London WC1 The End
It's the sound of [B]Hawtin[/B] shedding his cerebral reputation for an evening, going back to the decks to win over clubbers, laying down an unbroken channel of pulsing, maverick electronic spark
Except it isn't. Touring in support of his new 'Decks EFX & 909' LP, a glorious breakneck mix-tape tour of transcendent techno, tonight sees [a]Plastikman[/a] himself spin a faultless set of other people's grooves, dropping his own squiggles and skronks in as he sees fit.
It's the sound of Hawtin shedding his cerebral reputation for an evening, going back to the decks to win over clubbers, laying down an unbroken channel of pulsing, maverick electronic spark, unrelenting in its killer pace and lethal, low-down phunk. From the exterior, the unforgiving barrage of post-melodic breaks and beats appears a scarifying mishmash of grotesque crackle, with nary a hook to hang on.
But, down in the heart of the teeming dancefloor, Hawtin's attack seems ever more fluid, the room as one gleefully snatching for every explosion Hawtin drops in between the grooves, an ecstatic party soundtrack hatching from inside the aluminium blitz. And on the horizon, a blinding grin spreading across his speccy-techno-geezer noggin, Hawtin himself smiling away. Miraculous stuff.
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