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.

Girl on the Wire (B-Side)

God Machine (B-Side)

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

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.

New tracks tagged #seductive