They drink from the L.A. River.
They drink from plastic cups that melt in the sun.
They call it hydration, healing, rebirth—
But it’s runoff, residue, radiation in disguise.

This city poisons slowly.
One cup at a time. One breath at a time.
Microplastics in your veins. Ghosts in your filters.
You think you’re detoxing—but you’re soaking in it.

“They Drink It Up” is a haunted rhythm from the underbelly of Los Angeles—where the wellness industry sells sickness and the river is a graveyard of chemicals, teeth, and memory.

If you’re still thirsty, keep drinking.
The ghosts are.

Drink It Up

Afterglow Hotline is what answers when the rave doesn’t love you back. A detached house groove hums politely while your dignity holds for customer support. The voice says it’s listening. It isn’t. You press 8 to speak to a shaman. You get looped. This isn’t healing—it’s the part where you realize the lasers were never for you.

Chopped fragments of memory flicker through bass fog and reverb—last night’s spiritual awakening, now sponsored and mildly irradiated. You aren’t dancing anymore. You’re buffering. “Afterglow Hotline” doesn’t end. It places you in the queue behind everyone else who thought the glowstick meant something.

Afterglow Hotline

“We Bring the Winds” is not a song—it’s a sentence. A rhythmic decree from those who warned once, then sent the weather to speak again. With chant-like cadence and unnerving clarity, the voice delivers what was promised: cancellation by elemental force. Not chaos—precision.

Each verse carries the marks of ritual—clouds lassoed from the ridge, lightning walking the edge of command, and wind folding scaffolding like paper. The speaker is an initiated Kachina, storm-bound and unblinking, who gave signs, gave silence, then gave rain. This is not random. It is earned.

This isn’t about rage. It’s about reckoning. The sky operates on a system older than electricity, older than rhythm. Lights go out when they are not aligned. Power drops when warnings are missed. Festivals vanish when the wind decides it’s time.

We bring the winds.
We bring the rain.
We bring the thunder.
Warnings were given.
They weren’t followed.
Now it’s gone.

We Bring the Winds

Ladies and gentlemen…
Prepare to board the nonstop service to forever.
No tickets… no destination…
Just three nights straight and no sign of slowing down.
Keep your hands inside the party at all times…
Because this train… never leaves the rave.

Whole Life's a Rave

Skeleton in The Closet

“Witches” is a jagged drum & bass ride that refuses to smooth out the edges. Built almost entirely from fractured vocal stabs and looping chants — “U R Not… Not… Not… Real Witches” — the track lurches like a roller coaster overdue for inspection, every turn rattling and unsteady, every drop daring you to hold on.

Witches

Once upon a time, you could trade a wrinkled twenty-five dollar bill for a front row seat to eternity. Sometimes it was free — Golden Gate Park, a guitar, a drum, Janis howling at the fog while the Grateful Dead made pigeons nervous. Music was cheaper than lunch, cheaper than rent, sometimes cheaper than air.

Glowstick Bailout

A runaway anthem for anyone who’s ever felt chased down by noise they didn’t deserve. Out-of-Control Collector tells the story of escaping the endless calls, the false voices, and the finger-pointing, rolling down the highway with nothing but love as your compass. There’s a courtroom gavel in the rearview, a thirteen-million-dollar card glowing in the distance, and a shadow who thinks he’s Joe Pesci chasing ghosts on the line. This isn’t a fight song — it’s a freedom song, where the law of love outruns every collector.

Out-of-Control Collector

Mob-Boss Knockoff (Bish Bish Bish) is Hardware Party at its most unapologetic — a sarcastic anthem dressed up like a diss track, mocking the fake crowns and empty hype that pass for power. It’s short, sharp, and funny, built to feel like a chant you’d yell backstage or in the crowd. Every line cuts down to four words or less, keeping the energy punchy and relentless.

The track splits in two: one side the “neon mob-boss promoter,” all flash and no storm, the other a “collector” who tapes calls and runs amok chasing cardboard shine. The joke is you never know where one ends and the other begins — and that’s the point. They’re both imposters, swinging in the same gallows of their own noise.

Don’t overthink it. This isn’t Metallica. This isn’t cosplay gangster. It’s an original Hardware Party jam, dripping with sarcasm, stamped with “bish bish bish,” and crowned with nothing more than a Burger King hat. That crown says it all.

Mob-Boss Knockoff

TRILLIONS is the wanted poster come to life — a soundtrack of suspicion, satire, and snakeboards rolling through neon shadows. It’s a track that chants the unspoken rules of rave culture: deny what you see, worship the King of Rave, and pretend the music is untouchable. But TRILLIONS doesn’t obey.

Trillions

“The Blackleg Miner” pulls a 19th-century Northumberland protest song straight through the tunnels of modern drum & bass.
Coal dust becomes sub-bass, pickaxes become snares, and the ghosts of striking miners march again in rhythm and distortion.
The vocals echo like warnings in a collapsing shaft — a reminder that every beat can still carry rebellion.

Genre: Dark Drum & Bass / Industrial Folk Fusion
Tempo: 175 BPM
Mood: Gritty, cinematic, vengeful, underground

The Blackleg Miner

Artificial life, Babylon show.
Promoter count souls by the glow.
Rave promoter frown, rave promoter cry—
Jah see the fear behind your eye.

You sell the night at quite a cost,
trade young hearts for profit lost.
No wooden floor will hide your shame;
sleep on dirt—remember your name.

MONSTA

We pulled this lament out of a Silesian shaft, the kind where the air forgets how to move and the walls lean in just to hear your thoughts. Nobody owns it and nobody remembers who sang it first - it simply sat in the dark long enough for the dust to memorize every line. These songs weren’t written; they were survived. Passed between shifts, whispered on ladders, traded at the edge of disasters, carrying the understanding that the mountain always collects its due. Hardware Party doesn’t modernize folklore - we just amplify the pressure already inside it. Drum and bass exposes the bones, the old rhythm meant to be relentless. Consider this a transmission from below: a voice pushed upward through stone and machinery. We didn’t clean it. We didn’t soften it. We only opened the channel and let the shaft speak.

Hardware Party

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