About

Steel pulse. Warm blood.

South of Seattle, shaped in Chicago. Forged under elevated tracks and warehouse heat.

Guitars grind. Circuits hiss. Drums warn. Bass jacks the spine till the floor answers.

Silence is a weapon. Melody cracks the lock; the room lets you in.

No genres. Only voltage. Teeth in the groove. Pressure builds, valve releases.

Studio or stage, it shapeshifts and hits true.

We cut sound, image, signal, one engine running hot.

Velvet ropes rot. Keys fail. Walk through, you belong.

Boxes get welded shut, then melted down. We pour our own.

No slogans. Only motion. Questions over myth. Mask on, eyes open.

The work talks. Hear the steel. Feel the heat. Step in. Stay moving.