Mackerel is a coastal affair. Entangled nets leave no room for jazzy fish, and steel skies reflect the mood of a century at sea. Tides come and go with the Moon as electric shockwaves deepen the curls. A thousand miles down, in a trench, an underwater percussion sets the tone for an orchestral ride.

In this solemn nothingness, an orchestra starts playing, stone chapels, red berries and a quiet world praying. It is freedom we seek, a village of clay; the war is over, so we choose to stay. Goddesses to pilgrims, the scenery has changed, same eyes, same gaze, same faith, mbascìe.

A pueblo plays rayuela by the wooden bridge. Coyotes laugh from nearby settlements, scaring off the Pasiegos people and emptying their lands. Moonlit deserts strike our eyes; shadows shorten until they are no more. Cortés, Cortés, chanting blue on tangerine, but the boats have left for the West...

Fieu es levant e ponent in la malinconia d’üna cultura extinta. El es silenzi orchestràl, bes-cha cotschnas sün flommas avertas, boccas romanticas e tabac in la mastichaziun a ritmus da folk lunsch. El es terra fritga perquai cha’l es ars, ün dansà a la maniera da Klee a las rivas da quai chi d’eira