Mourning. Mornings when the Sun disguises itself as a blood moon. No longer playing coy, allowing us to stare straight at her unbridled wrath. The ash…
Mourning. Mornings when the Sun disguises itself as a blood moon. No longer playing coy, allowing us to stare straight at her unbridled wrath. The ash…
Bouncing between electronica, instrumental hip-hop, weird post-jazz who-knows-wot-u-call-it, modern composers and experimentalists... this is a weird one that moves from contemplative to dancy and back again.