A year, marked the only way I know how.
One room. A hundred of us. Every record on wax.
No laptop. No USB. Every record on wax, and a set built around how they sit next to each other in key.
I have spent the year keying the collection for one night. The order is not a playlist; it is a single arc, warm and patient at the open, all the way up through the peak, then home on something melodic.
This is that night. A hundred people, one room at Pisco, and one revolution from the first groove to the last.
Warm and unhurried. The kind of records you feel before you place them.
Sequenced by key so it moves like one long piece. No reset, no undo; the selector commits.
The middle of the night, the reason a hundred of us are in the room.
Something melodic to end on. A year, set down gently.
The date, the room, the first record. The list hears everything first.
RM50 at the door, and only a hundred spots. Leave your name and I will send you the date the moment it is set.
I'll send the date and the room straight to your WhatsApp. See you in the revolution.
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