The rumor is that Bozak has a secret storage locker of vinyl somewhere in the Midwest. An endless and choice reserve. Stories have been told of jealous DJ’s with bolt cutters visiting every bus station within a 400 mile swath. Some swear it’s in a cave. Some have heard the stories for years and have learned to pay no mind to stories. But those same people, that when the room starts to get a little warm, and they start thinkin’ to themselves that they might perspire, and then Bozak drops in on the one with a beat that you can’t wrap your head around; the sound of a video game mutant army marching victorious and proud on zombie steeds. Well, those same people go home and they tell stories to other people.
Bozak breaks beats. With his ears as the mortar and his hands as the pestle; he grinds disco, hip hop and dubby orchestral samples into a fine analog powder. In some out of the way places; for the right price, the village doctor can concoct for a man a similar powdery balm, and when he rubs it into your skin, and the blood begins to flow, it moves you just like when you first hear Bozak and the party comes alive.

various bits by bozak