#thehandsomedevil

[suspicious-chunk-of-raw-meat]

Genre: Alternative, Indie, German Pop, Experimental

Themes: Paranoid/drug induced psychosis towards friends/family/everyone trying to kill the singer, suicide mention, drugs&alcohol, reaching rock bottom

"I don't want another drink, I don't want another bump

I'm afraid of falling down if I get much further up

I don't want another hit, I don't want another shot

Don't you make another line that I do not wanna cross"

Spotify;

Youtube;

Atmosphere: 5/5, encapsulated feeling of being drunk and/or high while alone roaming the streets of the city or in the back of a bus while your brains trying to escape your skull

Morbid: 4/5, a palpable sense of urgency and paranoia sprinkled with self-loathing and a tad bit of manic energy. The song seems to be about drug induced psychosis causing him to think everyone is trying to kill him, making it morbid to any listener and relatable to others.

Emotion: 5/5, That Handsome Devil puts his soul into his music, and this song is a steller example if one can find comfort or relate to the topic.

Story&Suspense: 4/5, very suspenseful, definitely conveys a story that's perfect for music.

Popularity: 2/5, 40k views on YouTube

Vibes: Desperate and reactive like a cornered wild animal knowing it will be killed, someone drowning in their mental health and drugs, being mentally unwell with paranoid delusions/psychosis, going off the deepend as a borderline or bipolar person or someone whose using drugs

[thespeakerforthedead-blog]

THEHANDSOMEDEVIL just threatened to make me watch straight porn if I didnt stop trolling him...

the whole time im gonna be sitting there like

[thespeakerforthedead-blog]

I even hear the mountains the way they laugh up and down their blue sides and down in the water the fish cry and the water is their tears. I listen to the water on nights I drink away and the sadness becomes so great I hear it in my clock it becomes knobs upon my dresser it becomes paper on the floor it becomes a shoehorn a laundry ticket it becomes cigarette smoke climbing a chapel of dark vines. . . it matters little very little love is not so bad or very little life what counts is waiting on walls I was born for this I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.

Charles Bukowski

The favorite poem of my good friend, THEHANDSOMEDEVIL

[thespeakerforthedead-blog]

hi, my name is Sean & my favorite beer is...