“This record is a ‘fuck you’ to the abyss,” Dillom tells Apple Music. “Art itself is a way of defending your place in the world—a match you already know you’re going to lose, but at least you score a screamer against your rival and shout it in their face.” When Dillom first emerged on the Buenos Aires scene back in 2018, he was quickly recognized as one of the leading figures of Argentine trap and the new urban wave sweeping across the country. But the release of his first two LPs (POST MORTEM in 2021 and Por cesárea in 2024) revealed a restless, maximalist creator whose curiosity extends far beyond any single genre, drawing inspiration from punk, New Wave, and the storied rock tradition of his homeland. His third album, LA NUEVA VIOLENCIA, expands that palette even further, sharing common ground with references as disparate as The Clash, The B-52’s, Happy Mondays, and even Charli xcx's BRAT. It’s a record that thrives on contradiction, marrying pop instincts with abrasive attitude, and elegant songcraft with unhinged provocation. “When we started this album, the challenge was to play on more danceable, party-oriented ground, but have that contrast with everything I want to talk about,” he explains. “Among ourselves, we said the song that best represented what we wanted to do was ‘Rock the Casbah’ by The Clash—a clubby, playful track that, at the same time, is punk and tells a story with something political behind it. That duality was the compass for the whole project.” At 25, Dillom knows how to add a touch of bite to his creations. On “Palermo Hollywood,” he mocks Buenos Aires nightlife culture, and “Elvis Interludio” is a voice message his own father recorded to criticize him for gaining weight, a moment of tender absurdity that reframes the entire album. The closing track, “Amigos,” zooms out to focus on friendship as a value that transcends everything else, a heartfelt coda to an otherwise volatile record. Below, Dillom breaks down the songs on the album, one by one. “La Nueva Violencia” “It was one of the last ones we made, surprisingly, when the album already had its shape. The first thing you hear is a disaster of instruments and noises all playing at the same time, a kind of controlled explosion. If I’m going to listen to a project called LA NUEVA VIOLENCIA, I expect it to be violent. I don’t even think it’s such an aggressive album; it’s more danceable than anything, but I liked that first impact, that punch in the face right at the door.” “Vedette” “The bassline is mine, and later I realized it was pretty similar to a Viagra Boys song. One night, we hung out with Viagra Boys, and I remember one of them said, ‘That bassline is ours.’ I told him I’d stolen it, and we cracked up. We wanted to make a rhythmic album, and that’s why we chose the bass and drums as the priority elements, letting everything else orbit around that spine. The female backing vocals are inspired by The B-52’s. I wanted them to be the connective thread of the whole album, a sonic signature you could recognize from track to track.” “Papá Se Volvió Loco” “I wanted to decode part of what generates all that chaos and craziness, including the consumption of eroticism and hypersexualization. That saturation of the sexual messes with everyone’s head; it rewires how we relate to each other. There’s a line in the chorus that sums up the song: ‘Do it like this/You owe me/I’m the one feeding you.’ Basically, it depends on the person putting up the money. With everything on demand, you think you have decision-making power even over someone else’s sexuality, and that illusion of control is the real sickness.” “Gente Común” “I took the phrase ‘gente común’ from a song by [the Argentine band] Demonios de Tasmania. The lyrics talk about how, personally, sometimes you have to be insensitive and leave certain things behind, even though that also causes you pain. Maybe an old friend has a kid, and you tell him you don’t feel like going to meet him. Everyone hits that point where the paths diverge. The ones singing on the bridge are my dear friends from the group Miranda!, and having them on the track felt like a way to honor that same idea of loyalty across time.” “Souvenir” “It’s one of the most introspective songs on the album, a moment where the party gets quieter and the interior monologue takes over. Sometimes you cross paths with someone worse than you, someone more chaotic or more untouchable. So, it pisses me off that I can’t keep up with them; I’d have a better time if I could, but I just can’t, and there’s a strange grief in that recognition.” “Superdiversión” “This album is a current snapshot of what I feel Buenos Aires nightlife culture is right now. To write these songs, I placed myself in clubs or cultural spots that sometimes strike me as horrifying, and other times as strangely beautiful. There’s an anxiety about wanting to do everything at once, a constant fear of missing the next thing. In the end, by not wanting to miss out on anything, you end up missing out on everything at the same time. It’s a paradox this generation lives with, and I’m not exempt from it either.” “Cocodrilo” “It has a kind of rotten bass in the style of Le Tigre, dirty and playful at the same time. We didn’t want to fall squarely into the most classic punk, because if there’s one thing I don’t like, it’s making genre music, filling out a template. Rather, we take tools from everywhere and give them a twist until they belong to us.” “Minas” “It reminds me of the song ‘Girls’ by the Beastie Boys, that same irreverent, slightly ridiculous energy. Not every song has to carry a manifesto; some just have to move people.” “Fashion” “It’s maybe the roughest song on the album, as if it drew a line between here we are and there they are. Still, I didn’t want this to be an album coming from moral high ground, wagging a finger at anyone. Basically, the album’s approach is not to be a snitch, not to police anyone else’s behavior. But we needed a track to stir the hornet’s nest, to introduce some friction into the sequence, and this one does exactly that." “Nadie Coge Gratis” “I wrote it with the feeling that capitalism forces you to capitalize on every aspect of your life, even enjoyment itself. If you’re having fun, you’re basically losing money, and if you’re not monetizing every moment, you’re falling behind. The song is a mirror I’m holding up to that world, and to myself when I catch myself thinking the same way.” “Palermo Hollywood” “It has something glam about it, like [the English band] T. Rex, that swagger and shimmer. I had fun using those shades and playing dress-up sonically. It’s a lyric that doesn’t really make sense and ended up being a jumble of images about aspiration, happiness, and enjoyment, all tangled together. I think it’s funny to put ‘Hollywood’ next to a neighborhood here in Buenos Aires, that mix of local pride and imported fantasy that says so much about who we are.” “Maniquí” “The mental image we had was Elvis [Presley] at his last concert, all fat and sweaty and barely holding it together. The poetry of watching someone have one last flicker, like stars before they go out. It’s a question that runs through my head all the time: How long am I going to want to do this, and how long will I be able to do it with dignity? Then I remember seeing Iggy Pop, who finds his way to perform with dignity and all the commitment in the world, no matter his age. I want to do this until they have to carry me off the stage feet first. There’s no other exit I can imagine for myself.” “Amigos” “It’s a song dedicated to my best friend and work partner, someone who has been in the trenches with me from the beginning. I have a passion for friendship; I consider it, perhaps, the most important thing in life, more durable than romance or fame. At the same time, it’s a tribute to everything I love about music: there’s a lot of Ramones in there, there’s Billy Idol, and by extension, Argentine punk, which is an inheritance from all of that lineage.”