çek kopar

The city smells of hot concrete and cheap coffee, and its rhythm is like a tremor under the skin: a little hardcore, a little punk humour, and a ton of street truth. Words are thrown around like empty bottles - crudely, directly and with a touch of self-irony: there is boasting, fatigue and a willingness to laugh at one's own failures.

The sound seems to drill into the streetlights until they tremble: harsh honesty about survival, about how rap became a profession and at the same time a cure for boredom. No glossy pictures - just reality polished to a shine, where the pathos is cut off and only the voice remains, which does not ask for understanding but demands recognition - all this is true, and there is a strange pride in it.