See the band.

Their t-shirts ragged and thin, sun bleached like motel curtains. They can neither dance nor smile and in them broods already a taste for mindless violence.

Every now and then they play a show. The lights are bright, the air thick, neon buzzing like horseflies. The room smells of sweat and something sticky, and the sound rattles in people’s ribs like echoes of a bad decision. Sometimes, people scream the lyrics back at them, or maybe they are just screaming. It doesn’t matter. They play because the world is loud and broken, and they’ve got nothing better to do than make noise right back.

They call themselves Asian Cowboy, but it’s just a name, just something to say when people ask. They grew up where the streetlights flicker and the nights last for weeks.
The wind tastes like sawdust and sulphur and they play for the muddy car wrecks and the bloated mosquitoes.

Post-hardcore, indie rock, static scraped from the surface on the TV screen, hissing like a seething viper. Drums pounding like something trying to break free. The songs are about burning bridges, fucking up, waking up in the same place no matter how far you run. But there’s a kind of comfort in that. Maybe. And if you hear them—really hear them—maybe they’re not just shouting into the void.