Voices cross paths along the lonely telephone lines, spreading out across the cityscape like a lattice of circuitry, cutting through the hillsides and ravines that stretch out from Cuyamaca to the Pacific like a network of interlocking fingers over the landscape. Shades of now-ancient technology creaking under the digital strain, 6502 ghosts locked and roaming the machine like dirty shadows as loa drift through the Z80 ether of 2am twilight and the sound of DX7 dreams hanging like currents in the atmosphere.
Shadows cross the Lemon Interrupt and the distant mountainside-southside stomp, burning blue embers in fractal formation beneath a Kitten Moon as the last phases of The Body Wah cascade in great waves of mist across the valley stretched out below. Lost in the glistening geology of the night, the music carries you in graceful arcs across those translucent corridors hanging 80ft above the earth in a criss-crossing maze of moonlit communication.
Somewhere in the Heights there's a second story room and a system located within, some lone figure (any figure) punching deck in the dead of night to the bassbin algorhythms of Tackhead and Fats Comet, that hydraulic piston funk redefining reality and the spooked synths of “We Have Explosive (Part 3)” locked and swirling in an octadelic haze. Transmissions live and now in rotoscopic color, the fuse lit and burning as the old machines shift and rework themselves into the white hot rush of the new.
And a strange voice on the other end says:
Pick up the phone.