A musician’s playground. And no idea goes without throwing it back and forwards. Because of the Moon’s surreal and utmost strange walls there are ideas jumping like rubber marbles. You’d better watch out or you might get a little hit in the head.

Moon’s vintage decor, its persian carpets, the battered piano.
An old chair in the corner, bruised and used. Cables entwined like a masterly mind. A green glow at nighttime from the window in moonlight. The smell, only wooden floorboards can have, the tales only old stuff can tell. It’s magic, it’s stardust, it’s music, in Moon’s light.

Instruments scattered all over the place, all at hands reach.
Creativity, it’s a mysterious thing, You never know when it might come and go.

The strange thing you sing into called a microphone is never just A microphone. If you enjoy a little bit of old school aura you can choose microphones still containing some authentic sixties saliva,
Perhaps even the Beatles, who knows? In short, mics to everyone’s likes.