LUCIDAS EP

A1: Swahili 08:15 B1: Lucidas 07:03 B2: Saloee 06:45 Mathias Kaden in spirit is oft wandering through the red African Steppe. Rhythm-infected, he takes a place ˜round the tribal camp fire, this is currently demonstrated on his last vinyl thunder cracker. Now in his survey of the senses, a similarly administered dose of a worthy art of cooking from a strange continent has taken seat in his fantasy. On his first culinary solo trip for FAT, he helps himself to the best of the organic ingredients from his favorite market. Three pots are stewing with various ingredients under the flame, with the contents tastefully-electrified, German tidiness with foreign-land zest in 3 combinations in 3 courses. Presented is an amalgamation of rhythmic cultures, so that they really enrich the hands and demonstrate how very much the worlds can tonally come together. Three times everything but only the half from the gardener shed  minimal, blessedly aesthetic maximal with the right balance of musicality, timelessness and that stoic hypnotic which ends in a 3 times soaking-wet enthused inferno. A1: Swahili The excitability of ice cold driving, industrial tonal culture is decently caramelized with drumming, piano and flute without the entire dish washed in frosting. Everything found exactly at the right place, every palate so friskily tantalized that bodily movement absolutely must be released. B1: Lucidas A technoid beaten house-Zabione in which the principle of taste is tempered with the nergetic effectiveness of satisfaction without being stuffed is prodigiously combined. Perfect for the early morning hours when the only the vanilla of the sensual, the setting sun, the never ending lust for the dance (which has long overridden any trace of bodily exhaustion) and shocking feeling of lust remains of this endlessly manifest, wonderful music. B2: Saloee A real nutritious techno sweat embodies tonal enzymes a voodoo-esque, hypno-frenzy ambition which drives the body. A whole lot of free-spirited shaking finally experiences what really uncontrolled marching means. A tribal ode to deconstructing a club, a lot of fun where meditation and hectic, meets the search for the fitting record. Clap your hands every voodoo! Peace to the techno cabana, war to the palaces!