CD house in a 4-panel digisleeve, gloss finish. Including a 12-page booklet with lyrics and credits.

Rhythmic handclaps. Rustling percussion. Ominous falsetto vocals, beneath which an ethereal synth seems to search for a way through. From the very first note, The Donkey is taut with tension.

Devoldere was at home with his girlfriend and the dog, happy, calm, and super zen. Nothing but peace and quiet in his life. But apparently, an overdose of peace of mind can be dangerous too; that’s how much energy came pouring out when he started making music. The filter was gone, the anesthetic had worn off, and suddenly he wanted something else. Something rawer, something more real, perhaps? For years, he had churned out one dandyish pop song after another, each more superior than the last, with almost insulting ease. What if he threw those golden melodies out the window and went looking for the primal urges lurking inside his chest?