First the transformation of the nightclub: Gone the primal throb of original owner Prince; gone the Cristal-slick poses of Gerry Kelly's fashionista friends. Instead the enormous main room is thronged by a more idiosyncratic and inventive form of hip. Every dancer in town of every age, ethnicity, and race, it seems, has gathered in this electronic tango dreamscape. Dismembered limbs kick, dip, and turn on an enormous video screen. The atmosphere shivers like Line Kruse's violin, sobs with Nini Flores's bandoneon, gasps at Eduardo Makaroff's guitar, and drowns in vocalist Cristina Villalonga-Serra's mournful melodies. DJ/producers Philippe Cohen-Solal and Christophe Müller mine the deep, luxurious sorrow of tango, sampling, dubbing, milking grief until it gives the most exquisite pleasure. When the band runs out of material to play for encores, pianist Gustavo Beytelmann embarks on a heart-stinging version of an Eminem hit. Tango changes everything.