Of course, once a week, because we are civilized Austrians, we walk these two and a half miserable minutes there, and two and a half miserable minutes back, carrying our empty glass, our conscience, and our existence in our hand, as if we were part of some state-enforced ritual of absolute idiocy.

And naturally, we always walk the same block, past the same crooked houses, past the same decaying gardens, past the same neighbor with the same dog that shits on the same patch of grass every single day, and we think,
"Maybe today will be different,"
but of course it never is.

Because there we are, standing in front of this concrete monstrosity of a recycling container, this hideous state-sanctioned monument to environmental virtue, and we drop it.
We drop the glass.

CLIRR!
— and for a second we think, perhaps this is freedom,
but then WHOMP!,
and we realize nothing has changed.
Not the street.
Not the block.
Not us.

And this absurdity, this infinite repetition of useless gestures, this Austrian glass-throwing Gesamtkunstwerk, we have now transformed into a song, because of course we did, because what else is there to do in this land of eternal Sundays, where everything stands still except the seasons, where the glass is always empty and the street is always full of ghosts.

So here it is:
An Indie Rock x Jangle Pop x Post-Punk exorcism of your weekly recycling despair.
A jangly hymn to pointless routines.
An anthem for everyone who ever wondered if throwing glass away is secretly the Austrian national sport.

Listen loudly.
Hate quietly.
Drop it — CLIRR!
Glass goes down — WHOMP!
Your life doesn’t change.

But at least the bassline slaps.

Lyrics:

One afternoon a week…
Two and a half minutes there,
Two and a half back.
The block, the walk,
The ritual begins.

Step by step, slow pace,
Empty glass in my hand, no chase.
Brain’s awake, but time’s on mute,
The street’s a loop, the thoughts reboot.

Last time — a red car passed,
Last time — her shadow crossed so fast,
Same street, same frame,
Different story, same game.

I hear the city breathe,
I feel the seasons shift,
But one thing stays,
One thing stays…

Drop it — CLIRR!
Glass goes down — WHOMP!
Same old block, same old sound,
Drop it — CLIRR!
Glass goes down — WHOMP!
This is my ceremony ground!

Summer sweat on a cruel hot day,
Autumn breeze takes the heat away.
Winter coat, wool hat, thick glove,
Spring wakes up the street I love.

Every season paints the same routine,
But inside my head, it’s a movie scene.
Different faces, same concrete,
Glass in my hand, history on repeat.

Frames in motion…
Memories collide…
I see me walking,
I see me passing by…
Every step,
Every sound,
Everything changes —
Except…

Drop it — CLIRR!
Glass goes down — WHOMP!
Same old block, same old sound,
Drop it — CLIRR!
Glass goes down — WHOMP!
This is my ceremony ground!

…and the glass hits bottom.

Glass Container Ceremony

⚡️ Meet Veronica — Electronica ⚡️

Forget Bruce Springsteen’s “The Boss” — the real boss is 5'1", Hungarian, and currently rebooting your router. This is not your average indie rock anthem. This is jangle-pop electricity with post-punk caffeine, where traffic lights dance the cha-cha and pigeons provide the backing vocals (poor things didn’t even sign the contract).

Imagine The Strokes got locked in a Budapest basement with a synth, a harmonica, and a suspicious amount of palinka. Now add a red-haired hacker-queen who can shut down Netflix with a single wink — and you’ve got the vibe.

🎸 Expect jangly guitars that sparkle like streetlights on a Friday night.
🥁 Expect rhythms tight enough to reset your Wi-Fi password.
📡 Expect the moment when your toaster glows in 4/4 and you don’t even mind.

Veronica doesn’t just drop the beat. She drops the entire electricity grid — stylishly, chaotically, and always with a mischievous grin.

So plug in, power up, and pray your TV survives the chorus:
Veronica — Electronica!

Lyrics:

“System online…
Power: Veronica…
Activating… Electronica!”

Little Vera from Budapest street,
Five foot one, but she runs the beat,
One big click — BOOM, lights go down,
She’s the neon queen of this crazy town.

Push the button, Wi-Fi’s gone,
Switch it back and the bass goes on,
Traffic lights flash red to green,
Veronica’s dance, the ultimate scene!

Power surge through telephone lines,
Every cable moves in funky designs,
Neighbors shout, “Who killed my TV?”
Vera winks: “Baby, that was me.”

Veronica — Electronica!
Short girl shockwave, super harmonica,
Streetlights flashing to the beat — cha-cha!
Veronica — Electronica! 

Coffee machines start pouring slow,
Every toaster begins to glow,
The city hums like a synth-bass drum,
She owns the grid — resistance: none.

Drones in the sky make a techno loop,
Car alarms singing, pigeons go “whoop!”
From La Calera down to Pest,
Veronica’s Wi-Fi rules the rest.

Lasers firing over town,
Elevators go up, down, up, down,
She hacks the vibe, controls the flow,
Hungarian magic — watch her glow!

Veronica — Electronica!
Short girl shockwave, super harmonica,
Streetlights flashing to the beat — cha-cha!
Veronica — Electronica! 

“Left light, right light…
All night, streetlight…
Veronica… Electronica…”

Veronica — Electronica!
Party on fire, city’s harmonica,
Pulse of the night in every wire,
Veronica — Electronica!

Veronica Electronica (Indie Rock Version)

Think of this as a caffeinated elegy: you, a sticky glass of cola, and the world’s longest ten-second existential crisis — played with jangly guitars, a sneer of post-punk, and a heart that forgot its lines. Perfect for mornings that feel like a badly timed replay and nights when you’re trying to remember why you left the house in the first place. 🥤⏰

If you like your melancholy with a rim of sugar and a chorus that hums like a clock stuck between shrug and breakdown, this one’s for you. Walk out of your flat, stand in the drizzle, pretend you’re in a noir film, and accidentally start a singalong nobody asked for.

Press play, sip something fizzy, and ask the important questions: will this moment matter, or will it just fizzle out like bad cola? If you like what you hear, tell someone — or don’t. We won’t name the napkin. 🎸✨

Lyrics:

It's 10:04, I checked the clock again
One hand moves while I remain
Empty chairs and silver spoons
Muted echoes in this quiet saloon
The tiles still smell of yesterday's bread
But no one's here, just me instead
An older woman gave this glass
Coca-Cola fizzing like the past
She vanished to the desk again
While I watched in like I might offend
Every tick is merciless
This hour won't stop to care, I guess
I'm the only soul at this morning show
Sip in silence, letting go

And I sip on my cola drink, let my thoughts sink
Why am I feeling sad and what is this life about? How to find out?
How to find out?
And I sip on my cola drink as the minutes blink
Will this moment matter or will it just burn out?
How to find out? How to find out?

The labels are in a foreign script
And I can't ask what I've just sipped
The floor is clean, the light is soft
Yet something heavy won't come off
Behind the glass, she checks the phone
I wonder if she feels alone
I think of all the things I've lost
And how each joy has had its cost
This taste, this place, this quiet bar
Will fade like faces in a passing car
No trumpet sounds, no final clue
Just time that swallows me and you
Each weekday morning looks the same
But none of them will get a name

And I sip on my cola drink, let my thoughts sink
Why am I feeling sad and what is this life about? How to find out?
How to find out?
And I sip on my cola drink as the minutes blink
Will this moment matter or will it just burn out?
How to find out? How to find out?

9 o'clock was a second ago
11 is breathing down my neck
Days fold like napkins
Weeks vanish like steam
And one day this room will be dust
And I won't even know what I forgot

And I sip on my cola drink, let my thoughts sink
Why am I feeling sad and what is this life about? How to find out?
How to find out?
And I sip on my cola drink, let my thoughts sink
Why am I feeling sad and what is this life about? How to find out?
How to find out?
And I sip on my cola drink as the world shrinks
No one will remember, not even me, no doubt
How to find out?

Coca Cola (Indie Rock Version)

Imagine walking into the Department of Love like it’s a Monday at the DMV — except instead of a ticket number, you’re handed a disco ball and a stack of bureaucratic heartbreak forms. That’s basically this track.

Originally a smooth dancefloor banger, it has now been re-filed under indie rock / jangle pop / post-punk: guitars with too much coffee, vocals that sound like they ironed their shirt in the dark, and a rhythm section that may or may not be employed by Section 8 of Cupid’s office.

It’s about love applications gone wrong, tear-drops that won’t pass quality control, and the eternal truth that sometimes the only approved document is a selfie with a pug meme. If Franz Kafka had joined The Smiths after a night out at an Italo disco, this would be his HR complaint form set to music.

Play loud, sway too wide, and don’t blink when the chorus stamps you “Not Quite Okay.”

Lyrics:

Filed the form, he wore cologne
Typed his heart on a monochrome
Box five blinked, "Have you felt before?"
He typed, "Yeah, maybe once, not sure"
Passport thick, a moody frame
Backwards glue, he blamed the name
They asked for proof of kissing style
He sent a selfie, took a while

The clerk said, "Filed, your vibe's too great"
Section nine gave you away
He rewrote tales of passion bright
Auto-correct dimmed down the night

The memo said, "Bring joy, not dread"
He showed a meme of a pug instead
They asked for love, deep in the beat
Form B-13 got dancing feet
I once had butterflies in spring
Now I just hum and never cling

Filed for love with mild caffeine
Submitted dreams in a dotted screen
They said my hugs were out of sync
I swayed too wide, I didn't blink

They wanted tears, fresh, full of flair
He sent some drops caught in his hair
"No return" was strict demand
Tears must sparkle, fall on hand
My friend said, "Bro, just fake delight"
He danced in socks under disco light
But still they stamped, "Not quite okay"
Filed as love in the lost display

Form C-3 from pigeon corp
"Do you deserve a warm report?"
He checked, "Maybe", spilled his tea
The box got wet, "Oh, yes, for me"
They asked for love, checked all the marks
But they found gaps between the sparks
I bubble-wrapped my heart with care
They said, "Too fragile, unaware"

Filed for love and danced too late
Now Cupid works for Section 8
I passed the rhythm, missed the flame
They stamped my joy with someone's name

Love delayed

Filed for Love (Indie Rock Version)

Ever had that moment when your phone lights up with the name — the one that still makes your stomach do a confused gymnastics routine — but instead of running off for a secret rendezvous, you’re stuck sipping lukewarm tea at a touristy hotel while your kid dreams of knights and castles? Yeah, this song is exactly that.

It’s indie rock tangled with jangle pop nerves and post-punk excuses: guitars that sparkle like sunlight on a too-white hotel balcony, a bassline that sounds like pacing in flip-flops, and drums that slam shut like a text bubble turning gray.

“Not today, babe” becomes the world’s most melodramatic out-of-office reply — part soap opera, part self-care, part “my WiFi signal is terrible and so is my judgment.” It’s the sound of almost saying yes, but instead writing “maybe next time” while hiding under the covers.

So if you’ve ever dodged an old flame with excuses ranging from mild illness to spiritual unavailability — congratulations, this track is your new national anthem.

Play it loud, dodge responsibly, and remember: not today, babe.

Lyrics: 

Sunny place, old hotel
My boy’s asleep, I’m doing well
A ping, a name I used to know
“You’re nearby?” …whoa-oh-oh

You say, "Let's meet?" — I sip my tea
Look at the sky, not the screen
Got a kid, a mood, a messy head
So I type these words instead

Not today, babe — I’m feelin’ kinda sick
Catchin’ something — must be quick
Leavin’ early — need my bed
(Yeah, I said what I said)

Not today, babe — I’d love to but no
Maybe next time — maybe so
It’s just not right, not tonight
(I’m alright… but not that alright) 

You were fire, I was rain
Now we’re just a weekend train
Could’ve met you near the gate
But I guess I hesitate

My boy dreams of castle kings
While I’m dodging old flame flings
Your name glows, my heart skips
But I send a text with careful lips

Not today, babe — I’m feelin’ kinda weird
Too much sun or too much fear
Leavin’ early — got my ride
(And a little pride to hide)

Not today, babe — oh, timing’s tight
What we had was outta sight
But I’m not that girl, not this week
(Though I miss the way you speak) 

Could’ve been wine and maybe more
But I locked that window, closed that door
Send a kiss through pixel haze
Then I dance the doubt away…

Not today, babe — the signal’s weak
I lost my voice, I cannot speak
Leavin’ early, feelin’ pale
(But you still read every tale)

Not today, babe — you kinda knew
I was tempted, I was too
But the mom in me just smiled
And the girl in me… went wild

Not Today, Babe (Indie Rock Version)

What happens when a philosophy seminar sneaks into a basement club with a dodgy disco ball? You get this track: guitars that argue like old Marxists at a coffeehouse, drums that can’t decide if they’re anxious or euphoric, and a bassline that sounds like it just read too much Kierkegaard.

It’s the sound of sneakers stomping on footnotes, of doubt doing a high-kick, of someone yelling “Die Welt ist kompliziert – aber das hält uns nicht vom Tanzen ab!” while spilling their spritzer. Somewhere between alarm clock and déjà-vu, you’ll find the hook — not absolute truth, just absolute groove.

So put on your existential eyeliner, grab your epistemological beverage of choice, and dance like every thought has a backbeat. Because sometimes the only manifesto worth signing is the one written in reverb.

Lyrics:

„Die Welt ist kompliziert.
Aber das hält uns nicht vom Tanzen ab.“

Sie sagt: „Immer wenn ich was spüre,
wird’s politisch oder schräg.“
Ich sag: „Nicht immer – nur nicht selten,
und das macht’s ja grade zäh.“

Du schaust mich an wie ein Lexikon,
mit Fußnoten in deinen Augen.
Doch meine Wahrheit trägt Sneakers
und will sich endlich mal wieder austoben.

Nicht selten – aber auch nicht immer
Ein bisschen warm, ein bisschen schlimmer
Nicht selten – aber nie ganz klar
Zwischen Alarmglocke und Déjà-vu déjà dar
Nicht selten – doch auch nicht Gesetz
Wir tanzen auf dem Komma, nicht auf’m letzten Vers

Sie sagt: „Die meinen doch alle das Gleiche“
Ich sag: „Ja, vielleicht. Nur nicht gleichzeitig.“
Denn Denken im Takt heißt:
Ein Schritt nach vorn, zwei zurück – aber groovy.

Dein Weltbild zittert im Stroboskop
Zwischen Talkshow und Telegram
Ich sag: „Frag dich leise:
Was wäre, wenn der Zweifel recht haben kann?“

Nicht selten – aber auch nicht immer
Ein Groove aus Gold, ein Zweifel im Schimmer
Nicht selten – doch nie pauschal
Wir tanzen durch’s Denken, fall’n ins Ideal
Nicht selten – kein kategorischer Beat
Nur eine Hook, die sich nicht widerspricht.

„Es ist möglich.
Es ist denkbar.
Es ist kompliziert.
Und das ist wunderschön.“

Nicht selten – aber auch nicht immer
(Mal Licht, mal Flimmer, mal kalter Schimmer)
Nicht selten – und das ist gut so
Denn alles Absolute ist nur Deko.

Nicht selten…
Aber niemals dumm.

Nicht selten, aber auch nicht immer (Indie Rock Version)

Ever feel like Mother Nature is trolling you personally? 🌞❄️ One minute you’re a rotisserie chicken roasting under the sun, the next you’re a frozen TV dinner rattling under three blankets. “Hot Days, Cold Nights” is the anthem for everyone who just wanted a chill 22°C and instead got cosmic whiplash.

It’s sweaty, it’s shivery, it’s sarcastic—like being invited to a sauna and an ice cave in the same calendar day. The guitars sizzle, the drums frostbite, and the vocals land somewhere between weather report and therapy session.

Warning: listening may cause you to laugh at your own suffering and/or apply sunscreen at midnight.

🔥☀️ Hot Days. ❄️🌙 Cold Nights. Balance? Never heard of her.

Lyrics:

Wake up drenched, a human soup,
Daylight cooks you, skin’s the proof.
Step outside, it’s a solar crime,
Smile for the burn, you’ll be fine.

Fast-forward to night, what a joke,
Fingers numb, your laughter broke.
Blankets pile, still no win,
Hot or cold—pick your sin.

Hot Days, Cold Nights – Sun Sights – Flickering Lights
Boil or shake – stay alive or break.

Day is lava, night’s a morgue,
Body’s a seesaw, spine’s the board.
Sweat or shiver, no middle ground,
Nature laughs, you’re her clown.

From sauna to freezer in twelve short hours,
Balance? Please. She stripped that power.
It’s cosmic roulette, skin or bone,
Either you’re scorched or you turn to stone.

Hot Days, Cold Nights – Sun Sights – Flickering Lights
Boil or shake – stay alive or break.

No calm, no middle, no room to breathe,
Just burn or freeze, just rot or seethe.
Irony’s sharp, like a knife in the air—
Extremes are the trend, and balance is rare.

Hot Days, Cold Nights – Sun Sights – Flickering Lights
Boil or shake – stay alive or break.

Climate Roulette

Energetic Ukrainian indie punk for your wild mood!

ЗА ВІКНОМ

СУКО НЕ СПИ

Energetic Ukrainian indie-punk for your wild mood!

ПІВ ЇБАЛА

МИ ГУРТ И І НАМ ВСЕ ДО ПИЗДИ

Hi there — welcome to my corner of the web.

I’m here for one simple reason: to share my music with you.
Take a listen, explore, and I hope something here resonates with you. Enjoy the vibe!

New tracks tagged #PostPunkRevival