Somebody ought to invent an analog instrument that can hit phonk notes without electricity. Imagine a cross between an accordion and a bass drum, a percussive wind with murderous bellows and a balaclava mouthpiece. We'll hold practice in abandoned mental asylums, shock therapy wards for orchestra pits, sheet music scrawled in garbage on the floor and graffiti on the walls. Unknogne orates from around the Gateway's Haunted halls and far beyond its seasonal attractions. Trap or play, every house is a haunt.
No comments:
Post a Comment