As we enter the room, noise swallows everything. The music hits me, assaults my body, and it's a pounding force. Narcotic. Suffocating. Beautiful. It's hard to explain, but it's like being inside some great, pulsating womb. I close my eyes for a second and let my body dissolve into it, and it's like being a little kid again. I spent so much of my childhood sitting in front of my Nintendo, and what I seem to remember most about old video games is the music, synthesised, repetitive; I could sit for hours on end and just listen to it build then fade away, sequences of tiny artificial notes endlessly repeating themselves. The thing of it was that although the ambient soundscapes that accompanied the big-eyed anime boys as they went to rescue their princesses, or find their magic crystals, or avenge their dead brothers or save faraway worlds from forces too evil to imagine, were meant to be heard and then forgotten, they somehow transcended that, and anyone who ever played those games as a kid now has some small part of that embedded in their consciousness. Electronic music was the sound of my childhood, and as I stood there in the here and now and closed my eyes and let the ethereal synthesised keyboard lines swirl around me and the beats pummel and assault my body, it's like being there again, like childhood, somewhere I can be safe and warm, and I'm not even kidding about any of this. And I stand there and sway for the longest time, because there's this one particular song playing, with a high, swirling keyboard line, and it doesn't seem as though it can go any higher, and it swells and then fades away again then comes back and it swells and fades and swells and fades and I'm hypnotised by it. I stand there and sway, lost in the purity and the beauty of it, and for a second it's like I'm not even there anymore. It's like I've disappeared completely into the music.