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Red Time: the phrase threatens a mid 1980s dystopia: Deloreans prowling lower east side favelas, Gordon Gekko on the PA, treble-clipping, white-collar, French knot throating on and on about greed is good, as a cold war threatened to go hot and nuke prom.

But that aint the Red menace we talkin bout, son.

This Big Red harkens back to soot-covered machine shops somewhere between Detroit and Chicago. Frenetic beats beating 60-year old detritus from between floorboards separating sub-basement from roof-bout-to-cave-the-F-in upstairs loft, a flurry of dust, motivated to descend by 60-hertz gusto, a low pass fiasco made real by decay.

A couple more paces into the space, and look, youve made it: sub stacks revealed in a flash of saturated strobe good news: youre at the party you drove 40 miles through a D-town snowstorm to reach and

Look baby, theyre playing our song! Red Time fades in from a set up 707, a high hat crescendo. And wait...Theres your boy, two clicks west of the cypher and one to the right of the girl thats chewing her lower lip off. And WAIT! Theres your other boy. And his girl. Sweating it out next to a stack of floor to ceiling grills marked EAW," another rental.

You know what comes next. Fade to white, then -

Happy Sunday morning.
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