Petrolio’s "Club Atletico Voces y Gritos" doesn’t really behave like an album in the comforting, consumer-friendly sense of the word. It behaves more like a sealed room you’re asked to enter voluntarily, with the lights already off and history sitting in the corner, breathing slowly.

Enrico Cerrato, operating under the Petrolio moniker, has long occupied that uneasy Italian intersection where experimental music, noise aesthetics, and theatrical composition overlap without ever fully agreeing on terms. His background in soundtracks and stage work shows here not as ornament but as structure: this is music that thinks in scenes, bodies, and offstage voices rather than tracks.

The conceptual spine is explicit and heavy: Argentina’s dictatorship-era clandestine detention centers, memory as wound rather than archive, and the refusal of history to stay politely in the past. The album doesn’t dramatize this material so much as it lets it leak into everything, like ink in water. There is no safe distance engineered between listener and subject, which is precisely the point - and also where the discomfort begins doing its work.

Opening piece “2403” (with Pallas Athene) sets the tone in a restrained, almost deceptive way. Pallas Athene’s background in alt-pop and electronic reconfiguration of acoustic fragility introduces a voice that feels suspended, as if trying to remember how melody used to feel before it became evidence. It doesn’t “build” so much as it surfaces, briefly, before being pulled under again.

The shift into “Y Nadie Queria Saber” with Alòs tightens the atmosphere. Alòs - Stefania Pedretti, long active in Italian noise and industrial circles - brings a vocal presence that refuses decoration. Her contribution doesn’t sit on top of the music; it is already inside it, like something carved rather than added. The piece carries the sense of testimony that is always slightly too late, and therefore unbearable in a very specific, human way.

“La Picana”, featuring Pierpaolo Capovilla, is the album’s most direct confrontation. Capovilla’s history in Italian independent rock (from One Dimensional Man to Il Teatro degli Orrori) gives him a voice already shaped by political tension and theatrical gravitas, but here it is stripped of performance comfort. The subject matter - torture and coercion - removes any possibility of aesthetic distance. Petrolio’s sound design doesn’t illustrate violence; it refuses to translate it into something digestible. The result is not catharsis, but residue.

“El Silencio” with Julinko shifts the register again. Julinko’s slow, symbolic and ritual-adjacent approach introduces a kind of suspended myth-making, where silence is not absence but pressure. The track feels like it is circling something it cannot ethically touch directly, which makes it paradoxically more revealing. Dark folk tendencies appear not as style but as method: repetition as invocation, not comfort.

Closing piece “Strangled Cry” with Bestial Mouths pushes the album into its most physically intense territory. Lynette Cerezo’s project has always leaned toward emotional extremity and industrial-goth abrasion, and here that energy becomes almost confrontational in its refusal to soften edges. The track doesn’t conclude the narrative; it fractures it. Which, again, feels more honest than resolution.

What ties all of this together is Petrolio’s compositional discipline. Despite the multiplicity of vocal identities, the album never collapses into anthology. Cerrato’s production acts like a forensic space: controlled, detailed, and unwilling to romanticize the material it handles. The “voices and screams” of the title are not metaphorically amplified - they are structurally embedded, each guest functioning less as feature and more as temporary inhabitant of a shared collapse.

There is also an uncomfortable clarity in the project’s intention. It does not pretend that listening is neutral. It positions the listener as someone walking through reconstructed fragments of violence and memory, fully aware that reconstruction is already a form of interpretation, and therefore a risk.

"Club Atletico Voces y Gritos" ultimately behaves like an archive that refuses to be archived properly. It leaks, it resists categorization, and it insists that certain histories are not past tense material but ongoing acoustic pressure. If there is anything resembling beauty here, it is not decorative. It is the kind that appears when something refuses to disappear quietly.