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Time hardly passed since golden year 1988, when lazy schoolboy Gilles Snowcat experimented with an old piano and various strange sensations to convert this & that into music.

Born on Mardi Gras day, it's hardly a surprise to feel spell and betwitchment, curse and fascination in Gilles Snowcat's love songs after dark. There's more than a hint of trance, rites and forbidden icons in what goes beyond music. A parallel experience.

Throwing art into the rock, mokomoko sensations into the roll, spirit into the glass and strategies inside the muzzy no-man's land, Gilles Snowcat is (almost) proudly a living nightmare for journalists, who have to go beyond the urban legend and actually listen to the hedonistic shit to get the clues.

Time hardly passed since the exile on side streets, where the neon glow is still the last guideline for wandering drunkards.
Time hardly passed, but while the bed is still warm and fluffy, the hotel room is definitely shattered. This is where the naked truth leaps at our throat: we know time is passing by...