Beneath the fullmoon of late November Boblebad stirs up a boiling pot of dark funk-house disco. The pot simmers and puffs heavily as funky dark grooves bites through the cold earth like a howling wolfpack on the run. Right about the time when the percussive transfusion sets in, the living dead awakes to take the scene. Shaking their frozen limbs abruptly to the beats beneath the shimmering moonlight. As the party excels Boblebad hits the switch. Sprinkling the secret ingredient into the empty heart chambers of both living and dead. Filling the void with ambience of new beginnings, the body with dance.