All meine Jungs

Something like a night-time spell: bass like a Lamborghini engine, repetitions - ‘all me’ - like a shop counter that never stops ringing. The words cut the city into pieces - money, the gang, ‘my boys’, ‘mum takes the money’ - and it all winks, as if luxury is on display in a neon-lit shop window. The voice is both confident and slightly mocking, like that of a person who knows the value of their trophies and is not averse to showing them off.

The bragging turns into an almost everyday scene: friends who ‘made it,’ girlfriends who come ‘with a friend,’ and a world where banknotes can be burned for effect. There is excitement and a hint of playful threat here, as if entry into the circle is not open to everyone, but only to those who are willing to play by special rules. It all smells of champagne, leather seats and the heat of the night-time asphalt.

The feeling is not a story about a hero, but an entry in the city's diary: the proud simplicity of words mixed with the extravagance of images. Ego is the currency, and music is the sign that both beckons and winks: come in, but remember - here, you pay with attention and laughter.