaz; the ecstatic-mystical character of Kiko Argüello; the atavistic sorrow of the voices of El Caurel and traditional copla; the raw brutality of Swans; the darkness and sludge of Sunn O))); and even an orchestral sensibility that glances toward Henryk Górecki and Krzysztof Penderecki. These are some of the sparks illuminating the paths of the collective unconscious that Svali and Wences Lamas traverse in El Cristo de la Atlántida.

Among others, the album features vocal contributions from Alberto Montero, Francis White, contemporary composer Javier María López, and his 12-year-old daughter Sabela. The record was produced by Leo Mateos (Nudozurdo), mixed by Karim Burkhalter (Nacho Vegas, Hola a Todo el Mundo, Izal), and mastered by Alan Douches (Swans, Animal Collective, Akron Family, Sufjan Stevens).

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RESERVA ESPIRITUAL DE OCCIDENTE
EL CRISTO DE LA ATLÁNTIDA