MOLA's music is the unadorned antithesis to a rosy world. She celebrates herself to death, pulls you into her inner chaos and does without the usual romanticising transfiguration of the merciless disorientation that catches up with you on the way home after the last cigarette. MOLA knows better than anyone that she is a border commuter - and she has never made a secret of it. Perhaps it was fate that the course of events abandoned her shortly after her birth in Erba, Italy, in Germany's most austere metropolis. In Munich, where flying free and falling free are a little more complicated than in the cesspit of Berlin, where one would naturally place Isabella Streifeneder and her music if one didn't know better. Temporarily reduced to intimacy, then escalating into iconic 80s "Purpel Rain" pathos, MOLA illustrates the emotional chaos that the inner dialogue of left and right brain triggers in her. Unconventional pop music that bundles the nonchalance of great soul anthems, the grace of the Italo-disco of the eighties and the ingenuousness of lascivious hip-hop bangers instead of trying to sound modern by force. MOLA celebrates defeat, exposes life lies, criticises adulthood, documents radical mood swings. She balances along the abyss in her ball gown, jokes about things you don't joke about, praises and curses intoxication and love - "Vino Bianco no longer tastes like dolce vita, it only tastes like losing". You can now see MOLA supporting Fatoni, Roy Bianco & the Abbrunzati Boys, Mayberg and Kaffkiez in a flurry of strobe lights after sold-out "nothing breaks me" shows in Munich, Cologne, Berlin & Hamburg. In addition to a festival season that couldn't have been more beautiful, they finally have a big tour of their own coming up for their next album, which will see the light of day in September. After more than 40 festivals "Snow in Summer" on well-known stages like Lollapalooza Berlin, Rocken am Brocken, Puls Open Air, but also as support for Udo Lindenberg at the Hermann-Hesse-Festival, "Life is Beautiful", the darned second record, sounds almost cynical, ironic or simply naive? In the end, it doesn't matter, because when you are overcome by this spontaneous feeling that is far removed from any rationality, you don't ask any questions. It tastes like the melancholy of a summer in its last breaths, like the last drink of an uncompromisingly insane night. There is sweating, pogoing and feeling together. Even where it hurts. You are not just an onlooker or a silent spectator, but part of this empowering feeling of "we".