Rober Perdut's new album is already rolling through the streets of Madrid. Rolling it has ended up in the garage of my computer, from which via two powerful Goodmans loudspeakers (forty years old, and the partitions still sag) right now it shakes my eardrums overwhelmed with joy. How long has it been since I heard a dose of good rock! And not only good, but I would say better: better is this album, by far, than Perdut's previous one, despite how promising it was (if such an insult can be dispensed to the work of this veteran piece) that superb vinyl produced by Miguel Marcos Fernández, Salmos del cable. But here Roberto, with the inestimable help (you can see it in every groove) from José Ramón Millán Díez el Goma and a group made up of Pilar Román, Iván Santana, Esteban Picó Raju, Luis Lasso and Lola Román (who can only be qualified - and à la mode estaremos— de brutal), takes a gigantic step forward, riding an impeccably dirty production of thick and yet fibrous seventies sonic jam that gently rips the head off the listener's brains. Perdut's voice struggles less, gains in professionalism, in cold control, in a sardonic act of peeling this acid and grainy onion in whose heart the registers of Iggy Pop and the sophisticated street dryness of the best Lou Reed appear. Garage bands, sounds reminiscent of punk, but also Low Budget's Ray Davies (that Kinks' masterpiece, from just before the eighties broke), a saxophone that seems to have come from the Bottom Line on which Reed billed his stunning Take No Prisoners with the best combo he ever had, which was the Everyman Band (ah, Fonfara! Michael Suchorsky!), And the enveloping syllabic, persuasive, caressing like a worn lime, of Roberto's vocal work, lead us to the seventh door of bliss, from the very beginning of this little gem, roughly polished, which is All of nothing