The natural intersection between dance as ambient and ambient as dance.
The score for an hour-long meteor shower.
A funeral procession for a disco legend. Black chiffon, elbow-high gloves, and neon boas on parade. Raccoon eyes spiked with tears and red nostrils dusted with white powder. Regret tempered with miles of glitz.
A proof of Newton's First Law of Motion.
The extended version of a theme song for a mid-'80s cop drama. A lead character named Dirk Rockland, a moustache thick enough to bury contraband in, a fondness for catch phrases and former cheerleaders. Glossy shots of gritty downtown corners lit up at night, obligatory slo-mos of getaway vehicles going airborne. Police Chief Morton will slam his desk and order Dirk to play by the rules at least once per episode.
God running a marathon.
Spilling out of the club in droves, outstretched like banners along the curbs, bodies still frosted with sweat and AC. The four a.m. blear of a tincan sky, eyes squinting into n-dashes, basslines still pumping behind distant walls, our skin still twitching electrically.
XA cheerleading routine choreographed by methheads.
Crowd surfers gliding over sound waves. Maneuvering a crest of hands at high tide, flecked with the spume of six-dollar beers, tipping back into the pull of the omnivorous current.
What a young Søren Kierkegaard would throw on at his Thursday night house parties.
The best dance-ish album since LCD Soundsystem's Sound of Silver and a must-hear for 2008.