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Ben Banjo Field takes Kiki Gyan’s Disco Dancer — that 1979 slice of Afro-disco genius cut in Nigeria when Gyan was still being hailed as Ghana’s answer to Stevie Wonder — and drags it, grinning, onto today’s floor. The rework doesn’t just respect the original groove; it electrifies it, tightens the kick, widens the synth, gives the congas a sharper swagger. Gyan’s dream of global disco always teetered between Lagos, London, and New York — here, Field finally makes good on it, polishing the pulse for a generation raised on side-chains and filter sweeps. It’s a love letter and a resurrection: the warmth of ’79 wired through 2025’s dance circuitry, proof that a true disco dancer never really leaves the floor.

Discoholics Anonymous doesn’t ask for cookies. It slips them into your pocket while you’re not looking, the way clubs used to slip flyers into your coat lining at 4:37 in the morning. Some of them are harmless — the house keys. They keep the lights on, remember who you are, stop the whole thing collapsing when you hit refresh. Without them the site is just a room with no door. The others are curious little spies. They want to know which mixes you stayed for, which ones you ghosted, whether you