Los Wembler's De Iquitos

SELVA doesn’t announce itself. It’s already there when you arrive.

The guitars creep in like mist between trees, bending notes until they feel less like melodies and more like memories you didn’t know you had. Rhythm clicks forward with the steady confidence of something alive — not urgent, not slow — just moving because movement is what jungles do.

Los Wembler’s de Iquitos play cumbia as if it’s a natural force rather than a genre. The bass pulses low and warm, the percussion flickers like distant lights, and the lead lines spiral upward, looping back on themselves, refusing to resolve. Nothing is in a hurry. Nothing needs explaining.

Listening to SELVA feels like wandering without a map. You pass familiar sounds — surf guitar, psychedelia, folkloric echoes — but they’re warped by humidity and time. Everything is slightly out of focus. The songs don’t demand your attention; they patiently wait until you stop resisting.

This is music for dusk. For the moment when the sky turns green before it turns black. For dancing barefoot on concrete that still holds the day’s heat. The jungle doesn’t care if you understand it — it just keeps breathing.

When the record ends, the silence feels wrong. As if something is still watching. As if the forest hasn’t finished with you yet.