Anarchic Autopsy!

[I] It is a frozen lung gasping for black air. Beneath the spires of the Kremlin, the earth is paved with the teeth. Moscow is not a city; This is the Siberian strobe, the tungsten tremor. The Motherland of the Malignant. The vodka is cold, but the furnace of the underground is white-hot.
[1] The iron veil is rusted, leaking static and forbidden frequencies. In the basements of Leningrad, we are specters in denim and despair. Low-fidelity synths scratch at the concrete like fingernails on a coffin. Rock-underground—the sound of a lung collapsing under heavy wool. We traded bread for bootleg tapes, a currency of sonic insurrection. The clubs were kitchens, the dancefloors were interrogation rooms. We danced in the dark to avoid the shadow of the sickle’s edge!
[C] Cyrillic static—a blackout in a blizzard! The Siberian heartbeat—where the winter is a lizard! Grind the gears of the Volga, let the permafrost ignite, We are the architects of the hollow, the lords of the night! No warmth in the vodka, just a chemical roar, Concrete fever—shattering glass on the floor!
[2] The empire exhales its final, putrid breath. The night is a scavenger, feeding on the carcass of the Union. Mobster-techno—the sound of a Kalashnikov clicking in time. The clubs are gold-plated bunkers where the law is a suggestion. Hardcore gabber echoing through the halls of a dead parliament. A lawless, frantic energy—a decade of hyper-inflation and neon rot. The bass was a battering ram, breaking through the newfound greed!
[C] Cyrillic static—a blackout in a blizzard! The Siberian heartbeat—where the winter is a lizard! Grind the gears of the Volga, let the permafrost ignite, We are the architects of the hollow, the lords of the night! No warmth in the vodka, just a chemical roar, Concrete fever—shattering glass on the floor!
[B] Red, white, and blue a carnival of the shallow and the crude, A candy-coated fever dream for an oblivious, pampered crowd. Stateside is a playground; the East is a killing floor. They dance for the attention; we dance to settle the score. Their bass is a heartbeat; our bass is a tectonic plate. Russia wants the jagged truth and a reason not to die!
[3] The steel fist returns, wrapped in a designer velvet glove. Propaganda-pop and the crushing weight of the 'Glamour-GULAG.' The clubs are fortresses of excess—Sohos and Kryshas in the clouds. Deep house for a deep state, a rhythmic sedation for the masses. Blinking in a trance, We are digital peasants dancing in a cathedral of chrome and surveillance. The energy is surgical—precise, cold, and utterly unforgiving. A century of trauma compressed into a four-on-the-floor beat!
[O] The snow doesn't fall here; it settles like a shroud. The night is an ocean of ink, and we are the heavy anchors. The clubs are empty, but the echoes are eternal. There is no exit in the permafrost. Nostrovia to the end. Only the beat remains. Only the hollow persists!

Fast High Energy 130 BPM/ Russian Style - Witch-House, Electric Body Music, Industrial, male.