Echoes of winter
calling the wrath of the gods.
High screams the agony
of a bleeding moon
in the northern sky

Echoes Of Winter

The machine never stops. It crunches each and every soul into flat, lifeless mud. Los Padres don’t like the machine, so they go where it cannot reach them. Where the waves are neither squares nor triangles, but a quivering pulse of pleasant repetition. Where the beats are broken, their twisted shards clattering with the sweetest of harmonies. It’s a weird place, no doubt about it, but one the Alice in each of us wouldn’t mind getting lost in. Come join us as we dance away the apocalypse