PRESAVE COMING SOON
For now check out the links around here
see what you can find
Bitch we are BACKSHOTZ
The first time Backshotz played, the amps screamed louder than the crowd. They weren’t a band, not really—more like a curse spoken in drop-B. Tāmaki Makaurau’s underbelly pulsed with their sound, a guttural howl scraped from rusted strings and boot-scuffed drumheads. No one knew who was pulling the strings, who booked their gigs before they even wrote songs.But they played. Hard. Fast. Wrong.The shadow behind them wasn’t a manager, wasn’t a friend. Just a voice in their heads, a figure in the feedback, a whisper between notes. It promised them the city. It delivered. Venues bowed, rival bands disappeared, the scene warped around them like melted vinyl.Then the music stopped. Not on purpose—one night, mid-riff, everything cut to dead air. Not silence. Dead air. The kind that hums, the kind that watches.No one could remember their last show.No one could remember their real names.The posters still flapped in the wind, but the faces on them were strangers. Their hands still twitched in power chord shapes, but the strings beneath them were gone.Some say Backshotz still play, somewhere beneath the city, where the reverb never fades and the lights never hit the stage.
The first time Backshotz played, the amps screamed louder than the crowd. They weren’t a band, not really—more like a curse spoken in drop-B. Tāmaki Makaurau’s underbelly pulsed with their sound, a guttural howl scraped from rusted strings and boot-scuffed drumheads. No one knew who was pulling the strings, who booked their gigs before they even wrote songs.But they played. Hard. Fast. Wrong.The shadow behind them wasn’t a manager, wasn’t a friend. Just a voice in their heads, a figure in the feedback, a whisper between notes. It promised them the city. It delivered. Venues bowed, rival bands disappeared, the scene warped around them like melted vinyl.Then the music stopped. Not on purpose—one night, mid-riff, everything cut to dead air. Not silence. Dead air. The kind that hums, the kind that watches.No one could remember their last show.No one could remember their real names.The posters still flapped in the wind, but the faces on them were strangers. Their hands still twitched in power chord shapes, but the strings beneath them were gone.Some say Backshotz still play, somewhere beneath the city, where the reverb never fades and the lights never hit the stage.
damn look at that video in the background
