The Thong Song

Street Lights

Midnight has a Body Count

Symphonauts are a genre-defying collective of sonic voyagers, fusing glam rock swagger, soulful grit, electronic textures, and art rock ambition into a symphonic, theatrical experience. Formed in Brooklyn in 2019, the band quickly carved out a cult following with their electrifying live shows—equal parts opera, funk revival, and cosmic jams.

At the heart of Symphonauts is a rotating ensemble of multi-instrumentalists, vocalists, and composers, anchored by co-leads Jennifer Rae and Mike Orion, whose voices intertwine like gospel and glam in orbit. Their sound is built on stacked harmonies from a full choir, analog synths, distorted strings, and orchestral strings, all pulsing beneath grooves that nod to Parliament-Funkadelic, Bowie’s Berlin era, and the maximalist spirit of early 2000s art rock.


Move Tonight

Born in the shadow of a shuttered coal mine in southern West Virginia, Smokestack Holler is a four-piece band that channels the grit, grief, and ghostlight of the Appalachian soul. The group is made up of two brothers—Jesse and Caleb McCrae—whose harmonies carry the dust of generations; their sister, Mae McCrae, whose voice cuts like wild honeysuckle through fog; and their lifelong friend Elijah “Lige” Booker, a fiddler and banjoist whose playing conjures spirits from the holler and fire from the strings.

Raised on gospel, grit, and the sound of trains that no longer run, the band blends Appalachian folk, swamp blues, and mythic storytelling into a sound that’s both haunted and defiant. 

Whether playing bowed banjo under moonlight or howling harmonies in a one-room church, Smokestack Holler is a living elegy for a place that never stopped singing—even when the mines went dark.


Only Ghost Walk Down Main Street

In the hazy heart of London's underground, Kaleido existed in a perpetual swirl of vivid, mind-expanding color. Their sanctuary was a smoke-filled loft studio in an abandoned warehouse overlooking Camden Lock—a chaotic haven drenched in the heavy scent of incense, scattered with threadbare cushions soaked in spilled wine and sweat, flickering candles casting shadows on walls alive with hand-painted mandalas that seemed to pulse with hidden life.

Days blurred into nights of raw, uninhibited inspiration, fueled by acid's electric visions and the velvet surrender of psilocybin dreams. Orion Kaleido sprawled cross-legged on the floor, his notebook a portal for feverish poetry that poured out like cosmic revelations. Jasper “Drift” Vale teased shimmering, feedback-laced riffs from his electric guitar and hypnotic drones from the sitar, notes bending and twisting like lovers' bodies in ecstasy, lingering in the air as iridescent haze. Milo Brine hammered primal, throbbing rhythms on drums and shook the tambourine with feverish intensity, driving pulses that echoed the heartbeat of the collective.

This was the throbbing core of the free love revolution, and Kaleido embodied it without restraint. Their studio drew a constant flow of artists, drifters, mystics, and hungry seekers—a fluid commune where boundaries dissolved in waves of shared ecstasy. Connections formed not just through words or music, but through raw, intimate touch: tangled limbs on piled cushions, heated skin against skin, breathless explorations of desire that blurred into one another. They paused not merely to rest, but to revel in carnal recharge—passionate embraces, lingering caresses, and uninhibited group intimacies that they believed channeled pure creative energy, turning lust into sonic alchemy.

As darkness descended, Kaleido emerged into the pulsating neon underbelly of the scene. They played in dimly lit beatnik dens, hidden tea houses thick with hash smoke, and fog-shrouded basements where applause came in finger-snaps and knowing glances. Their performances were erotic rituals disguised as concerts: swirling projections dancing over nude silhouettes, incense mingling with the musk of aroused bodies, music that throbbed like a lover's heartbeat—electric guitar stumming in psychedelic rhythm, sitar weaving Eastern mysticism, drums pounding relentlessly, tambourine shimmering in hypnotic frenzy—opening doorways to altered states where inhibitions shattered and collective euphoria reigned.


Clockwork Carousel

Ken Laszlo

Tonight

ARDIPITHECUS

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