Bossa Nova classics from Brazil, a lyrical fusion of samba and jazz.

My heart is saggy.
My bones weigh me down—when they don’t lay beside you.
I see your face in the blur before me.
I bump into everything.
Falling in love—is a catastrophe.

The next morning, the cactus woke up to the warmth of the sun.

As she opened her eyes, breathing deeply, she realized something was touching her. Softly and curiously. It was a pleasant, happy feeling.

She looked down. She was covered in beautiful flowers. Scarlet with long red tendril-like petals filled with honey and pollen.

Small bees hummed noisily as they harvested tiny drops of sugar from inside the flowers. Blue-winged butterflies sipped themselves into a nectar-induced stupor. Fluttering heavily from one flower to the next. The cactus sighed, out of a deep and true happiness. She was having a festive morning.

Flash. Click. Racing between parties. Three more to go.
She squeezed into a banana-yellow afro batik dress.
His retro sunglasses sitting on his nose. Holding his feather wand. Mr. Magnin light his cigarette. She responds with a flamboyant, hip-thrusting pose. Curtain unfurled.
They dialed 160. Quiet spots. Whispers on the line. Four of them grooving in a red phone box.

A simulated future experiment brings ‘dating’ down to a new form of ‘data’. The application boldly does not consider looks, race, color, religion or societal compatibility. After centuries of basing ‘attraction’ on artificial beauty—geneticists, scientists, biologists, techies and noses—together designed a smell-based method of matching biological immune systems. Phones of the future will carry around our pheromones as I.D. like the ones today use thumbprints. People will fly across borders—a new wave of globalization—seeking to create super-breeds. The modern app, ‘Phinder’, allows you to swipe scent till your left hand turns fluorescent green and sends a signal of natural selection to the brain like a thunder-bolt. This jolt will be understood as ‘raw love’ for generations to come.

Inevitable Mondays and all that jazz.

 

A fresh mix of soul, R&B, synth-pop and jazz hooks as an ode to Bombay’s once glistening coastlines, shallow seas and vibrant marine life.

 

A small blueman patiently sat by the window looking into the dancehall. The cyan parrot outside giggled softly to herself. Elated as she watched him wait. She finally appeared at the entrance. Dark Kohl-lined eyes. Sun-warmed skin. He savored glimpses of her enviously as she moved. Her big gold hoops swayed as if in the wind. Her booty pop in hot-pink batty-riders.

He always wanted to be a dancehall queen.

He fell into a hallucination under the shadows of the voluptuous full moon. Closed eyes. His skin began to ripple. Clashing cymbals. Ratte of kettle drums. The beating grew louder. He was now a boy in a body-con skirt. Smooth calves. Stomping heels. He seduced the beats. One! Two! Three! Dripping, soaking wet. The spotlight faded.

Until they dance again.

 

Roll down your window and gaze into the distant sunset with some of our indie tropical vibes to conclude the summer.