Liner notes, found in a suitcase with two packs of Marlboros, a coffee-stained passport, mirrored sunglasses, and a couple vials of mystery substance:
The note was folded twice and tucked into the tape case like a secret. The suitcase smelled faintly of cologne, jet fuel, and something else. Sweet and chemical. The kind of scent that lingers in hotel elevators and behind velvet ropes. There was sand in the zipper track. A bar napkin from a place called Le Tarmac. No return address.
This tape wasn’t made for distribution. It was stitched together somewhere between the fifth espresso and the first blackout. Maybe in Rio, maybe in Marseille. Wherever, the room had a balcony, bad wiring, and a turntable balanced on a minibar.
No Ar glides past in mirror-walled clubs where the ceiling fans spin too slow and the drinks come too fast. It moves through airport terminals at 2AM, riding the echo of someone else’s laughter. It’s the soundtrack to fogged-up taxi windows, to phone calls made from rotary phones in strange lobbies, to the soft buzz of fluorescent light on sunburned skin.
The mix spirals. It sweats. It refuses to land. Somewhere in there you’ll find the pulse. Or maybe you won’t. Maybe it finds you.
There’s no tracklist. He said they killed the buzz. Just the reel, the ride, and whatever it was that kept him cutting through dawn.
Global top chart positions held by this upload on Mixcloud:
66 Disco Edits