At the bar I find an old pair of over-ear headphones. They’re muted grey, one earpad missing. The cord is a tangled mess with a pertinent layer of the grime that collects on beer bottles and white sneakers. Perfect, because I left my own pair at home and I’ll need some to make it through the final late-night train I have to take. On the way, I listen for the first time to World of the Waking State. The phones work but they’re glitchy. The bass comes out as fuzz, the jack keeps escaping its hole. At moments I can’t parse which sounds come from Steffi and which come from the friction inside the auxiliary jack of my broken iPhone. The sounds Steffi plays with welcome this. Her world is full of grit, and addendums of external disruption do little to distract from the scapes of movement that relentlessly fill Waking State to the brim. It’s often both open and claustrophobic, inviting in room for exploration while still building walls that lead listeners through a complex city labyrinth that enshrouds the entire album.