The Lax Funkers know how to get life moving, but Parlo Pearl’s rhythm started in a different place. In Ratoro, he was a smooth-talking ad man, selling ideas so well he could make anyone believe anything. But one day, he realized he wasn’t feeling anything real—just selling distractions. So he walked away and found the hidden clubs where the bass shook the ground harder than any business deal. With his hypnotic voice and tricky slang, Parlo became the heartbeat of The Lax Funkers, leading the band with words that feel like magic. He doesn’t explain what he means—he lets the funk do the talking.

“Pee Bap Uh Dap,” he grins. “Gatta Lax Mooooove.”

The Lax Funkers' melodies transcend planetary limits, but Clara Pearl’s journey to the stars started inside Ratoro’s sleek office towers. She was an architect of illusion, designing ads that made people dream of things they didn’t need—until she realized she wasn’t living any of her own dreams. When she stumbled into an underground rooftop jam session, something clicked: music wasn’t just sound, it was freedom. She left the corporate world behind and picked up her keyboard, weaving ethereal synths into the Lax Funkers’ interstellar sound. Now, she paints the cosmos with dreamy harmonies, speaking in riddles that make sense only when you feel them. "Music isn’t just sound," she says, fingers gliding over the keys. "It’s the universe remembering how to breathe."

In the ever-expanding cosmos of musical vibrancy, The Lax Funkers stand as the ultimate force of groove—but for Pittoo Zeelia, funk wasn’t always her life. She started in Ratoro’s cold, corporate towers, where her talent for breaking things down was wasted on financial reports and efficiency meetings. But Pittoo had her own language—the sharp, chopped rhythm of a guitar sliced into funky, unpredictable riffs. The day she walked out of the rat race, she traded numbers for notes, turning her signature stop-start style into an unstoppable force of rhythm. Now, her jagged, electrifying licks fuel dancefloors across the galaxy, slicing through beats like cosmic lightning. “I don’t play music,” she says with a smirk. “I mess with time.”

In the ever-expanding cosmos of musical vibrancy, The Lax Funkers stand as the ultimate force of groove. But for Jast Wico, the rhythm didn’t always call his name. He spent years in Ratoro’s data hubs, keeping the city’s endless flow of information in check. His days were measured in numbers instead of beats, his rhythm locked in spreadsheets instead of songs. Then one night, an envelope arrived from his old friend, Clara Pearl. Inside was nothing but a tape cassette and a note: “Play this when you’re ready to hear something real.” The moment he pressed play, a deep, hypnotic bassline rumbled through his chest, awakening something long buried. That night, he walked away from the noise of the city and into the pulse of Ratoro's Desert. Now, his steady, rolling basslines hold The Lax Funkers together—a groove so solid it feels like gravity itself.

“That’s just the way it is,” he says, locking in the rhythm, as if it was always meant to be.

Sami Disco is disco. The man was born with a hi-hat in his hands and a four-on-the-floor heartbeat. His grooves are clean, classic, and so sharp you could cut a mirrorball with them. Every time he hits the snare, it sounds like the exact moment someone decides to dance.
But it didn’t start on a stage. Before the funk, Sami drove delivery trucks through Ratoro’s neon veins—mile after mile, day after day, surrounded by restless noise. While others cursed traffic, Sami heard patterns. Wipers swiping, horns honking, tires thumping—he played entire tracks on his steering wheel before he even knew it was music.
One afternoon, stalled in a sea of honking suits, he cracked. He got out, left the truck behind, and walked into the desert with nothing but his lunch and a rhythm in his head. That night, The Lax Funkers found him tapping on a crate, lost in a beat no one else could hear yet. They handed him a kit—and he never stopped.
Sami doesn’t say much, and when he does, it rarely makes sense. But when he plays, it all becomes clear. Tight hats. Liquid fills. That locked-in disco pulse that pulls you to your feet whether you like it or not.

“You just… feel it, right?” he says, mid-conversation about sandwiches.
And you do. Because Sami Disco isn’t just keeping the beat—he is the beat.

Maastika was born far from Ratoro’s buzzing towers, in a quiet oasis where the sand teaches patience and the wind speaks in rhythm. He grew up listening to the world—not to music on speakers, but to the soft crack of palm trees, the thump of feet on dry earth, the whisper of wind sweeping over dunes. These became his instruments.

He never studied percussion. He lived it. His drums are carved by hand, each one shaped by fire, water, and silence. His playing doesn’t follow patterns—it feels its way forward. Every strike, every rattle, seems to pull ancient stories from the air.

When The Lax Funkers met him, Maastika wasn’t looking for a band. He was just playing to the desert. But when Parlo joined in with a beat, and Clara layered in keys, something clicked. He smiled, nodded once, and that was that.

Now Maastika brings raw, earthy soul to the band’s groove—reminding everyone that funk didn’t start in a studio. It started with hands in the dirt, and rhythm in the bones.

“The rhythm is always there,” Maastika once said, his hands resting on the drum.“It’s inviting us to become a part.”