Picture a burning car at the roadside in southern Crete, speakers held together with tape, playing records that survived sun, dust, and metallic sunrises, loud enough to make mountains sweat and clouds blush in hyper hue. HATIHATI lives somewhere between fragmented muscle memory and long walks through the Cretan mountains. The project formed on the move: buses, ferries, borrowed rooms, missed connections. Music made with travel still in the body. This is HATIHATI.

A Whip It

B Head