B.A.$.$.

The sounds seem to bring everything together: street noise, African rhythms, Portuguese speech, and a bit of techno mixed on an old laptop. All around is movement, heat, the smell of dust and gasoline, and something elusively alive pours from the speakers, like the breath of a city that never sleeps.

Each line sounds like a rehearsal for a big celebration, where everyone has long forgotten the script, but no one minds - because the main thing is not order, but pulse. The music tugs at your shoulder, inviting you to dance without asking your name or mood. And suddenly it becomes clear: here it is, the energy that makes even concrete seem capable of blossoming.