At two-hundred-and-seven beats per minute, this thing moves with a nervous pulse that belies its ambient billing, threading D-minor melancholy through a lattice of granular static and sun-bleached pads. The energy sits at a curious six—too restless for deep listening, too vaporous to fully grip the floor—yet that tension is exactly where it thrives, hovering like heat haze above asphalt.
In a set, I'd slot it after something slower and let the implied half-time rhythm do the heavy lifting; it breathes like a dubplate left too long in the sun, all warped wow-and-flutter without ever demanding hands-in-the-air compliance. The key of 7A keeps things shadowy, but the overall feel is more liminal than dark, a corridor between rooms rather than a destination. Leftfield, yes, but precisely the kind of oddity that rewards a patient system.