[engl] Long lost album from the early 90s, from Spain, finally restored (not polished!) and pressed on black vinyl, with insert! In the fevered underbelly of 1990s Spain— not in the reverb-heavy catacombs of Madrid’s dive bars or the sun-bleached squats of Barcelona – but in a town called ULTRAMORT - The Crytones emerged like a fuzz-drenched mirage. Born from a mutual obsession with the snarling, unhinged energy of the Back From the Grave compilations and a shared disdain for the polished excess of the mainstream, The Crytones were less a band and more a sonic exorcism. In their relatively short time of existance, The Crytones acted in a permanent state of electrical chaos. Their gigs were infamous: short, deafening, and liable to end with a busted amp, a broken snare, or the band arguing mid-set over which obscure 60s nugget to cover next. They never released a full-length album—by design. The Crytones believed albums were "tombs for songs," preferring instead the holy immediacy of live bootlegs, and hissy cassette demos recorded straight to four-track in a leaky warehouse / distillery. Their most (in)famous EP, Sin Luz y con Fuzz, is a collector’s relic now, a blistering four-track assault featuring titles like “Noche de Cementerio,” “Grita o Muere,” and a legendary cover of The Tamrons’ “Wild Man” that local lore says melted a needle at Radio 3. Musically, The Crytones churned out primitive, reverb-heavy garage psychedelia with all the elegance of a biker gang crashing a church service. They soaked their guitars in fuzz, worshipped tremolo like it was sacred scripture, and howled with the desperation of post-Franco youth caught between counterculture and cultural amnesia. Picture early Music Machine fed through a broken Vox amp, lit on fire, and buried under a pile of haunted Farfisa organs. By the late 90s, the members had scattered—some disappeared into noise projects, one became a monk, another vanished into the Andalusian desert with only a boombox and a fuzz pedal. But their brief, incendiary tenure left a mark: whispered about in Spanish underground zines, bootlegged at record fairs, and eternally pressed into the memories of anyone lucky (or unlucky) enough to witness them live. The Crytones weren’t just a band. They were a sonic ghost story—told in shrieks, fuzz, and feedback.