Hacky Moon, 

Skull site, Indian graveyard, dusty landscape. 

Death is backbreaking work and at night the souls saddle their old nags once more.

 

Hacky Moon 

plays songs between cult and noise, little hymns to the slow loss of memory and history. For the march through the cerebrum into the land that consists entirely of deserted highways, all he needs is his acoustic guitar and his amplifier. 

Each song a ghost town, a door's creak in a dream: sunk into a semi-conscious state, into yellowed youth and rusted beauty, 

fade away.....

 

When the ragpicker wanders through the desert, 

he brings back a sack full of good old rock ’n' roll ghosts 

and noisy background sounds. 

Hacky Moon polishes these melodic fragments until they are completely covered with his very own melancholic patina. 

 

His songs for life after death.

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