Bought our tix for UMBC/Baltimore, Maryland — Chesapeake Employers Insurance Arena, June 14, 2026. Saw you there before.

New in Alternative

All Washed Up

Bad Blood

Welcome to My Blue Sky

Not Sacred

The Burning of Cork

Shot In The Dark

Visions

Cruel Intentions

God Owes Me Money

I Don't Want to Get Over You

Get It Together

A Kiss From A Mother

Guns In Their Hands

MOLLY

AVTT/PTTN

Dark Night of My Soul

White Keys

(((((ultraSOUND)))))

Hula Girl

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.

God Machine (B-Side)

"..and suddenly he brought down his bow, ripping away from the gentle caressing music of Chopin into the strong full melodies of Bartók’s Concerto for Violin, playing both orchestra lines and the violin lines in a torrent of wild, dissonant agonized notes. He saw nothing suddenly, though he knew the crowd had thickened and no music answered him from the keyboard of Sybelle. But this was his heart, his song now, as he plunged deeper and deeper into the Bartók, his tempo speeding up, becoming almost inhuman, as on and on he went. His soul sang with the music. It became his own melodies and glissandi as his thoughts sang with it. But soon his words were lost, he was no longer thinking in words or syllables but only in the music, only in the throbbing notes. He was swaying wildly as he played. He no longer cared whether or not he looked or sounded human, and deep in his heart he was aware that if he were to die now, he would not revolt against it, not with any molecule of his being, because the death sentence would come upon him by his own hand and for what he truly was. This music was what he truly was. Silence."

Antoine in "Prince Lestat", Anne Rice 

Dark Night of My Soul

The Avett Brothers

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