In the distance a machine drones, you follow the sound. Slow steps. Alone in a gloomy corridor, no escape; your only option is to continue onward. Swells of distortion begin to devour what is left of any fears, grasping reservations. You're drowning in a thick wall of tone. No choice but to accept the reverberation that's consuming you. At last you reach the origin of the resonance, this black hole, the machine. You've reached the Highlands; it feels good to gaze this hard.

This is Highlands, a band of ghosts. Their pedigree, reputation, and geographical location are irrelevant. What's of significance is their music. Somewhere between shoegaze and neo-phychedelia, Highlands will take any willing listener to the other side of the ominous looking-glass.


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