Ace Berlin house, with a chronic case of the Disco Jerks.

Dazzling house-disco cut-ups, saucily steeped in soul classicism.
All-body coitus interruptus, dozens per minute.

The twitching, mangled corpses of Lemon and Tamiko Jones, left for dead by Frank Timm on the altar of cut-and-loop disco-house. Brilliant, rooted, and ecstatic.

A bass-bin trembler from the surefire doyen of nu disco-house.

A walloping one dozen tonics of close-cropped, spasming, blissed-out boogie abstraction, for dancin and prancin. Zinging pick-me-up blends of forensic, gleeful, sleight-of-hand skills and disco connoisseurship, school of Ron Hardy.
It’s a must.

Swingeing Millsian techno from the geezer formerly known as ∑. Nothing extraneous. Lethal.

Well-crafted, feeling variations of bass, UK garage and house, drum and bass and the rest.

Torsten Profrock’s occult homage to UK garage.
Two-step waylaid in the scuffed, churning, sub-heavy terrain running from his Chain Reaction days to Monolake, mysteriously entangled with the distressed tracks of old Ugandan 78s.

We love this film. Warmly recommended.

Ace dubwise techno.

Fifty-six fearless forays deep into the consecrated crates.
ALC does what he does best, with Roc Marciano rocking the pulpit; Budgie wheels back to the UK scene, dazzlingly rallying Knucks, Novelist, JayaHadADream, Joe James, Ragz Originale, Natanya, Qendresa, and full crew.
The CD version is resplendently dressed like a Bible, with foil debossing, the full monty. The cassette artwork debuts Gospexploitation. Lovely stuff. Click through for more images.

End of days rations. Meekly wait and murmur not and ye shall miss it, and there shall be a gnashing of teeth.