McGregor

The rough lines smell of asphalt, where other people's fists and your own scars were the only school of life. With every swing of the bat, you can hear the back alleys, garages and those times when ‘the street decided’ who you were. Yesterday's fights become legends, today's stories become a new showcase, and somewhere in between lies that irreconcilable loyalty to one's roots.

The music holds an ironic paradox: the neighbourhood will always remain in the blood, even if it is now surrounded by pink hair and shiny labels. It seems as if the past and the present are cheerfully arguing with each other, and the sound only adds fuel to the fire - rough, stubborn and honest, like a conversation on a staircase under the crackle of a neon lamp.