Just the guitar—those four blunt steps with air between them.

Same figure again. The space is part of the weight.

Drums take the count square, bass thickens the floor, organ presses a bright edge behind the guitar.

Nothing rushes. The whole band is locked to that riff and leaving it room.

Gillan walks in almost deadpan—"We all came out to Montreux"—report, not melodrama.

Mobile studio, not much time—the vocal stays plain while the riff keeps circling underneath.

Frank Zappa and the Mothers get named the same way: straight story over that hard floor.

Flare gun, place burned to the ground—still no panic in the delivery.

There it is—"Smoke on the water"—title image wide open, band still squared-off and disciplined.

Second pass on the title while organ and guitar keep the surface bright without getting frantic.

Second verse: gambling house gone, "died with an awful sound," and the riff is the rule of the room now.

Funky Claude running kids out—disaster told as stubborn forward motion, not chaos.

When it was over they need another place; Swiss time running out—the pulse never loosens.

Chorus again: smoke, fire in the sky, same walk underneath.

Lead guitar steps out—bends and flares over the same hard ground. The solo rides above the riff; it doesn't leave it.

Rhythm section still holding that level floor while the lead gets bright and dirty on top.

Still the solo stretch—heat on the surface, body locked to the count.

Verse back: Grand Hotel, empty, cold and bare—more wear in the track, same shape.

Red lights, old beds, a place to sweat—makeshift room built inside the riff.

"I know, I know we'll never forget"—memory landed without breaking the stance.

Last chorus: smoke on the water, fire in the sky—words and riff feel inseparable now.

Late stretch—guitar and organ still flash at the edges, central figure won't let it spread.

Duration as discipline. Heat is allowed; collapse isn't.

Controlled shutdown—shape intact right into the silence.