Johannesburg. There is a buzz going on in this city, an incessant electric hum that never shuts up. It has become all too familiar, practically embedded. My brain is insoluble and full of what. It throbs with the scathing joy of a reckless profligate, brooding about the drab chic of the streets. Boring myself to tears. I can hear a laugh track repeating itself in the background, each step measured to the needle and skip of the broken record. It coddles and lulls me to sleep until the joke isn’t funny anymore. I crave for a taste of dementia. Something to erase and forgive this nightmare, for it knows not what it does.

Recalibrating the machines. London-based producer Ryan Lee West aka Rival Consoles emerges from a long haul in isolation to dust off the rigmarole, revealing hidden truths of authenticity within opaque territory. Night Melody was developed as a result of the incarcerated experience of working in abject environments with digital technology: the haunting yet comforting background noise of a hard drive humming. West, when left alone to his devices, is able to transform emotion into the esoteric, colluding synthesis into vibrant, organic swaths of sound. Rhythmically taking jabs like hesitation marks, throwing caution to the wind.

The composition smears out of recognition – a sophisticated melancholia accelerated to the limit and moving in reverse. On 'Lone' the parameters in which West sets for himself are unexpected and often without control, occurring naturally and with great spontaneity. Casting neon shades of authority in a vibrating low-definition blaze of glory. The skullduggery will cease and reveal the true nature of itself from behind the curtain, as smoke and mirrors follow in victorious triumph.

Failure is the archetype. There is a certain level of merit reserved in particular for the happy or not-so-happy accidents. There is no repeat offender. Once an illusion becomes unearthed, analysed and understood, it no longer possesses the magic it once did. West understands this and adapts his system accordingly to shift the paradigm. Specifically, with the title track, capturing the mirage as it wanes while simultaneously exploiting the conundrum. Martyred and demystified, the magic becomes an action, a phantom limb extension of the body, an artifice moulded into melody.

'What Sorrow' triggers a jovial maelstrom – a crescendo that is tenuous and out of step with the rhythm of the night. Our feet don’t dance the way they used to, and our breath is out of tune. Our daily interactions are algorithmic, our existence preprogrammed and touch sensitive. The human condition is in disarray. The grabbing hands continue to grab all they can. Swiping left. Sometimes swiping right. The always-open mouth is never quenched. Exhausted of momentum and muscle, I roll up my sleeve and lift a finger to your wrist. There is no pulse. We have become dead beats, cold blue and lifeless.