Transatlantic Pulse!

[I] The City of Light, ; it’s hemorrhaging neon. Where the shadows have teeth. From the catacombs to the strobe lights, we don't sleep—we decay in style. Forget the Eiffel; look at the iron bars of the underground. The cobblestones are slick with more than just rain!
[1] Synthesizers bleed into the gutter, a cold wave of static. 1984: Les Bains Douches is a cathedral of the damned. The post-punk stench of leather and cloves, An electronic pulse mimicking a failing heart. The strobe is a strobe-light execution, Freezing time before the crack epidemic hit the vein. Paris was a monochromatic nightmare then, Every club a bunker, every beat a hollow kick. We danced to the sound of crumbling walls, Before the digital god was even born. Concrete, cigarettes, and the silhouette of a ghost, The 80s were a beautiful rigor mortis! 
[C] Paris night life—a funeral in a disco ball! Paris night life—where the gargoyles come to sprawl! Grind the gears of the Seine, let the rhythm ignite, We are the kings of the hollow, the lords of the night! No pulse in the city, just a mechanical roar, Paris night life—spilling blood on the floor!
[2] Rave culture born in the belly of the beast, Warehouse rituals where the bass acts as a priest. Daft and distorted, the filter-house bloat. We traded the leather for sweat-soaked nylon, Dancing on the ruins of a century’s end. The Rex Club became a sensory torture chamber, Techno-shamanism in the heart of the urban sprawl. We weren't people; we were frequencies, Modulated by the madness of a thousand BPMs. The underground expanded like a localized tumor, Feeding on the youth who forgot how to breathe! (Touch!)
[C] Paris night life—a funeral in a disco ball! Paris night life—where the gargoyles come to sprawl! Grind the gears of the Seine, let the rhythm ignite, We are the kings of the hollow, the lords of the night! No pulse in the city, just a mechanical roar, Paris night life—spilling blood on the floor!
[B] They’re plastic surgeries with a beat. Disposable, sterile, a suburban retreat. They want a bottle and a sparkler, a sanitized heat, They dance for the camera; we dance for the void. American clubs? Their bass is a thump; our bass is a quiet Destruction of everything you thought was secure. America is the symptom; Paris is the cure!
[3] Turn of the millennium, the binary begins to rot. Electroclash arrogance and the Justice of the sword. The Social Club—a claustrophobic box for the elite, Where the skinny jeans were tight but the morals were obsolete. Every kick drum an abortion of the previous sound. Reflecting a vanity that could bridge the Atlantic. But the grit remained beneath the high-definition sheen, We downloaded our souls and uploaded our sins, Waiting for the apocalypse!
[O] The sun is a myth. The Seine flows with the oil of a thousand nights. Leaning together, headpiece filled with straw. (Alas!) The club is empty, but the ringing never stops. Forget what you saw. Paris is home of the dead. Long live the night!

110 BPM/ French Style - Electro Pop, Dark Techno, Darkwave, male.