The turntables at Amnesia had no pitch control, the DJ could not beatmatch, and the room was empty. Alfredo Fiorito moved the opening to dawn. What came out of it, England took home.
Nine records lined up by descent rather than by year: who taught whom, and who put out whom. Sorted that way they show something the dates hide, and one of the labels has it written into its catalogue prefix.
Seven French records from a single series, Philips's Prospective 21e Siècle, lined up by catalogue number. Read that way they give away what the sleeve dates hide: the works and the records are not the same age.
Ten British records from 1990 to 1998, arranged around one date. In June 1994 a London magazine coined the words trip hop to review an American twelve-inch. Three of these records were already in the shops.
He wrote to the chef that the food was as beautiful as Katsura Rikyu and the music was like Trump Tower. Then he offered to choose it himself, for free, and left every one of his own records out of it. Four tracks from that selection, and the rule holding them together.
He spent twenty years posing the people of the Paris outskirts like figures in a history painting. His first record does the same thing with sound, and cuts every portrait down to two letters.
What sits under this heading is the branch we like most: not the dance floor as such, but the moment a new instrument reaches someone who does not yet know what to do with it. A sequencer bought to record demos, a delay that gets the timing wrong, a drum machine sold as accompaniment for guitarists that ended up defining two entire genres.
The dates matter. The Roland TR-808 arrived in 1980 and sold badly; the TB-303 came in 1981 to stand in for a bass player, was dropped from the catalogue within three years, then turned up cheap on the second hand market in the hands of the people inventing acid house. Most of what we call electronic music comes from there: commercial failures rescued by users who ignored the manual.