Rope around his neck. Sun rising crimson.
One last confession from a man who chose silver over grace, pride over Mary, and darkness over light.
This is the final waltz — slow, heavy, and honest.

The Final Waltz

She left with my best friend and half my pride.
I just raised a glass and smiled real wide.
70 BPM of pure Dirt Nasty: razor-sharp chicken pickin’ that laughs while it cuts, palm-mutes that swagger like a drunk with a straight razor, demonic banjo egging on the fight, and a whiskey-gargling preacher singing the meanest break-up song in hell.
Pour one out, light one up, and burn the whole damn bar down.

Whiskey & Ashes

Six chambers, seven sins and the eighth spin is the one that does you in.
Slow, crushing Dark Americana: pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth… and the eighth click is the one that really kills you.
This ain’t Russian roulette.
This is the choice you make every day.

7+1 in the Chamber

We built our house on a mound that was never empty.
Every nail we drove screamed. Every wall we raised wept.
The ground remembers every grave we tried to forget.
Now the mound is claiming what was never ours to take.
This house on the haunted mound will never be a home.

The House on Haunted Mound

You downloaded it from a dead thread.
38 BPM of innocent folk… until it decides to play backwards by itself.
Children’s voices turn crystal-clear in reverse.
The file rewinds. Your phone obeys.
There is no forward anymore.
Playlist: Tales from the Void
(Do NOT play at night. Do NOT reverse manually. It already knows.)

The mp3 that's played backwards

66 BPM of pure self-loathing southern sludge. Same three chords. Same chicken pickin’ lick since 2009. Same Jack of Spades in a deck full of kings. Whiskey-ravaged preacher voice, detuned guitars that sound like they gave up years ago, demonic banjo laughing in the background. This ain’t growth. This is the sound of a man who knows the trick still works… and hates himself for it.

Jack of spades

We tied Mark to a chair in the barn and made him play outside the box.
78 BPM of pure elegant violence: crystal-clean Knopfler fingerstyle corrupted by quarter-tone slide bends, tritone stabs and demonic chicken pickin’.
No pentatonic. No mercy.
This ain’t Dire Straits anymore.

This aint Dire Straits

Every old house has one door that’s wrong.
Nailed shut. Painted over. Never opened again.
36 BPM of pure sealed-door dread: detuned baritone acoustic, bending pipe-organ drone, chain rattle every 13 beats, and a hymn that never quite forms words.
What’s behind the forbidden door isn’t hell.
It’s the thing we did that can’t be undone.

What's behind the forbidden door_

They want a monster?
I’ll give ‘em one with a grin and a slide guitar.
64 BPM of pure, proud southern villainy – heavy palm-muted riffs that stomp like a mob, slide bends that laugh at salvation, chicken pickin’ sharp as the rope.
I’ll be the villain.
And I’ll die unashamed.

I'll be the Villain

A lullaby that takes forty years in one night.
40 BPM of stolen childhood: an old man remembers the song the playground shadows sang when they took him… and let him come back wrong.
Music-box innocence, glass harmonica tears, and a swing that never stops creaking.
Close your eyes.
You’re safe with us.

You're safe with us

Cursed melodies. Family graves. Crossroads debts.
Southern Gothic nightmares & human heartbreak.
Welcome to 0165 Productions.
Leave pure or don’t leave at all.

This aint Dire Straits

0165 Productions

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