A water spitting fountain. A yoga guru who’ll put your limber heart to shame.
A mic-eating frenzy. Growling assaults that make Bon Jovi sound like Mini Me. Grunts that belonged in the bedroom. Saying Singapore so sexily ya actually want to be Singaporean. A colossal onslaught of hard-hitting riffs, beats and synths amalgamating in distortion heaven, from an essentially two-man outfit. A neon adorned Indian chief cajoling every single kilohertz of sonic bliss to reverberate across each inch of impossibly untouched space.
Gave in the zone new meaning.
In O’s own words “The most Hyyysteric everrr”
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