Praised by The Guardian as “nightmare fairground music and yearning drones,” Debit’s Desaceleradas transforms cumbia rebajada into a slow-motion, psychedelic sound world that feels both haunted and deeply alive.

Rooted in Monterrey, where cumbia spills from Bluetooth speakers, DIY soundsystems, and car stereos, the album traces the genre’s journey from Colombia’s Caribbean coast to Mexico’s working-class neighborhoods, where slowed-down records accidentally birthed a new style that mirrored the distortions of migration and memory. Debit digs into this lineage not by sampling but by “entering into a conversation,” re-voicing Sonido Dueñez’s mythic mixtapes with ARP 2600 synths and her mother’s accordion, then pulverizing them through granular processes into “psychedelic breaths and dreamy gestures.”

In an era when “emotionless algorithms accelerate capitalism,” Desaceleradas embraces slowness as a radical, human pace—an “archive with a pulse,” inviting listeners to wander Monterrey’s sonic history in suspended time, feeling culture resist erasure by lingering, stretching, and refusing to disappear.