This is the last time The Adventures in Modern Music will ever beóthe final one. No more. And for a finale the Empty Bottle is, well, empty. Twenty, thirty people scattered about, so sparse the vastness prevents them from advancing closer to the stage, as if thereís some sort of invisible perimeter holding them at bay waiting to incinerate them. But none of that matters, and the fans are right, something is waiting to burn right through them. Supreme Cuts.
It starts. The set builds slowlyórunoff from the openersóbut picks up quickly. Perry pounds the drum machine with subdued fury, while Keultjes works the MPC like a madman possessedópossessed by some manic, percussive spirit. House, juke, crunk, hip-hop, whatever, all meet at the hands of these young spirits, yet none of it is distinguishable. Itís there, but Supreme Cuts makes it their own. Itís selfless and avoids the narrow nature of classifications. Itís organic and raw and sweeps through you like the hawk on a cold Chicagoís night. The way it comes together conjures up memories of old school house parties. The ones held in dingy basements, faces unknown voices unheard, free.
Few people dance. Doesnít matter. Not at this point. Supreme Cuts continues. They extend their range. Incorporate rich vocal samples. Yes, as young as they are, they know house. They know Chicago. Itís a pity really. Pubs like Fader, and Pitchfork praise Supreme Cuts, yet the people here, sleep. But itís okay. The set continues. Rhythms pound, blare, but never loses a sense of harmony. Billowing melodies from the synth blanket the sound space. All the while neither Perry nor Keultjes can be seen. Itís so dark, and even if you could catch a glimpse of them why does it matter?
Itís not important to see them. Itís all from within. Your head is somewhere else. Lost in space. Lost in rhythm. Lost, but in a familiar place. Supreme Cuts. Chicagoís Supreme Cuts takes you there. Adventures in Modern Music.