HANK!

In memory of Carl Reissner

1969, the Americans have invaded the moon.
Charles Bukowski couldn't care less. He drinks and records poems, alone in his room in LA.
2016, Bukowski has been dead for ages.
Three guys happen upon the recordings and decide that they couldn't dream of a better singer, dead or alive.
HANK! is born
If you like wobbly punk music and filthy hip-hop, thick bass and horse races, nasal synthesizers and neon lights then HANK! is for you. HANK!'s beauty is like hairy genitals,  like a cigar snuffed out in an unfinished plate, like smog giving birth to the sun.