OLGA

Does it ever just ruin your day? The sheer weight of it. The end times ... Isn’t it insane how tangible it feels? It feels close, doesn’t it? Like when you’ve paid the machine at the car wash. You know? How it locks your wheels onto the conveyor belt and gives you eight seconds to set your affairs in order before you’re engulfed in rubber fists just dying to beat the shit out of you since the day they were installed. PVC flesh and indecent fluids sputtering everywhere in the puny prison that is your new and final universe. It’s bleak and there’s no saving you. Here’s what we can do. We can offer not an alternative but an Advil. We can help you bear it. We’ve got a BPM and we can organize your torture. Easter was a lie, your crucifixion isn’t over. We’re just here to keep you awake. Welcome to the carwash. Welcome to Golgotha. Welcome home. We are Olga. Dance motherfuckers.

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Bitchcore duo OLGA's debut LP is a not-so-subtle statement on the state of the music industry. It unabashedly leverages and makes relevant the tired truism, ‘sex sells,’ for a post-Spotify economy where people think listening to music is okay as long as you don’t pay for it. With dark, industrial, electronic instrumentation, the songs are anatomically true to pop. For fans of Nine Inch Nails, Patriarchy, and N8NOFACE.

Photos by Laura-Lynn Petrick