Like Modal Jazz, opium or both, Afrobeat is a timebender: a release from the rigid tyranny of Clockword, into a more relative—you might even say Einsteinian—soundscape. Songs which would otherwise be pared down to four minutes unfold into 20, conventional verse-chorus arrangements bend into less recognizable structures, night becomes morning and the nine members of Gov’t Majik—“The Dirty South Afrobeat Arkestra”—pack up their four saxophones, two guitars, bass, kit, congas and tambourine and walk out into a world far less tolerable of a six-minute polyrhythmic horn vamp.

That said, the location for Majik’s Sunday night gig is about right: Hookah Café, a cozy den lit primarily by a neon blue fish tank—the ultimate time indifferent pet. Their style of hip-hop steady, accessible Afrobeat offers more than enough pay-off—unexpected turns, sudden drops, intermittent thrills—but it’s the overall setting that makes the downtime worth it. Understated sax harmonies add as much to that ambiance as the fish tank, and, unlike American peers Antibalas, Gov’t Majik’s latent Afrobeat rage burns slowly and tastefully, like the hookah coals. The songs and hours drift by seamlessly, like a Sunday evening should.

But when the instrumentalists escalate towards feedback and cacophony, they command attention. Midwifed by Crazed Lagos Street Brat Fela Kuti, Afrobeat is the mixed child of James Brown’s Black Power and Nigeria’s military brass bands—martial discipline is its dominant gene. Percussionists dictate the toe taps, but it’s those four saxophones who fire the cannons, turning heads when you least expect it. When the horns drop out, that’s Nigerian for “At ease, y’all.” And you never know or worry what’s coming next. A proper send-off to the unscheduled bliss of the American weekend, their show is pure defiance towards the hegemony of the work week.