July is the season of storms in New York. The asphalt smokes under the heat, the streets vibrate, suspended in an electric humidity. Then the rain falls, brutal, dense, splashing the burning concrete. Wisps of steam rise, mingled with the mineral scent of the earth, the wild grasses growing between the cracks, the metallic breath of a lightning bolt in the air. Concrete Lightning captures this fleeting moment when the city holds its breath, just before the thunder breaks. An urban discharge, dry and sharp, like a summer storm on the rooftops of Brooklyn. The opening is sharp, metallic, almost cutting: aldehydes and mugwort trace a line of tension in the air. At the heart, mastic and ozonic notes mimic the electric freshness of wet air. In the base, extreme amber embraces the black earth of geosmin, dense and mineral, like the warm echo of a storm that has just passed.

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