Tennis Elbows by Hippy Gang Carrots

Along the moss‑smeared edges of the valley, where folklore mutters beneath leaden skies, and homemade modular circuits twitch with fever, a malfunction takes shape. It births a parasitic score that drifts through rusted pylons, stretching itself across abandoned fields. A convulsing climate of noise, a swarm of frequencies thickening into sonic jelly tentacles.

Imperfection rewired into the signal: fermented wet drone, vowels bent into grotesque shapes, basslines sweating until even the stoutest floorboards ache.

Meanwhile outside the castle, the rotating ladies gather: Tegwyn, Cerys, and Unit-46, together not by choice, but through resonance. Each carries a piece of the sound: a radio bleep caught on a fence, fungus blooming on tape reels, forgotten feedback reverberating across the valley from cracked speakers.

All this, for just two quid of your English pounds.

Gaze into the lens...