Unpredictable by design, Curveball winds up with a sharp nose of raw fuel and lets loose with a wallop of overripe fruit—fermented peach, bruised berry, maybe even something tropical gone just a little wild. It’s sweet and yet funky, every hit feels like a left turn you didn’t see coming.
There’s movement in the effects—nothing static, nothing certain. One moment you’re lifted, the next you’re somewhere sideways, caught in a pocket of flavor and fuzz. Curveball doesn’t play fair—it plays strange, riding the line between rot and nectar, diesel and delight.