At 115 BPM yet barely registering above a whisper on the energy scale, this live reading unfolds like smoke in a low-ceilinged room. The 8A key keeps everything rooted in a subdued minor tint, while the Copenhagen air seems to slow the pulse further; I hear it less as a groove than a drift, each element hanging in suspension without urgency.
In my sets, this belongs to the witching hour, dropped when the floor needs breathing space rather than fuel. It will not fill a room with kinetic force, yet that is precisely its value: a palate-cleansing, leftfield pivot that leans into its experimental pedigree. I let it run at the end of a long night when heads are still locked in but bodies need reprieve.