Play Public Instance

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{
    "id": 3612386,
    "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612386/?format=api",
    "airdate": "2026-02-02T20:06:32-08:00",
    "show": 65825,
    "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api",
    "image_uri": "",
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    "song": "el cerezo",
    "track_id": null,
    "recording_id": null,
    "artist": "delirio",
    "artist_ids": [],
    "album": "guacharo",
    "release_id": null,
    "release_group_id": null,
    "labels": [],
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    "is_local": false,
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    "is_live": false,
    "comment": "“el cerezo” frames delirio’s writing around a single image that carries a lot of emotional weight: something delicate, seasonal, and impossible to force. The song reads like a quiet argument with time—what blooms, what withers, and what returns whether you are ready or not. Rather than leaning on big gestures, the track’s impact comes from restraint: short phrases that feel intentionally clipped, as if the narrator is choosing precision over catharsis. That economy makes the title hit harder, because the “cerezo” becomes less of a decorative symbol and more of a marker of memory—something you can picture immediately, even if the meaning keeps shifting. As a band, delirio sits comfortably in that space where intimacy and distance coexist: direct enough to feel personal, but abstract enough to invite projection. The result is a song that can soundtrack both nostalgia and refusal, depending on what you bring to it. It is the kind of track that rewards repeat listens because the emotional center does not announce itself; it slowly clarifies. \u2028Listen: https://open.spotify.com/track/66z4K4QeR5GjO2SgVtC4Wi",
    "location": 1,
    "location_name": "Default",
    "play_type": "trackplay"
}