In the smoke-lit shadows of summer, a storm pulses.
Jordan Cracknell’s “Gordon Gekko” is a musical possession.
Synths crackle like city lightning. The bass rumbles beneath your ribs.
You don’t choose to dance — your body is already moving.
And then she speaks.
She invokes.
Each word etched in steel and sass, her voice cuts through the haze with fierce grace.
It’s ambition dressed in shimmer. Feminism lit on fire.
Gordon Gekko becomes goddess, suit swapped for sequins, greed eclipsed by power.
You hear the 80s in every retro pulse, feel the now in every beat drop.
The past is remixed, the present redefined.
This is house music as ritual.
A synth-lit sermon.
A bassline baptism.
And in its spell, we dance.