Symmetry is proud to welcome Level 2, aka Pedro Lima, for his debut 2 track single. With an impressive track record including releases on V Recordings and Liquid V, Level 2 has carved out a reputation for slick production, deep grooves, and undeniable dance-floor appeal.

This single is a perfect two-sided showcase of his range. The lead cut bites hard - opening with a hook that sticks and a bassline that growls, this one’s made for peak-time chaos. Flip it over, and you’ve got a wicked roller driven by infectious percussion, effortlessly locking you into the groove.

Packed with character and club-ready weight, this single is yet another reminder that Level 2 is a force to be reckoned with in modern drum & bass.

ffm.to/symm069

SYMM069 - Level 2 - Come Selecta - 1min

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.            “It’s not like I’m using,” Case heard someone say, as he shouldered his way through the crowd around the door of the Chat. “It’s like my body’s developed this massive drug deficiency.” It was a Sprawl voice and a Sprawl joke. The Chatsubo was a bar for professional expatriates; you could drink there for a week and never hear two words in Japanese.            Ratz was tending bar, h is prosthetic arm jerking monotonously as he filled a tray of glasses with draft Kirin. He saw Case and smiled, his teeth a webwork of East European steel and brown decay. Case found a place at the bar, between the unlikely tan on one of Lonny Zone’s whores and the crisp naval uniform of a tall African whose cheekbones were ridged with precise rows of tribal scars. “Wage was in her early, with two joeboys,” Ratz said, shoving a draft across the bar with his good hand. “Maybe some business with you, Case?”            Case shrugged. The girl to his right giggled and nudged him.            The bartender’s smile widened. His ugliness was the stuff of legend. In an age of affordable beauty, there was something heraldic about his lack of it. The antique arm whined as he reached for another mug. It was a Russian military prosthesis, a seven-function force-feedback manipulator, cased in grubby pink plastic. “You are too much the artiste, Herr Case.” Ratz grunted; the sound served him as laughter. He scratched his overhang of white-shirted belly with the pink claw. “You are the artiste of the slightly funny deal.”            “Sure,” Case said, and sipped his beer. “Somebody’s gotta be funny around here. Sure the fuck isn’t you.”            The whore’s giggle went up an octave.            “Isn’t you either, sister. So you vanish, okay? Zone, he’s a close personal friend of mine.”            She looked Case in the eye and made the softest possible spitting sound, her lips barely moving. But she left.            “Jesus,” Case said, “what kinda creepjoint you running here? Man can’t have a drink?”            “Ha,” Ratz said, swabbing the scarred wood with a rag, “Zone shows a percentage. You I let work here for entertainment value.”            As Case was picking up his beer, one of those strange instants of silence descended, as though a hundred unrelated conversations had simultaneously arrived at the same pause. Then the whore’s giggle rang out, tinged with certain hysteria.            Ratz grunted. “An angel has passed.”            “The Chinese,” bellowed a drunken Australian, “Chinese bloody invented nerve-splicing. Give me the mainland for a nerve job any day. Fix you right, mate…;”            “Now that,” Case said to his glass, all his bitterness suddenly rising in him like bile, “that is so much bullshit.”             The Japanese had already forgotten more neurosurgery than the Chinese had ever known. The black clinics of Chiba were the cutting edge, whole bodies of technique supplanted monthly, and still they couldn’t repair the damage he’d suffered in that Memphis hotel.            A year here and he still dreamed of cyberspace, hope fading nightly. All the speed he took, all the turns he’d taken and the corners he’d cut in Night City, and still he’d see the matrix in his sleep, bright lattices of logic unfolding across that colorless void…;The Sprawl was a long strange way home over the Pacific now, and he was no console man, no cyberspace cowboy. Just another hustler, trying to make it through. But the dreams came on in the Japanese night like livewire voodoo, and he’d cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands clawed into the bedslab, temperfoam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn’t there.             “I saw your girl last night,” Ratz said, passing Case his second Kirin.            “I don’t have one,” he said, and drank.            “Miss Linda Lee.”            Case shook his head.            “No girl? Nothing? Only biz, friend artiste? Dedication to commerce?” The bartender’s small brown eyes were nested deep in wrinkled flesh. “I think I liked you better, with her. You laughed more. Now, some night, you get maybe too artistic; you wind up in the clinic tanks, spare parts.”            “You’re breaking my heart, Ratz.” He finished his beer, paid and left, high narrow shoulders hunched beneath the rainstained khaki nylon of his windbreaker. Threading his way through the Ninsei crowds, he could smell his own stale sweat.             Case was twenty-four. At twenty-two, he’d been a cowboy, a rustler, one of the best in the Sprawl. He’d been trained by the best, by McCoy Pauley and Bobby Quine, legends in the biz. He’d operated on an almost permanent adrenaline high, a byproduct of youth and proficiency, jacked into a custom cyberspace deck hat projected his disembodied consciousness into the consensual hallucination that was the matrix. A their, he’d worked for other, wealthier thieves, employers who provided the exotic software required to penetrate the bright walls of corporate systems, opening windows into rich fields of data.            He’s made the classic mistake, the one he’s sworn he’d never make. He stole from his employers. He kept something for himself and tried to move it through a fence in Amsterdam. He still wasn’t sure how he’d been discovered, not that it mattered now. He’d expected to die, then but they only smiled. Of course he was welcome, they told him, welcome to the money. And he was going to need it. Because––still smiling––they were going to make sure he never worked again.            They damaged his nervous system with a wartime Russian mycotoxin.            Strapped to a bed in a Memphis hotel, his talent burning out micron by micron, he hallucinated for thirty hours.            The damage was minute, subtle, and utterly effective.            For Case, who’d lived for the bodiless exultation of cyberspace, it was the Fall. In the bars he’d frequented as a cowboy hotshot, the elite stance involved a certain relaxed contempt for the flesh. The body was meat. Case fell into the prison of his own flesh.             His total assets were quickly converted to New Yen, a fat sheaf of the old paper currency that circulated endlessly through the closed circuit of the world’s black markets like the seashells of the Trobriand islanders. It was difficult to transact legitimate business with cash in the Sprawl; in Japan, it was already illegal.            In Japan, he’d known with a clenched and absolute certainty, he’d find his cure. In Chiba. Either in a registered clinic or in the shadowland of black medicine. Synonymous with implants, nerve-splicing, and microbionics, Chiba was a magnet for the Sprawl’s techno-criminal subcultures.            In Chiba, he’d watched his New Yen vanish in a two-month round of examinations and consultations. The men in the black clinics, his last hope, had admired the expertise with which he’d been maimed, and then slowly shaken their heads.            Now he slept in the cheapest coffins, the ones nearest the port, beneath the quartz-halogen floods that lit the docks all night like vast stages; where you couldn’t see the lights of Tokyo for the glare of the television sky, not even the towering hologram logo of the Fuji Electric Company, and the Tokyo Bay was a black expanse where gulls wheeled above drifting shoals of white styrofoam. Behind the port lay the city, factory domes dominated by the vast cubes of corporate arcologies. Port and city were divided by a narrow borderland of older streets, an area with no official name. Night City, with Ninsei its heart. By day, the bars down Ninsei were shuttered and featureless, the neon dead, the holograms inert, waiting, under the poisoned silver sky. --Reprinted from Neuromancer by William Gibson by permission of Berkley, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 1984, William Gibson. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. 
Hooked on the rush from each time i play in front of magical people.
Deep minimalist.

booking : jakubxbooking@gmail.com

IG : https://www.instagram.com/jakubpaksi/

member of Organic Beatz crew 

IG : https://www.instagram.com/organic.beatz/

"Niemand ist mehr Sklave, als der sich für frei hält, ohne es zu sein."

J.W. Goethe

Born in Konya in 1974. Acid house, 1987, was his first step into electronic music. He played at various local radio stations and parties between 1994-2005. Currently he does not actively play as a dj but he is a devoted follower of electronic music. He likes to play and listen to techno, dark techno,hard techno, drum&bass, jungle, drumfunk, hardstyle, gabber, speedcore, breakcore etc..

Contact: hollis@symmetryrecordings.co.uk

Break Bookings: clive@earth-agency.com
 
Long hours in the studio have lead to releases on Ram, Metalheadz, Shogun, Exit, Critical, Soul:R, Quarantine, Subtitles and a host of others; cementing Break’s reputation as one of drum & bass’ hottest talents. His trusted skills have been reigned in to remix seminal drum & bass classics including Shy FX’s ‘Bambaata’, Die’s ‘Clear Skyz’, Commix’s ‘Talk to Frank’ and Ram Trilogy’s ‘Gridlock’ as well as Bloc Party’s UK top-5 hit ‘The Prayer’.

Equally praised for his DJ skills, Break maintains a consistent touring schedule that sees him playing across the globe on a weekly basis on the stages of the world’s biggest drum & bass institutions; from Fabric, Detonate, Bedlam, Warning, Metalheadz and Hospitality in the UK to the USA, Australia, New Zealand, Japan and the breadth of Europe, playing headline shows or back2back sets with the likes of Die, Goldie and Dillinja.

Launching his own label, Symmetry Recordings in 2006, Break honed and polished his sound with each single and released his fist album, also entitled ‘Symmetry’ in 2008. Featuring forays into ambient, dubstep, funk, hip hop, house and soul amongst an arsenal of sure-fire drum & bass, ‘Symmetry’ earned Break an army of new fans from outside the d&b world with tracks picked up by the likes of techno legends Laurent Garnier and Josh Wink. 

Two years later Break has risen the bar further still via his second LP; ‘Resistance’. Featuring collaborations with No U-Turn mastermind Nico, Bristol’s DJ Die, super-duo Calyx & Teebee, DNAudio cohorts Silent Witness and Survival, Shogun Audio’s SpectraSoul and vocalists Kyo and SP:MC, the album offers a glorious journey through the spectrum of Break’s styles and influences and a clear indication of where his talents will lead him next. 

The next chapter for Break is signing new exciting artists to coincide with his own output on the label. Keep a keen eye on Symmetry as this is the label for the real sounds of Drum & Bass, absolutely no compromise.

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 Liberate Te Ex Inferis. ₍˄·͈༝·͈˄₎◞ ̑̑ෆ⃛. ? ₍˄ุ.͡˳̫.˄ุ₎ฅ˒˒ 
Snap- saeros0l

Drum and Bass DJ (Vinyl)

I would appreciate a Like for NE!C !;)
Have fun and thanks for supporting!
❤️DnB❤️