Mob whispers low.
Light bleeds slow.
Bar mirror cracks.
Glass sweats cold.

Boots tap crime.
Ashtray grin.
(Click) — fuse dies.
Ghosts drift in.

Rust Angel — serve it neat.
Fire for blood, smoke for heat.
Rust Angel — pour, don’t pray.
Tabs don’t close; they fade away.

Dice roll slow.
Lipstick burn.
Clock coughs years.
Ash in urns.

Voice in the walls
Hand to the buyer
Shots on lips.
Truth on wires.

Rust Angel — serve it neat.
Fire for blood, smoke for heat.
Rust Angel — pour, don’t pray.
Tabs don’t close; they fade away.

Rain on windows.
Names in sighs
Nothing the same.
Or left to buy.

Rust Angel

Dark Cabaret, Vol. 1 is a séance for machines, bodies, and ghosts that never stopped performing. It lives somewhere between the gutter and the stage — a fever-dream city where the bars hum in trip-hop time, the circuses burn, and the jukebox keeps spinning cracked vinyl long after last call.

Each track is a small theatre of survival. The rhythm crawls slow and narcotic; beats pulse like faulty neon; melodies sway with the weariness of dancers who’ve outlived the applause. The stories move through smoke and rain — bartenders pouring fire instead of faith, wire-walkers hanging whole crowds on a thread, street preachers soldering sermons out of broken circuits, lovers reading the scars on each other’s skin like sheet music.

The sound is cabaret after the collapse: trip-hop basslines and downtempo electronica draped in dust-bowl brass, cracked-piano chords, and whispered confessions. It borrows from vaudeville, gospel, and film noir but speaks in the language of feedback, reverb, and rust. Every groove is haunted by the same tension — between flesh and circuitry, performance and decay, faith and fatigue.

These songs inhabit the ruins of spectacle. They ask what remains when glamour corrodes and holiness shorts out — when all that’s left is the pulse, the hiss, the breath between verses. Dark Cabaret, Vol. 1 is that breath made audible: an after-hours communion for the wired, the weary, and the beautifully broken.

Body Stories (B-Side)

Silk around her wrists.
Kerosene hair.
The crowd breathes in,
Fake fog in the air.

Strongman grins —
teeth gold, eyes black.
She walks that wire,
never looks back.

Under the tent,
the music stalls.
They all want her,
caught in her thrall.

The girl on the wire don’t fall, she flies.
Body gleam blur like truth that lies.
Hands in the dark reach out for her flame —
Go home cold just remember her name.

The clown’s half-paint drips down his throat.
The bearded lady lights her last smoke.
Lion tamer whip snap, cages moan,
around his neck a chain he strokes.

Backstage sweat,
sawdust, gin.
Her scent cuts through
their paper skin.

The girl on the wire don’t fall, she flies.
Body gleam blur like truth that lies.
Hands in the dark reach out for her flame —
Go home cold just remember her name.

Thunder rolls under bare feet.
Spotlights sweep across the seats.
Strongman prays.
Dwarf bites gold.
Every story ends once it’s been told.

The girl on the wire walks death on a line
Hangs us all on her rope of borrowed time
One last step — no sound, no cry.
She burns like a fallen angel in the light.
Tiny reflections of her in a thousand eyes.

Girl on the Wire

Ink seeps beneath skin like secrets under wet sheets.
The city drones in half-tempo—(subway shakes underground)
Bodies laid out like an archive under lamps. (alley shadows)
Each bears codes no longer legal to speak.
A woman’s shoulder—cold under halogen:
black script curving where her clavicle dips—
“Sing me back before I was touched.”
He traces it with a penlight,
reads melody through heat and ache.
A man’s ribcage under white glare:
notes rising from the wound like smoke rings,
staff shattered where the bullet went in 
He sings it anyway—
a hymn of exit wounds on wet pavement.
A dancer’s thigh, pale under sodium light:
lines of treble clef and scar tissue.
She moves, and (the groove) shifts key.
Sweat runs down his face like punctuation.
The city leans closer to listen.
In a backroom, no mirrors or windows,
two bodies laid close, ink to ink—
stories overwriting stories,
ink translates through color friction.
Last kiss: decoder ring.
Lips frozen in fiction.
He—what’s left of him—
bags these fragments into silence.
A score of flesh and violence.
No staves. No bars. No pulse.
Later, in the wet dawn,
he peels a phrase, a tat on his wrist—
bass line, forgotten ink, raised by heat:
“You can’t find what never left.”
Their stories whisper through him
like blood from a reopened scar.
Echoes out a cracked-open metal door,
where bloating bodies sleep off confession,
past the rain that claps a rhythm,
as the coroner pours the resin—
casting the wound in this asylum
And the city,
tired, wired, trembling,
through a cough, starts to sing

Body Stories

Cloud-gap, moon-cracked sky.
Neon splits colors through rain.
Drunk monk builds his altar
from parts of a busted crane.
Chrome-jaw saints
blink blue in a strobe.
The preacher’s tongue
a copper load.

He wipes motor oil from his palms,
dips two fingers into faith.
Anoints his head with axle grease—
(a-men) —
then sees what he made.

Machine don’t sleep,
it whispers his name.
Choir of wires —
a gospel proclaimed.
He shouts the Word,
feedback loops out pain.
Scrapyard dream machine,
got God on the brain.

Streetlight eyes shine
on wet concrete.
He downloads forgiveness,
hands out code to meat.
Girl in glass heels
juggles coins for sin.
Her eyes say (hallelujah) —
then she begs again.

He swaps her pulse for a prayer,
battery sparks on skin.
Signal cuts the noise —
(static) —
skulls light up from within.

Machine don’t sleep,
it whispers his name.
Choir of wires —
gospel unchained.
He shouts the Word,
feedback loops out pain.
Back alley dream machine,
got God on the brain.

Circuits twitch, old sins unstained.
Crosses spot-welded to rust and chain.
He cranks the dial on the choir —
crowd repeats the refrain.

He spits chants in the mic.
Echo screams, squeals, bleeds.
Bouncing off the walls,
makes a cave from their needs.
Machine, priest, congregation —
shadows dance in the steam.

God Machine

Body Stories (C-Side)

Clockwork Girl (C-Side)

Girl on the Wire (C-Side)

inspired by the 1983 American film "War Games", UNTIL THE ROBINS COME navigates love as a battlefield — a place where tenderness is radioactive, trust is a fragile ceasefire, and the heart beats faster with a nuclear pulse.
------
LYRICS:
------
sometimes a wind blows 
and the mysteries of love become clear 

the wind...
the mysteries...

love becomes clear 

I never knew 
Love could sound 
Like the end of the world  
Birds hum beneath your skin
And the night begins

Your eyes catch the alleylight
Flickering like tiny warnings
And every word bends between us

between us...

shall we play a game?

Every touch
A spark on the dial
The picture bends
But your face stays a while

Heaven drifts
Through the cathode radiation
And I’m lost inside your praise

shall we play?

Shall we play
Shall we play love again
I never knew the world 
Could end while you were holding me

Your laughter bounces 
Like a signal in the wires
And every look between us 
Sparks unseen fires

would you like to play again?

You call me by your father’s name
I answer like a dream inside the game

simulation complete
casualty - everything 

We dance in the hum of the city’s heart
And every step pulls us closer to the start 
Your eyes flicker like gold metal signs

tracing the rhythm 
where our fate aligns

I had a dream… 
The night I met you
Our world was dark — 
No robins in the sky 

The robins
They were love
For the longest time
Nothing but darkness

And then — 
Thousands of robins were set free
They fell like light
Blinding and warm
It seemed like only this love 
Could make a difference…  
And it did

i guess… 

there’s trouble-

until the robins come

shall we play?

Shall we play 
Shall we play love again
I never knew 
Love could sound like 
The end of the world

never knew the world could end 
while you were holding me

the only winning move...
is not to play

play

play

mmm
PLAY

-----







until the robins come

“stoned at the art museum" is an electronic exploration of the space between understanding and complete disillusionment... Inspired by the frustration of walking into a museum and confronting art that resists comprehension.
------
LYRICS:
------
red
blue
split
Sputtering
hum-ming
air
crackling
meaning leaks out
like broken light
staring at the nothingness

anger-
at the colors
what's in that gap…

What lives in the rift?
What lives in the rift?

a canvas shouts
in silent bursts
brushstrokes argue
I crane my neck

I want to love
but feel ashamed
the art is living
but I’m dead

wrong
wrong 
beauty

What's the matter with these pictures?

the walls are holy
the art is void
the colors breathe
but I’m way too annoyed
I touch the edge
of what I miss
I fall into
the artlessness

the only thing we know is nothing
because we live in the rift of understanding
bask in the fury of not having 
any of the answers
feel the ache in-between your spine

I walk the halls
skin buzzing wrong
the colors bleed
a broken song

I want to smash
what art won’t reveal
I want to kneel
to know that I can feel

Rift…
Stupid rift

Swallow me whole…

red burns heaven
blue chills hell
the seam between
is where we dwell
I’m drawn to fury
lines sculpted thin
the truth won’t start
until I finally step in

let irritation be my guide
let confusion split me wide

let the rift repaint my eyes
I won’t emerge the same size...

millions whisper
one word only

millions breathing
one breath only

too quiet to exist
Mmm

millions whisper
one word only...
millions breathing
one breath only...
too quiet to exist
Mmm

Melt in the glory
of not knowing

Comprehend the rift…

as it splits me

The only truth I feel
-is nothing

And the nothing
-feels like art

Feels like art

I feel like art

I might be art

We Are Art

Rift…
We live 
In the rift

We live in the rift

------------




stoned at the art museum (what lives in the rift?)

SINCERE IMPOSTER is an intimate collection of artists exploring a curious mixture of New Wave, Dance, EDM, Folk Rock, Metal, Art Pop, Electro, Dreamwave, and Experimental World Pop. Collectively, this is known as QUIRKPOP — music that pushes the creative limits of traditional pop.

Expect an unpredictable journey through sound, emotion, and humor, where genres collide and pop bends in strange new ways. Each song is conceived, composed, and performed with total sincerity, whether it’s built from voices, instruments, software, or hybrid experimentation. The focus is on the music itself: if it resonates, it resonates. No explanation required.

SINCERE IMPOSTER is curated by two musicians, both living within the same body, sharing a singular existence. They identify as Danielle & Dave. They are both psychologically and musically confused, yet extremely and unapologetically sincere.

Influences range from Weird Al and Nathan Fielder to David Lynch, Rosalia, Monatik, Atarashii Gakko!, Rammstein, T-Pain, and T-Swift. 

Danielle & Dave’s favorite inventions include the vacuum and the peach pitter. Their father is simply known as Vessel… who may be an entity or a god.


New tracks tagged #Cinematic Electronica