Minidisco

In the chrome-tinted margins of the collapsing 20th century, Elite Panic emerges—improvising like a bebop ghost trapped in reel-to-reel dreams, punching through disco’s mirrorball membrane. Minidisco is not an EP; it’s a malfunctioning transmission from a jazz club in Belper, where Roland drum machines slow-dance with Blue Note ghosts. Here, hard bop’s rhythmic urgency is soldered to East Midland's circuitry, echoing through magnetic fog. The result? Four flickers of synthetic swing, tangled in tape hiss and false memories. Music for filing cabinets that feel. A future past. A past refracted. A disco for dictaphones. You didn’t ask for it; but it remembers you.