Dance music doesn’t have to be predictable. Although a lot of what is produced in that broad genre does seem to follow very tried and tested lines, plays safe and stays within its musical comfort zones. Occasionally you find someone who is deliberately making music without the safety net, who is happier leading than following, challenging rather than toeing the line. Log 57 is that very principle put into practice.

It is also a track of two halves, an ambient and shimmering intro to lull the listener into a false sense of security followed by a more angular and sharp-edged slice of warped electronic dance music. And somehow as forward thinking as the track is it also seems to reference the earliest musical experiments made by those disenfranchised punks as they turned broken keyboards and strange new technologies to their will. Similarly it is underground, wonderfully anti-commercial, odd, cultish and in its quiet way fairly ground-breaking. Or at least genre-shaking.

Building on the futuristic sounds of those 80’s synth pioneers, Log 57 is a slick blend of the cold, clinical, noir-ish musical drama of those originators and a modern dark dance vibe. It grafts an electro-gothic undercurrent on to an almost industrial pop sensibility (is that even a thing? I guess it is now!) DawzKreat revels in robust electronica, the sort which replicates the grind and grunt of rock music but which uses the synth palette of electronic glitches and riffs, programmed beats and washes to create their dystopian dance sound. 

It is Depeche Mode heading into the darkest places of their later career, it is Nine Inch Nails gone dance, it is a journey through the dark undercurrent of what dance music can even be, music which reflects the times that we live in, a scatter gun blast of influences and sounds that probably have no business hanging out together. But which are made to work in strange harmony.

This is dance music built from the detritus found scattered across an industrial wasteland, all sharp edges and jagged design and driven by a relentless powerhouse of bruising beats and searing sparks. It is the white-hot groove of factory noise being rendered onto the night club floor, but not the night club that just anyone can find. This one is probably in a decaying warehouse or dead car plant miles away from civilisation and possibly even in some sort of parallel universe, and as the clock strikes thirteen this is the sound which hits the sky for probably the last party before the apocalypse. 

The future has never sounded so wonderfully bleak or so horrifically beautiful.

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