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RAZ – ‘Ballad for the CCTV Age’
Some roads don’t end. They just get wired.
While half the industry’s still busy making glossy trap bangers about flexing and filters, The RAZ has dropped something that actually smells like tarmac, rain, and bad decisions at 2am.
“Ballad for the CCTV Age” is pure outlaw scripture for the surveillance state. It’s part UK drill grit, part narcocorrido storytelling – three girls in a stolen Astra tearing down the M1 in 2004, boot full of debt and cheap smoke, with the whole cursed country dissolving in the rear-view. Fast-forward twenty-two winters and the same voice is broadcasting from a hidden booth, still spinning dead junglist tapes, still hearing ghosts in the signal. This isn’t nostalgia. This is testimony.
The Run
Verse 1 hits cold and narrative: grey Sheffield skies like a blade, service-station coffee tasting of burnt wires, payphone prophets warning not to cross the river. Blue lights blooming in the mirror. That line “if they stop us, love, don’t say my name” followed by cranking the pirate radio louder? That’s proper lived-in detail. No glamour, just three girls trying to outrun their own postcode while the island watches.
The chorus is massive – melodic, haunting, built to stick in your head like a wanted poster: “We were ballads for the CCTV age / Names in the static, trapped inside the cage…” You can feel the motorway ghosts leaning under the streetlights. The whole country wired like a paranoid shrine. Cameras remember everything. Proper drill storytelling meets that old-school corrido fatalism: you can run coast to coast but the road knows, the cameras know, the motorways definitely know.
2026 Transmission
Verse 2 flips to the older, battle-hardened RAZ voice. Towers glowing red where mills used to stand. ⧖ symbols scratched in fluorescent lines. GEFFINE ghosts riding the fibre rain. Burner phones, dead drops in abandoned retail parks, kids with constellation marks. It’s classic FAEWAVE – that urban-mystic, signal-hijacking sorcery she’s been perfecting with Tengushee since the underground days. Pirate frequencies that never quite end. Walls that still bite.
The final chorus soars tragic and huge: burnt-out saints on an electronic stage, no angels left in the shopping precinct glow. Then that brutal closer – “You can leave this city, change your face, move postcodes… But the motorways know.”
Real Over Reel
This is what happens when a proper Xennial who was actually there in the stolen cars and the 3am transmissions writes about the CCTV cage. Not some plastic Gen Z “dystopia aesthetic” cosplay. RAZ has been dropping heat since the actual 90s, through the dormancy periods real artists take when they’re living the lyrics instead of just performing them. FAEWAVE isn’t trend-chasing – it’s the fracture line running through council estates, service stations, and pirate signals.
If you’re tired of music that feels like it was focus-grouped in a glass office, this one’s for you. Crank it loud on a long drive. Feel the static.
Full transmission and the rest of the catalogue at raz.cyberpunkonline.net Keep eyes on @geekngamercom
The cameras are always rolling. Drive careful tonight.
RAZ – ‘Black Dragon Girl’
(Club track from the vaults that’ll make your neck hair stand up)
Proper uneasy. While everyone else is busy peddling safe neon nostalgia, The RAZ drags you into the smoke-filled backroom of a half-dead North London club in 2003 and shows you what was really moving under the lasers.
No filters. No sparkly production. Just sticky floors, cigarette fog, industrial metal rumbling through cheap speakers, and something ancient wearing a human mask. This is FAEWAVE at its sharpest: urban occult reportage from someone who was actually in the room when the world split open.
The Night Everything Bent
Verse 1 sets the scene with that cold, smoky eye she does so well — red lights bleeding through the haze, the lad in the long black coat who makes the whole bar part like they know. Dodgy cash, weird books, that dangerous charm. Then the girl by the back stairs: too still, shadow stretching wrong, too many angles, too many claws.
What follows is pure North London nightmare fuel. A black dragon made of smoke and knives wrapping around the lights. Invisible wars overhead while the crowd keeps moshing and spilling pints like nothing’s happening. He throws burning symbols, coughs blood, the girl collapses like someone pulled her plug. And through it all? The music snaps back and nobody notices a thing.
That final chorus hits different: “Everybody living half asleep… While monsters walk the city underneath.”
The pirate stations still humming for the few who accidentally saw behind the veil. The calm “I’ll find you” as he steps into the alley rain with blood on his face. Chilling.
Real Supernatural, Not TikTok Bollocks
This isn’t trendy “dark academia” or filtered witchtok nonsense. This is proper estate-and-club folklore from a Xennial who lived through the actual 90s and early 2000s underground scenes. RAZ doesn’t write about the occult — she reports it. Same voice that gave us the council estate ghosts in “1995” and the motorway CCTV ballads now takes you into the invisible wars happening above sticky dancefloors.
FAEWAVE isn’t cosplay. It’s the fracture line she and Tengushee have been mapping for years: GEFFINE marks, Black Leaves pages, things that don’t cast shadows right, stairwells you don’t stay in after two. This track feels like the missing link in the transmission.
The outro warning hits like tape hiss from another frequency: “…there are older things in London… stay away from the stairwells…”
If you’ve ever been in a club and felt something watching that wasn’t security, this one’s for you.
Full drop and the whole catalogue at raz.cyberpunkonline.net Stay dangerous. Stay awake. @geekngamercom on X
RAZ – ‘1995’
West London ghosts don’t wear glitter. They wear Ellesse jackets and carry rumours in carrier bags.
While the glossy pop machine keeps rebooting the 80s like it was one long pastel coke dream, one proper Xennial riot nymph from the estates has just dropped the antidote. The RAZ – Gen X survivor, underground veteran since the pirate-radio days, half of the FAEWAVE wrecking crew with her partner-in-crime Tengushee – has delivered “1995”.
And it’s not a nostalgia trip. It’s a knife in the ribs of one.
You know the score. No phones. No Google Maps. Just tower blocks, sodium streetlights, and the distant whup-whup of a police chopper over the Westway. That’s the world fifteen-year-old RAZ was navigating while certain American chart darlings were still worrying about prom dresses. This track doesn’t borrow the 1989 concept – it mugs it in the underpass, nicks its wallet, and leaves it bleeding authenticity all over the concrete.
The Sound of the Estate at Night
The intro hits like a dodgy C90 tape you found in a skip: tape hiss, pirate-radio static, distant estate hum. Proper lo-fi council-block ambience. Then Verse 1 slides in low and dangerous – that calm-before-the-stab voice she does so well. Ellesse jackets, warm Fosters cans, burnt-wire stink, kids cutting through the underpass trying to pick the right trouble. It’s forensic. Every detail – the GEFFINE tag where some old girl got laid, the Jamaican uncle warning “don’t stay after two” – feels pulled straight from a battered diary, not a focus-group brainstorm.
Damian flashing an automatic like it’s a toy from Heat? That’s the exact flavour of stupid that got manz killed in ’95. No glamour. Just the casual knowledge that one bad Friday and your name’s on the obituary board.
The chorus is pure FAEWAVE sorcery – hypnotic, catchy as hell, but soaked in melancholy. “West London ghosts under sodium skies / Everybody’s hiding something in their eyes.” You can hear the whole city breathing through the walls. Pirate radio bleeding through the concrete like forbidden scripture for the lost kids looking for a scrap. It’s the sound of a city that never sleeps because it’s too busy watching you.
Then It Gets Weird (As It Should)
Verse 2 takes the torch into the stairwell shadows. That blue light behind Block C that “doesn’t cast shadows proper.” Crews avoiding it after half-one. Voices in the lift like pirate stations leaking through a rift. Black Leaves pages passed hand-to-hand like contraband. Symbols scratched into the basketball court mapping where the dead ones walk.
This is where RAZ’s FAEWAVE roots show – that glitch-ritual, urban-mystic edge she and Tengushee have been cooking up since the Endless Chronicles dropped. It’s not horror for horror’s sake; it’s estate folklore. The kind of thing you knew was real at 15 because instinct told you, and sometimes instinct weren’t enough.
The bridge is half-spoken, almost a confession: “1995… No phones… No maps… Just rumours, tower blocks and instinct…” Then the final chorus soars, haunted, like the estate itself is singing back: “You can leave the estate but the estate don’t mind / ‘Cause part of you stays there all your life…”
Why It Matters
This isn’t some plastic Gen Z cosplay of “the 90s.” RAZ was there – skint, bored, dodging the wrong crowd, watching the blue lights flicker through the council rain. She’s 41-45 now, been dropping underground heat since the actual 90s with the usual periods of radio silence that real artists take when the world’s not ready. But when she resurfaces, it’s never weak. It’s always this: raw, technical, emotionally surgical. Tape warp on the outro. That 23.5 sign-off like the last pirate frequency before the signal dies. Proper craft.
If you’re tired of manufactured nostalgia served up by people who think “estate” means a vineyard in the Cotswolds, crank this one loud. Check the full transmission at raz.cyberpunkonline.net and keep eyes on @geekngamercom on X.
FAEWAVE isn’t a trend. It’s a fracture line. And “1995” just split the pavement wide open.
Stay with your people tonight, yeah? The estate’s still listening.
∴ THERE IS A WAY OUT ∴
There are three known exits from the Red Brick Road.
Three directions that resolve.
Three that return you somewhere—broken, changed, but still within the system.
The fourth does not behave.
WHAT DO YOU SEEK?
⌘ the fourth path is already in use ⧖
∴⧖ SIGNAL FOUND // WEATHER SHARD 23.5 ⋰⋱
Recovered artifact: a “calm” weather simulator that isn’t just weather.
Mountains hold. Storms drift. Signals leak. Sometimes it watches back.
“The Fourth Path is not a destination.”
Click. Observe. Don’t linger.
A surprisingly relaxing Endless Chronicles Shard: evolving ASCII weather in real time.
KLF: The Band That Was #1 Worldwide — Then Vanished | Hit Channel
🔥 They were the biggest singles act in the world in 1991. A year later they were gone — after burning £1,000,000 in cash on a remote Scottis
☍ R A Z // NO PERMISSION REQUIRED
There are playlists. And then there are transmissions.
“She Is R A Z” isn’t a collection—it’s a controlled leak from the GhostNet. A curated run through the signal history of an artist who never asked permission, never waited for clearance, and never softened the edge.
∴
R A Z exists in the fracture between worlds. Part pirate, part prophet, part rat, part burnout survivor of a system that tried to package her and failed.
Her work doesn’t follow a straight line—it spirals.
Anger — raw, unfiltered, anti-polish
Grief — quiet, heavy, unresolved
Memory — flickers of lost timelines and broken loops
Signal — intercepted transmissions from somewhere deeper
Sensual Energy — human, magnetic, undeniable
This playlist traces that arc.
From early defiance to full Faewave immersion, you’re hearing the sound of someone tearing herself out of a manufactured life and rebuilding in static. There’s no clean genre here—just fragments: glitch, gothic, rave echoes, underground pulse, and that unmistakable kung fu audio precision cutting through it all.
☍
R A Z doesn’t perform rebellion. She is what happens after it.
A digital witch forged in the post-blog ruins, shaped by takedowns, bad deals, and a decade lost to “normality”—now fully returned, feral and intentional. Her voice carries that history. You can hear it crack, bend, and hit harder because of it.
There’s a reason this playlist feels different.
It’s not trying to go viral. It’s trying to reach you.
∴
This is a signal. If you’re hearing it, you’re already inside.
🛰️ LISTEN / INTERCEPT
🔻 CALL TO ACTION
Don’t just stream it—sit with it. Run it front to back. Late night. Headphones. No distractions.
If it hits, save it, share it, seed it. That’s how signals survive.