Cubicle Riot from Clerical Rapture by Ivoryache

The suffocating quiet of the fifth-floor desk maze shatters into a full-scale insurrection. We were living that slow burn of bureaucratic dread, so to finally hear those rolling chairs slam drawers like actual war drums, it felt like breaking through a concrete wall. That first time Mirrah just screamed out a department head’s surname over the din, it was less a lyric and more an exorcism. Critics might call it primitive, but we think it’s honest; the syncopated snare—that breach drop—hits like the last piece of paperwork finally tearing. People tell us their initial reaction is usually just pure, unadulterated shock at the sheer noise, then this strange, almost unsettling urge to join in, to start kicking their own furniture. It’s not about politeness; it’s about a catharsis that just has to get out, no matter how messy. The tape-dampened piano strings and that cello, running through a payphone mic, almost sound like the building itself groaning under the weight of it all, until it snaps.

Raw feelings hit hard drums. Piano strings ache. We sample the tear of paper for a jolt. Hear it.