Pyramide

The tunnel rustles as if old cassettes were reminiscing about their youth: lights flash, dust flies, and the voice breaks the pause to throw another truth about money, fear, and empty promises into the hall. There is no glossy pathos here - there is harsh everyday poetry about how bridges are cut, how pyramids are overturned, and how green banknotes smell both sweet and deadly at the same time. The choruses are like the shouts of neighbours from the stairwell: rough, short, and straight to the point.

A mixture of irony and weary love for the cause: outdated formats, new accounts, hands covered in blood and a hand on the wheel - all this is spoken calmly, almost businesslike. Boasting is intertwined with the self-awareness of a veteran who knows the price of fame and knows how to count the shots in the back. Music does not fix the world, but it throws sparks into it - the very ones that make you want to live on, even if it's with a creak.