At 133 BPM, this thing moves like a turbine through wet concrete—heavy, grinding, and absolutely unwilling to let up. The energy is a flat nine, so there is no dip, no polite introduction, just a sustained, dubby pressure that keeps folding in on itself. I can feel the 4B key centre giving the harmonic mud some unexpected lift, a brightness that cuts through the distortion rather than softening it.
In a set, I reach for this when the floor is already committed and I want to test their stamina without resorting to cliché. It sits in that experimental pocket where peak-time force meets leftfield architecture; the room becomes a single, sweating mass, locked to a rhythm that feels industrial yet strangely fluid. There is no release, only forward motion.