Windbreaker’s Hostage is a strange thing that exists the intersection of eviscerated dance genres. It’s almost as if Nick Read had adopted the role of a Mayan priest, and extracted the heart of Acid, EBM, AI-IDM and EBM one by one, and then hurled their carcasses into a cenote, from which eventually emerges a beast with the poise of a Hidetaka Miyazaki nightmare.
The feeling of alienness is almost unbearable. We know acid, but not this brittle. We know the death-head rattle of Factory Floor, but not without the dystopia. We know EBM, but not de-sexed. We know Warp’s techno, but not without the ravey trippiness.
Nature abhors vacuum though, and the components of this composite eventually expand to fill the void at its heart with the main thing that they share, a sense of eternal propulsion, a knowledge that stasis is decay, that if you stop moving, you will die.
We run with it for a while, and then we are left behind.