Green Milk From The Planet Orange

Valencia has eaten flamenco, devoured pop, swallowed indie waves and spit them out for breakfast. But some nights are atomic — nights that don’t just happen, they rupture the membrane of reality and leave you with tinnitus and a new existential understanding. January 26, 2026 at 16 Toneladas is one of those nights. That’s when Green Milk From The Planet Orange, the legendary Tokyo trio whose music sounds like King Crimson jacked on rocket fuel and psychedelia dipped in corporeal punk acid, crashlands into the Ricardo Micó bunker to melt brains and dilate souls.

Forget your cozy preconceived notions of prog — this isn’t polite noodling for coffee-table philosophers. Green Milk’s latest material — a 25-year body of work celebrating visceral risk, unholy catharsis and sheer psychedelic speed — is the audio equivalent of stumbling onto an alien ritual with a barbecue and a confessional booth. Their sound has been described as a weave of psychedelic rock, punk firestorms, heavy prog gymnastics and fuck-it-all abandon — a collision of intense rhythmic propulsion and guitar blistering that doesn’t just rock you, it extrudes you from your body.

These aren’t newcomers on a whim. They’ve toured Europe, the US and Japan multiple times, evoking the kind of word-of-mouth cult devotion that punks whisper about in basements and prog heads debate in smoky cafes. They just dropped a 20th-anniversary remaster of their seminal City Calls Revolution, proof that their potent mixture of jagged melody and brutal groove still demands attention — vinyl-obsessed and ear-drum eager.

And just when you thought the psychic temperature couldn’t rise further, Valencia’s own Anno Solar enters the fray. These local chemists of sound take rock apart atom by atom — drones that crawl up your spine like cosmic goo, electronics folded into taut tension, rhythms that snap like synapses overclocked on espresso — they’re not a band, they’re a sound experiment gone sentient. Forget comfort; bring BATS — because your nervous system is about to be baptized in frequency.

At 16 Toneladas — a place that has already hosted cult black-metal rites, explosive punk gatherings and genre-bending nights that refuse to be pinned down — this show isn’t just another gig on the calendar. It’s a mutation. The walls are tight, the sound system burly, and the crowd? Hungry. Hungry for something unpredictable, something that feels like entropy with a groove. The venue, tucked into Ricardo Micó street like a secret bunker for the adventurous, will be transformed into a cross-dimensional pit where time dilates and your dopamine receptors pack their bags.

Bring earplugs if you’re cautious. Bring a towel if you’re serious. And bring your tolerance for paradigm shifts while you still have one. Because on this night, music doesn’t just play — it fucking happens.

For tickets and more information: 16 Toneladas