At 113 bpm, I hear a predatory slow-burner that belies its ferocious energy; the rhythm is a taut, sub-heavy strut rather than a sprint, letting each kick land like a muffled detonation in a flooded basement. The dub inflections feel less like decoration and more like architecture, sending ripples of delay and low-end pressure through a mix that grows almost claustrophobically dense.
Locked in the shadowy register of 1B, I would save this for those after-hours moments when the floor has thinned to true believers and the room demands hypnosis over spectacle. It refuses to hand me a peak-time drop, but slipped into the right pocket, its smouldering energy—a solid nine—carves out a space where time dilates and the crowd becomes a single, swaying organism.