Vega Intl. sounds like a soundtrack to an epic, drug-filled progressive party, a night-long house-to-house-to-club-to-house-ad-infinitum crawl through the city. As a sort of de-facto point-of-view character, Alan Palomo sounds like the trust-fund kid floating from place to place with his hip working-class compatriots, as he just woke up and their shifts just ended. His voice gives the listener something to hold on to, with his waify cool tenor cutting through the haze. This entry-point is key, too, because the instrumentation is filled to the brim with synths, with no two sounds used twice. With all its gunky low-ends, sleazy leads, and cartoony effects, there are too many to count. All of that is run through the album's tape-to-cd-to-tape sound quality that only really clears up in patches, like the only unworn section of a cassette full of recorded-off-the-radio favorites. It throbs in places, slinks in others. You could likely track the substance-use trajectory as the album progresses. The only constant is that it is infinitely danceable. It is likely safe to assume that it took a lot of time and cost a lot of money to sound this sloppy. Worth it.
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