On „Hollow“, Springworks hurl retro jangle through an indie rock shredder and let 60s glitter shimmer like Rickenbacker tin foil: ringing guitars, nervous tambourine, tape-crackling drums that tick like a racing heart. The production remains permeable but eerie—a resonance chamber in which emptiness mutates into the protagonist and coolness implodes as a masquerade. Instead of melodious sounds: surreal entomology. Ladybirds, caterpillars, mandibles—metaphors that scratch at the inner wall until the façade crumbles to splinters. Time buckles; yesterday and tomorrow are nothing but thin pulp. Identity decouples, slips back into a pre-roll state. Then this fairground image: carousel on fire, Calliope whistles catastrophe, and yet we keep turning. Musically, bright glimmers flash over minor keys, vocals in ghostly reverberation, a hook that doesn’t flatter but cuts. „Hollow“ is not a nostalgic souvenir, but an elegant disruptor: closeness and alienation pluck the same strings, and the echo feels less like comfort—more like a beautiful unease.

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