Windsor, Ontario. August ’92. The dead of night (his favourite time to create). The lone figure of Richie Hawtin bounces maniacally from machine to buzzing machine in his studio.
Already locked into a 30+ minute jam of rhythmical acid techno, he’s lost in the music. Part man, part Wavestation. At once, an unholy peal of thunder strikes (with a lovely attack and some nice reverb, to be fair). His ‘lab’, under the kitchen in his folks’ home, shakes, killing the lights. The once blinking banks of humming hardware are deathly silent in the now pitch-black room.
