Preview - /
- Sun Showers
- 40 Below
- Black Bag
An icy shard of intrigue crashes through on Diskotopia courtesy of Rabit and his Sun Showers EP.
Having had material released on Glacial Sound, Keysound Recordings, and #FEELINGS in the past few years, Houston based producer Rabit is quickly becoming a name synonymous with the kind of expansive forward-thinking new wave of grime led by the likes of Visionist and Fatima Al Qadiri, that’s rapidly making waves transatlantically. Here with the Sun Showers EP we see a musique concrète show of variations on Rabit’s sound.
Already garnering support from Blackdown on his Rinse FM show, Sun Showers creates a haunting opening to the EP. Razor-sharp yet delicate reverse hi-hats icicles cut through ethereal crystalline synth-chorale and sub-laden atmospherics, to create a sublime digital elegy, with dread and anticipation cloaked behind each celestial resonating note.
Levels is a true show of minimalist precision; tightly edited dot matrix machine-funk for the clubs of tomorrow. The carefully controlled restraint gives Levels a very unique fearlessness, shrewdly juxtaposed with the paranoid erratic pace of the rhythms. Echoes of early 90s Chicago, millennial-era Squarepusher, Hessle Audio output, and even Steve Reich’s earliest compositions can be found beneath the deceptive simplicity, giving Levels the hidden depths that the title hints at. With the prerequisite stamp of approval from L-Vis 1990, it’s a surefire club tool fit for the most discerning crowd.
As the track name suggests, 40 Below takes us to the depths of subterranean glaciers, navigating through the shadows cast within frozen corridors, guided only by sparse tribal conga taps. An uneasy commotion of broken glass, lasers and ghostly laughter reverberates and builds edgy tension. This one is for an E3 basement-confined ritualistic meditation fit only for the end of days.
Black Bag takes the Eski sound to new realms of transcendence to round out the Sun Showers EP. Swells of emotion trickle in and out of a foreboding mantra of gliding squares, as percussion in and of itself is all but nonexistent save for a scattering of filtered claps, shattered cymbal crashes and disembodied cowbells. An eerie note of closure for a frozen journey into the unknown.