On his new album, La Nueva Violencia, Dillom is finally ready to let his hair down. That may seem like a strange mission statement given the Argentine rapper’s uproarious breakthrough: his 2021 debut, Post-Mortem. But just as he was anointed the trap messiah of a post-pandemic generation, his next record, Por Cesárea, swerved into punk and psychedelia to deliver a darkened character study that reflected on the rise of incelibacy and gory social polarization. Now, the face-tatted enfant terrible is opting out of grand concepts in favor of adrenaline-pumping hedonism, completing his rock & roll metamorphosis and leading fans on a wild night of partying with a dazzling crew of local and international friends in tow. La Nueva Violencia is a smirking, libidinous play for the dance floor, picking up where the distorted guitars of the last record left off and channeling each new riff into sleazy post-punk and electroclash that stick to the body like sweaty velvet. Opening with the title track, feedback-heavy licks set the temperature as Dillom catches us up on the escapades of recent years. “I have new acquaintances with lovely surnames,” he says, musing on the doors that opened since he started feuding with Argentina’s president and headlining stadiums. Then he revels in  his taste for excess, which  has swelled into full-blown hunger, asking, “Where are the drugs, parties, and dancing?” Later, on the Pulp-nodding “Gente Común,” he unpacks allegations of nu-riche snobbery, fielding accusations of looking gift horses in the mouth and expressing zero interest in meeting his friends’ babies. The lines are delivered with an ironic wink, but it would also be gauche for an artist touring the world, earning Latin Grammy nominations, and here dueting with electropop icons Miranda! to still purport himself as an average Joe. Though not outright as conceptual as its predecessors, La Nueva Violencia leaves room to ponder celebrity overexposure and the mind-warping effects of the content age. Over the grooving bass lines of “Vedette,” (or “Showgirl”), Dillom likens himself to a rabbit being pulled from a hat for cheap amusement, conceding that playing the showbiz game keeps money and friends within arm’s reach, even if fulfillment still eludes him. Later, the throbbing “Superdiversión” breaks down the corrosive effects of FOMO, where the incessant need to attend every party keeps him from enjoying any one of them. This is by no means Dillom’s “boo-hoo, being famous is hard” rant, but rather a space to consider the intimacy and humanity lost in spotlight, be it the ability to indulge in salacious activities without having a phone thrust in his face, or the grotesqueness of our social media-addicted zeitgeist. He nails this latter point on the acerbic “Fashion,” lampooning attention-starved Z-listers, spitting, “Your drama is a comedy if your daddy is in Wikipedia.” Irrefutably fun, these songs shine with the studied yet seldom nostalgic production of Fermín Ugarte (Ángela Torres, Bandalos Chinos), who injects glam-rock and New Wave references across the ages with experimental electronic breaks (“Nadie Coge Gratis”) and radio-ready pop sheen (“Souvenir”). The guest list subverts expectations set by Dillom’s headline-making friendships with Argentine rock giants such as Pity Álvarez and Andrés Calamaro; instead he enlists cutting-edge, international contemporaries. Dickhead from Amyl and the Sniffers contributes dreamy bagpipes to the heartwarming buddy anthem “Amigos,” while Sebastian Murphy of Viagra Boys delivers a riotous performance on “Papá Se Volvió Loco,” bursting with malevolent, belly-shaking laughter as his singing shifts seamlessly from English to Spanish. St. Vincent also pops up on multiple tracks, shredding all over “Cocodrilo” (likely a rework of Dillom’s 2025 era-teasing single, “Rojo Profundo”), and later humming and cooing in a trancelike frenzy on the bridge of “Palermo Hollywood.” The second track unfolds as a woozy night out in Buenos Aires, where libertine exchanges in the “bisexual bathroom” and a refrain evoking the historic labor slogan “los días más felices fueron, son y serán Peronistas” underscore Dillom’s unyielding Argentine idiosyncrasies. Lest he completely cede the credits to his foreign friends, he invites rising indie pop singers Juana Aguirre, Juana Rozas, Babeblade, and Terra to hoot and holler on several freewheeling choruses. But Dillom’s genre transition hits the occasional snag. The slurring vocals of “Gente Común” read more like he’s aping his heroes than finding a fresh way to intone, while the sentimental 12-o-clock number “Maniquí” again dives into the motif of haunted fame but rings unnecessarily melodramatic with sappy lines like, “Never forget that you don’t know me / and that I don’t know you either.” Plus, in a record so full of horny, drug-addled bangers (“Minas” is especially bold when Dillom professes his love for all women regardless of what they have between their legs), peppier songs like “Amigos” and “Souvenir” come across as juvenile, landing like a deliberate inclusion to reach wider audiences. Regardless, at a time when giants like the Strokes and Charli XCX are also trying to reinvent the rock n’ roll wheel, it’s exciting to see Dillom carve his own distinct path by doubling down on a time-tested equation of messy, full-bodied fun. In fact, La Nueva Violencia posits that fun is not necessarily comfortable, but that you certainly won’t find it behind a digital screen. This music is an invitation to explore the night and find your way to the bisexual bathroom. With any luck, Dillom will be there to show you a good time.