In the dizzying labyrinth of experimental electronic music, there are albums that whisper, albums that scream, and then there’s "Cornos" by Serpente - an album that feels like it’s crawling out of some dark, pulsing corner of the human psyche. It's not subtle, nor is it interested in making you comfortable. It’s an unapologetically raw, fragmented journey through rhythms that feel simultaneously crippled and defiant, like the sound of dragging a shattered body through the underworld - still moving, though perhaps reluctantly.

Let’s begin with the title: "Cornos". The Portuguese word for “horns”, sure, but here it feels more like a nod to betrayal, anguish, and the twisted persistence of life in the wake of loss. After all, Serpente (aka Bruno Silva) has been quietly earning a reputation for creating sounds that refuse to behave. This latest release feels like the unpolished, unapologetic soundtrack to a year that hasn’t gone as planned. And yet, despite the album’s grim backdrop - marked by personal tragedy, disorientation, and an almost nihilistic urge to overcome - it pulses with a strange, broken vitality. It’s as though Serpente’s trying to remind us that movement, no matter how awkward, is still movement.

"Sangue de Cama" opens the album with an almost oppressive length, clocking in at over nine minutes, but the repetition is oddly hypnotic. The beats are fractured, stuttering over themselves as if unsure of their own direction. There’s a sensation of being stuck - emotionally or physically - as the track lurches forward. Silva’s background in live performances is evident here. This is music that breathes, albeit in fits and starts, like it’s gasping for air but refuses to give in. The synth lines are simple, almost minimal, but there’s something deeply unsettling about how they refuse to evolve into anything more than an eerie, limping groove.

By the time "Em Falta" arrives, you’ve been primed for more of the same - yet Serpente manages to keep you on edge. There’s a subtle shift here, with slightly more urgency in the rhythmic motifs, though they remain agonizingly restrained. It’s the sound of motion just on the verge of collapse. The track title, which translates to “missing” or “lacking”, fits perfectly. Something here feels unfinished, and that’s the point. This is an album that wears its incompleteness like a badge of honor, reveling in its rough edges. The layers of electronic sound are gritty, at times even claustrophobic, but that discomfort is where "Cornos" thrives.

Then there’s "Redentor Not I". At a concise 5:56, it feels like the most focused of the five tracks. There's a haunting quality to its sparse arrangement, a quiet acceptance of fate. This is a record not afraid to dwell in stillness, to confront its own sense of futility. But just when you think you’ve pinned it down, there’s a flash of something brighter - like a ghost of a melody haunting the mix before it disappears, unresolved. Serpente, it seems, has no interest in giving you the closure you might crave. Instead, you get echoes of things long past.

The heartbeat of "Se Move" is more propulsive, yet the track feels as if it’s dragging itself across the floor. The tempo picks up, but there’s a desperation in its pulse. It’s the sound of someone moving forward out of necessity, not out of hope. The rhythmic structure feels jagged, limping along with the same kind of tension you’d find in the early work of Autechre, though without the slick precision. Here, everything is broken, and yet it functions, which feels oddly cathartic. There’s a sense of liberation in the chaos, as though Serpente is showing us how to dance with our demons, even when we’re too tired to stand.

Finally, "Idos de Setembro" brings the album to a haunting close. The title (loosely translated as “the gone ones of September”) carries with it a funereal weight, and the music matches. It’s perhaps the most atmospheric track on "Cornos", drenched in reverb and suffused with a kind of empty, aching beauty. The rhythmic disarray remains, but now there’s a resignation to it, like the final steps of a journey that has taken everything from you, leaving nothing but ghosts behind. It’s the perfect ending to a record that feels like it’s been written with fragments of memory, regret, and sorrow.

Musically, "Cornos" is a masterclass in restraint and tension. While the beats limp and stumble, the spaces in between are pregnant with meaning. It’s not trying to be an easy listen, nor is it trying to impress you with technical prowess. Instead, Serpente offers something far more visceral: a document of struggle, of movement through a world that’s hostile and indifferent. If you’re into the fractured beats and eerie atmospherics of artists like Shackleton or the glitchy, post-industrial landscapes of Emptyset, you’ll find "Cornos" to be a worthy companion. But unlike its peers, there’s a stark emotional rawness to this record, a willingness to embrace ugliness and turn it into something almost, just almost, beautiful.

The listening experience offered by Serpente here is maybe not funny, but it's honest and such a honesty is a breath of fresh, if slightly acrid, air. This is Serpente at his most raw, most vulnerable, and perhaps most vital. Just be prepared for a long, difficult journey - one where broken legs are the least of your concerns.