Vegas, 1983. Midnight was a suggestion, not a boundary. Neon lit the night like lightning frozen in time, and I was behind the wheel of a jet black Pontiac Trans Am, T-tops off, synthwave pouring through the speakers like a tidal wave of electro swagger

Jet black Pontiac

The sun bled tangerine over Biscayne Bay as Rico DeSantos lit a Marlboro  and adjusted his white linen blazer. His boat—Nice Try, bobbed lazily against the dock, a sleeping beast waiting for midnight to roar.

Rico wasn’t a cop. Wasn’t cartel. He was something in between.
A middleman with good hair and better instincts, riding Miami's synthwave boom like a pro jockey.

Miami Nice


In the shadow-drenched streets of Miami in 1983, stood Lola, fifty feet of shimmering chrome and broken neon. Her feet pounding the pavement in a relentless disco cadence, her body spinning with reckless abandon. Everyone knew of her love affair with Phoney Montana. Their worlds collided—her wild spirit, his ruthless empire. In their fleeting existence, they were fire and ice—disco queens of the night, lovers lost in the asphalt shadows of a city that never slept.

Phoney Montana

The night bled neon across the surf as the bass thumped. Smoke from a bonfire curled through the strobes. Then came the low growl of the V6, headlights carving through the haze as it sand sprayed like sparks against it's glistening chrome. The crowd roared and the engine answered, it was 944 to the floor.

944 To The Floor

Synths, nostalgia, and neon nights. My sounds are inspired by the golden age of 80s sound, with warm synths and movie sound track vibes.

Gweedo The Killer Pimp

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