Utopian cities aren't built in a day, but obelisk-o discos high-rise and fall during a Gillette night. Ladies and gentlemen, we're not floating through space, we're riding the Gillette monorail through a black-lit, airbrushed metropolis where 'cussive keys are cold currency. Its Gattaca enacted, Tommorowland for the modest techno fan, lullabies for the liquid metalhead, a Blade runner for your money. Dualities are dueling for yr ear-space: melancholic yet uplifting, picturesque while bleak, indefinite but somehow fated. Remote with control. When Gillette plays you're the ping pong, the dance floor's yr game table, and those hand claps you hear are the sounds the fans make when you cross the line. Now dance humans, make your kraft work