At ninety-eight BPM, this moves like smoke through a slow-spinning fan—percussive but never urgent, each hit landing with the wet resonance of a kitchen-table experiment. The 1B key lends an unexpected brightness, yet Magaletti and Ypy keep the tone deliberately off-kilter, letting metallic knocks and sub-bass murmurings coil around one another with a hypnotic, seven-out-of-ten patience that refuses to resolve.
It is the kind of record that turns a warm-up slot into a séance: too restless for ambient, too slippery for straight club utility, yet possessed of a gravitational pull that reorients the room. I would drop it when the crowd needs persuading rather than pushing—a leftfield curveball that clears the floor of expectation and refills it with curiosity.