Making my way into the crowd, I find an eclectic mix of fans. The crowd dances in waves of radical movement, with arms flailing, cigarette smoke dissipating into the air, and gyrating bodies in a sea of composite rhythm. “Perfect timing,” I find myself thinking, after waiting all day for the thunderous opening bass drop to inject into my eardrum. Their elongated wait is over: Downlink has begun. Everyone in the rest room has started screaming. The urinal in front of me is clamorously shaking.
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