По традиции

Raw power with the smell of a basement and a road to the Maldives through the harsh Urals. Here, the rhymes flow not according to the rules, but according to the internal law of the courtyard: the drum spins, the asphalt burns, the cops follow the smell, and the boys turn up the volume. Everything is old school - no glamour, no frills, but with such force that the brakes of the UAZ still squeak. Music doesn't look for prospects, it cancels them out, leaving only tradition in place of rules.