I Don't Care...

Here, everything revolves around cynicism and confessions, where wealth and ostentatious harshness are mixed with fatigue, night-time demons and rare flashes of tenderness. The heavy lines sound like gunshots: direct, sharp, with no attempt to smooth things over.

And yet, between the black limousine, the plastic gun and the endless stacks of cash, something alive slips through - either melancholy or self-irony. The music leaves the taste of expensive alcohol with a metallic bitterness: it seems like strength and power, but inside there is still an aching emptiness.