Draw Me a Line

I took Kamli and let it wander.
Slowed the breath. Deepened the sway.
Let the rhythm circle the body instead of chasing it forward.

This remix lives in the hips and the dark
where instinct listens first
and movement becomes a quiet ritual.

Troyboi Kamli- Draem Reshape

The Christmas Song (cover) by Jung Kook

Vocals - Jung Kook
Recording Engineer - GHSTLOOP @ HYBE Studio
Digital Editing - GHSTLOOP, 손유정
Mix & Mastering Engineer - 손유정 @ HYBE Studio
*Original Song by Johnny Stimson

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
Jack Frost nipping at your nose
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir
And folks dressed up like Eskimos

Everybody knows a turkey
and some mistletoe
Help to make the season bright
Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow
Will find it hard to sleep tonight

They know that Santa's on his way
He's loaded lots of toys and
goodies on his sleigh

And every mother's child is gonna spy
To see if reindeer really know how to fly

And so I'm offering this simple phrase
To kids from one to ninety-two
Although it's been said many times, many ways
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas to you

The Christmas Song (cover) by Jung Kook

The provided lyrics articulate a blistering manifesto of resistance from a collective "we" who stand accused and targeted by a corrupt ruling power, symbolized as a singular "you." This oppressor is depicted as morally bankrupt ("crooked spine," "lying state") and structurally weak ("base of sand"), yet vicious in its methods, employing starvation, propaganda, and violent repression. The core defiance is captured in the repeated anthem, "We shall rage but we will not die," a direct appropriation of Dylan Thomas's plea against mortal death, transformed here into a political vow against erasure. The protest prophesies the inevitable collapse of this illegitimate order, whose "towers will fall" once the foreign support and financial flows propping it up are "frozen."

Central to the oppressor's strategy, as condemned in the lyrics, is the tactic of labeling to sanction and obscure its own injustice. The power defines the narrative by branding resistors as "terrorists," a label designed to strip them of moral standing and justify their suppression. The protest vehemently flips this script, declaring, "Your terrorists are moral men." This reclamation asserts that true morality lies with those resisting the corrupt system, not with those enforcing it. The label is thus exposed as a fraudulent tool, a "crooked" attempt to paint the fight for justice as criminality, thereby disguising the state's own "darkened deeds" and "perverted, nasty, lying" nature.

Ultimately, the lyrics frame this conflict as a foundational reckoning. The call to "unpack" the "crooked red and crooked blue" is a demand to expose the bipartisan façade of a system built on greed and subservience ("boots that you lick"). The labels applied by this system are revealed not as truths, but as psychological and political weapons meant to enforce compliance. The protesters' refusal to "eat from your crooked plate" or "go gently into the night" is a refusal to accept these fabricated definitions. Their survival and rage become the living proof that the labels are lies, ensuring that their moral truth—not the state's manufactured narrative—will be what "lives on forever."

We Shall Rage But We will not Die

The ballad paints the figure of a wandering, supernatural woman as the spectral soul of Dublin itself, a "fantastic" vision with flowing red hair whose very passage animates the city's ancient memory. She is more spirit than solid, "dillying and dallying" through streets where cobblestones hum with the language of her clan, her presence silencing dogs and summoning banshees—a force both enchanting and eerie, who "trips the light fantastic" not in joy alone but in haunting communion with the ghosts of the past. She walks where history bleeds into the present, "on stones of blood and clan," her wild song and trailing hair weaving a spell that blurs the line between a living city and a land of graves.

Her journey is a transformative ritual that alters all who witness it, leaving profound, unsettling change in her wake. The troubled sinner who beholds her "streaming red" is moved to a vow of abstinence, haunted into reverence; a stranger in the mountains is left eternally questioning "a sea of light," his reality fractured by her glimpse. She is a beauty who "steals upon you gently" only to leave an "ice-cold kiss," a paradoxical enchantress whose laughter accompanies a mournful wail, showing that to encounter her is to be marked—awakened to myth, yet shadowed by ghostly sorrow.

Finally, her passage is a cyclical haunting, a tide of memory that must retreat before it can return. Fading "into light" upon reaching Dun Laoghaire, she dissolves onto the waves where she’ll slumber "until another night," suggesting she is a recurring spirit, bound to Dublin’s streets and shores. The ballad frames her not as a mere phantom, but as a living embodiment of place—where history, loss, and identity walk beside the living, ensuring the city’s stories, both gentle and grim, never fully rest, but rise again with her song in the cobblestones' soft hum.

The Light Fantastic

The lyrics paint a visceral, ritualistic portrait of a Friday night at "The Palace," a dive of desperate release ruled by two archetypal figures: Gabby, the "brutish king" who dances with frantic, violent abandon to escape damnation, and Birdy, the "rabble queen," a shaved-head sovereign demanding admiration from her throne. Their domain is the "land of mean," a world where life is seen as "one long intoxication," and frustration is currency, paid for in fights, cheap wine, and a soaring, drunken hatred. This is not mere revelry but a performed coronation, where identity is forged through chaotic dance, bleeding heads, and the grim communion of "shaven legs and shaven heads" amid reminders of the dead.

The night unfolds as a savage, cyclical ceremony toward collective annihilation. The arrival of the "Chicks" and the "rabble angels" intensifies the atmosphere into a sweaty, clashing frenzy where dancing seamlessly shifts "into crime," a bottle flies, and Gabby's bleeding head becomes his gory crown. Beneath the surface of this brutal intoxication lies a deep, communal frustration—a need to feel something, even if it’s pain, in a world that offers only a "dirt-cheap wine" escape. The imagery of "poppies" for the dead and the colors black and red frames the violence as both a memorial and a rebellion, a desperate, physical scream against oblivion performed on a sticky floor.

In the cold light of morning, the ritual reveals its true cost: a "damp cold room" of broken ribs and head wounds, the queen awakening next to the king's "obscenely smiling" face. The promised "jubilation" has curdled into the grim aftermath of trauma, a hollow hangover of wounds and weary survival. Yet the chorus lingers as a warning anthem, underscoring that this is not an anomaly but a weekly reckoning—a law of the "land of mean" where the insured and the desperate return each Friday to be ruled once more by their brutal monarchs of release.

The Rabble Angels

This lyric is a masterful maritime allegory for the modern crisis of truth, portraying our collective search as a mutinous ship lost at sea. The vessel, once navigated by "Straight" and guided by "Fact," has been overthrown by a crew of deception—where officers speak in "Fake News," the press is manned by "Distrust and Misgiving," and the treacherous Captain Iago admires only his own reflection in the mirror. Adrift in a "sea of deceit and total stupidity," the ship takes on water without compass or trustworthy map, symbolizing a society unmoored from shared reality, where truth isn't just hidden but actively dismantled, limb by limb.

The chorus serves as a chilling inventory of truth’s dismemberment: "Fact's lost an arm as well as some fingers / Essence has flown and departed the nest." This isn't merely obscurity—it's systematic amputation. Reality lies buried, sincerity is sidelined, and truth is "completely oppressed," a fugitive hunted on its own ship. The forces of "Slyboots and Cunning," loyal only to the corrupt boss, ensure the crew remains aimless yet profitable, monetizing the chaos while integrity screams into the void, fearing truth is not just missing but dead.

In a devastating climax, a moment of potential awakening is violently silenced. A twelve-year-old boy—an emblem of innocent, uncynical clarity—stands to declare, "I alone am the truth among all you fakes," only to be swiftly escorted by the enforcers of deceit to a "very short plank." His execution symbolizes the brutal suppression of pure truth when it dares to speak plainly. The ship remains stuck in the doldrums, leaving the narrator—and us—to wonder if any will truly awake, or if we are doomed to drift forever, mourning the boy and the truth that sank with him into the cold, dark deep.

Looking for Truth

This lyric chronicles a wild, sun-scorched romance played out against the backdrop of a chaotic Moroccan adventure, beginning in the gothic intimacy of a crypt where reckless passion nearly “woken the dead.” It’s a relationship born in darkness and candlelit danger, sitting on saints’ relics—a metaphor for a love built on sacrilege and impulse. But the heat shifts from physical to geographical as the pair escape to North Africa, trading crypts for Casablanca, only to find the desert playing tricks they “couldn’t compete” with. From the outset, the trip is stained by absurd mishaps—Great Danes sedated at the airport, a vet bill in Tangiers—hinting that their frantic energy cannot outrun consequence.

The journey unfolds as a series of surreal, morally unmoored episodes: getting lost in a small yellow car, blowing hash in a new dress, desert encounters with a cursing old creep, and humiliating a rabbi in a bathhouse. Each vignette paints a portrait of freedom curdling into carelessness, where the vastness of the desert seems to magnify their recklessness rather than cleanse it. They move through Fez and Tangiers like agents of beautiful chaos, insulting shepherds and consuming mint tea with a kind of hungry thoughtlessness, all while sensing that “something had changed”—that the very landscape of sand, smoke, and endless sky was rewriting them in ways they couldn’t yet name.

In the final reckoning, the return to the crypt reveals that the magic has evaporated, replaced by a frost that “had set in.” The bridge delivers the haunting thesis: the freedom they chased was “a sickness, a dread,” a dizzying dance that left them blessed but bitterly self-aware. They miss Casablanca not as a place, but as the fleeting idea of a heat that could sustain their wildness—now lost to the realization that they “created our mess.” The desert, in the end, didn’t liberate them; it exposed them, leaving only the quiet, changed truth beneath an empty, tricksome sky.

Casablanca

This is a raw and furious protest anthem that directly equates political silence with lethal complicity. The central, driving thesis is laid bare in the chorus: "Silence is yes... If you don't hear me, that's because I agree." This framework transforms inaction from a passive state into an active, willing endorsement of atrocity. The song opens with a stark image of forced displacement—"2 million are marching, from their own homeland"—framing this not as a natural disaster but as a deliberate crime enabled by the quiet of those in power. The silence of institutions becomes synonymous with hunger, killing, and complicity, a moral abdication that the singer refuses to let stand.

The lyrics then launch into a scorching, specific indictment, naming perceived culprits. The "Democrats" and the "weak hollow blues" are condemned for their "dispicable conduct" and "treacherous" lethargy, accused of a cowardly failure to confront fascism and human rights violations. This isn't generic anger; it's a bill of particulars, citing the brutality of ICE and the ease with which fascists take control, while elected officials are portrayed as "spineless, repulsive Washington cons." The repeated, shouted question—"What was your fee?"—reduces their silence to a transaction, implying their inaction is bought and paid for with blood-stained shekels, a charge of profound moral corruption.

Ultimately, the song is a blistering call to break the covenant of silence. It positions the speaker and the listeners in opposition to a compromised political system, where "humanity weeps" while the powerful remain quiet. The rising laughter of the fascists underscores the consequence: silence isn't neutrality; it's surrender. By declaring that "it's time to stand up / it's time for to question," the song moves from accusation to mobilization, insisting that the only moral response to a "disgrace to the nation" is to scream the truth that silence seeks to bury. The final, repeated chorus stands as both an epitaph for the betrayed and a creed for the resistant.

Silence is Killing

This song is the raw, shattered autobiography of a man clinging to the myth of the "True Blue American Hero" while his life unravels in the grim reality that myth has created. Born symbolically on the Fourth of July in the "back of a battered limousine," his origin story is a tawdry parody of American exceptionalism—a child of a "queen" father and a hooker mother, his very conception a complex lie. He enlists in the armed forces, the classic pathway to heroic identity, only to return home with a row of medals and two missing legs, a walking metaphor for a nation that glorifies sacrifice but refuses to see the "trouble in my hurting mind." The chorus is a bitter, ironic mantra: his proclaimed heroism is worthless against an "economic bubble" that perpetually cycles him into the county jail, highlighting the brutal gap between patriotic image and disposable reality.

His personal descent mirrors a national moral decay. The relationship with Susie Ann Mc Donald begins as a dark alley initiation into manhood and spirals into a tragedy of miscarriages, abandonment, and addiction—"she's been seen shooting scag for a hit." Their doomed union embodies a broken American dream: the springtime marriage that yields no future, ending in a fractured, toxic wasteland. His trauma is medicalized into a "fortune on meds," and he's left "surfing on other ladies beds," a rootless ghost in the "bleak" land he once fought for. The specific, crumbling details of his life become indictments of a larger societal failure, where brotherhood has been killed "from sea to stinking sea."

The song fades out on a howl of disillusionment, the repeated claim of "true blue American hero" now hollowed into a haunting, empty echo. The protagonist is a living casualty of a system that manufactures heroes only to discard them, that champions economic forces that criminalize poverty, and that offers no sanctuary for the physical and psychological wounds it generates. "America, America, your lights gone out on me" is the final, devastating diagnosis—not just a personal complaint, but a eulogy for a promised land that has extinguished its own guiding light, leaving its heroes lost in the dark alleys of its own creation.

True Blue American Hero

Collection of songwriters under the leadership of Bill Kinlough

Silence is Killing

The Great Unwashed

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