Play Public List
Information about plays
list: List of plays
retrieve: Information about a specific play by ID
GET /v2/plays/?format=api&offset=33020&ordering=-airdate
{ "next": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/?format=api&limit=20&offset=33040&ordering=-airdate", "previous": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/?format=api&limit=20&offset=33000&ordering=-airdate", "results": [ { "id": 3612388, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612388/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T20:13:30-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "La última inocencia", "track_id": null, "recording_id": "ec0f966d-62ea-4221-8f2d-fbc41e1452f3", "artist": "Grito Exclamac!ón", "artist_ids": [ "bb216360-0856-4ba5-b3d6-2d9a4e65a2d5" ], "album": "Grito Exclamac!ón", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": "00e8b682-f380-4e8b-8302-fb16ce41729b", "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "2024-06-28", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“La Última Inocencia” is built around a brutal, universal idea: the moment you realize something cannot be unknowable again. The title implies a final threshold—an “after” you can’t reverse—and Grito Exclamac!ón treats that as both theme and tension. The song’s emotional core isn’t simply sadness; it’s the sharper feeling of clarity arriving too late. Even without leaning on exposition, the track communicates urgency: the words read like a reckoning, and the phrasing suggests someone trying to name a change that happened quietly but permanently. As a project, Grito Exclamac!ón thrives on directness—punk-minded, compact, allergic to filler—so the weight of “última” feels intentional. The track doesn’t romanticize innocence; it mourns it as a resource that gets spent. What makes the song effective is that it can be heard as personal (a relationship, a friendship, a family rupture) or societal (a generation’s disillusionment). Either way, it’s about the instant you stop expecting gentleness from the world—and what you do with yourself after that. \u2028Listen: https://open.spotify.com/track/5ZLx7hK3l0eVtz2xOrh8fO", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612387, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612387/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T20:09:47-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "canicula en el cerro", "track_id": null, "recording_id": null, "artist": "unperro andaluz", "artist_ids": [], "album": "peek!", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": null, "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": null, "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "With a name that nods to surrealism, unperro andaluz approaches “canicula en el cerro” like a heat-mirage narrative: concrete scenery, unstable perception, and a body reacting to the environment as much as to emotion. The title alone sets the temperature—cánicula as oppressive, lingering heat—and places it “en el cerro,” where distance and elevation can feel like isolation rather than freedom. The song’s power is in how it keeps returning to that landscape as a psychological space: the hill is not just a setting, it is where pressure accumulates. Lyrically, the vibe suggests endurance and irritability—the kind of day where every thought sticks, every memory feels sharper, and even small decisions become heavier. As a band, unperro andaluz leans into mood-building rather than punchlines, letting repetition and atmosphere do the storytelling. “canicula en el cerro” lands as a piece about friction—between the self and its surroundings, between wanting relief and not knowing where to find it. \u2028Listen: https://unperroandaluz.bandcamp.com/album/canicula-en-el-cerro", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "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": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "el cerezo", "track_id": null, "recording_id": null, "artist": "delirio", "artist_ids": [], "album": "guacharo", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": null, "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": null, "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "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" }, { "id": 3612385, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612385/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T20:02:47-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "Primer tiempo", "track_id": null, "recording_id": "82cdbc6a-b5e1-4a15-8843-b75d1fc90b8b", "artist": "Melenas", "artist_ids": [ "f3291ecb-af2b-457e-8f17-1913aca82cbc" ], "album": "Días raros", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": "8b2f5237-1bfc-4943-9fc5-8252dea9f2e4", "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "2020-05-08", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“Primer tiempo” opens like a first scene that immediately sets the palette: bright, motorik-driven, and quietly obsessive. Melenas have a particular gift for making pop structure feel hypnotic—melody and repetition working together until the song becomes a small tunnel you willingly enter. The title suggests the first half of a match, the start of a cycle, the initial stretch where you still believe you can control the outcome. That framing fits the track’s energy: it moves with purpose, but it also has that early-game tension, where every decision feels like it might matter later. The band’s sound often sits between jangle, kraut-informed pulse, and a soft-edged post-punk discipline, and “Primer tiempo” uses that blend to feel both playful and insistent. The vocals ride the groove rather than dominating it, which keeps the song’s emotional read intriguingly open—more mood than confession, more motion than explanation. As an entry point into Melenas, it shows how they build intensity without heaviness: the track does not explode; it accumulates. The result is a song that feels like stepping into a brightly lit corridor that keeps going longer than you expected.\u2028Listen: https://melenas.bandcamp.com/track/primer-tiempo", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612384, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612384/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T20:00:45-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "comment": "", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "airbreak" }, { "id": 3612383, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612383/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:58:50-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "Bienaventurados los Pacificadores (NoOoOoOo)", "track_id": null, "recording_id": null, "artist": "PERRA BRAVA", "artist_ids": [], "album": null, "release_id": null, "release_group_id": null, "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": null, "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "The title alone signals the strategy: sanctimony flipped into a scream, beatitude turned into a glitching refusal. On “Bienaventurados los Pacificadores (NoOoOoOo),” PERRA BRAVA channel hardcore brevity into something theatrical and acidic. In 1:42, the duo compresses a full argument about “peace” as performance—how calls for calm can sound like control, how politeness can become a muzzle, and how dissent gets framed as the real violence. Fernanda Navarrete and Nestor Fajardo also handle the production, and the sound reflects that hands-on intent: blunt edges, tight punch, and a mix that keeps the vocals confrontational and close. The “NoOoOoOo” in the title isn’t a gimmick so much as a rhythm—an elastic, spiraling negation that the track keeps returning to, like a hook made of protest. Even if you don’t catch every word at first pass, the emotional message is unmistakable: a rejection of easy moral postures and a demand to name what’s really happening. It’s fast, loud, and deliberately uncomfortably catchy—music that refuses to soothe, because soothing is the point being criticized. Released on the Silabo Tatequeda EP in 2025, it functions like a manifesto fragment—one sharp page torn out and thrown at the room today.\u2028Listen: https://open.spotify.com/track/7mCno9JC0a1AkYyeEEUDcN", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612382, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612382/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:57:16-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "Rompecabezas", "track_id": null, "recording_id": "878f3412-b76d-4975-b07d-9bf9e5ac3f02", "artist": "Margaritas Podridas", "artist_ids": [ "599f26bc-ccdf-46e3-87a4-350532f782f8" ], "album": "Rompecabezas", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": null, "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "2026-01-09", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“Rompecabezas” is a compact, high-impact statement from Margaritas Podridas, dropping as a late-album strike on Metales Pesados. At 1:43, it doesn’t waste a second: the band’s signature collision of shoegaze haze, grunge weight, and punk velocity lands like a bruised flashbulb. Carolina Enriquez’s vocal presence is central to why the song hits so hard—she can sound fragile and confrontational at once, riding distortion rather than getting buried by it. The title (“jigsaw puzzle”) points toward fragmentation and reassembly, and the track feels built that way: a few jagged sections snapped together, edges left visible on purpose. Guitars smear into a saturated wall, but the rhythm keeps the outline sharp, giving the song a forward-leaning urgency instead of pure drift. It’s the kind of cut that works as both catharsis and teaser: a short, violent window into the album’s emotional logic, where tenderness and aggression aren’t opposites, they’re the same fuel. As an entry point, it signals a band leveling up—more confident about dynamics, more ruthless about editing, and more willing to let noise carry the meaning. With Metales Pesados arriving on March 6, 2026, this track reads like a warning flare: the record is coming in loud.\u2028Listen: https://margaritaspodridas.bandcamp.com/album/metales-pesados", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612381, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612381/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:53:12-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "Corazón de la Isla", "track_id": null, "recording_id": "d9255249-fe5c-4c1f-9960-ac24477f1ba8", "artist": "Marina Fages", "artist_ids": [ "0c2a530a-695b-463b-b8b6-c8d8b35f80cf" ], "album": "El mundo pequeño", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": "e276eebe-89bd-46bf-8820-355f9b79f226", "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "2023-07-28", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“Corazón de la Isla,” Marina Fages builds a miniature world where punk urgency and careful arrangement coexist without canceling each other out. Her songwriting often feels tactile—strings, breath, and room tone treated like narrative tools—and here the instrumentation underlines that sensibility. The track’s core is guitar and bass driven momentum, anchored by Germán Rodríguez on drums, but the standout detail is Fages’ use of clarinet alongside her voice, adding an earthy, windswept color that shifts the emotional temperature. Rather than softening the song, those added timbres sharpen it: the melody feels more exposed, the rhythm more insistent, the chorus more like a vow than a refrain. Lyrically, the title suggests a heart that is both geography and condition—something you carry and something you’re stranded on—so the performance lands with that double pressure of intimacy and distance. Even when the arrangement opens up, there’s a sense of forward motion, as if the song is walking you through a landscape that keeps changing underfoot. It’s a track that rewards close listening: a simple surface with surprising texture, and a voice that can pivot from tenderness to defiance in a single line. The result feels deeply intimate, cinematic.\u2028Listen: https://marinafages.bandcamp.com/album/el-mundo-peque-o", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612380, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612380/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:52:28-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "comment": "", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "airbreak" }, { "id": 3612379, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612379/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:48:12-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "https://coverartarchive.org/release/5b7e6d3e-136e-4898-b0a6-b03c0a554850/9857569293-500.jpg", "thumbnail_uri": "https://coverartarchive.org/release/5b7e6d3e-136e-4898-b0a6-b03c0a554850/9857569293-250.jpg", "song": "Hasta la raíz", "track_id": null, "recording_id": "b80de6af-6fd2-40eb-8018-b65061c44dc1", "artist": "Natalia Lafourcade", "artist_ids": [ "2ceb4e66-4eaa-4dba-ad3a-30df3b742557" ], "album": "Hasta La Raíz", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": "9aa5eade-0bc3-4b6a-b3c3-1801023794e4", "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "2015-03-17", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“Hasta la Raíz” is an anthem of attachment—love as something that grows underground, tangled with identity and origin. Natalia Lafourcade’s writing here is intimate but expansive: it starts in personal longing and ends up sounding like a collective feeling, especially for listeners who associate “roots” with home, language, and the ache of distance. The melody is warm and resilient, carried by strummed patterns that echo Mexican folk rhythms without turning the song into a museum piece. Instead, it feels living—traditional DNA in a modern bloodstream. Her voice is the center: clear, emotionally precise, capable of sounding both vulnerable and unbreakable within the same phrase. Lyrically, the song captures the paradox of love that won’t dissolve: even when it hurts, it still nourishes; even when it’s gone, it remains foundational. That emotional logic is why “Hasta la Raíz” has lasted—listeners can map it onto romance, family, and cultural memory all at once. The track’s impact is also historical in her catalogue: it crystallized her ability to bridge pop accessibility with deep-rooted Mexican musical identity. It doesn’t chase drama; it earns it. The result is catharsis that feels clean, not sentimental—a song you return to when you need to remember what you’re made of.\u2028Listen: https://open.spotify.com/track/3lGMtkONrZdJ8kTCg6KIFf", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612378, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612378/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:45:06-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "María", "track_id": null, "recording_id": "1b9a103b-8501-4bdf-88c6-cd2a366bb67c", "artist": "Café Tacvba", "artist_ids": [ "c2b37a39-c66a-44b2-b190-a69485ae5d95" ], "album": "Café Tacuba", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": "d002fc69-7f3f-3c2a-9e5f-e76d607859d4", "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "1992-07-28", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“María” is a perfect example of Café Tacvba’s early genius: taking familiar Mexican musical language and bending it into something uncanny. On the surface, it plays like a romantic narrative—melodic, singable, deceptively straightforward. But the mood carries a paranormal shimmer, as if the song is telling a love story while a ghost watches from the corner of the room. That tension—sweetness laced with dread—is what makes it endure. The band’s arrangement feels rooted and strange at once: it nods to traditional forms, but the phrasing and dramatic turns feel like alternative rock wearing folk clothing. Vocally, the performance is theatrical without being cartoonish; it delivers lines with a storyteller’s cadence, inviting the listener into a scene rather than a confession. “María” also highlights the group’s skill at emotional ambiguity: it’s not simply desire or heartbreak, it’s obsession, myth, and the way memory can become a haunting. If you love songs that feel like urban legends—passed along because they’re catchy, then kept because they’re unsettling—this is one of the greats. It’s tender, eerie, and proudly Mexican in its symbolism.\u2028Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWpNWWXNy5I", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612377, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612377/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:43:43-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "La Couleur du Temps", "track_id": null, "recording_id": null, "artist": "Manu Chao", "artist_ids": [ "7570a0dd-5a67-401b-b19a-261eee01a284" ], "album": "La Couleur du Temps", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": null, "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "2025-12-10", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“La Couleur du Temps” feels like a travel journal entry written at speed—warm, restless, and emotionally worn at the edges. Manu Chao has always been a master of motion: songs that sound like they’re passing through neighborhoods, radios, languages, and political realities without stopping to ask permission. Here, that gift shows up as a compact piece of melodic storytelling that carries nostalgia and urgency in the same pocket. The title suggests memory—time having a color, a taste, a residue—and the track leans into that idea with an atmosphere that feels both intimate and worldly. It isn’t built for maximal production; it’s built for immediacy, like something recorded to preserve a feeling before it evaporates. “La Couleur du Temps” also sits inside the larger arc of Manu Chao’s late-career return: music still committed to the marginalized, still drawn to borderless rhythms, still suspicious of power, but delivered with the tenderness of someone who has seen a lot and kept walking anyway. The song’s hook is understated but sticky, and the emotional tone is reflective rather than explosive. It’s a reminder that protest can be quiet without being weak, and that time doesn’t erase—time stains.\u2028Listen: https://manuchao.bandcamp.com/track/la-couleur-du-temps", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612376, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612376/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:40:35-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "comment": "", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "airbreak" }, { "id": 3612375, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612375/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:36:50-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "https://coverartarchive.org/release/d50120e8-66b0-4c1e-b409-53176d5ba79d/27016301409-500.jpg", "thumbnail_uri": "https://coverartarchive.org/release/d50120e8-66b0-4c1e-b409-53176d5ba79d/27016301409-250.jpg", "song": "Athina Vrazi (Η Αθήνα Βράζει)", "track_id": null, "recording_id": "88afe7ba-7547-4a6d-955c-8c8acf86ce71", "artist": "Ti.Po.Ta", "artist_ids": [ "8e8ca642-c8a0-48f6-8d75-153dcabdfb2b" ], "album": "Athina Vrazi", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": "7391a84b-cff2-4284-af9d-491da018c9ab", "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "2017-06-01", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“Athina Vrazi” (“Athens is boiling”) carries the atmosphere of a city under strain—heat as both weather and metaphor. Ti.po.ta’s performance moves like a nocturnal postcard: part lament, part observation, with a chorus that sticks because it’s simple and haunted. The track feels rooted in lived urban tension—sirens in the distance, exhausted streets, and the sense that the present is overheated by history. Rather than leaning on grand gestures, it uses repetition and mood to deepen the message, letting the line “Athens is boiling” become a mantra you can’t shake. The involvement of Manu Chao adds a familiar political and nomadic sensibility: that multilingual, borderless spirit where folk, street music, and protest share the same lungs. The song’s strength is its empathy—it doesn’t describe Athens from above, it stands inside it. Musically, it balances intimacy and urgency, like a diary entry that accidentally became an anthem. If you’re drawn to songs that treat a place as a character—breathing, suffering, resisting—“Athina Vrazi” delivers that portrait with restraint and bite. It’s the sound of a city trying not to burn itself alive.\u2028Listen: https://open.spotify.com/track/30sVHIxaRZjXxam2Schc36", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612373, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612373/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:33:30-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "Yankis de mierda!", "track_id": null, "recording_id": "47415ba0-dd93-4ea4-83b8-209bb50e58d3", "artist": "Fama y Guita", "artist_ids": [ "68806a98-3af3-4c02-ac9e-767c51438331" ], "album": "La gran estafa del rock nacional", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": "76a77c1e-60a2-4fe5-8ac3-67ef94aa2f12", "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "2024-03-15", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“Yankis de Mierda!” is designed as a provocation—fast, blunt, and politically charged in a way that feels more like a chant than a carefully composed argument. Fama y Guita weaponize repetition and attitude: the hook is built for shouting with a crowd, the phrasing carries sarcasm and fury, and the track’s force comes from how little it tries to soften the blow. There’s an old punk logic here—name the target, refuse diplomacy, keep the momentum. The song reads as anti-imperialist at its core, but it’s also about cultural exhaustion: the frustration of being spoken over, extracted from, stereotyped, and then told to be grateful. The best protest songs don’t only point outward; they galvanize inward, and “Yankis de Mierda!” feels like a pressure release for people who are tired of coded language. Even when it uses humor or exaggeration, it’s not joking—it’s making space for anger that’s often delegitimized. If you want a track that can shift a DJ set from “party” to “purpose” in seconds, this does it. It’s confrontational by design, and it doesn’t apologize.\u2028Listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7UVY8h6gW8", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612374, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612374/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:29:00-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "comment": "", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "airbreak" }, { "id": 3612372, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612372/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:26:07-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "https://coverartarchive.org/release/8748d883-3d60-4acb-a160-50943dee85bc/44206531934-500.jpg", "thumbnail_uri": "https://coverartarchive.org/release/8748d883-3d60-4acb-a160-50943dee85bc/44206531934-250.jpg", "song": "¿Comprendes, Mendes?", "track_id": null, "recording_id": "0f177d13-8aae-4df1-a32f-fd9682718b4a", "artist": "Control Machete", "artist_ids": [ "38c8254f-ceac-460d-9123-5af2d7a4fc7e" ], "album": "Mucho barato…", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": "e83030c3-b47c-3542-80c5-4861e03e382c", "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "1996-01-01", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“¿Comprendes, Mendes?” is one of the most iconic tracks by Control Machete, the Mexican hip-hop trio formed in 1995 by Fermín IV, Pato Machete, and DJ Toy Selectah that helped usher rap en español into mainstream Latin music in the late ’90s. The song was released in 1997 as part of their breakthrough album Mucho Barato and quickly became a standout hit, drawing attention across Mexico and Latin America for its raw energy and aggressive lyrical delivery.\n\nMusically, the track blends gritty hip-hop beats with sharp, declarative verses that assert confidence and command respect, often framed as a direct challenge to an opponent named “Mendes.” The repetition of the phrase “¿Me comprendes, Mendes?” (“Do you understand me, Mendes?”) gives the song a confrontational, self-assured tone that resonated with listeners and reflected the streetwise attitude of the era’s burgeoning Spanish-language rap scene.\n\nMore than just a rap song, “¿Comprendes, Mendes?” helped define a generation of Latin hip-hop and remains a classic of the genre, celebrated for its influence and enduring popularity.\n\nWatch on YouTube:\nhttps://youtu.be/xLrW4IcPiWw", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612371, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612371/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:23:14-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "song": "Les Falta Callo", "track_id": null, "recording_id": null, "artist": "Diabbla", "artist_ids": [], "album": "Les Falta Callo", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": null, "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "2025-10-17", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“Les Falta Callo” is built around a classic premise—calling out pretenders—but it lands because it’s delivered with conviction and timing. The title itself is a flex: you don’t get respect by talking about pressure, you get it by carrying pressure. Diabbla’s approach reads as confrontational and self-assured, the kind of performance that treats the mic like a courtroom and a stage at the same time. The track’s impact depends on attitude as much as sonics; even without overloading the arrangement, the vocal presence keeps the energy up front. “Les Falta Callo” works best when you hear it as a boundary-setting anthem—less about generic bravado, more about establishing who’s really earned their voice in a scene. The tone suggests impatience with superficiality: no tolerance for soft posturing, no reward for empty noise. If you’re programming a set of songs that feel like adrenaline and truth-telling, this fits as a sharp, modern shot of disdain aimed upward. I am keeping this writeup focused on the song’s stance and delivery because verifiable public details about the track’s full background and credits are limited across major public pages. The record still communicates clearly: it’s a callout, and it doesn’t blink.\u2028Listen: https://open.spotify.com/track/6soI61Gi5tdzpZfabzy8cn", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612370, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612370/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:17:18-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "https://coverartarchive.org/release/b100c5a5-6a0c-4e1c-aafa-3284e5f9694c/41282912726-500.jpg", "thumbnail_uri": "https://coverartarchive.org/release/b100c5a5-6a0c-4e1c-aafa-3284e5f9694c/41282912726-250.jpg", "song": "KIDS IN THE CAGES", "track_id": null, "recording_id": "bb209116-5dfb-439d-90dd-ec2ed0a8d025", "artist": "The Neighborhood Kids", "artist_ids": [ "369e3ee5-19f2-4d49-aedd-629eb40dde27" ], "album": "EVERY CHILD LEFT BEHIND", "release_id": null, "release_group_id": "a2eb4744-7483-41da-b663-87ffe8f2824c", "labels": [], "label_ids": [], "release_date": "2023-10-21", "rotation_status": null, "is_local": false, "is_request": false, "is_live": false, "comment": "“KIDS IN THE CAGES” is protest music that refuses to be polite. The Neighborhood Kids deliver a direct indictment of cruelty—focused on immigration enforcement and the human cost of policies that treat families like collateral. The power of the track is its clarity: the hook is memorable, the language is straightforward, and the anger is disciplined rather than chaotic. Musically, it leans into hard-hitting hip-hop fundamentals—rhythms built for marching, verses that escalate, and a cadence designed to land lines like blows. What makes it resonate beyond a slogan is how it frames dignity and labor: the song confronts the contradiction of a society that depends on immigrant work while criminalizing immigrant lives. That perspective gives the track moral weight without turning it into a lecture; the message stays embodied, delivered in a voice that sounds like it comes from community, not commentary. The urgency is also emotional: outrage, grief, and defiance sit on top of each other, and the song doesn’t ask for sympathy—it demands accountability. “KIDS IN THE CAGES” is built for chanting in the street and for replaying alone when you’re trying to keep your nerves from going numb. It’s a rallying cry with real teeth.\u2028Listen: https://theneighborhoodkids.bandcamp.com/", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "trackplay" }, { "id": 3612369, "uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/plays/3612369/?format=api", "airdate": "2026-02-02T19:14:29-08:00", "show": 65825, "show_uri": "https://api.kexp.org/v2/shows/65825/?format=api", "image_uri": "", "thumbnail_uri": "", "comment": "", "location": 1, "location_name": "Default", "play_type": "airbreak" } ] }
