Vulture

Vulture doesn't curate playlists. He assembles collapses. Raised somewhere between punk's impatience and industrial music's machine-room hypnosis, he treats radio like a transmission from a pirate relay station. Expect serrated guitars, drum machines that sound like factory alarms, post-punk ghosts, blown speakers, and the occasional hard left into something actually unhinged. Soft spot for early industrial clang, punk in its mutant forms, records that feel slightly dangerous to leave unattended. If it's polished, it's probably an accident. If it sounds like a basement, an abandoned warehouse, or a minor civic disturbance, it's already cued up.