I hear the 113 BPM pulse as too insistent for weightless ambient, too governed by the bright tension of 11B to dissolve into ether. The energy rating of 9 manifests as a sustained voltage, a textural density pressing against the margins of the room rather than filling it with vapour. Rhythmic elements behave like tectonic plates, shifting under layers of synthetic grit and melodic debris.
I’d programme this for the hours after the floor has cleared, when Fleisch’s leftfield instincts find their proper audience: listeners still alert enough to track a slow-motion collapse. No danceability metric is supplied, and none is needed; the movement here is internal, a head-nodding, sternum-vibrating sway for chairs and concrete corners rather than dancers.