"A Night on the Tiles in the Metafuture" (a nod and a wink to JN)

And the pound of the boomdrum, the swagger of the bass (oh that bass that bass) whilst the treble creaks and etches pizzicato stutter with crazytime pattern. The colours and the music eyeing one another, flirting, teasing and falling in a cascade of love. And we, we are there. Really there. We are sauntering in the dubbed heaven.

The projected patterns surround, laser-licked and fast. Patterns emerging, responding to the soundwall that crashes around us. The projections anticipating the beat. And now the patterns merging, forming, the iterations resolving. Now I can see it. The wings frenzied. Colours blushing and morphing, swarming. The butterflies everywhere, dancing the airborne wild seven-step. Arrived.

The hands of the controller, funked to the eyes, blurring, flickering as they slip over the vinyl. Real old style. The fuzz, the crackle, feeding the speakers, harmonising with each new surge of soundpattern. The place where we are is fusing. Blowing fuses. Electricity flooding every corner.

Snapping now to the 4/4 bridge of pure digitasnare and thudthudthud of lower bass frequency (response response). Four to the floor. Snap snap snap snap.

The hands going wild over the decks. They swim with the grooveneedle. Searching the details of the plastic. Pulling new life from each frictiontone. The records dripping with movement, lubricated, slipping delightfully. Each tweak of the fingers, a new slide, a new waterfall of sound.

Beatscapes framed by the electro subrange pounding, and spliced to the heavens by the stuttering vinyl pulls with bleeps and whistles and calls to the young. “The night is ours, the night is ours.”