At 200 BPM, COYP folds its downtempo skeleton in on itself, each bar dragging through the smog of E flat minor with an energy of 8 that keeps the pressure dialled up without breaking the after-hours spell. The rhythm feels half-submerged and viscous, bass-weighted, as though wading through the final hour of a basement locked in stasis.
In the mix, this is pure leftfield ammunition: too slow to peak, too urgent to chill, it occupies the liminal corridor where the night's bleary-eyed refusal to go home meets precision engineering. I would slot it deep into a closing set, letting its smouldering tension fill the room while the lights stay stubbornly low.