The slow burn continues. With "Long Trax 4", Will Long extends his signature deep house minimalism into yet another glacially unfolding meditation, where time bends and loops dissolve into memory. These are tracks that don’t demand attention but reward patience, drawing you in with their unshakable, hypnotic calm. Four longform cuts, each stretching past the ten-minute mark, built from the same raw materials: warm, rounded basslines, icy synth stabs, languidly pulsing rhythms, and the ghostly echoes of distant voices.

Long's approach has always been about restraint, a deliberate economy of means that recalls the austerity of early DeepChord or the meditative flow of Larry Heard at his most introspective. But where the "Long Trax" series began as a kind of political statement - house music stripped of excess, leaving space for sampled voices critiquing capitalism and injustice - this fourth installment leans even further into abstraction. The messages are still there, drifting in the ether, but they no longer anchor the music; instead, they haunt it, spectral reminders of conversations half-heard through the fog of reverb and delay.

Opener "One in the Future" unfurls like a sunrise over an empty city, pads swelling and receding in slow-motion waves, while "The Right Choice" settles into an even deeper groove, its hi-hats ticking like a distant metronome marking the passage of hours. "You Cannot Reform A Sin" brings in a muted urgency, basslines pressing forward as voices murmur warnings from another dimension. Closer "Fingers of Fire" might be the most subtly dramatic piece here, a slow crescendo of flickering chords and submerged intensity, stretching time until it almost disappears.

For those already attuned to Will Long’s world, "Long Trax 4" is another chapter in an unfolding saga of minimalist devotion. For the uninitiated, it’s an invitation to let go, to step into a place where house music moves at the speed of thought, where the groove is eternal, and where silence, repetition, and space are just as important as sound. It’s still the real thing, still chugging along, and it still refuses to rush.