8:30 clears by morning and the first rays of sunlight creep in through the palms. Sand-covered shoreline glazed by the tide's slow turning as seagulls cry out in the calm, circling in the distance somewhere over gently crashing waves. 808s bang against the boardwalk, and a lone Impala rolls by in elegant slow-motion, loose phrases pouring out an open window — “hustle just to eat” — echo off into last night's last traces receding into ether. Bass Is Maternal. Beatbox dusted and tripping in a thrift shop haze, Superfly on a shoestring, close your grip around it and let it all fade away in a sun-glazed supernova dancing on the palm of your hand.
“Got the sun got the sand, got the batteries in the handy cam.”
Miami Sunrise in the acid and dust, sonix colliding in a mist of 303 dreams and hissing hihats, all piped through the PCF and warped to alien abstraction. The tempos drop and time stands still, “It's A New Day” and “Funky Drummer” chopped to a loop and running through the machines, out there inna Lakeside discotheque with the saturated lights and a Disco Godfather haze. Dancefloor grid laid out among the indoor palms in a hall of mirrors stylee, cast in deep maroon and bathed in the sound of analogue hum, tape loops rolling til the hiss stacks in an ocean of sound, balanced on the edge of a breakbeat shuffling snakelike across the terrain...