You ride the monorail outside of the yellow halo of light pollution, into a heavy-industry district. The light flickers and buzzes just like in a dystopian sci-fi set piece. You wear headphones and the heightened pulse of the internal bass booster blocks out all other sound, so the car stops and the doors open unceremoniously. You descend from the station and walk down the street towards a nondescript basement staircase, passing nobody along the way. Inside you have to pass your belongings through a metal detector, then you’re given a towel and a key, and you walk into a locker room and shower and change into tights and race flats. You have come on the recommendation of a friend. The location was a bit of a slog but supposedly the competition is better, and the mixed drinks are stiffer. It can be a fatal error getting too sauced before one of these things, but it never hurts to loosen up.
After using a facial scan (imperfect, it takes, like, three attempts) to link up your account you’re given a menu of animated options, complete with floating stats bubble displaying vitals, win history, the original habitat of the competitor: jaguar, elephant, hippopotamus, caiman. You tune your headphones to the venue DJ’s channel, which plays jagged drum music at a tempo designed to increase heart rate, mentally prepare patrons for the race. Again, this is a matter of preference—some people get off on the noise. After choosing the remaining place in a jaguar heat—male, 2 years old, 15-3 record—you pay 1,465,099 tokens ($250) and take a number with your time listed on it. You make idle chat with a group of dudes who are watching a race take place from the viewing platform. You can hear a buzzing roar from the gallery, which is a standing-room-only viewing platform full of drunks and gamblers hidden behind a white screen of LEDs that floodlight the track. When it’s your turn to race, your number is called, and you walk down into the underground entrance to the track. There are four separated gates, which open onto what looks like an endless, turf pitch (the goal is 100 meters away). You can’t see any of your three competitors, but you can see the jaguar, looking detached and uninterested behind your gates, with a handler standing over its cage. A ten-second countdown begins, and you prepare to run once the gate opens. The odds are 1:115 in favor of the jaguar. Winner gets 10,000,000 tokens. The two runners up get their money back and some vouchers for the bar.
A sidewalk slammer cocktail of techno, gqom, and drill beats, the Rambo EP is a globally minded dance exhibition, a talking drum of heavy bass, somewhere between the cathartic exercise of the club and a mechanical investigation in rhythm. These five tracks and a remix by Luru are a natural extension of TSVI’s 2016 EP, Sacred Drum. Stream “Jaguar” below, and look out for more of TSVI’s work on his new London imprint Nervous Horizon, who have six 12” releases, and a handful of digital EPs under their belts.
