He loves to sleep in. No calls before 10am. Life is that little devil on your shoulder incessantly whispering, “Dance in the middle of this juice bar. Right now." "Sing along in the co-working space. No one cares. They’re gonna join in.” After his bright eyes got so clouded in crowded, smoky clubs like the Marcy Hotel and Bardot he’s taken to wearing sunglasses, even at night. He doesn’t really need to see anyway. His legs just move by themselves. Rock with him. The man is an animal. He will play three notes on your guitar, hit a Milly Rock and howl into the moon. Howl with Life on Planets. Release your inhibitions and celebrate the moment with the successor to Robert Owens and Peven Everett as he brings “poetic” lyrics back to the dancefloor. How many metaphors can you use to invite someone back home after the club shuts down? You’re about to find out.