"Timeplucks" opens the doors of Sonata Cafe with an invitation both familiar and vertiginous — a digijazz ensemble mid-ditty, their casual syncopations warm and unhurried, until the floor gives way. What begins as an evening at the bar becomes a rupture in linear time, the cafe's ambience folding inward and splitting open into two distinct timecubes, each a chamber of its own temporal logic. The first cube subjects the original jazz motif to a kind of sonic archaeology in reverse — not excavated but dismantled, its melodic tissue stretched and pixelated until only spectral residue remains, before giving way to a wistful corridor lined with shimmering electric guitars, suffused with the retro-futuristic warmth that haunted "Into the Horizon" — an 80s new age timeline in which the past is not remembered but inhabited, serene and slightly iridescent at the edges. The second cube offers no such comfort: a state of temporal unmooring in which fragments of future trance bleed through the walls like signals from an untuned receiver. The ground is elsewhere. The horizon, unlocatable. We return, eventually, to where we began — only the cafe has been quietly transfigured. Where there were strings and circuitry, there are now marimbas: wooden, resonant, unhurried, as though time itself has chosen a warmer instrument to confess what it has witnessed. "Timeplucks" does not resolve so much as recalibrate, leaving the listener suspended between arrival and return, tapping out rhythms they do not remember learning.

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