There’s something beautifully twisted about the way “Sour Pie” hits – not sweet, not bitter, but a flavor in between, like a late-night thought you can’t quite shake. It’s the A1 track on “How Delicious“, the fifth release from Parisian imprint Silias Records, and a sharp, brooding opener that wastes no time with pleasantries. Veteran Serbian producer Marco Nastic – a name etched into Eastern Europe’s club DNA for over two decades – shows here that his edge hasn’t dulled. If anything, it’s been honed into a weapon for late-night release.
From the jump, “Sour Pie” stomps in with a bassline. Minimal in shape but not in effect, the low-end pulses like a heartbeat under pressure, its small tonal mutations subtle enough to seduce but constant enough to propel. It’s not flashy. It’s focused. The kind of groove that coils around you slowly until you realize you’re no longer walking – you’re moving.
Above the bass, metallic percussion twitches like machinery under dim lights, while chopped, stuttering vocal fragments flicker like overheard confessions at the edge of a warehouse rave. They’re not meant to be understood but rather felt even though the message “Let the beat control your body“ is clear. Midway through, the tension thins out into a break-laced passage, where breakbeat patterns scatter like broken glass underfoot. There’s a fragility here, a sudden collapse into texture, before the groove reforms – darker, tighter, hungrier.
This is Marco Nastic doing what few can: writing a dancefloor weapon that doesn’t bark or bite, but breathes. “Sour Pie” is technical without being cold, hypnotic without being hollow. It’s music for strobe-lit basements and heads-down dancers, the kind of track that DJs play not because it’s flashy, but because it works — relentlessly, precisely, without apology.
As the first bite of “How Delicious“, “Sour Pie” sets the table with a sharp palate cleanser – a reminder that good taste doesn’t have to be sweet. Sometimes it’s sour, metallic, and utterly addictive. And with Marco Nastic at the controls, it’s always going to be served hot.
Words by Holger Breuer
Torture the Artist 