Daniel Melingo is a radical character. His insomniac’s music and his voice from the deep well up from the world of tango in its early days, a sort of “proto-tango” as he calls it. And this is not a chance phenomenon. Having done the grand tour via a completely wild version of rock n’ roll, this hybrid creature part Tom Waits, part Paolo Conte, part Nick Cave and Corto Maltese knows and reaffirms that modernity lies in the past. His insolent anecdotes take the form of daydreams, tangos or occasional thrillers, swinging strings, bursts from the push-buttons, shady noises and choirs of men straight off the pontoon or on shore-leave; they’re all form the grating, almost Dada-like echo of the craziness of a world stumbling on its last legs, hyped-up on drugs.