Buenos Aires looks good on you even when you’re exhausted. The humid daytime breeze has a revitalising effect after three near-sleepless weeks. With distributor meetings and endless unboxing finally behind them, Needle and Plate finally allowed themselves a pause. They rented accommodation in a cosy neighbourhood, and by evening, following their instincts, found themselves in a former theatre now turned into a hall of bookstalls with a small vinyl section. The first purchases didn’t take long.

“Look,” Needle said, pulling out a record with a worn-out label: “Tango Club, 1958. Live from the dancefloor.”

“And here’s a ’70s Argentine folk compilation,” Plate replied, as if competing.

Die-hard vinyl heads can’t resist hunting for something special. An hour later, they were standing in the subway, watching local musicians blend milonga with electronic beats; one of them kept dropping in field recordings — the squeal of train wheels, the whisper of passengers. The fresh rhythms felt like a reset, hinting at a new way forward.