*Alexa plays Nightcall*

A symphonic piece of cranium-bashing ferocity and love that manifests with a mood for intimacy, brutalism as a way to express affection, delivering blow after blow of pulsating retro synthwave. Just think of Beethoven’s 3rd Movement Presto Agitato, recalling the wavy ups and downs in one’s psyche that flush out what’s so inherently dramatic and vicious. It does not take long for the short-lived peace to calm our nerves before getting taken apart by the sheer power of nihilism, but all of that aggression comes as an equivalent exchange the Driver has to conform, in order to pursue true serenity. There is violence bursting in every frame, whether muted or unmuted, violence blossoms as a gesture of love, violence that drips every ounce of passion, so vivid, so horrifying and yet it felt as though the reality was boxed inside some neon-lit fever dream. Rarely do we get a breathtaking scene such as the elevator kiss, which acts as both a starting point and a rather fitting farewell, like orbiting around the slow-moving celestial bodies whereas seconds are protracted into minutes, dimly lit lights affirm the spacy transcendental state of ethereal endearment being suppressed by the forthcoming danger and the inevitable cruelty - two extremes of violence and romance intertwine to conduct one thunderbolt rush of feelings - The Driver has left in our hearts, a raw pulpy mess that is tragically beautiful, knowing how far he’s gone through all the troubles to spare us the beauty in brutality.

Hey kid, you want a toothpick?