POWER HOUSE HOBBS

The drumfire of automatic weapons, the smell of gunpowder in the air, and the rustle of money counted until your fingers cramp. Here, every word rings out like an empty shell casing on the asphalt - dirty, shiny, and with no right to pause. Everything - from luxury lamps costing five thousand to sweaty basements with triple weights - is moulded into one world where style and crime go hand in hand. The ironic glamour of Balenciaga easily coexists with blood on a kitchen knife, and pride in ‘Flygod style’ resounds louder than any gunshot. This is music that smells of both expensive perfume and gunpowder at the same time.