Cerca:celestial wizard

Two classically trained musicians from vastly different traditions, MD Pallavi and Andi Otto came together to create a jewel of a record in ’Songs for Broken Ships’ and Multi Culti have whipped up a stunning remix package for it featuring Simone de Kunovich, Auntie Flo, Peter Power, Kaleema and more.

Hailing from Bangalore, trained in Hindustani music and poetry since childhood, MD Pallavi’s beautiful voice makes an elegant companion to cellist / composer / producer Andi Otto’s idiosyncratic and unconventional style. Andi’s music has featured on labels such as Shika Shika and Pingipung (which he co-runs and curates) and, of course, Multi Culti, who released his previous album ‘Bow Wave’ which featured his first collaboration with Pallavi.

While the heart of "Songs for Broken Ships" showcased the duo's unique meld of cross-cultural folktronica and acoustic ballads with MD Pallavi's poetic Kannada verses at the core, "Remixes from the Clouds” reframes these elements for a vast spectrum of electronic listeners and club go-ers.

An ethereal hypnotic techno re-interpretation of ‘Prayer to the Cloud’ from Italian producer Simone de Kunovich. Scottish ambient maestro and mushroom aficionado Auntie Flo's ecstatic reinterpretation of "Clockshop". Multi Culti veteran downtempo wizard Peter Power's organic and earthy rendition of "Prayer to the Cloud." The mystic sounds of Kaleema breathing new percussive life into "Clockshop". The package concludes with a 'prayer-a-pella' version of "Prayer to the Clouds", spotlighting MD Pallavi's vocals in their purest form, for DJs and producers seeking to slather their rhythms with spiritual voice.

The Multi Culti imaginarium also present an expanded digital package that includes mixes from Hannah Lee, Bliz Nochi & Emil Jourjou, Migramara, and Poligra. In the words of Shawn Christopher: "people from all nations, dancing together." Celestial harmony, one 12” at a time.

Since our first contact with NYC based producer Thavius Beck in 2018, he sent us over 100 unreleased tracks, or beats, as he calls them. 25 of them have been selected for releases on U-TRAX, good for over 2 hours of music, across this album and the Lovesick EP.

Growing up in LA, Thavius Beck entered the hip-hop scene as member of Global Phlowtations, and released several solo albums under the Adlib moniker. In later years, he released five albums under his own name on labels like Mush, Big Dada and Plug Research, and also produced albums for artists like Saul Williams and K‑the‑I???, and did some remixing for amongst others Nine Inch Nails.
Nowadays he combines making music with a career as a succesful certified Ableton and Bitwig trainer and as a music teacher at Berklee NYC.

The tracks vary in style a lot, but what they have in common is that they either are moody – in U-TRAX lingo: deep - or they are drum heavy. The common denominator would probably be 'experimental/instrumental hip-hop', reminiscent of producers like Flying Lotus. People have tried all sorts of comparisons to pinpoint Thavius' sound, ranging from 'between DJ Shadow and Orbital' and 'a mix of Massive Attack and The Orb'. None of these are spot on, yet quite a few of these tracks feel like a happy marriage between hip-hop beats and techno sounds.

Despite the fact that some tracks are 20 years old and have been made with widely different gear (one track was even made on a PlayStation 2), this selection sounds remarkably balanced, yet diverse.

From the irresistible single 'Lovesick/Still Sick' to the dark and massive 'Birdsong' (that echoes the sound of his popular song 'Atmos'), and from the head-nodding 'Work!' to the soothing 'Reunited With The All' - if this collection showcases anything, it's Thavius' brilliant production and composing skills, as well as his wizard-level sampling techniques. The result is a luscious electronic music album with a broad appeal.

Available on double 180 grams colored vinyl vinyl, comes in gatefold picture sleeve.

Camelot, the legendary seat of King Arthur's court in Early Middle Ages Britain, was probably not a real place. A corruption of the name of a real Romano-Briton city, the word "Camelot" accumulated symbolic, mythic resonances over centuries, until achieving its present usage as a near-synonym of "utopia." In the mid-20th century alone, Camelot inspired an explosion of representations and appropriations, among them the violent, affectless Arthurian court of Robert Bresson's 1974 film Lancelot du Lac and the absurdist iteration of Monty Python's 1975 Holy Grail, both of which feature armored knights erupting into fountains of blood; the mystical Welsh world of novelist John Cowper Powys's profoundly weird 1951 novel Porius, with its Roman cults, wizards and witches, and wanton giants; and the nationalist nostalgia of President John F. Kennedy's White House. Unsurprisingly there are fewer Camelots in more recent memory. Camelot, Canadian songwriter Jennifer Castle's extraordinary, moving 2024 chronicle of the artist in early middle age, charts a realer, more rooted, and more metaphorical place than the fabled Camelot of the Early Middle Ages (or its myriad depictions), but it too is a space more psychic than physical. In Castle's Camelot, the fantastic interpenetrates the mundane, and the Grail, if there is one, distills everyday experience into art and art into faith, subliming terrestrial concerns into sublime celestial prayers to Mother Nature, and to the unfolding process of perfecting imperfection in one's own nature. Co-produced by Jennifer and longtime collaborator Jeff McMurrich, her seventh record is at once her most monumental and unguarded to date, demonstrating a mastery of rendering her verse and melodies alike with crisply poignant economy. For all their pointedly plainspoken lyrical detail and exhilarating full-band musical flourishes, these songs sound inevitable, eternal as morning devotions. "Back in Camelot," she sings on the lilting, vulnerable title track, "I really learned a lot / circles in the crops and / sky-high geometry." The album opens with a candid admission of sleeping "in the unfinished basement," an embarrassing joke that comes true. But the dreamer is redeemed by dreaming, setting sail in her airborne bed above "sirens and desert deities." If she questions her own agency_whether she is "wishing stones were standing" or just "pissing in the wind"_it does not diminish the ineffable existential jolt of such signs and wonders. This abiding tension between belief and doubt, magic and pragmatism, self and other, sacred and profane, and even, arguably, paganism and monotheism, suffuses these ten songs, which limn an interior landscape shot through with sunstriped shadows of "multi-felt dimensions" both mystical and quotidian. The epic scale and transport of "Camelot," with its swooning strings, gives way dramatically to "Some Friends," an acoustic-guitar-and-vocals meditation in miniature on Janus-faced friends and the lunar and solar temperatures of their promises_"bright and beaming verses" versus hot curses_which recalls her minimalist last album, 2020's achingly intimate Monarch Season. (In a symmetrical sequencing gesture, the penultimate track, the incantatory "Earthsong," bookends the central six with a similarly spare solo performance and coiled chord progression, this time an ambiguous appeal to _ a wounded lover? a wounded saint? our wounded planet?) Those whom "Trust" accuses of treacherous oaths spit through "gilded and golden tooth"_cynics, critics, hypocrites, gurus, scientists, doctors, lovers, government, the so-called entertainment industry_sow uncertainty that can infect the artist, as in "Louis": "What's that dance / and can it be done? What's that song / and can it be sung?" Answering affirmatively are "Lucky #8," an irrepressible ode to dancing as a bulwark against the "tidal pools of pain" and the "theory of collapse," and "Full Moon in Leo," which finds the narrator dancing around the house with a broom, wearing nothing but her underwear and "big hair." But the central question remains: who can we trust, and at what cost faith, in art or angels or otherwise? Castle's confidence in her collaborators is the cornerstone of Camelot. Carl Didur (piano and keys), Evan Cartwright (drums and percussion), and steadfast sideman Mike Smith (bass) comprise a rhythm section of exquisite delicacy and depth. This fundamental trio anchors the airiness of regular backing vocalists Victoria Cheong and Isla Craig and frames the guitars of Castle, McMurrich, and Paul Mortimer (and on "Lucky #8," special guest Cass McCombs). Reprising his decennial role on Castle's beloved 2014 Pink City, Owen Pallett arranged the strings for Estonia's FAMES Skopje Studio Orchestra. On the ravishing country-soul ballad "Blowing Kisses"_Pallett's crowning achievement here, which can be heard in its entirety in the penultimate episode of the third season of FX's The Bear_Jennifer contemplates time and presence, love and prayer_and how songwriting and poetry both manifest and limit all four dimensions: "No words to fumble with / I'm not a beggar to language any longer." Such rare moments of speechlessness_"I'm so fucking honoured," she bluntly proclaims_suggest a state "only a god could come up with." (If Camelot affirms Castle as one of the great song-poets of her generation, she is not immune to the despairing linguistic beggary that plagues all writers.) Camelot evinces a thoroughgoing faith not only in the natural world_including human bodies, which can, miraculously, dance and swim and bleed and embrace and birth_but also in our interpretations of and interventions in it: the "charts and diagrams" of "Lucky #8," a daydreamt billboard on Fairfax Ave. in LA in "Full Moon in Leo," the bloody invocations of the organ-stained "Mary Miracle," and all manner of water worship, rivers in particular. (Notably, Jennifer has worked as a farmer and a doula.) The album ends with "Fractal Canyon"'s repeated, exalted insistence that she's "not alone here." But where is here? The word "utopia" itself constitutes a pun, indicating in its ambiguous first syllable both the Greek "eutopia," or "good-place"_the facet most remembered today_and "outopia," or "no-place," a negative, impossible geography of the mind. Utopia, like its metonym Camelot, is imaginary. Or as fellow Canadian songwriter Neil Young once sang, "Everyone knows this is nowhere." "Can you see how I'd be tempted," Castle asks out of nowhere, held in the mystery, "to pretend I'm not alone and let the memory bend?"

. For Fans Of: The Weather Station, Weyes Blood, Adrianne Lenker, Phoebe Bridgers, Joan Shelley, Lana Del Rey, Cass McCombs, Angel Olsen & Neil Young. Camelot, the legendary seat of King Arthur’s court in Early Middle Ages Britain, was probably not a real place. A corruption of the name of a real Romano-Briton city, the word “Camelot” accumulated symbolic, mythic resonances over centuries, until achieving its present usage as a near-synonym of “utopia.” In the mid-20th century alone, Camelot inspired an explosion of representations and appropriations, among them the violent, affectless Arthurian court of Robert Bresson’s 1974 film Lancelot du Lac and the absurdist iteration of Monty Python’s 1975 Holy Grail, both of which feature armoured knights erupting into fountains of blood; the mystical Welsh world of novelist John Cowper Powys’s profoundly weird 1951 novel Porius, with its Roman cults, wizards and witches, and wanton giants; and the nationalist nostalgia of President John F. Kennedy’s White House. Unsurprisingly there are fewer Camelots in more recent memory. Camelot, Canadian songwriter Jennifer Castle’s extraordinary, moving 2024 chronicle of the artist in early middle age, charts a realer, more rooted, and more metaphorical place than the fabled Camelot of the Early Middle Ages (or its myriad depictions), but it too is a space more psychic than physical. In Castle’s Camelot, the fantastic interpenetrates the mundane, and the Grail, if there is one, distills everyday experience into art and art into faith, subliming terrestrial concerns into sublime celestial prayers to Mother Nature, and to the unfolding process of perfecting imperfection in one’s own nature. Co-produced by Jennifer and longtime collaborator Jeff McMurrich, her seventh record is at once her most monumental and unguarded to date, demonstrating a mastery of rendering her verse and melodies alike with crisply poignant economy. For all their pointedly plainspoken lyrical detail and exhilarating full-band musical flourishes, these songs sound inevitable, eternal as morning devotions. “Back in Camelot,” she sings on the lilting, vulnerable title track, “I really learned a lot / circles in the crops and / sky-high geometry.” The album opens with a candid admission of sleeping “in the unfinished basement,” an embarrassing joke that comes true. But the dreamer is redeemed by dreaming, setting sail in her airborne bed above “sirens and desert deities.” If she questions her own agency whether she is “wishing stones were standing” or just “pissing in the wind” it does not diminish the ineffable existential jolt of such signs and wonders. This abiding tension between belief and doubt, magic and pragmatism, self and other, sacred and profane, and even, arguably, paganism and monotheism, suffuses these ten songs, which limn an interior landscape shot through with sunstriped shadows of “multi-felt dimensions” both mystical and quotidian. The epic scale and transport of “Camelot,” with its swooning strings, gives way dramatically to “Some Friends,” an acoustic-guitar-and-vocals meditation in miniature on Janus-faced friends and the lunar and solar temperatures of their promises—“bright and beaming verses” versus hot curses which recalls her minimalist last album, 2020’s achingly intimate Monarch Season. (In a symmetrical sequencing gesture, the penultimate track, the incantatory “Earthsong,” bookends the central six with a similarly spare solo performance and coiled chord progression, this time an ambiguous appeal to … a wounded lover? a wounded saint? our wounded planet?). Those whom “Trust” accuses of treacherous oaths spit through “gilded and golden tooth” cynics, critics, hypocrites, gurus, scientists, doctors, lovers, government, the so-called entertainment industry sow uncertainty that can infect the artist, as in “Louis”: “What’s that dance / and can it be done? What’s that song / and can it be sung?” Answering affirmatively are “Lucky #8,” an irrepressible ode to dancing as a bulwark against the “tidal pools of pain” and the “theory of collapse,” and “Full Moon in Leo,” which finds the narrator dancing around the house with a broom, wearing nothing but her underwear and “big hair.” But the central question remains: who can we trust, and at what cost faith, in art or angels or otherwise? Castle’s confidence in her collaborators is the cornerstone of Camelot. Carl Didur (piano and keys), Evan Cartwright (drums and percussion), and steadfast sideman Mike Smith (bass) comprise a rhythm section of exquisite delicacy and depth. This fundamental trio anchors the airiness of regular backing vocalists Victoria Cheong and Isla Craig and frames the guitars of Castle, McMurrich, and Paul Mortimer (and on “Lucky #8,” special guest Cass McCombs). Reprising his decennial role on Castle’s beloved 2014 Pink City, Owen Pallett arranged the strings for Estonia’s FAMES Skopje Studio Orchestra. On the ravishing country-soul ballad “Blowing Kisses” Pallett’s crowning achievement here, which can be heard in its entirety in the penultimate episode of the third season of FX’s The Bear Jennifer contemplates time and presence, love and prayer and how songwriting and poetry both manifest and limit all four dimensions: “No words to fumble with / I’m not a beggar to language any longer.” Such rare moments of speechlessness “I’m so fucking honoured,” she bluntly proclaims suggest a state “only a god could come up with.” (If Camelot affirms Castle as one of the great song-poets of her generation, she is not immune to the despairing linguistic beggary that plagues all writers.) Camelot evinces a thoroughgoing faith not only in the natural world including human bodies, which can, miraculously, dance and swim and bleed and embrace and birth but also in our interpretations of and interventions in it: the “charts and diagrams” of “Lucky #8,” a daydreamt billboard on Fairfax Ave. in LA in “Full Moon in Leo,” the bloody invocations of the organ-stained “Mary Miracle,” and all manner of water worship, rivers in particular. (Notably, Jennifer has worked as a farmer and a doula.) The album ends with “Fractal Canyon”s repeated, exalted insistence that she’s “not alone here.” But where is here? The word “utopia” itself constitutes a pun, indicating in its ambiguous first syllable both the Greek “eutopia,” or “good-place” the facet most remembered today and “outopia,” or “no-place,” a negative, impossible geography of the mind. Utopia, like its metonym Camelot, is imaginary

Staff Pick in DJ Mag (print).

Sleek three tracker from Russ Brooker, a unknown quantity who is swiftly to become the name on everybody's lips, the 13threlease on Rua Sound.

"97-98" is every bit as sharp and shattered as any of the legendary tunes released in that storied era, with moody samples and a break so heavily pregnant with funk that it's a palpable relief when the levee breaks and it gives birth to some heavy rolling amens.

"Microfilm" starts off with a proper spy-flick title and immediately lives up to the name, with a cinematic sequence of cosmic cloak and dagger chimes and pads that quickly sprints off into the Pentagon in a brown flared suit with assorted extraterrestrials and the cast of Scooby Doo in hot pursuit – channelling crusty old Droppin' Science jams to great effect.

"Breathe" drops the tempo down to the 140-odd range with earthy rolling percussion, celestial atmospherics and the kind of studious and deliberate polyrhythmic funk wizardry that most producers don't cook up in a lifetime of releases, never mind on their honest-to-god-damn debut.

Raw Energy by JD Twitch showing Petersen's Trance (Not Trance) the way to the dancefloor.
Synths and sitars for eternal bliss on the flipside. Another pin glowing!

Back in 2017, Basso delved into his micro-press cassette collection to treat us to the first retrospective of kosmische wizard Trance. Spanning both the bucolic and galactic, ‚Tapes' (GBR010) suspended time and space, enveloping us in the nebulous beauty of Jürgen Petersen's misty ambience.

Among the appreciative audience for this mind expanding release was one JD Twitch aka Keith McIvor, one half of the mighty Optimo. Keith's vision of remixing Jurgen's ‚Purification' for the club was embraced by both the artist and the label guy with glowing eyes. Charting a course through progressive house, ambient techno and the weirder bits of the solar system, McIvor combines the celestial synthesis of the original with some tough and tracky drum programming, turning the intensity up to 11 in pursuit of early morning ascension. A sensitive arrangement allows space for Peterson's waveforms to work their magic, while laser fire and additional fx abuse unlock evolutionary abilities buried deep in your unconscious mind.
The previously unreleased, largely unheard ‚Contemplation' was originally intended to feature on the ‚Tapes' compilation, but fell off the edge of that flat Earth thanks to its maximal runtime. Too good to remain a secret, this crepuscular creation enjoys the entirety of the B-side, drifting through the eons via meditative electronics, delicate sitar and a touch of tapey flutter.
Embrace the almost 40 year old tape's flaws and imperfections that could not be restorated and dive into the immersive and unparalleled.
This is music for higher beings.

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard are repressing their sixteenth album, K.G. n 2010. In the wake of a global pandemic, it’s a collection of songs that saw the six members of the band retreating to their own homes scattered around Melbourne, Australia to compose and record remotely. But have no fear! Not a drop of that unnamed alchemical something that makes this band so special is missing. This is the Gizz firing on all sonic cylinders, for if ever a band were built to swiftly adapt to adverse circumstance then it is them. Hell, on paper Covid-19, with its monstrous yet unseen face, ecological implications and new language, even sounds like an abandoned concept for a King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard album.

Truth be told, the practicalities of the creation of K.G. is a side-issue. It is the contents and the sheer visceral power of music that matters. Music that will live on long after a virus has passed. Back in 2017 the band released Flying Microtonal Banana, now one of their most highly regarded albums. That it was the first of five released by the band that year and was only part the story – a story made all the remarkable by the fact it was recorded using a microtonal musical scale that requires quarter tone tunings, on instruments custom-made for the occasion. It spawned a plethora of live favourites such as ‘Rattlesnake’, ‘Sleep Drifter’, ‘Nuclear Fusion’ and ‘Billabong Valley’ and showed the wider world that the Gizz paint from a palette that extends far beyond the musical colours of western rock. Here were songs in tunings more common in traditional Turkish or Arabic music.

“FMB was one of the purest and most enjoyable recording experiences we’ve had, and the ideas just kept coming” explains de facto band leader and multi-instrumentalist Stu Mackenzie. “But we didn’t think we would play it live as the music dictated a new medium that requires different instruments, new flight cases and so. It was a liberating studio-based experiment which surprisingly translated seamlessly and spawned some of favourite songs to play live.”

So now they return to the microtonal tunings on K.G., an album best described as a pure distillation of the King Gizzard sound, one that cherry picks the best aspects of previous albums and contorts them into new shapes and via defiantly non-Western rock scales. There’s walk-on theme song ‘K.G.L.W’, the celestial disco-funk of ‘Intrasport’, the righteous life-giving staccato rock of ‘Ontology’, epic stoner-sludge closer ‘The Hungry Wolf Of Fate’, which ends the album in abrupt burst of white noise. All come together to represent the next-level of the expanding Gizz sound.

K.G. is both a stand-alone work and also part of a bigger musical picture. More news on that shall be forthcoming – fans of the band know by now that King Gizzard don’t do things by halves. If music were organic matter, then their albums are ever-changing entities: initial highlights are often superseded on further exploration, favourite tracks replaced by less obvious moments, while riffs or bursts of noise from four or five albums back might suddenly rear their heads again.

Awe Kid explores ideas of trans-humanism, evolution and digital immortality on Body Logic, a fantastically lush new album for Atomnation. The immersive 10 track record plays with organic, breathing textures punctuated by moments of digital unrealness to result in an album permeated with a dream-like quality. This contrast is mirrored by the artwork from Portugal's acclaimed The Royal Studio.

Awe Kid is an alias of Sine Language Records co-founder Rick Parsons. It is the product of years spent exploring a multitude of different music. From early days in post-hardcore groups and on to a love of 90s Warp, electronic jazz and more experimental niches, the multi-instrumentalist has now settled on his own unique fusion of breaks, ambient and left-field dance music. This deft studio wizard mixes up melodic nostalgia with forward-thinking sound design using whatever he can get his hands on, from analog and modular hardware, to samplers, field recordings to digital techniques.

Says Parsons, “I love working with digital processes because you get these unexpected moments where you dial something in, that somehow takes on a tangible, organic form in the real world. Searching for these sweet spots was the motivation for the album, contrasting natural textures against synthetic elements, and finding ways to create something that feels like it exists outside of the computer.”

While the album pays homage to dance music traditions, such as the broken beat of title track 'Body Logic', and full-throttle breaks of 'Zenith', these are assimilated and repurposed to create something that defies genre categorization. The listener's journey is perfectly paced, with broody but uplifting cuts of electronica giving way to shimmering, celestial melodies, and dusty breakbeats emerging from dense layers of atmosphere, only for the mood to be reset with soothing, suspenseful synths and haunting vocal samples. Elsewhere, devastatingly emotional ambient is followed by punchy grooves and propulsive melodies to make for a real ride.

Moonshoe Records has bowled over first listeners by presenting this new side of their sphere - Air Space Ark’s debut, “All Rivers Lead” charts the course of divergent streams of contemporary ambient music, downtempo rhythms, and electroacoustic experimentation, arriving at a calming confluence of these sources. Across the 6 songs on these two sides, they evoke a calming and contemplative headspace

333 is an exquisite study in balance - the intermingling of bird song water sounds that could equally be field recordings or synthesized foley - the ambiguity adding a delightful trompe l'oreille effect - and crystalline keys ; these airy sounds weighted by washes of subbass.

BLANK PAGE is almost like a version of the previous track, retaining the nimble birdsongs and heavy sub, but foregrounding a lolling, stumbling hip-hop beat and placing more emphasis on the effects wizardry as abstract sounds careen across the track in wipes and wisps, before stripping down to a beautiful coda of birdsong, piano plinks and a textured backdrop.

The celestial keys, flute-like thrums and gentle chimes of WORDS BETWEEN SELF evoke the golden age of spiritual jazz, but the hazy ambiance and shuffling beats transmute the other elements around them into something more introspective and personal than jubilant praise. Lyrics aside, the subtle funk coupled with the pensive, meditative air channels the spirit of Stanley Cowell’s classic TRAVELLIN’ MAN.

LOFT IN 7 Is the most “out” moment here. It has echoes, literally, of jazz. Like decaying tape reels disintegrating in real time, we feel the tape buckling and warping under the weight of time as the sounds of a synthetic band warp and shift against electronic impulses and glitches, eventually leaving just a lingering, ghostly imprint. .

DUST SONG veers the closest towards a straightforward instrumental hip hop cut - a submerged sounding breakbeat coupled with a tender piano melody - but is buoyed by drifting pads and a dense, hallucinatory bed of effects.

CONCRETE closes proceedings. Charged with a crepuscular energy, it’s all-together as mercurial and magical as the transition from day to night. Different elements swirl and coalesce, honing in on dense, textural moments across a horizontal drift. The end effect is hypnotic yet captivating, so much so that when the track eventually blooms into silence at the end you’re struck by the brevity of the whole experience. Thankfully you can listen to it again!