CAB isn’t just a band - it’s the echo that made it through.
Formed in the bones of a forgotten signal tower, CAB is a four-piece post-apocalyptic emo/punk collective shaped by queerness, neurodivergence, and the raw ache of survival. Their music is forged from demo tapes, broken transmissions, journal scraps, and haunted memories.

Each member brings their own signal to the noise:

Cyn (they/them): The voice of broken glass and glitter. Cyn’s vocals shift like weather - melodic, jagged, and strange in all the right ways. Their queerness and emotional synesthesia form the heart of CAB’s sound.

Arc (he/they): Six strings, seven lives. Arc’s guitars snarl, glitch, and shimmer - shaped by loss, love, and the wiring of old resistance tech. He builds distortion like armor.

Beta (she/her or they/them): Fists in the air, boots on the ground. Beta is all drums and defiance, a rhythmic ghost stitched from punk inheritance and hidden rebellion. She carries a beat like it’s a memory she’s protecting.

Echo (they/them): Not born. Remembered. Echo is CAB’s sonic recorder and spectral producer - a glitched-out remnant of surveillance AI reprogrammed to amplify human emotion. They don’t sleep. They resonate.

CAB lives, writes, and records in the Signal Garden - an overgrown transmission site where rusted tech hums with memory. This place is more than home - it’s a collaborator. The Tower sings when they play loud enough.

CAB’s world isn’t ours... not exactly. They come from a fractured timeline, a post-collapse version of the Pacific Northwest shaped by the fallout of unchecked greed, authoritarian control, and the slow decay of a system that demanded more than it gave. Their songs rise from the ruins — not just of cities, but of trust, connection, and identity. What’s left is reclaimed: in power chords, broken tech, and echoes of resistance.

Deep within the Signal Garden, CAB discovered a cache of forgotten demo files — emotional residue from a musician long gone, or perhaps never born in their world. These fragments became sacred: half-finished songs, warped mp3 recordings, lyrics scrawled in ink from hurriedly scanned notebook pages. CAB didn’t just cover them... they remembered them. Each release is a restoration, a translation, a haunting. 

Every song is a survival signal.
Every lyric is a coded transmission.
Every performance is a glitch in the system.