amsterdam local, ivory coast progeny and grime-juke-jungle gene-splicer, h-sik makes his black acre debut in rude style with two concrete-junglist chemical weapons. first up is the muscular drum workout *sonic rage* which layers a ridiculously powerful, yet deftly chopped 808-amen bombardment with delicate citric pads, bleeps and lost droideka language. on the flip is the orwellian *no promises* a natural pairing of vangelis atmospherics and committed drum-funk workout, building with undead voices and b-boy breakdowns.