Car fumes hazing red break lights bend as a draft pulls the emissions toward a hole in the road. Close to the border now, sweat and fear swell their minds and smuggling [BLANK] in from wherever to u.s. is both brilliant and daunting. Muck in the sewer changes consistency closer to the change, and CHANCE takes the IMAGE of confusion. Confusion: both within thyself and outer attire, covered in nothing worth mentioning (for your stomach’s sake), CHANCE and the P. Child crawl patiently through to freedom. Heavy paranoia seeps in through their pours; Mexico city has a huge crowd for this sorta music. Disguised in broken notes and thoughts, claps of what’s thought as noise turns into noise.
They seem to be an outfit for mythic musical pleasure, but become mules in underground [BLANK] trading and commerce. It’s clever, as they are always hard at work doing something. And meeting them in Brooklyn or Eagle Rock or Glasgow or Belgium becomes a guessing game of “Where am I?” Which is chill in a “Where am I?” sorta way. And in the same way people never pass through animate objects, CHANCE’s “TRIGGER*FINGER” creates a rouse in order to placate the thoughts of everyone/everything. Sonically, and specifically, CHANCE distorts your mind to something of repetition, dancing upon your thoughts of something layered and clicked in muck, but not of the slow-drip kind, more of that thick sustainable sludge that looks solid on the iris. Once you’ve drawn your entire focus to it, nothing else matters but the [BLANK] running through your system, all provided by the fellah who brings you REAL internal entertainment.
• CHANCE/IMAGE: http://chanceimag.es
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