Fruko

A la memoria del muerto is not an album so much as a ritual pressed to wax. Fruko y sus Tesos summon the spirit world through hard-bitten basslines, knife-sharp horns and percussion that swings like a wake where grief and celebration collapse into one body. This is salsa dura at its most feral—streetwise, sweat-soaked, and unafraid to stare death in the eye while dancing straight through it.

Each track feels like a procession: the groove advances slowly, insistently, carrying stories of loss, survival, and barrio memory. Vocals arrive like chants, half prayer, half provocation, while the band locks into rhythms that feel carved from concrete and heat. There’s elegance here, but it’s the elegance of resilience—the kind earned, not polished.

A la memoria del muerto stands as a reminder that in Afro-Caribbean music, remembrance is never quiet. It is loud, communal, defiant. To honour the dead, Fruko y sus Tesos make the living move—hard, together, and without apology.