Papa M
Live From a Shark Cage

Dave Pajo and his crystalline, fragrant touch. He tunes bucolic nursery rhymes harmonizing with the funny croaking of a jaw harp in the languor of a pond where a lazy drum machine hops here and there.

Dave Pajo and his puerile country games duetting with a pensive banjo while a slender psychedelic stream flows in the shadow of harmony, faintly shining with the treasures of ancient memories.

Dave Pajo and his joyful watercolors that try to detach themselves from a deafening and disturbing electronic frame.

Dave Pajo and his psychedelic streams that slowly transform into a river full of desires and electricity, where the boat intoxicated by a fearless sitar sails confidently.

Dave Pajo and his small sonic oddities that bloom in the same garden where the Gastr Del Sol went to rest.

Dave Pajo and his psychedelic rivers that slowly turn into a fresh pounding drizzle that dissolves the walls of sugary melodies.

Dave Pajo and his pseudonyms, his light and flavorful hand, his phrases where only the necessary is present. A cross between Verlaine and Stendhal that, in this album, places itself between the Red of twilight and the Black of night to paint romances without words where emotions come to life that have no name and never had one.