Fly Me to the Moon

Safe And Sound - Byond Bliss

Call Me Maybe

Plastikkarte, Girokarte , Visakarte, Debitkarte, Paybackkarte, 

Frühling der  Senioren

Plastikkarte

Honest Man

No Friends at the Party

🍕 “SOLO PER CLIENTI” — the unofficial Italian summer anthem nobody asked for… but everybody needs. 🇮🇹🚗☀️

Imagine this: a tiny German car, endless winding coastal roads, the smell of fresh lasagna in the summer air… and zero parking. Every single sign screams “SOLO PER CLIENTI” — and our poor heroine? She just wants pizza, mamma mia! 🍝

This French House groove blends soulful male vocals (with a gloriously strong Italian accent), filtered disco synths, deep sidechained basslines, and sun-kissed beats into the ultimate late-afternoon soundtrack. It's smooth, it’s groovy, and it comes with a hint of tiramisu-fueled desperation.

If you’ve ever been hangry on holiday, trapped between Aperol dreams and parking nightmares, this one’s for you. Close your eyes, turn up the volume, and drive straight into Mediterranean chaos.

Warning: This track may cause
🍕 Sudden pizza cravings
🥂 Aperol spritz nostalgia
🚗 Spontaneous shouts of “SOLO PER CLIENTI!”

Perfect for:
🌴 Golden-hour beach drives
🍹 Late-summer balcony parties
🎧 Dancing barefoot with pasta in hand
🇮🇹 Pretending you’re Italian even if you’re not

Lyrics:

She drives a tiny car from Germany,
Through winding roads to the deep blue sea,
Dolce vita dreams, sunglasses on,
But her stomach's empty, mamma mia, she’s done!

Every little street, every little sign,
Says “solo per clienti” — babe, she’s losin’ time!
Pizza in her mind, but no place to stay,
O sole mio, take my hunger away!

Solo per clienti!
No, no, no parcheggio niente!
Solo per clienti!
Pizza, pasta… where’s the entry?
Solo per clienti!
My amore, it’s so tormenti,
Solo per clienti!
O mamma mia… help me, senti! 

She sees a little trattoria by the square,
Smells the fresh lasagna in the summer air,
She parks the car, but a man starts to scream:
“Signorinaaa! This is not what it seems!”

"Bellissima, capisci, non si può…
This parking here — non per te!"
And she sighs, “Okay, okay…
I just want pizza… por favoreee!”

Solo per clienti!
No, no, no parcheggio niente!
Solo per clienti!
Tiramisu is my tormenti!
Solo per clienti!
Maccheroni… sentimenti,
Solo per clienti!
O mamma mia… hungry belly! 

Drive, drive, drive…
Past the beach and wine,
One day, somehow…
She’ll find that sign:
“Benvenuti… clienti tutti!”

Solo Per Clienti (French House Version)

I dont wanna be ur girlfriend

Ever wondered what happens when chillwave takes a vacation in Rio and accidentally drinks the forbidden dairy?

Yeah. This track.

Picture this:
It’s midnight. The moon is bored. The meadow is doing ASMR.
Suddenly a goose shows up wearing sunglasses like it’s auditioning for a 90s shampoo commercial.
And then? Buddy… then the sky opens like a cosmic fondue fountain and everything goes full mozzarella-matrix.

You’ve got parmesan breezes.
Nebulae made of melted cheddar.
Philosophical geese honking life advice like lactose-intolerant gurus:
“Follow your dreams… and also the cheese.”

By the time the saxophone (that does not exist) kicks in, gravity has left the chat and you’re spiritually surfing mozzarella seas like a dairy-powered Aquaman.
Your inner child is laughing.
Your outer adult is asking:
“Wait… what did I just hear?”
And the geese simply whisper:
“ssssssssssssss”
because they’re dramatic like that.

This track is chillwave.
This track is samba.
This track is cosmic dairy hallucination therapy.

Press play.
Lose grip on reality.
Become one with the cheese. 🧀🪐🫡

Lyrics:

Midnight in the meadow and the moon looks bored,
Grass whispers secrets that no one stored.
A goose taps rhythm on a rusted wheel,
Like, “Wake up human, let’s keep it unreal.”

Clouds drip neon like a sour cream sky,
Stars blink twice like they’re asking “why?”
I hear the flock honk philosophy, please —
They say nothing’s deeper than forbidden cheese.

These geese dream of these cheese—ssssssssssssss
surfing through the galaxies on mozzarella seas,
zooming through the nebula on melted-cheddar skis,
sliding through the starlight on a parmesan breeze.

One goose wears sunglasses after midnight,
Claims he saw God in a fridge light.
Another holds a map made of breadcrumb dust,
Says “follow me, bro, in cheese we trust.”

The wind tastes faintly like fondue rain,
Reality cracks like a windowpane.
I ask my brain “are we normal, please?”
My brain: “Nope. Follow the geese and the cheese.”

These geese dream of these cheese—ssssssssssssss
surfing through the galaxies on mozzarella seas,
zooming through the nebula on melted-cheddar skis,
sliding through the starlight on a parmesan breeze.

Feathered prophets in a cosmic row,
Honk so loud that the comets glow.
One turns to me with a dairy grin:
“Kid, the universe melts from the outside in.”

Gravity flickers, the sky unzips —
A cheddar moon drips onto my lips.
I whisper “is this madness?” They whisper “yes please.”
Then they rise like saints of celestial cheese.

These geese dream of these cheese—ssssssssssssss
surfing through the galaxies on mozzarella seas,
zooming through the nebula on melted-cheddar skis,
sliding through the starlight on a parmesan breeze.

These geese dream of these cheese—ssssssssssssss
floating past eternity with dairy expertise,
honking out wisdom like lactose MCs,
riding every sunrise in buttery reprise.

These Geese

Ever wondered what happens when indie rock panic meets post-punk denial and jangle-pop optimism?

Well… this track answers it:

👉 A person literally baking a cake during a fire alarm.

The whole world outside is going full “Doom & Gloom: Live Edition” —
sirens crying, neighbours screaming, smoke creeping under the door —
and our hero is standing there like:

“Yeah yeah, apocalypse, whatever — the crust needs two more minutes.”

This song is basically the spiritual successor of:

“This is fine.”

“I’ll panic later, I’m busy.”

“If the roof falls, at least the frosting slaps.”

It’s the anthem for anyone who has ever ignored a real problem
because something in the oven was at a critical emotional moment.

Expect:
🥁 jangle guitars that sound like your smoke detector having an existential crisis
🎸 indie-rock riffs that slap harder than the collapsing ceiling
🔥 post-punk energy that whispers: “buddy… you’re not okay, but the cake is”
🍰 and a level of chaotic calmness that should not legally be allowed

If the world ever burns again (give it 48 hours),
blast this track, grab a whisk,
and remember:

WORRY NEVER BAKED A THING.

Lyrics:

While the world was burning,
I was checking the oven light.
Everybody ran outside,
I just wanted the crust right.
Sirens screaming in the streets,
and I'm measuring flour like it’s peace.
Smoke is leaking under every door,
but hey — the batter needs a little more.

Maybe I should worry,
but worry never baked a thing.
Maybe I should hurry,
but hurry never made it sing.

So I’m baking a cake in a fire alarm,
with the kitchen shaking like it means me harm.
All the neighbours shout that I should escape,
but the timer’s ticking — sorry, no break.
If the world goes down, I’ll still stay calm,
mixing sugar in a natural charm.
Yeah, the roof might drop, but the taste’s divine —
let the flames go crazy, the cake’s still mine.

The smoke turned into dancing ghosts,
cheering for the butter I added most.
Someone knocked and yelled: “Get out!”
But the batter rose — so I stayed devout.
There’s chaos on the news tonight,
but I’m beating eggs like I’m ready to fight.
Ash is falling like confetti rain,
and I’m greasing the pan to stay sane.

Maybe it looks foolish,
but foolish keeps me whole.
If life’s a burning building,
I’ll frost it with control.

So I’m baking a cake in a fire alarm,
with the kitchen shaking like it means me harm.
All the neighbours shout that I should escape,
but the timer’s ticking — sorry, no break.
If the world goes down, I’ll still stay calm,
mixing sugar in a natural charm.
Yeah, the roof might fall, but the taste’s divine —
let the flames go crazy, the cake’s still mine.

Let the ashes fall, let the headlines scream —
I’ll stir the chaos into whipped-cream dreams.
If everything crumbles and nothing survives,
I’ll still bake sweetness into bitter lives.

So I’m baking a cake in a fire alarm,
with the world collapsing like it means me harm.
Everyone’s running but I stay in place —
there’s magic rising in this metal case.
If the night goes dark, I’ll still stay warm —
in a kitchen storm, in a sugar-storm.
Yeah, the city can crumble, the sirens can whine —
I’ll be here baking —
the cake is mine.

Baking a Cake in a Fire Alarm

VIVOS 25

La calma es solo una pausa entre dos tormentas LIVE

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!

These Geese

Unbekannter Künstler

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