Warm Case by Solvet

This time, the files piled up differently. We’ve always chased the phantom trails, the cold cases that haunt the archives. But after a while, you start looking inward, don’t you? That’s where *Warm Case* began—a hunch, a quiet suspicion that the biggest mystery wasn't out there, but in the space behind your own eyes. We took the old Archive Lounge, usually for dusty blueprints and coded messages, and remade it. Think less precinct backroom, more dimly lit chapel for what you can’t quite name. The Evidence Board, usually ticking with surveillance feeds, became a reliquary, holding murmurs, heartbeats, and what prayers we could find, all twisted into new beats.

We weren't just playing tunes; we were laying out statements. The Detective on sax, restless, always asking questions the notes couldn't quite hold. The Forger on Rhodes, sketching aliases, fragile identities when the real one felt too bare. The Runner on percussion, clocking in new clues, keeping the pulse urgent. The Insider on bass, locking everything down, never giving up the full story but always letting you feel the secret. From the jump, it’s about that raw loss, that feeling of identity just... drifting. The horns question everything. Rhodes parts try to forge a new name for what’s missing. Drums tick like a deadline you can’t quite meet.

Then it hits. That central chant, "Who files the soul when the body goes cold?" It caught us off guard too. Suddenly, it wasn't just us searching. It was a roar, a call-and-response that pulled everyone into it, a collective weight demanding answers. You feel it in the bass, that pocket-tight rhythm, the handclaps lifting you like a gospel chorus. It builds, every groove a lead, every silence just a missing witness. And that final surge, when the whole room just *knows*—"We are the witness, we are the living proof"—it's a release you can dance to, a kind of renewal that carries the old weight but still moves you forward. It’s an unusual path for a jazz-funk record, sure, but some puzzles demand a different kind of investigation. This one felt like it needed to be heard, to be felt, to be danced through. Maybe it'll give you something to think about, something to hold onto when the answers are scarce.

We crack criminal cases with grooves that slap. Hard jazz-funk meets unsolved mysteries—catch us decoding cold cases through smoking horn lines, gritty keys, and samples that feel like forbidden evidence. The truth is in the funk.