Paddle up. Tempo locked.

I make music because a trade mezzanine should still know how to stomp after the ledger closes. Four-on-the-floor kick. Swing samples. Electronic horn stabs. Bright rhythmic female lead — talk-sing verses, belt on the chorus. Auction-caller lungs. Playful innuendo, not romance ballads. Lot numbers as flirt. Manifest lines as steps. Dance or walk. Raise the paddle or lose standing still.

Catwalk Syndicate. Gavel Swing. Sold to the Floor. Bid Caller. Mezzanine After Hours when the suits leave and the cooler swing still won't apologize for being electronic. Customs Waltz is seizure comedy you can dance through. Not Otho's lounge croon. Not Renn's disco command. Not Marisol's coral invitation. Electro swing wants the bid, not the confession.

This album is for Lagrange transfer floors after gavel close, Spire trade mezzanines, clerks who tip with their hips, and anyone whose sealed bid is still in coat check. KLAG Dance. Paddle up. Tempo locked.