Monday

At 125 BPM in the shadowy register of 1A, this cut does not ask permission; it locks in with a hydraulic thump and lets the pressure accumulate. I hear the melodic tension as lean but insistent, threading through the mix like a warning light rather than a comfort blanket, and that maximal energy rating feels earned—every bar is tuned for sweat and submission.

I would drop this weapon only when the room is already delirious, letting it clear polite conversation from the booth and replace it with collective hypnosis. It belongs at the absolute peak of a set, where an energy rating of 10 makes perfect sense: pure, unapologetic forward motion that treats the dancefloor as a single, heaving organism.