Okain

Running some cranky, tempestuous currents on the latest, courtesy of Berlin’s Okain. A quartet of the meanest cuts to grace the label for a minute as he pulls no punches on propulsion. Hurtling through the temporal plane at break-neck speed. Proper strapping accelerators rooted somewhere between third portal freak-out and girder-strength tech house flex. All four built like a brick shithouse, but the foundations have given out and we’re falling down a wormhole. Transcending epochs and realities with one foot in the free party and another in the big room.