As the music reverberates off Monday Night Garage’s beer-splattered floors, vibes reminiscent of J Dilla’s vibrate through the joints of every animate and inanimate object in the building. Electricity. Connectivity. Unpretentious audio orgies. Spunk. Funk. Soul. Frankenstien’s monster on a 100% pure uncut cocaina. Sonic Snowfall. What Studio 54 in the early 80s must’ve felt like. Controllerise Atlanta. 

I look to my left and see this beautiful Dorothy Dandridge-esque twenty-something radiating like the sunset sky. Short hair. Almond eyes. Marshmallow lips. Soft, thick frame. The stuff dreams are made of. In front of me, there’s a mob of third generation Def Comedy Jam dancers reminding me how it felt to hear “Peace. God Bless. Good Night.” then sit in awe of the illest breakers on television. Freedom. Raw shit. Everything. Music. Hand-crafted Soundwaves. The heartbeat of the underground. I think to myself “is this what a Dilla set felt like?” 

As the vibes elevate higher, I look to my right and instead of Detroit’s Don of Donuts—the most notable sample surgeon to dig through a crate, I see a headful of free-form locs bouncing under a tightly knit beanie. A conductor, orchestrating an ocean of energy. STLNDRMS: The new wave. 

Atlanta is a magical place full of fertile soil. Instead of beanstalks, dreams burst through the mundane muck and mire if you dare to believe. A transplant city with deep roots. Those diligent enough to crack through the porcelain façade meet the real Atlanta underground. Enter STLNDRMS. I’m new to his music, but he’s been putting finger to pad since 2001.  

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