Król Cyganów

A dirty, rough diary of the street - a voice that is equally honest and sarcastic, listing thefts, nights spent in the trials of fate, and lessons learned on the asphalt. The self-proclaimed name in the chorus sounds not like a label, but like a self-defense mask: boasting and repentance are intertwined with a simple calculation of wasted years and lost opportunities. Here, there is a Manchurian in a backpack, holey shoes, and a mentor under the sign of “the street” - all of this lies in one glass: bitter, strong, and a little funny.

The music is a reason for the story: the guitar growls, the rhythm beats “rampampam,” the chorus repeats laughter-attempts at deception and gypsy cunning as a ritual of survival. The feeling of a nomadic life - the road, exchanging coins for dreams, half of life on “na hayau” - and at the same time, an amazing pride: nothing is regretted and nothing needs to be changed. A little irony, warm fatigue, and reckless confidence - that's what remains after the last line and the first pause.