🔥 All killer, no filler.
The biggest tracks. The hottest songs. Non-stop hits.
Whether you're working, driving, or dancing, these are the songs everyone’s talking about.

Top Hits Only — play loud, skip nothing.

Top Hits Only

🎸 "Guitars & Ghosted Texts" – An Indie Rock Survival Kit
Welcome to the sonic diary of every over-thinker who fell in love with a stranger’s eyeliner and never emotionally recovered. This playlist jangles harder than your nerves on a Sunday hangover and punches post-punk holes into your fragile sense of closure.

🍷 Expect shimmering guitar riffs, existential basslines, and vocals that sound like someone just got dumped via fax. It’s like falling in love in a vintage bookstore and getting ghosted at the zine rack.

🖤 Mood:
• Brooding, but make it stylish
• Romantic collapse, but in rhythm
• Dancing alone in your kitchen while judging your own Spotify Wrapped

👢 For fans of:
– People who say “I’m fine” but mean “I’ve memorized your gig schedule”
– Leather jackets in July
– Late-night philosophical debates with a cat

Press play. Regret nothing. Except that haircut in 2013.

Indie Rock Playlist - Unbekannter Künstler

uttly

Stick Season

Medusa

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,
One eye watching like I might offend.

Every tick is mercyless,
This hour won’t stop to care or guess.
I’m the only soul at this morning show,
Sipping 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?

9:00 was a second ago,
11:00 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 — as the world shrinks —
No one will remember, not even me — no doubt.
How to find out? How to find out?

Coca Cola

Midnight on the dashboard glow
Empty streets, nowhere to go
Heart’s a map with no clear sign
Just the hum of tires and wasted time
Pulled to the curb where memories burn
A flash of heat, a cold return
Sky breaks open, crying loud
Heavy drops like a ghosted crowd

And the radio bleeds, just my luck
Tony’s voice like a haunting touch
"Another sad love song"... oh God—
Right when I thought I’d had enough

Rain on the roof — boom boom boom
Tears in the beat — doom doom doom
Sad love song — all too soon
Can't dance this feeling out the room

Windows fog like breath on glass
Clock hands tick but never pass
Thought I was numb, but I still feel
Every chorus cutting real
Echoes echo what I hide
Lonely's louder from inside
The night’s a mirror, cracked and wide
I’m just the shadow in the driver's side

And the world don’t pause, it spins and stings
While the saddest song just softly rings
She’s gone, I’m here, and this heart sings—
But only in minor keys

Rain on the roof — boom boom boom
Tears in the beat — doom doom doom
Sad love song — all too soon
Can't dance this feeling out the room

I didn’t ask the sky to weep
Didn’t ask the song to cut so deep
But here I am, a broken beat
In a world that won’t skip, won’t repeat

Rain on the roof — boom boom boom
Tears in the beat — doom doom doom
Sad love song — all too soon
Can't dance this feeling out the room

Another Sad Jazz Song

No chase, no games, I’m done with that
Heart on chill, I like where I’m at
Dim the lights, pour the wine
If it’s real, it comes in time

No texts, no double taps
No decoding love from zodiac apps
I’m not lost, I’m just free
If you want me, you know where I’ll be

I won’t beg, I won’t plead
Don’t need love on dirty knees
If it burns, let it fade
I’m not here to be remade

🔥 You can’t force love — it don’t obey
It don’t arrive ‘cause you begged it to stay
I’m at home, looking fine, feeling lit
If you want me, baby, come commit!
I’ll open the door — no push, no shove
Come correct if you call it love 🔥

I dance alone in my own glow
Don’t need a plus-one to steal the show
No more wishes on falling stars
Just good music and unlocked hearts

Yeah I’m rare, like Friday night peace
Don’t mistake silence for a heart on lease
I’m not hiding, I’m just high
On life, on vibes, on my own supply

🔥 You can’t force love — it don’t obey
It don’t arrive ‘cause you begged it to stay
I’m at home, looking fine, feeling lit
If you want me, baby, come commit!
I’ll open the door — no push, no shove
Come correct if you call it love 🔥

Can't Force Love (Deep House Version)

I opened the door — did I even think?
Of stories carved in every link?
Or was I just cold, or tired, or numb,
Dreaming of silence, a bed to succumb?
A nice old carpet, soft and proud,
Long halls where whispers aren’t too loud.
Each door I passed could hold a tale,
But only silence marked the trail.

No footsteps, no voices, no clinking plates,
Just time standing still behind the gates.
Born in peace, yet built on ash —
You breathed in slow, with quiet flash.

🎶 1922 — and winter’s at the door,
He doesn’t knock, he’s heard before.
With leaves still clinging, cold and thin,
And something strange beneath the skin.
1922 — I felt your spine,
Old wooden bones in fading shine.
I came for sleep, I stayed for lore —
1922, with winter at the door. 🎶

Rapallo ink still wet with trust,
And Walther fell into the dust.
Insulin saved, the Irish cried,
While quiet hands built you with pride.
Mussolini rose, raw goods ran dry,
But still you reached toward the sky.
Brick by brick, you took your stand,
A shelter shaped by human hand.

What did I want? A pillow, a prayer?
Just steam on glass and cleaner air?
But I found a century dressed in dust,
And walls that whisper: “feel, don’t trust.”

🎶 1922 — and winter’s at the door,
He waits like he has waited before.
A suitcase packed with frost and light,
And stories hidden from the night.
1922 — you held me tight,
Through autumn’s end and morning white.
And when I left, I knew much more —
1922, with winter at the door. 🎶

It was a sunny morning. But cold.
He stood there.
Winter.
Not unkind. Not loud.
With surprises in his bag.
But spring came,
and one by one...
they melted.
And in the summer… they were gone.

1922 (Deep House Version)

I was there...
Vienna. Nußwaldgasse.
A small room, a narrow bed,
and silence — so thick you’d choke if you tried to breathe it.
Dust floated like memories refusing to settle.
And in the center of it all:
Karl Pekarna.
Not broken. Just… slowed.
But his eyes — they still moved like keepers do.
Fast. Sharp. Remembering everything.

He flew once — high and far,
From Vienna to Glasgow, chasing a star.
First football legionnaire from the European mainland,
A goalkeeper of steel with velvet hands.
They called my name in foreign tongues,
Between the chants, between the drums.
I caught the world in leather palms,
And held the line with quiet psalms.

🎵 Over the lines, through wind and rain,
First from the mainland, crossing the lane.
The football legionnaire, blazing the way,
But glory fades — and skies turn gray.
They cheered my name, they wrote it in gold,
Now I grow quiet, now I grow old.
Still I breathe, still I burn,
Still I wait for one return...
Still I wait... 🎵

Some came to visit, from Vienna, the Sportclub…
Even boys too young to have seen me play.
They remembered.
But not Slovan.
I gave them my last match. They gave me nothing.
Still —
I smiled.
Because the game gave me more than it took.
Most days.

My right leg walks. My left hand won’t.
But my eyes still scan the pitch, still count.
The war came late, the bombs came loud,
And I sat through it all, proud in the crowd.

🎵 Over the lines, through wind and rain,
First from the mainland, crossing the lane.
The football legionnaire, blazing the way,
But glory fades — and skies turn gray.
They cheered my name, they wrote it in gold,
Now I grow quiet, now I grow old.
Still I breathe, still I burn,
Still I wait for one return...
Still I wait... 🎵

When winter came, it took its toll,
No fire, no food, no healing soul.
He sat alone in war-torn stone,
A king without a crown, a house, a throne.
On January’s twenty-third, the silence won —
And Karl went out like a setting sun.
Not with thunder, not with light,
But like a keeper in the fading night.

🎵 Still I breathe, still I burn,
Still I wait for one return...
Still I wait... 🎵

Karl Pekarna (Deep House)

yellowstone (holding you)

🎧 Track: Blonde in the Blackburn Shirt
Genre: Indie Rock × Jangle Pop × Post-Punk
Mood: Melancholisch • Ironisch • Bittersweet • Literarisch
Tempo: Midtempo (~90–100 BPM)

A jangly, bittersweet tribute to the kind of girl who breaks you with nothing but a glance and a football shirt.

Glittering guitar riffs collide with dry, punchy drums and a melodic bassline straight out of an 80s UK indie B-side. Baritone vocals trace a poetic obsession — a blonde phantom in the home stand, wearing Lewis Travis' number like it’s stitched to your fate.

This is romantic melancholy in floodlight blue, built from chip-shop queues, cider nights, and the existential loneliness of chanting for love that never turns around.

📍 Inspired by outsider culture, matchday myths, and the beautiful futility of wanting what won’t wave back.

“She don’t wave, she don’t flirt — but she’s killing me in that shirt.”

Lyrics:

Queued for chips — she skipped the line
Smiled like sin, boots laced fine
Ponytail snapped like a crossbar kiss
Blonde flash in a working-class myth

She don’t cheer — she testifies
When Travis scores, she doesn’t sigh
I mouth the chants, but I’m not there
I’m tangled in the flood of her hair

She’s got strut like floodlights hum
Late game chill — I come undone
27 stitched to her back
And I collapse — straight through the cracks

Blonde in the Blackburn shirt — oh God
Moves like regret in a hometown fog
She don’t wave, she don’t flirt
Still, she ruins me in that shirt

Blonde in the Ewood row — so close
I’m two seats deep in silent hope
She’s got poise, she’s got verve
Blonde in the shirt — more than I deserve

Burger van smoke, her voice cuts clean
Curses fouls like a matchday queen
“Southern ref’s a joke,” she says
Still flawless in that cheap terrace haze

I saw her tagged in someone’s snap
Pub light, chant night, cider laugh
She’s not a dream, she’s pitch and breath
And I’m a poet choking on regret

She don’t pose, she don’t play
Just shatters hearts each Saturday
Number 27, pride and curse
And I’m the first… to write this verse

Blonde in the Blackburn shirt — oh God
Moves like a sigh in a packed old sod
She don’t wave, she don’t flirt
But I’d trade my soul for that shirt

Blonde in the Ewood glare — no lie
She’s pure midwinter in July
She’s got grace, she’s got nerve
Blonde in the shirt — more than I deserve

She’s not famous — not online
But she walks like clockwork misaligned
Every lad writes her name in chalk
She don’t reply — she just walks

Blonde in the Blackburn shirt — oh yeah!
Burns like a flare in the match-day air
She don’t wave, she don’t flirt
But she’s breaking blood in that shirt

Blonde in the home stand crush — so near
I’d buy a scarf just to breathe her sphere
She’s got rhythm, she’s got nerve
Blonde in the shirt — more than I deserve

Blonde in the shirt…
She don’t know…
She just hurts…

Blonde in the Blackburn Shirt

🎧 Track: Love Won’t Pack Its Things
Genre: Indie Rock × Jangle Pop × Post-Punk
Mood: Bittersweet • Melancholic • Ironically Devastated
Tempo: Midtempo (~92 BPM)

A jangly, melancholic anthem for anyone still haunted by love that overstayed its welcome. “Love Won’t Leave” wraps emotional devastation in melodic wit — bittersweet verses sharpened by baritone deadpan, set against glimmering guitar lines, melodic bass runs, and dry, punchy drums.

The lyrics cut deep with poetic irony: a year has passed, but love lingers like damp in the walls. This is the sound of trying to exorcise a ghost with your record collection, kissing doppelgängers, and burning the bed just to feel something new — only to wake up whispering the same name.

“You killed the spark, then walked away / But love won’t leave. It loves to stay.”

📍Best played loud at midnight with headphones and too much

Lyrics:

It’s been a year — I counted twice
Still flinch at kindness, still pay the price
You slammed the door, I wrote a song
You moved on fast — I moved on… wrong

You had a glare that peeled paint off the wall
A voice like frostbite, and no heart at all
But here I sit with your ghost in my head
Love won’t leave, though it’s better off dead

Love won’t pack its things and go
I beg, I plead — but it says no
I burned your pictures, blocked your name
Still wake up whispering just the same
It’s not fair — and it’s not kind
To trap my heart and rob my mind
You were a mess — you made me pay
But love won’t leave. It wants to stay

I kissed someone with your shade of hair
Felt nothing much — just stale despair
I list your crimes like shopping lists
But longing edits every twist

I screamed you out through post-punk songs
Played jangle chords all autumn long
Still, some nights — you're just there somehow
Like damp that rises through the now

Love won’t pack its things and go
No matter how I tell it so
I changed the locks, I burned the bed
Still dream of you inside my head
You were a storm — a flash, a curse
But silence now is even worse
You killed the spark, then walked away
But love won’t leave. It loves to stay

I paint you cruel in every scene
I write you out — still you're between
The lines I cross, the friends I lose
The songs I write. The lives I bruise

Love won’t pack its things and go
I talk in echoes, move too slow
You’re not the one I need today
But love just won’t get out the way
I want release — I beg, I pray
But love’s a squatter. And it won’t pay

Love Won’t Pack Its Things

🎧 Riding My Bicycle
Indie Rock × Jangle Pop × Post-Punk
🕰️ ~92 BPM · 🎹 Key of E Major · 🎸 Melancholic • Bright • Ironically Isolated

A jangly ode to weekday melancholy in full sunlight. "Riding My Bicycle" captures the existential emptiness of post-work hours with glimmering guitars, melodic basslines, and dry, baritone vocals.

The sun’s still high — like it’s mocking you — and the only thing moving is your creaking bike and a mind replaying quiet disappointments. Garden hoses hiss, phones stay silent, and the half-empty street mirrors a half-empty self.

✨ Think:
– Sparkling, bittersweet guitar lines
– Rhythmic nostalgia à la early 80s UK underground
– Lyrical loneliness with melodic irony

📝 “Sun still shining / like it’s in on the hurt.”

Lyrics:

Clock-out click and the air stands still
My shirt sticks like a guilty thrill
The bike creaks low as I push away
Another wasted, whisper-grey day

Nobody waved when I left the door
Nobody waits on my second floor

Riding my bicycle / on a weekday home from work
Sun still shining / like it’s in on the hurt
No one waiting, nowhere to be
Just me and the heat and a half-empty street

Garden hoses hiss like snakes in dreams
The world pretends it’s what it seems
But every house with lights inside
Just echoes back my quiet ride

I check my phone like it might care
Then put it back — there’s nothing there

Riding my bicycle / on a weekday home from work
Sun still shining / like it’s in on the hurt
No one waiting, nowhere to be
Just me and the heat and a half-empty street

Tomorrow’s forecast: more of the same
A quiet commute, a forgotten name
TV glow and a fork on a plate
Dinner for one never tastes that great

Riding my bicycle / on a weekday home from work
Sun still shining / like it’s in on the hurt
No one waiting, nowhere to be
Just me and the heat and a half-empty street

Half-empty street...
Half-empty me...
Half of a life
in full daylight grief...

Riding My Bicycle

🎸 Genre: Indie Rock × Jangle Pop × Post-Punk
🎚️ ~92 BPM • Key: E Major
🌞 Mood: Desperate Daylight • Groovy Dignity • Melodic Collapse

After slipping through sweaty dancefloors in the Electro and Dub versions, “Can’t Forget Me” is now back — washed, ironed, and dressed in vintage denim for the official Pop version.

This one’s got jangly guitars, melodic ghosts, and the kind of bassline that shows up at 3 AM asking if you’ve “maybe thought about us lately.”

👻 Are you over it? Sure.
🍝 Your pasta says otherwise.
🎥 Just a movie? Nah — I'm the damn soundtrack.

Whether you're chopping onions or your feelings — this version grooves.
Lali lalala... yeah, we know. You're “fine.” 😉

Lyrics:

Steam on the glass, pasta gone cold,
Rush-hour hearts and deadlines unfold.
But when the silence slides in smooth,
You walk back in — like a midnight groove.

Eyes shut tight, but the flash runs deep,
Laugh on repeat, no time for sleep.
We bent with joy, broke into flame,
Now you're back — whispering my name.

Lali lalala… can’t forget me… hahaha.
Still in your rhythm, still in your skin,
I’m the pulse you feel within.
Lali lalala… still not free… nah nah nah.
You spin in clubs, I slip right in —
Like perfume, thought, or original sin.

Neon drinks, new faces, play —
You danced the noise, you moved the day.
But I’m the glitch in your perfect scene,
The backbeat ghost on the silver screen.

Chop your food, pour your wine,
I'm that voice between the lines.
The laugh that kicks behind your smile,
You knew I'd come — I’ve got that style.

Lali lalala… can’t forget me… hahaha.
Still in your rhythm, still in your fire,
I’m the loop that won't expire.
Lali lalala… still not free… nah nah nah.
You dance to forget, but darling — hey,
I’m the beat that makes you stay.

You moved on? Nah — that’s cute.
I'm in the bass drop, in your route.
You hit rewind, I glide right through,
Just a groove... stuck to you.
"Enjoy…" (echo echo)
"Just a movie?" — Nah. I'm the view.

Lali lalala… can’t forget me… hahaha.
Laugh lines fade, but I still bite,
Groove with me — just one more night.
Lali lalala… still not free… nah nah nah.
Not a ghost — just a bassline mind,
And baby, I’m the dancing kind.

Can't Forget Me (Pop Version)

🎧 Track: Hungarian Britpop on the Rise
🎸 Genre: Indie Rock × Jangle Pop × Post-Punk
🕰️ ~92 BPM · 🎹 Key: E Major
🎭 Mood: Melancholic • Grey • Nationally Poetic • Ironically Catchy

What do you get when you mix overcast skies, secondhand shoes, and a bitter nostalgia for Friday that never came? You getHungarian Britpop on the Rise — a melancholic midtempo anthem for anyone who's ever waited for a tram that didn’t stop, or a future that forgot your name.

Starting with cold coffee and Keleti train station blues, this bilingual daydream spins through Budapest’s crumbling poetry and post-socialist sarcasm — in Hungarian verses that stare into puddles and English choruses that jangle like Morrissey after two Unicum shots.

The guitars? Sparkling and passive-aggressive.
The bassline? Moody with a hint of paprika.
The vocals? Baritone and bar-tab overdue.

💬 “We sing in shoes we can’t afford / With hearts that beat like minor chords.”
Yes. Yes we do.

Perfect for:
– Walking the Nagykörút with no destination
– Crying in a discount grocery store
– Feeling emotionally ambushed by British guitar on Hungarian radio

So grab your raincoat (preferably yellow), whisper a political complaint into the fog, and press play.
Because some anthems don’t rise — they trudge proudly through puddles.

⚠️ Side effects may include: unplanned nostalgia, ironic foot-tapping, and brief, beautiful flashes of national poetic dignity.

Lyrics:

A Keleti peron hideg volt ma
Egy kávé, két perc, és a csend szól haza
Az emberek néznek, de senki sem lát
Minden arc egy másik hibás világ

A zsebem mély, de nincsen pénz
Csak egy régi sláger, ami bennem ég
A bolt előtt kutyák nyújtóznak
És a remény már csak árnyékban lak

A rádióban brit gitár
De az eső nem kér, csak megvár
A múlt dalol, a jövő vak
És én csak állok, mint egy parkban hagyott plakát

Grey skies… Naughty flies…
And Hungarian Britpop on the rise
We sing in shoes we can’t afford
With hearts that beat like minor chords
Oh Budapest, you almost shine —
With just enough hope to blur the line

A Nagykörút fáradt délután
Két láb, három hiba, semmi tánc
Egy lány elmegy, kabátja sárga
És a villamos szíve már nem várja

A házak suttognak, de túl halk
A múlt nem szép — csak megszokott
És minden nap egy régi lemez
Ami ugyanúgy karcol, de már kevesebb

A dohányboltban nincs vigasz
Csak SMS-hiteles nyomor-laz
A gitár sír egy brit refrént
És én álmodom egy másik péntekért

Grey skies… Naughty flies…
And Hungarian Britpop on the rise
We dream in queues, we laugh too late
And love like trams that never wait
Oh Pest-side rain, you blur the eyes —
But still we jangle through your lies

Nem kell refrén, csak egy zaj
Ami tudja, mit felejt a zaj
Egy üres kocsma, egy hamis dal
És valaki, aki még hinni akar

Grey skies… Naughty flies…
And Hungarian Britpop on the rise
We toast to nights that feel like blur
And sing too loud for who we were
Grey skies… and factory sighs…
Hungarian Britpop never dies

Hungarian Britpop on the Rise

Imagine The Cure got locked in IKEA overnight, R.E.M. overslept and missed rehearsal, and Johnny Marr had to write a song about hitting snooze 14 times in a row. That’s basically this track.

It’s the indie rock hymn for anyone who’s ever stared at the clock during the day and thought: “Seriously, is this thing even moving, or is time just gaslighting me?”

Grey mornings, mocking clocks, and the eternal struggle between being a functioning human vs. becoming a blanket burrito — all wrapped in jangly guitars and post-punk gloom you can actually dance-cry to.

So go ahead: close the curtains, throw on your headphones, and pretend the world doesn’t exist until at least noon tomorrow. This song won’t judge you. In fact, it’ll probably join you under the covers.

Lyrics:

Grey light burns my weary eyes,
Every hour a thin disguise.
I drag my body through the day,
Hoping night will steal me away.

The sun feels heavy, the world’s too loud,
But in my dreams, I lose the crowd.

When finally this day is done?
I want to escape, I want to run!
Into the bed, into the deep,
Where I belong, where I can sleep.

The clocks keep mocking, hands don’t move,
The daylight leaves me nothing to prove.
But silence waits behind the dark,
To heal my soul, relight the spark.

The night forgives what day denies,
I close my heart, I close my eyes.

When finally this day is done?
I want to escape, I want to run!
Into the bed, into the deep,
Where I belong, where I can sleep.

Don’t wake me, don’t break me,
This fragile peace can save me.
Dreams hold me, they own me,
The night’s the only place I’m free.

When finally this day is done?
I want to escape, I want to run!
Into the bed, into the deep,
Where I belong, where I can sleep.

Daylight fades, I disappear,
The night’s my truth

When Finally This Day Is Done?

Hypersonic Missiles

Michael Maloney - What Do You Want To Know

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!