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I hear 146 BPM not as a tempo but as a threat in Aloka’s hands: a minor-key electro sprint where every hi-hat and clap is sliced so cleanly it could draw blood. The percussion snaps with caffeinated urgency, fluorescent and wired, refusing to let the room exhale or settle into comfort.

I would drop this when the floor is lean and hungry, riding that perilous bridge between peak-time and after-hours. The energy sits at a breathless eight, all forward-leaning momentum and clinical texture; it keeps bodies locked and leaning in without ever offering them a handrail.