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  • Writer's pictureLion Victor


Audiological View


A little bit hyper, a little bit backward, a lot break beat, more driving, to the happy house echo of the ghettotech cadillac that maximizes mental hydraulics to chrome out your audio sensibilities and drift on to your stream of consciousness, where you are most comfortable and familiar.

The Tea Party is about to begin, or maybe it started long it Day 7 who knows?

More reverb and syncopation remind that a mission is still taking place, and that your selector has arranged a way for you to find yourself through music, possibly the reason called high priestess.

MC drops the Brixton horns to bring you back to your place in front of the speaker, where your headphones dissolves into a meeting of your most familiar friends in the most underground warehouse that the musical gods ever assembled.

Break beat hi hat says hi, because you cannot stray far from Planet Ghettotechia.


Ok time to wake up, the body buzz sets in, after many unanswered calls.

More jungle than riddim, the call and response of the ancient electronic forest drips from your fingertips while the moonlight manga swings through the trees above and around, appropriate for Track Pickup anyway.

The priestess emerges from her cave, filled with audio blessings for the tribal mixers that groove to her steady echoing beat.

Haunted or not, the body comes to full life in the moment in real time when the proper beats reach the ears of the One Within.

The tense bells of sitting too long merge into the stretch and breath from the bottom of your ghettotech core, so the spearmint air tickles your deepest corpuscles. Come get free on an interlude, and let the priestess possess your joint(s).


Indeed they will, maybe in a two-minute read, maybe in an infinite lifetime.

If you pump it up, it all adds up to the same thing: more movement, jumping across the rooftops, in earshot of the mighty bass and skyscraper speaks.

A lighting bolt of riddim launches this tune into hyperspace, where you are driving the spaceship, or just lingering by the speaker, trying to fit in.

Lost in the shadows is the only way to roll for those of all in the know, so we wait for more directions from the bass..edgy techno falls off the edge into another world where maybe the priestess looks in person, or under the glowstick-covered robe.

Go to Goa, or go to Boom, or go to Barna, and find a trapped door where wtf is happening as promised. Follow the reverb of the priestess to the decks and get passed yourself.


Dark chill-out mood, a little je ne sais quoi mixed with some intrigue, inviting into the always sinister- seeming underground, never knowing what will happen until you get inside.

The beats spin around in a bebop acid house swirl that make you want to consider deeper something, though you are not sure what it is, and are sure it does not matter.

Because the echoing MC reminds you your brain is still working, if some other kind of way, when it is time for a break anyway.

The song numbs you out proper, to sit in the feather chariot of subsonic grey matter, where your audio massage can float you on the cloud you seek to lift all that mental tension from your universe.


Electric es electric, but don't mess with the wires. Baroque reminds of the time before music was music, when beats still lingered in media res.

There was a different way of doing things back then, they had their own plague, but they never plagiarized the beats because there was no precedents except from the dusky contingent.

If techno had baroque, it would be now, listening to the abstract shapes of the realm we enter when we are cut off from fellow party pioneers, landing in the same focal point of the universe, a cylindrical sound chamber where the MC reminds that if this was Miami it would be Mars.

The Space Club in mind is grand, when the music spills across the intimate chamber of a dark and vast party cave.


Ola Barna, did we do this dance in the future? The eternal city is not a metropol but an electric ghetto soundscape where the breakbeats and the distortion reverberate as a cosmic confluence of only the finest of sweet things, and the deepest of dark secrets.

Extract thy pig-sticker to fight off those who are dancing to the blood, to unite with the unborn priestess of the decks generation, to rekindle the driving space beats that increase in abstraction to find the Eternal City action, not reaction, but pure satisfaction because rhythms are not made of factions, but only the finest grains of the deepest passions.

The DJ seems to be the only one who knows where the Eternal City is going, but even if it falls into more decays, there will be decks plugged in somewhere, and dancers in their bubbles controlling the troubles.


Oh, don't even test. Ankles are locked and loaded, calves pulsate, knees coagulate, shuffle integrates, feet accelerate, catching the pace, can still move to the rhythm, can still increase the pace in the space no look on the face.

In a snap the voodoo arises, and the priestess blows the dust that puts the party zombies spotlight thrust.

No fuss no muss just working out the kinks drawn to the tables by the DJ able to priestess the tunes into the moons.

The reverse reverb and the sonic mix will bring clicks, but first the ear fix.


Still to break free, call of the Kush, pushes the line between the tracks farther into the ghetto where the tekk meets the pavement to form more defined cheekbones from which the priestess can hang her Venetian mask and keep us wondering if a priestess is a DJ or all the way.

An anthem to favored kush or the abstraction of meaning from everything, once again the connection doesn't matter as it lies between the eardrums somewhere, irretrievable at a later date.

Taking it to another nivel where the prodigal ancestors continue to drop their fingerprints into the world between music and everything.


Oh yeah we all got this nothing to hide no mystery theater.

So we do about it dance. Movement sophisticatto, no bravado, just shining decals spinning in the moonlight, glowstick in the alleys, head trip physical all the way to the subwoofer, where to find the records or the gear that hit the floor ay caramba how long have I been here.

No matter its not about me not about you its about finding the priestess within, because if she is at the decks she is burning the inner wreck, ripping the discotek and washing all away all the pain with a perfect storm of audio rain shot from delirio train to carry the beats as far into the outer confines of the mind that you did not find until you hear what you become after the empire of darts disintegrates to the vibration of the decks.


There comes a time in every festa...logistics.

Priestess save me oh but you sound so good need more check the telegram speak in tongues set the time to meet at the door what a horror.

Wait, someone is calling me, they will tell you where to go to find it, just before the 'demic...the priestess has some clues about where to your mind, not left behind at the forefront of mankind. Check the signs, the way in through the door the heavy priestess provides enough to believe the beats.

--EL Train

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