A finales del 2005 se pone en marcha Malandrómeda, cuando Hevi y Caldeirada coinciden para una colaboración con un par de temas en un programa de radio. Poco después llega su primera entrega: “Os Estranos Sempre Traen Malas Novas” (Autoproducido, 2006)
Entre 2012 y 2015 da forma a dos LP’s que edita simultáneamente Matapadre a principios de 2016: “Os Corenta e Oito Nomes do Inimigo” (Matapadre, 2016) y “Cada Can que Lamba o Seu Carallo” (Matapadre, 2016).
El primero combina vanguardia y costumbrismo, paisajismo y paisanismo. Según Carlos Pereiro (Novedades Carminha) es “ahogarse en Ribeiro, cagarse en Dios, llorar en los bares, pasear por Vista Alegre mientras llueve y chupar una hostia en la cara”. Se trata de un trabajo más intimista y poético que su reverso. “Cada Can que Lamba o Seu Carallo” es un disco más intenso, luminoso, funky e incluso bailable.
Ambos discos tuvieron una presentación que pasará a la historia subterránea de la capital gallega. El 27 de febrero de 2016 se organizó “De Chea con Malandrómeda”, una presentación a lo largo de catorce locales de Santiago D.C en los que Hevi y O Master do Son - Xurxo Pinheiro (Xenreira, Barbitúricos)- interpretaron un tema seguidos por unos cuantos cientos de fieles que abarrotaron cada uno de ellos.
VHS do futuro
Malandrómeda Lyrics
Jump to: Overall Meaning ↴ Line by Line Meaning ↴
Nun curruncho da habitación
De lado nun colchón mollado
Tapado cun edredón vello e cotrañento
Está el durmindo co corpo cheo de negrós
Que nin sabe que fixo
E os restos de comida en descomposición
De lixo, de desilusión
Esta imaxe de futuro perdedor que vai por dentro
E que non se ve porque tá cocendo
E pouco a pouco papa o teu talento
Envenenando o pensamento
E vai a máis, a máis, a máis, a máis
E xa non sae, non sae, non sae, non sae
A cara encarnada e o nariz hinchado
Os poros abertos e os dentes partidos
Os ollos brillantes mirando a ningures
Adiante fresadora de sentimentos
O sangue seco nos peteiros
É o primeiro sabor do día
E mentres saborea pensa como será a seguinte ostia
Poeta do carallo!
Cando o silencio o fai come-lo coco
Cada quen é o seu propio médico anestesista
E vai a máis, máis
Futuro perdedor que vai por dentro
E que non se ve porque tá cocendo
E pouco a pouco papa o teu talento
Envenenando o pensamento
E vai a máis, a máis, a máis, a máis
Mañá nunca chega porque sempre é mañá
E os armarios gardan as reservas de coñac
A porta endexamáis abrirá
Porque ninguén peta onde non ten que petar
Esa caixa que está embaixo da cama
Esquencida garda enterrada outra vida
Un pasado antes de cuspir cara arrib
Aafogado por unha rutina cativa
Non quere saúde nin busca saída
Encheuse de todos e quedou ca bebida
O tempo vai a modo e foza na f'rida
E non hai castigo que xa non reciba
Futuro perdedor que vai por dentro
E que non se ve porque tá cocendo
E pouco a pouco papa o teu talento
Envenenando o pensamento
E vai a máis, a máis, a máis, a máis
Xa non sae, non sae, non sae, non sae
E vai a máis, a máis, a máis, a máis
Xa non sae, non sae, non sae, non sae
E vai a máis, a máis, a máis, a máis
Xa non sae, non sae, non sae, non sae
E vai a máis, a máis, a máis, a máis
Xa non sae, non vai, non sae, non vai
E xa non sae, e vai a máis, a máis
The lyrics of VHS do futuro by Malandrómeda paint a vivid and desolate picture of the consequences of addiction and self-destruction. The scene is set in a bedroom with empty whiskey bottles on the floor and leftover food rotting around. The singer is sleeping on a wet mattress covered with an old and worn-out quilt. He is oblivious to the mess around him and the self-destructive habits that he has fallen prey to. The chorus of the song talks about the vicious circle of addiction and the feeling of being trapped with no escape in sight.
The verses describe the physical toll that the self-destructive behavior has taken on the singer, with broken teeth, swollen nose, and blood-stained clothes being a common occurrence. The lyrics also touch upon the mental state of the singer with his talent being slowly consumed by his addiction. The use of metaphors, such as the "fresadora de sentimentos" (emotion shredder), creates powerful imagery of the cycle of destructive thought patterns.
Overall, VHS do futuro provides a bleak yet powerful commentary on addiction, the fragility of the human psyche, and the seeming inevitability of self-destruction.
Line by Line Meaning
As botellas de whisky baleiras
Empty whiskey bottles
Nun curruncho da habitación
In a corner of the room
De lado nun colchón mollado
Laying on a wet mattress
Tapado cun edredón vello e cotrañento
Covered by an old and uncomfortable quilt
Está el durmindo co corpo cheo de negrós
He is sleeping with a body full of regrets
Que nin sabe que fixo
He doesn't even know what he did
E os restos de comida en descomposición
Decaying food remains
Fan esta paisaxe, este bodegón de merda
Create this landscape, this still life of shit
De lixo, de desilusión
Of garbage, of disillusionment
Esta imaxe de futuro perdedor que vai por dentro
This image of a loser future that is brewing inside
E que non se ve porque tá cocendo
And that cannot be seen because it is cooking
E pouco a pouco papa o teu talento
And little by little, it eats away your talent
Envenenando o pensamento
Poisoning your thoughts
E vai a máis, a máis, a máis, a máis
And it keeps going, more and more
E xa non sae, non sae, non sae, non sae
And it no longer goes away, it doesn't leave
A cara encarnada e o nariz hinchado
Face red and nose swollen
Os poros abertos e os dentes partidos
Pores open and teeth broken
Os ollos brillantes mirando a ningures
Eyes shining while looking nowhere
Adiante fresadora de sentimentos
Ahead, a milling machine of emotions
O sangue seco nos peteiros
Dry blood on the shirt
É o primeiro sabor do día
It is the first taste of the day
E mentres saborea pensa como será a seguinte ostia
And while savoring it, he thinks about how the next hit will be
Poeta do carallo!
Damn poet!
Cando o silencio o fai come-lo coco
When silence eats his head
Cada quen é o seu propio médico anestesista
Everyone is their own anesthetist doctor
Mañá nunca chega porque sempre é mañá
Tomorrow never comes because it is always tomorrow
E os armarios gardan as reservas de coñac
And the closets hold reserves of brandy
A porta endexamáis abrirá
The door will never open
Porque ninguén peta onde non ten que petar
Because nobody knocks where they don't have to
Esa caixa que está embaixo da cama
That box underneath the bed
Esquencida garda enterrada outra vida
Forgotten, it holds another buried life
Un pasado antes de cuspir cara arrib
A past before spitting upwards
Aafogado por unha rutina cativa
Drowned by a captive routine
Non quere saúde nin busca saída
Does not seek health nor search for a way out
Encheuse de todos e quedou ca bebida
Full of everyone and stayed with the drink
O tempo vai a modo e foza na f'rida
Time goes by and digs itself into the wound
E non hai castigo que xa non reciba
And there is no punishment it hasn't received
Xa non sae, non sae, non sae, non sae
It no longer goes away, it doesn't leave
E vai a máis, a máis, a máis, a máis
And it keeps going, more and more
Contributed by Stella T. Suggest a correction in the comments below.
@miguelcosta2833
Future’s VHS
The empty bottles of whiskey
by a corner of the bedroom
by the side of a wet mattress
covered with a quilt,
old and filthy;
he who is sleeping
with the body covered in bruises,
who doesn’t even know what he did,
and the rotting leftovers,
make this scene, this still life
of shit, of filth, of disillusion,
this image of
Future looser who’s in the inside
who can’t be seen because is being baked
And little by little munches your talent,
poisoning your thoughts.
And it grows, and grows, and grows.
And it doesn’t come out, come out, come out.
His face reddened and swollen,
the open pores and the broken teeth
bright eyes staring nothing [ahead, feelings milling machine!]
The dry blood on his snout
is the first taste of the day
and as he savors it he wonders what the next blow would be like.
Shitty poet!
When silence makes you shake your noggin
Everyone is his own anaesthetist doctor
And it grows, and grows.
Future looser who’s in the inside
who can’t be seen because is being baked
And little by little munches your talent,
poisoning your thoughts.
And it grows, and grows, and grows.
And it doesn’t come out, come out, come out.
Tomorrow never comes because it is always tomorrow
and the closet keeps the reserve of cognac
the door will never open because
no one knocks where one ought not knock.
That forgotten box under the bed
keeps buried another life
a past before spitting up,
drowned by a midget routine;
he doesn’t want health nor looks for the way out,
he became fed up with all and stood by the drink
time goes slowly and pokes the wound
and there is no punishment he does not receive.
Future looser who’s in the inside
who can’t be seen because is being baked
And little by little munches your talent,
poisoning your thoughts.
And it grows, and grows, and grows.
And it doesn’t come out, come out, come out.
@santiagovazquezares9450
Brutallll Grande grupo 🙏
@federicogiordano1256
o tempo vai a modo
@CristianGonzalez-rr6cc
Galiza Calidade!
@tsufur1476
Brutal.
@TutorialesMezclaMastering
Mola un guebo y medio ! Ese JEvy!
@miguelcosta2833
Future’s VHS
The empty bottles of whiskey
by a corner of the bedroom
by the side of a wet mattress
covered with a quilt,
old and filthy;
he who is sleeping
with the body covered in bruises,
who doesn’t even know what he did,
and the rotting leftovers,
make this scene, this still life
of shit, of filth, of disillusion,
this image of
Future looser who’s in the inside
who can’t be seen because is being baked
And little by little munches your talent,
poisoning your thoughts.
And it grows, and grows, and grows.
And it doesn’t come out, come out, come out.
His face reddened and swollen,
the open pores and the broken teeth
bright eyes staring nothing [ahead, feelings milling machine!]
The dry blood on his snout
is the first taste of the day
and as he savors it he wonders what the next blow would be like.
Shitty poet!
When silence makes you shake your noggin
Everyone is his own anaesthetist doctor
And it grows, and grows.
Future looser who’s in the inside
who can’t be seen because is being baked
And little by little munches your talent,
poisoning your thoughts.
And it grows, and grows, and grows.
And it doesn’t come out, come out, come out.
Tomorrow never comes because it is always tomorrow
and the closet keeps the reserve of cognac
the door will never open because
no one knocks where one ought not knock.
That forgotten box under the bed
keeps buried another life
a past before spitting up,
drowned by a midget routine;
he doesn’t want health nor looks for the way out,
he became fed up with all and stood by the drink
time goes slowly and pokes the wound
and there is no punishment he does not receive.
Future looser who’s in the inside
who can’t be seen because is being baked
And little by little munches your talent,
poisoning your thoughts.
And it grows, and grows, and grows.
And it doesn’t come out, come out, come out.
@XoseManuelCarreiraRodriguez
Esta peza ten algo de hipnótico, vai a mais, e vai a mais....
@chinpun1
Tonto
@chinpun1
Hola is not a good thing 6.30am but it I have to go to go and get a the first one so I have can get I paid can get paid it will ASAP be please to let me know me and so I I can get make the it for in the morning the morning is of the
@adreimatupentertainment83
yass