You leave the studio just as the sun begins to rise over Los Angeles. You slide into a black Porsche 928 carrying the scent of warm Ampex tape with you. With synths still humming in your ears, you cruise down an empty Sunset Boulevard toward LAX, the city fading behind you like the final frame of a worn VHS tape.

The Concorde waiting—sleek, impossible, a promise of escape. Climbing aboard, you're greeted by the hiss of champagne and the faint crackle of music playing on a cassette Walkman. Then soaring above the clouds, you race the sun to another time, another place.

Touchdown: Monaco, 1987. The Grand Prix roared to life in the distance, the scent of gasoline and sea air mixing with the shimmer of fresh Polaroids and the glint of mirrored aviators. Supermodels lounge on yacht decks, sipping Campari and dancing. Turbocharged engines screamed past pastel hotels and velvet ropes as the soundtrack of an era pulsed through the streets.

And somewhere in that perfect, impossible journey—caught between speed, glamour, nostalgia and optimism— is the sound of Monaco 87.