Suche:circles around the sun

After Sunrise, the new collaboration from Circles Around The Sun and Mikaela Davis reunites the disco cosmonauts and acclaimed harpist for further explorations of the synergy first showcased on the title track of CATS’ 2023 album, Language.

Comprised of two new original compositions, ‘Gloaming Way’ and ‘Moonbow’, and an inspired interpretation of Brazilian legend Sérgio Mendes’ ‘After Sunrise,’ the album features the first appearance of vocals on a Circles Around The Sun recording, sung by Davis. A live take on ‘Language’ rounds out the second side and brings the pairing full circle.

Once the endless night of the discotheque finally gives way to morning light, you may find yourself seaside as the sun peeks over the horizon. As the party rolls through the dawn and into the day, this is the soundtrack.

This is After Sunrise. If it’s nice, play it twice."

After Sunrise, the new collaboration from Circles Around The Sun and Mikaela Davis reunites the disco cosmonauts and acclaimed harpist for further explorations of the synergy first showcased on the title track of CATS’ 2023 album, Language. Comprised of two new original compositions, ‘Gloaming Way’ and ‘Moonbow’, and an inspired interpretation of Brazilian legend Sérgio Mendes’ ‘After Sunrise,’ the album features the first appearance of vocals on a Circles Around The Sun recording, sung by Davis. A live take on ‘Language’ rounds out the second side and brings the pairing full circle. Once the endless night of the discotheque finally gives way to morning light, you may find yourself seaside as the sun peeks over the horizon. As the party rolls through the dawn and into the day, this is the soundtrack. This is After Sunrise. If it’s nice, play it twice. The vinyl is pressed as a neon & yellow disc.

Gratts is back once again, hot on the heels of various Balearic outings like 'Sun Circles', 'Pretty Lights' and 'Jour De Fete' but this time he is in house mode. This release comes under his new Trackhead T moniker and finds him keeping things raw and stripped back. For the sessions, the Belgian artist limited himself to using inly around 12 channels maximum per tune. This Klub Romance EP is the result and a track that harks back to his Berlin stomping ground, with deep but driving house cuts that have subtle hints of everyone from Felix Da Housecat to Boo Williams. The low slung sleaze and muted rave stabs of 'My Miseducation' is our standout.

On November 7, 2025, the Belgian label Sdban Records will release a reissue of the mythical Open Sky Unit (1974) by the eponymous jazz fusion group featuring Micheline and Jacques Pelzer, Steve Houben, Ron Wilson, Janot Buchem and Michel Graillier. The album returns on vinyl, highlighting a pivotal moment in Belgian jazz history, where soul, funk, and free improvisation came together in a vibrant and family-driven project.

Formed in the early 1970s as a homage to Dave Liebman's group Open Sky, Open Sky Unit grew out of informal jam sessions in Liège, Belgium, into a unique collective. One of the central figures was Jacques Pelzer, father of drummer and vocalist Micheline Pelzer, alongside his second cousin, saxophonist/flutist Steve Houben, bass player Janot Buchem, percussionist Michel Graillier and American pianist/composer Ron Wilson.

Their 1974 debut album was released on the Duchesne classical music label, run by Pelzer's brother-in-law. The group's sound carefully balanced jazz and soul and was largely directed by Wilson, a Californian pianist and singer who settled in Liège and nearby Maastricht after his army service. Wilson composed the entire repertoire. Open Sky Unit was recorded live at Jazzland club in Liège, and the band made several short tours in Belgium and abroad (including Tunisia) until around 1975-1976, when Houben left for Boston to study at the Berklee College of Music.

Although the original live recording from 1974 was not technically perfect, the group succeeded in capturing their heartfelt live energy. Tracks such as Open Sky, Sunshine Star, and Passion and Compassion are striking examples of this. Years later, the album version of Sunshine Star found its way onto Funky Chicken (2014), the compilation that not only brought the track back into the spotlight but also marked the beginning of Sdban Records.

In addition to the standard reissue, a limited edition of 200 copies will be released for collectors, featuring a 7" single of Ron Wilson's Sunshine Star as a special bonus. This single was originally released in 1973 with the acoustic version of Sunshine Star (piano and vocals) on the B-side, recorded a few months before the longer jazz-funk version later featured on the LP Open Sky Unit. The A-side, Peace Is The Answer, was only released on that single at the time and is now being reissued for the very first time. The 7" is thus a faithful and long-awaited reissue of a rare piece of Belgian jazz history, it's intimate, soulful, and an ideal complement to theexisting and well-known LP.

Although the band never achieved a major international breakthrough, they were highly valued in progressive European jazz circles and later secured a place in anthologies such as Utopic Cities: Progressive Jazz in Belgium 1968-1979. The reissue of Open Sky Unit brings their music back into the spotlight and reaffirms their role as key figures in the Belgian jazz scene of the seventies.

On November 7, 2025, the Belgian label Sdban Records will release a reissue of the mythical Open Sky Unit (1974) by the eponymous jazz fusion group featuring Micheline and Jacques Pelzer, Steve Houben, Ron Wilson, Janot Buchem and Michel Graillier. The album returns on vinyl, highlighting a pivotal moment in Belgian jazz history, where soul, funk, and free improvisation came together in a vibrant and family-driven project.

Formed in the early 1970s as a homage to Dave Liebman's group Open Sky, Open Sky Unit grew out of informal jam sessions in Liège, Belgium, into a unique collective. One of the central figures was Jacques Pelzer, father of drummer and vocalist Micheline Pelzer, alongside his second cousin, saxophonist/flutist Steve Houben, bass player Janot Buchem, percussionist Michel Graillier and American pianist/composer Ron Wilson.

Their 1974 debut album was released on the Duchesne classical music label, run by Pelzer's brother-in-law. The group's sound carefully balanced jazz and soul and was largely directed by Wilson, a Californian pianist and singer who settled in Liège and nearby Maastricht after his army service. Wilson composed the entire repertoire. Open Sky Unit was recorded live at Jazzland club in Liège, and the band made several short tours in Belgium and abroad (including Tunisia) until around 1975-1976, when Houben left for Boston to study at the Berklee College of Music.

Although the original live recording from 1974 was not technically perfect, the group succeeded in capturing their heartfelt live energy. Tracks such as Open Sky, Sunshine Star, and Passion and Compassion are striking examples of this. Years later, the album version of Sunshine Star found its way onto Funky Chicken (2014), the compilation that not only brought the track back into the spotlight but also marked the beginning of Sdban Records.

In addition to the standard reissue, a limited edition of 200 copies will be released for collectors, featuring a 7" single of Ron Wilson's Sunshine Star as a special bonus. This single was originally released in 1973 with the acoustic version of Sunshine Star (piano and vocals) on the B-side, recorded a few months before the longer jazz-funk version later featured on the LP Open Sky Unit. The A-side, Peace Is The Answer, was only released on that single at the time and is now being reissued for the very first time. The 7" is thus a faithful and long-awaited reissue of a rare piece of Belgian jazz history, it's intimate, soulful, and an ideal complement to theexisting and well-known LP.

Although the band never achieved a major international breakthrough, they were highly valued in progressive European jazz circles and later secured a place in anthologies such as Utopic Cities: Progressive Jazz in Belgium 1968-1979. The reissue of Open Sky Unit brings their music back into the spotlight and reaffirms their role as key figures in the Belgian jazz scene of the seventies.

Fraufraulein, the San Francisco duo of Billy Gomberg and Andy Guthrie, are master world builders. Their work is immersive — it wraps around you like a warm coat, guiding you deep into a trance-like state. Time moves in slow circles, folds in on itself, and unspools like caught fishing line. It’s tempting to say Guthrie and Gomberg construct a new reality with their work, but I think they’re revealing the contours of familiar territory, gluing together a complicated mirror more than constructing a quotidian diorama. Their music reflects a truth that we all share in some way. It’s the pauses between thoughts, the little observations that color a day, the beauty of how others’ lives imbricate for brief moments before pulling apart completely. Fraufraulein’s music feels beamed from inner space, the soft parts of our consciousness that glow like a flashlight beneath fingertips.

It’s also tempting to call Greater Honeyguide, the duo’s new record — and first in four years — a tool for fostering presence. Each composition can serve as a meditative space, and observing the quietly unfurling layers of sound — a footfall and a quiet breath, scraps of overlapping melodies sung like notes to self, synthesizers droning lightly in the distance — can be a very calming, grounding experience. But I also love to let these pieces guide me through the sulci of my brain like a slot canyon, emerging at some long-forgotten memory or idea. Think of it as a passively-active experience, like looking out of a train window, watching the scenery blur together. At the end of the album’s 37 minutes, I feel transformed. Not necessarily different, just in tune with something else. Something beyond. Something within.

Bon Iver's debut full-length For Emma, Forever Ago has been making major waves in critics circles based on the strength of an early artist-pressed advance cd and a couple awe-inspiring sets at CMJ in October 2007. The New York Times called it "irresistible" and Pitchfork stamped its early review of the album with a Recommended tag. For those of you hiding away in a cabin of your own, it's time that you hear the story, and more importantly, the music. Bon Iver (pronounced: bohn eevair; French for "good winter" and spelled wrong on purpose) is a greeting, a celebration and a sentiment. It is a new statement of an artist moving on and establishing the groundwork for a lasting career. For Emma, Forever Ago is the debut of this lineage of songs. As a whole, the record is entirely cohesive throughout and remains centered around a particular aesthetic, prompted by the time and place for which it was recorded. Justin Vernon, the primary force behind Bon Iver, seems to have tested his boundaries to the maximum, and in doing so has managed to break free from any pre-cursing or finished forms. It wasn't planned. The goal was to hibernate. Vernon moved to a remote cabin in the woods of Northwestern Wisconsin at the onset of winter. He lived there alone for three months, filling his days with wood splitting and other chores around the land. This solitary time slowly began feeding a bold, uninhibited new musical focus. The days slowly evolved into nights filled with twelve-hour recording blocks, breaking only for trips on the tractor into the pines to saw and haul firewood, or for frozen sunrises high up a deer stand. All of his personal trouble, lack of perspective, heartache, longing, love, loss and guilt that had been stock piled over the course of the past six years, was suddenly purged into the form of song.

. 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

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?"

"Five years since her debut album Delivery, Mikaela Davis has moved away from her hometown of Rochester, shared the stage with the likes of Bob Weir, Phil Lesh, Christian McBride, Bon Iver, Lake Street Dive and Circles Around the Sun and entered a new decade. But it’s the ever-evolving relationships between her closest friends and bandmates that has propelled the Hudson Valley-based artist onto her latest album And Southern Star––a truly collaborative effort that ruminates on the choices we make, and the people we always come back to.

The band, made up of Davis (harp/vocals), Alex Coté (drums), Cian McCarthy (guitars/vocals), Shane McCarthy (bass/vocals) and Kurt Johnson (steel guitar), have been playing together for over a decade and it’s the first time they’ve appeared on a full length record together. Weaving 60s pop-soaked melodies, psychedelia and driving folk rock, And Southern Star picks apart the reflection we used to recognise, while trying to build a new one. It navigates the periphery of past selves, the coexistence of isolation and excitement in a new environment and the tension of growing away from what we thought we wanted, tackling it with a luscious, kaleidoscopic grace. “I finally feel like this album is more me than anything else that’s been released,” Davis says, adding that producing the album along with her four bandmates allowed them to carve out their own ideas, rather than someone else’s. It’s the band’s collective step into adulthood that has informed much of And Southern Star’s thematic landscape."

On Chastity’s upcoming, self-titled fourth record, Williams decided to write a fully non-fiction work. Out Friday, September 13 2024 on Deathwish (US), Dine Alone (Canada), and Big Scary Monsters (UK/E) ‘Chastity’ is a 13-track record about the things that have always run through the band’s records—struggle, death, despair, redemption, darkness, and light—but this time, the songs ascend to new depths of intensity and desperation, new heights of resolution and power. “It’s really about the first nosedive that I did as a young person,” says Williams. “It’s a record about struggle, about the missing years. It’s also a thank you to some people in my life.” The record hurtles through melodic hardcore, shoegaze, and emo, all magnificently and enormously rendered thanks to slick work from John Paul Peters (Propagandhi, Comeback Kid), who engineered and mixed the record. Chastity’s first three full-length records—2018’s Death Lust, 2019’s Home Made Satan, and 2022’s Suffer Summer—formed a trilogy that defined a 4-year arc of the band’s contribution to outsider music. Each record was informed by Williams’ life, but each was also conceptual and interpretive, refracting his experiences through a level of remove. On the self-titled record there’s a beautiful and affirming ending to it’s closer, centered on the band’s first and enduring idea: life is less shitty if we live it together.

Almost three decades on from their last release, Acid Jazz forefathers Galliano are back with news of their new LP ‘Halfway Somewhere’ which is being released on Gilles Peterson’s Brownswood Recordings on 30 August.

Born out of London’s underground clubs and warehouse parties of the mid to late eighties, with the debut single on the Acid Jazz label in 1988, Galliano came out of a culture that spanned music, dance, fashion, art, design, and the written word.

When they arrived as the first act on Gilles Peterson’s Talkin’ Loud label in 1990 with ‘Welcome to the Story’ (produced by Chris Bangs who invented the term Acid Jazz) dressed in Gabicci sweaters, beads and skullcaps they captured a scene built on re-invention. “We were all playing around with what we could get our hands on whether that was a seventies book on Jamaican style or old Last Poets and Watts Prophets records,” says Gallagher. “We’d been recycling things for a few years but suddenly everything had coalesced and you’ve got an amalgam that seemed quite solid.”
For their first album since 1997, Rob Gallagher and his partner, vocalist Valerie Etienne, are joined by Galliano stalwarts Ernie McKone on bass, Crispin Taylor on drums, and Ski Oakenfull on keys (with guests including saxophonist Jason Yarde and percussionist Crispin ‘Spry’ Robinson).

Where the old Galliano recycled records they heard at clubs, today they are responding to the kaleidoscopic global jazz scene - from Total Refreshment Centre in London to International Anthem in Chicago. More than forty years since they came together, Galliano are still only ‘Halfway Somewhere’, but listening to the album they are obviously having fun getting there. “I think the stars have to be aligned when you redo things,” says Gallagher. “Coming at it from this door is very different to the door we came into back then. But once it's existing it is something. But I’m still not sure what that something is.”

Almost three decades on from their last release, Acid Jazz forefathers Galliano are back with news of their new LP ‘Halfway Somewhere’ which is being released on Gilles Peterson’s Brownswood Recordings on 30 August.

Born out of London’s underground clubs and warehouse parties of the mid to late eighties, with the debut single on the Acid Jazz label in 1988, Galliano came out of a culture that spanned music, dance, fashion, art, design, and the written word.

When they arrived as the first act on Gilles Peterson’s Talkin’ Loud label in 1990 with ‘Welcome to the Story’ (produced by Chris Bangs who invented the term Acid Jazz) dressed in Gabicci sweaters, beads and skullcaps they captured a scene built on re-invention. “We were all playing around with what we could get our hands on whether that was a seventies book on Jamaican style or old Last Poets and Watts Prophets records,” says Gallagher. “We’d been recycling things for a few years but suddenly everything had coalesced and you’ve got an amalgam that seemed quite solid.”
For their first album since 1997, Rob Gallagher and his partner, vocalist Valerie Etienne, are joined by Galliano stalwarts Ernie McKone on bass, Crispin Taylor on drums, and Ski Oakenfull on keys (with guests including saxophonist Jason Yarde and percussionist Crispin ‘Spry’ Robinson).

Where the old Galliano recycled records they heard at clubs, today they are responding to the kaleidoscopic global jazz scene - from Total Refreshment Centre in London to International Anthem in Chicago. More than forty years since they came together, Galliano are still only ‘Halfway Somewhere’, but listening to the album they are obviously having fun getting there. “I think the stars have to be aligned when you redo things,” says Gallagher. “Coming at it from this door is very different to the door we came into back then. But once it's existing it is something. But I’m still not sure what that something is.”

The color green can represent many things. It can symbolize money, of course, but also weed. And envy. It implies newness, the rebirth of spring, but it can also evoke illness and infection. It’s an apt name for a band that is defined by its adaptability, by its knack for doing many different things all at once. On the Color Green’s second full-length—their first as a quartet—they ground their cosmic jams in earthy melodies, drawing from ‘60s SoCal folk-r0ck, ‘70s classic rock, ‘80s underground rock, ‘90s psychedelic dance-rock, and many other sources.

In the two years the band has been touring, it has already shared stages with a range of groups that reflect both the sophistication and the wild malleability of their sound, including Fuzz, Kikagaku Moyo, Circles Around the Sun, and Young Guv. “When we play live, I don’t really know what’s going to happen,” says guitarist Noah Kohll. “You really have no idea what you’re going to get with this band, which keeps things fresh for us and maybe makes the live experience special.”

Adds drummer Corey Rose, “One thing about this band that I really appreciate is that we can camouflage into any environment or any show. We can play with Hiss Golden Messenger and lean into that funky country vibe, or we can play with the Brian Jonestown Massacre and get evil. We all love a variety of music, so let’s not put ourselves in a box.”

That wild, mercurial quality is reflected on Fool’s Parade, a meditation on loss, grief, confusion, frustration, and the clarity to which they all lead. Their songs are vehicles for self-explorations, not just a means of putting their feelings into lyrics and notes but molding them, night after night, into different shapes to get different insights.

Transcendental outernational funk and psychedelic jazz from mystery L.A.- based collective Sun Atlas

2nd edition with alternative sleeve and label design.

Little is known about Sun Atlas. The group members are hidden behind masks and costumes to keep their identities secret and to put the focus entirely on the music and oneness. A sense of community and universal spirit as an alternative to idolization and individualism is heavily reflected in their eclectic musical style.

The sound of Sun Atlas is mystical and cosmopolitan, combining afrobeat, cinematic soul, spiritual & ethio jazz with space sounds, hiphop-breaks and a garage funk vibe.

Their cryptic first 45 single "The Mystic Parade" b/w "Grand Theft" sold out immediately after release and has often been mistaken for either "lost" hiphop samples, 70s habibi funk or another project in disguise from the inner circles of the Mocambo, Big Crown or Daptonefamilies (which it is not).

Return To The Spirit picks up where Sun Atlas' first single leftoff, with everyone wondering where the journey might lead. With the door to a colourful universe opened, the full-length format gives time & space for further exploration.

West Coast sensations Pacific Range lit up the pre-Covid Cosmic American Music/Jam Band scene and like a flash they disappeared leaving multi instrumentalist and founding member Stewart Forgey on his own to create one this year's most exciting albums, NATURE OF THE UNIVERSE! Bringing it all back home with Dan Horne producing along with his Pac Range bandmates, Circles Around The Sun, Mapache, FDWOW all help Stew deliver these very well written gems, it's classic rock and then some.

West Coast sensations Pacific Range lit up the pre-Covid Cosmic American Music/Jam Band scene and like a flash they disappeared leaving multi instrumentalist and founding member Stewart Forgey on his own to create one this year's most exciting albums, NATURE OF THE UNIVERSE! Bringing it all back home with Dan Horne producing along with his Pac Range bandmates, Circles Around The Sun, Mapache, FDWOW all help Stew deliver these very well written gems, it's classic rock and then some.

Transcendental outernational funk and psychedelic jazz from mystery L.A.- based collective Sun Atlas

Little is known about Sun Atlas. The group members are hidden behind masks and costumes to keep their identities secret and to put the focus entirely on the music and oneness. A sense of community and universal spirit as an alternative to idolization and individualism is heavily reflected in their eclectic musical style.

The sound of Sun Atlas is mystical and cosmopolitan, combining afrobeat, cinematic soul, spiritual & ethio jazz with space sounds, hiphop-breaks and a garage funk vibe.

Their cryptic first 45 single "The Mystic Parade" b/w "Grand Theft" sold out immediately after release and has often been mistaken for either "lost" hiphop samples, 70s habibi funk or another project in disguise from the inner circles of the Mocambo, Big Crown or Daptonefamilies (which it is not).

Return To The Spirit picks up where Sun Atlas' first single leftoff, with everyone wondering where the journey might lead. With the door to a colourful universe opened, the full-length format gives time & space for further exploration.

The ltd.first vinyl edition comes in black vinyl in a deluxe handmade tip-on sleeve.

In Season 5, the long-awaited fifth full-length by beach-pop project The Tyde, frontman Darren Rademaker unveils his vision of an ’80s-inspired Suave Nouveau, with a clutch of sweet, melancholic love songs evoking lush mustaches, mellow macho, the ghost of Jimmy Buffett, white sand beaches, flamingos swooping across a cerulean sky, speedboats cutting through the bay and pastel linen suits billowing in the breeze as the sun dips beneath the horizon. “Spanish conquistador Juan Ponce de León ‘discovered’ Florida in 1513, naming the peninsula La Florida, the flowering land. In Season 5, Rademaker reflects on his own return to the flowering land, and the artistic diaspora that caused him to quit California in 2020 in search of a New World of his own. ‘I lived in Florida from the ages of ten to twenty-five, but never really got to explore it,’ he says. ‘When I came back, I decided to really embrace the whole Florida aesthetic. I moved into an art deco home in Sarasota with pink seashell lamps. I visited Key West, like seven times. I also quit smoking weed and cigarettes, and stopped saying shit like LOL and amazeballs. It felt different. It felt good.’ “The record features the talents of many good friends, including Dan Horne, Colby Buddelmeyer, Matt Correia (Allah-Las), Clay Finch (Mapache), Albert Hickman, Derek James (The Entrance Band), Alex Knost (Tomorrow’s Tulips) and Adam MacDougall (Circles Around The Sun / Black Crowes), with artist / musician Matt Fishbeck (Holy Shit) designing the deco-inspired album artwork. “And as much as they are inspired by the past, these songs are keenly aware of an uncertain future—because there is no such thing as a time machine, and there is no going back. Ultimately, Season 5 asks the question—where do we go after the sun sets on our dreams? Where the fuck is the New New World? In Rademaker’s eyes, it no longer exists in any specific American geography—rather, all hope remains in the timeless, unending power of music, and its power to take us to the places we wish we could be. Even if they don’t exist anymore.” — Caroline Ryder

A quietly influential figure among electronic and experimental circles since the late 90s, Berlin based sound artist Hanno Leichtmann has been developing a sprawling and idiosyncratic vision both as a creator and curator.

With a keen sense for charting new territories, Leichtmann's work spawns a multitude of languages that go from deli-cate ambient excursions to techno explorations or abstract sceneries on numerous sound installations, releases on such esteemed labels like Entr'acte or The Tapeworm and collaborations with artists like Valerio Tricoli or Jan Jelinek. A reflection of his keen sense of discovery.

Centered around the Villa Aurora Organ, an intriguing and mostly unknown instrument built in 1928/29 by the Artcraft Organ Company in Santa Monica, California, 'Outerlands' presents a deeply personal approach to the instrument's particular properties, very much in line with Discrepant's ethos. Consisting of a pipe organ, a wall mounted marimba and a two octave tubular bells/chimes ensemble, remotely controllable by MIDI, the Villa Aurora Organ's rich palette of sounds is translated into 12 short tracks capable of conveying the mesmerising spirits of minimalism, exotica and de-votional music.

Starting with the ecstatic sound of the pipe organ, 'Lucero' sets up the hypnotic mood for 'Outerland's excursions through moments of spiralling repetition - 'Tramonto' -, blissful contemplation - 'Sunset' or 'Notteargenta' - or underly-ing tension - ‘Coperto’. 'Espera' amps up the unease, with queasy organ tones lurking beneath marimba harmonic motifs that wouldn't sound out of of place on some survival horror movie, while 'Miramar' or 'Revello' bring an uncanny sense of familiarity through its repetitive melodies.

Drifting seamlessly through a variety of moods that somehow feel connected - the outerlands are within you, if you allow yourself to let go.

Kane Pour is a songwriter and multimedia artist who lives in Gainesville, FL, and has been making loop and guitar-based electronic music since 2004. His work often leans into the subtle and murky emotions that dwell beneath the surface, calling forth themes of care, sadness, and tenderness of the human soul. With a wide sonic palette and sense of humor, he puts his love of harmony and space first, slowly dimming through soft landscapes of various textures. The Last Wave is a spiritual successor to Sun People Sleepwalker, an album Kane Pour released as Pospulenn in 2010. The album is a series of ambient guitar meditations on reconciling painful memories, growing, and reclaiming identity. The Last Wave was recorded at the onset of the Covid pandemic when Pour was home isolating. He put together the songs and walked around at night listening to them, feeling intense loneliness in the present, but finding comfort in having time to reflect on his past. The tone and aesthetic of the album evolved over time but Pour named it The Last Wave because he thought it might be his last album or the last living remnant of his soul left after the world fell apart.

Record producer and electric bassist Dan Horne returns to his Lone Palm a.k.a. Liberty Hair Farm studio in Echo Park, Los Angeles for the vinyl release of his debut full-length studio album, Count The Clouds. Recorded in 2020 - 2021 before his touring schedule kicked back into high gear with Circles Around the Sun and Grateful Shred, Horne unveils Count The Clouds, featuring eight songs with the multiinstrumentalist vibin’ out on all the guitars, drums, pedal steel, and keys. A flashback to mid-1960s psychedelic folk, Count The Clouds includes special guests Ny Oh from Harry Styles’ band, Raze Regal, and Frank LoCrasto. Horne is gaining recognition on the Echo Park scene as a producer at Lone Palm a.k.a. Liberty Hair Farm working with artists Mapache, Chapin Sisters, Pacific Range, AllahLas, and others. On the national live music circuit, he’s a founding member of Circles Around The Sun, the Dead tribute band Grateful Shred (who’s selling out venues all across the country), and a key player with bandleaders Jonathan Wilson, Ben Kweller and Conor Oberst

Wildfire was a household name in Tropical Island music circles due to their excellent albums and performances throughout Trinidad, Tobago, the Caribbean & US Virgin Islands and French Guadeloupe. In 1962 they started off as ‘The Sparks’ (a well-respected Calypso outfit who released a bunch of successful singles) but with the release of their hit single ‘Come On Down’ from 1975, they exploded into Wildfire.

Wildfire had a very fruitful career and released four top full-length albums and a vast amount of singles before calling it quits. Led by bandleader Oliver Chapman (bass & guitar player, vocalist, arranger, producer and co-writer for the majority of the bands’ songs) and comprised out of high talented musicians, Wildfire was out there with the big boys in the niche they carved out for themselves.

On the album we are presenting you today (Time Is The Answer from 1980) you’ll find the perfect mix of funk, soul and disco, basically the popular sounds of the day, and all tracks are originals. The album is FUNKY and the production quality can rival with any of their peers and records produced/recorded in the US. The performance of Wildfire on this album is beyond excellent. This release was also the first time the group took control over production and getting their album out in the world. Also included is the hit single ‘Say A Little Prayer For The Children’ which is just one of those songs that will be stuck in your head forever.

Besides virtuoso Oliver Chapman: the talent that was featured on ‘Time Is The Answer’ is exceptional. Anstey Hamilton carries around a rich noticeable tenor voice. Arthur Byron who also did vocals on the album, has a beautiful rasping tone that can knock you out anytime he gets into his act. Fitzroy Isaac on keyboards and Donald Leid on drums are the guys that were responsible for keeping the groove tight. Clifford Wilson like Oliver had been with band since the start. He is calm in his approach, he played the bass guitar and sung background vocals, he also chipped in with Oliver whenever they wrote songs together. Finally we have Cyllan Charles, who was known as the Wildfire voice. Cyllan had been doing most of the lead vocals since he joined the group in 1972, he was the most experienced of all the members, and can really take you to higher heights anytime he gets into doing his thing both on stage and on wax.

“Time is the Answer" by Wildfire is a scarce and increasingly sought-after LP. Filled with hit-bound songs it comes as no surprise that the album has now become a much-wanted item due to its addictive and original-sounding nature. This is a must-have for any self-respecting record digger!

It's a cohesive song cycle purpose-built for pit stops at points beyond along the California country corridor. Sonically, Stay In It feels equally at home in 2022 as it might in 1972, evidenced by nods to "After The Gold Rush"- era Neil Young, Jonathan Wilson,and The War on Drugs.
The singer-songwriter trucked Jerry Garcia's old console to the desert to embrace the analog. The kind where if you want to rip a guitar solo at 3am with the windows open, you go for it, cowboy. A flurry of calls reverberated back and forth until Eric and his producer Damien Lewis (Kevin Parker, JamesBay), crash-landed in the tiny high desert outpost of Landers, California...in August.

"Stay In It" is a way of saying be present, it's "Be Here Now" says Silverman, an accomplished veteran of the Bay Area live music scene (with appearances at festivals such as Outside Lands and Noise Pop under his belt). "So the record is really about just finding that moment where it all locks in and flows. Get there and stay there."

This is music that picks up influences and imagery and shapes and colors as it encounters them on Interstate 62, before dropping them off as they turn into specks of dust on the horizon. There's the two-step lilt of "Better Days", where we start awash in melancholy synths but end up hopeful for possibility. There's the synthesizer summoning courtesy of first- call session keyboardist Adam MacDougall (Black Crowes, Circles Around The Sun) on "All In My Head" where
things get fully cosmic.

But no matter the track, there's something bigger happening here.

As the sun sets on a quaint East Nashville house, a young man bares a piece of his soul. Facing the camera, sporting a silky suit jacket/shirt/slacks/fingerless gloves ensemble that announces "singer" before he's even opened his mouth, Lee Tracy Johnson settles onto his stage, the front yard. He sways to the dirge-like drum machine pulse of a synth-soaked slow jam, extends his arms as if gaining his balance, and croons in affecting, fragile earnest, "I need your love… oh baby…"

Dogs in the yard next door begin barking. A mysterious cardboard robot figure, beamed in from galaxies unknown and affixed to a tree, is less vocal. Lee doesn't acknowledge either's presence. He's busy feeling it, arms and hands gesticulating. His voice rises in falsetto over the now-quiet dogs, over the ambient noise from the street that seeps into the handheld camcorder's microphone, over the recording of his own voice played back from a boombox off-camera. After six minutes the single, continuous shot ends. In this intimate creative universe there are no re-takes. There are many more music videos to shoot, and as Lee later puts it, "The first time you do it is actually the best. Because you can never get that again. You expressing yourself from within."

"I Need Your Love" dates from a lost heyday. From some time in the '80s or early '90s, when Lee Tracy (as he was known in performance) and his music partner/producer/manager Isaac Manning committed hours upon hours of their sonic and visual ideas to tape. Embracing drum machines and synthesizers – electronics that made their personal futurism palpable – they recorded exclusively at home, live in a room into a simple cassette deck. Soul, funk, electro and new wave informed their songs, yet Lee and Isaac eschewed the confinement of conventional categories and genres, preferring to let experimentation guide them.

"Anytime somebody put out a new record they had the same instruments or the same sound," explains Isaac. "So I basically wanted to find something that's really gonna stand out away from all of the rest of 'em." Their ethos meant that every idea they came up with was at least worth trying: echoed out half-rapped exhortations over frantic techno-style beats, gospel synth soul, modal electro-funk, oddball pop reinterpretations, emo AOR balladry, nods to Prince and the Fat Boys, or arrangements that might collapse mid-song into a mess of arcade game-ish blips before rallying to reach the finish line. All of it conjoined by consistent tape hiss, and most vitally, Lee's chameleonic voice, which managed to wildly shape shift and still evoke something sincere – whether toggling between falsetto and tenor exalting Jesus's return, or punctuating a melismatic romantic adlib with a succinct, "We all know how it feels to be alone."

"People think we went to a studio," says Isaac derisively. "We never went to no studio. We didn't have the money to go to no studio! We did this stuff at home. I shot videos in my front yard with whatever we could to get things together." Sometimes Isaac would just put on an instrumental record, be it "Planet Rock" or "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" (from Evita), press "record," and let Lee improvise over it, yielding peculiar love songs, would-be patriotic anthems, or Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe tributes. Technical limitations and a lack of professional polish never dissuaded them. They believed they were onto something.

"That struggle," Isaac says, "made that sound sound good to me."

In the parlance of modern music criticism Lee and Isaac's dizzying DIY efforts would inevitably be described as "outsider." But "outsider" carries the burden of untold additional layers of meaning if you're Black and from the South, creating on a budget, and trying to get someone, anyone within the country music capital of the world to take your vision seriously. "What category should we put it in?" Isaac asks rhetorically. "I don't know. All I know is feeling. I ain't gonna name it nothing. It's music. If it grabs your soul and touch your heart that's what it basically is supposed to do."

=

Born in 1963, the baby boy of nine siblings, Lee Tracy spent his earliest years living amidst the shotgun houses on Nashville's south side. "We was poor, man!" he says, recalling the outhouse his family used for a bathroom and the blocks of ice they kept in the kitchen to chill perishables. "But I actually don't think I really realized I was in poverty until I got grown and started thinking about it." Lee's mom worked at the Holiday Inn; his dad did whatever he had to do, from selling fruit from a horse drawn cart to bootlegging. "We didn't have much," Lee continues, "but my mother and my father got us the things we needed, the clothes on our back." By the end of the decade with the city's urban renewal programs razing entire neighborhoods to accommodate construction of the Interstate, the family moved to Edgehill Projects. Lee remembers music and art as a constant source of inspiration for he and his brothers and sisters – especially after seeing the Jackson 5 perform on Ed Sullivan. "As a small child I just knew that was what I wanted to do."

His older brother Don began musically mentoring him, introducing Lee to a variety of instruments and sounds. "He would never play one particular type of music, like R&B," says Lee. "I was surrounded by jazz, hard rock and roll, easy listening, gospel, reggae, country music; I mean I was a sponge absorbing all of that." Lee taught himself to play drums by beating on cardboard boxes, gaining a rep around the way for his timekeeping, and his singing voice. Emulating his favorites, Earth Wind & Fire and Cameo, he formed groups with other kids with era-evocative band names like Concept and TNT Connection, and emerged as the leader of disciplined rehearsals. "I made them practice," says Lee. "We practiced and practiced and practiced. Because I wanted that perfection." By high school the most accomplished of these bands would take top prize in a prominent local talent show. It was a big moment for Lee, and he felt ready to take things to the next level. But his band-mates had other ideas.

"I don't know what happened," he says, still miffed at the memory. "It must have blew they mind after we won and people started showing notice, because it's like everybody quit! I was like, where the hell did everybody go?" Lee had always made a point of interrogating prospective musicians about their intentions before joining his groups: were they really serious or just looking for a way to pick up girls? Now he understood even more the importance of finding a collaborator just as committed to the music as he was.

=

Isaac Manning had spent much of his life immersed in music and the arts – singing in the church choir with his family on Nashville's north side, writing, painting, dancing, and working various gigs within the entertainment industry. After serving in the armed forces, in the early '70s he ran The Teenage Place, a music and performance venue that catered to the local youth. But he was forced out of town when word of one of his recreational routines created a stir beyond the safe haven of his bohemian circles.

"I was growing marijuana," Isaac explains. "It wasn't no business, I was smoking it myself… I would put marijuana in scrambled eggs, cornbread and stuff." His weed use originated as a form of self-medication to combat severe tooth pain. But when he began sharing it with some of the other young people he hung out with, some of who just so happened to be the kids of Nashville politicians, the cops came calling. "When I got busted," he remembers, "they were talking about how they were gonna get rid of me because they didn't want me saying nothing about they children because of the politics and stuff. So I got my family, took two raggedy cars, and left Nashville and went to Vegas."

Out in the desert, Isaac happened to meet Chubby Checker of "The Twist" fame while the singer was gigging at The Flamingo. Impressed by Isaac's zeal, Checker invited him to go on the road with him as his tour manager/roadie/valet. The experience gave Isaac a window into a part of the entertainment world he'd never encountered – a glimpse of what a true pop act's audience looked like. "Chubby Checker, none of his shows were played for Black folks," he remembers. "All his gigs were done at high-class white people areas." Returning home after a few years with Chubby, Isaac was properly motivated to make it in Music City. He began writing songs and scouting around Nashville for local talent anywhere he could find it with an expressed goal: "Find someone who can deliver your songs the way you want 'em delivered and make people feel what you want them to feel."

One day while walking through Edgehill Projects Isaac heard someone playing the drums in a way that made him stop and take notice. "The music was so tight, just the drums made me feel like, oh I'm-a find this person," he recalls. "So I circled through the projects until I found who it was.

"That's how I met him – Lee Tracy. When I found him and he started singing and stuff, I said, ohhh, this is somebody different."

=

Theirs was a true complementary partnership: young Lee possessed the raw talent, the older Isaac the belief. "He's really the only one besides my brother and my family that really seen the potential in me," says Lee. "He made me see that I could do it."

Isaac long being a night owl, his house also made for a fertile collaborative environment – a space where there always seemed to be a new piece of his visual art on display: paintings, illustrations, and dolls and figures (including an enigmatic cardboard robot). Lee and Issac would hang out together and talk, listen to music, conjure ideas, and smoke the herb Isaac had resumed growing in his yard. "It got to where I could trust him, he could trust me," Isaac says of their bond. They also worked together for hours on drawings, spreading larges rolls of paper on the walls and sketching faces with abstract patterns and imagery: alien-like beings, tri-horned horse heads, inverted Janus-like characters where one visage blurred into the other.

Soon it became apparent that they didn't need other collaborators; self-sufficiency was the natural way forward. At Isaac's behest Lee, already fed up with dealing with band musicians, began playing around with a poly-sonic Yamaha keyboard at the local music store. "It had everything on it – trumpet, bass, drums, organ," remembers Lee. "And that's when I started recording my own stuff."

The technology afforded Lee the flexibility and independence he craved, setting him on a path other bedroom musicians and producers around the world were simultaneously following through the '80s into the early '90s. Saving up money from day jobs, he eventually supplemented the Yamaha Isaac had gotten him with Roland and Casio drum machines and a Moog. Lee was living in an apartment in Hillside at that point caring for his dad, who'd been partially paralyzed since early in life. In the evenings up in his second floor room, the music put him in a zone where he could tune out everything and lose himself in his ideas.

"Oh I loved it," he recalls. "I would really experiment with the instruments and use a lot of different sound effects. I was looking for something nobody else had. I wanted something totally different. And once I found the sound I was looking for, I would just smoke me a good joint and just let it go, hit the record button." More potent a creative stimulant than even Isaac's weed was the holistic flow and spontaneity of recording. Between sessions at Isaac's place and Lee's apartment, their volume of output quickly ballooned.

"We was always recording," says Lee. "That's why we have so much music. Even when I went to Isaac's and we start creating, I get home, my mind is racing, I gotta start creating, creating, creating. I remember there were times when I took a 90-minute tape from front to back and just filled it up."

"We never practiced," says Isaac. "See, that was just so odd about the whole thing. I could relate to him, and tell him about the songs I had ideas for and everything and stuff. And then he would bring it back or whatever, and we'd get together and put it down." Once the taskmaster hell bent on rehearsing, Lee had flipped a full 180. Perfection was no longer an aspiration, but the enemy of inspiration.

"I seen where practicing and practicing got me," says Lee. "A lot of musicians you get to playing and they gotta stop, they have to analyze the music. But while you analyzing you losing a lot of the greatness of what you creating. Stop analyzing what you play, just play! And it'll all take shape."

=

"I hope you understood the beginning of the record because this was invented from a dream I had today… (You tell me, I'll tell you, we'll figure it out together)" – Lee Tracy and Isaac Manning, "Hope You Understand"

Lee lets loose a maniacal cackle when he acknowledges that the material that he and Isaac recorded was by anyone's estimation pretty out there. It's the same laugh that commences "Hope You Understand" – a chaotic transmission that encapsulates the duality at the heart of their music: a stated desire to reach people and a compulsion to go as leftfield as they saw fit.

"We just did it," says Lee. "We cut the music on and cut loose. I don't sit around and write. I do it by listening, get a feeling, play the music, and the lyrics and stuff just come out of me."

The approach proved adaptable to interpreting other artists' material. While recording a cover of Whitney Houston's pop ballad "Saving All My Love For You," Lee played Whitney's version in his headphones as he laid down his own vocals – partially following the lyrics, partially using them as a departure point. The end result is barely recognizable compared with the original, Lee and Isaac having switched up the time signature and reinvented the melody along the way towards morphing a slick mainstream radio standard into something that sounds solely their own.

"I really used that song to get me started," says Lee. "Then I said, well I need something else, something is missing. Something just came over me. That's when I came up with 'Is It What You Want.'"

The song would become the centerpiece of Lee and Isaac's repertoire. Pushed along by a percolating metronomic Rhythm King style beat somewhere between a military march and a samba, "Is It What You Want" finds Lee pleading the sincerity of his commitment to a potential love interest embellished by vocal tics and hiccups subtlely reminiscent of his childhood hero MJ. Absent chord changes, only synth riffs gliding in and out like apparitions, the song achieves a lingering lo-fi power that leaves you feeling like it's still playing, somewhere, even after the fade out.

"I don't know, it's like a real spiritual song," Lee reflects. "But it's not just spiritual. To me the more I listen to it it's like about everything that you do in your everyday life, period. Is it what you want? Do you want a car or you don't want a car? Do you want Jesus or do you want the Devil? It's basically asking you the question. Can't nobody answer the question but you yourself."

In 1989 Lee won a lawsuit stemming from injuries sustained from a fight he'd gotten into. He took part of the settlement money and with Isaac pressed up "Saving All My Love For You" b/w "Is It What You Want" as a 45 single. Isaac christened the label One Chance Records. "Because that's all we wanted," he says with a laugh, "one chance."

Isaac sent the record out to radio stations and major labels, hoping for it to make enough noise to get picked up nationally. But the response he and Lee were hoping for never materialized. According to Isaac the closest the single got to getting played on the radio is when a disk jock from a local station made a highly unusual announcement on air: "The dude said on the radio, 107.5 – 'We are not gonna play 'Is It What You Want.' We cracked up! Wow, that's deep.

"It was a whole racist thing that was going on," he reflects. "So we just looked over and kept on going. That was it. That was about the way it goes… If you were Black and you were living in Nashville and stuff, that's the way you got treated." Isaac already knew as much from all the times he'd brought he and Lee's tapes (even their cache of country music tunes) over to Music Row to try to drum up interest to no avail.

"Isaac, he really worked his ass off," says Lee. "He probably been to every record place down on Music Row." Nashville's famed recording and music business corridor wasn't but a few blocks from where Lee grew up. Close enough, he remembers, for him to ride his bike along its back alleys and stumble upon the occasional random treasure, like a discarded box of harmonicas. Getting in through the front door, however, still felt a world away.

"I just don't think at the time our music fell into a category for them," he concedes. "It was before its time."

=

Lee stopped making music some time in the latter part of the '90s, around the time his mom passed away and life became increasingly tough to manage. "When my mother died I had a nervous breakdown," he says, "So I shut down for a long time. I was in such a sadness frame of mind. That's why nobody seen me. I had just disappeared off the map." He fell out of touch with Isaac, and in an indication of just how bad things had gotten for him, lost track of all the recordings they'd made together. Music became a distant memory.

Fortunately, Isaac kept the faith. In a self-published collection of his poetry – paeans to some of his favorite entertainment and public figures entitled Friends and Dick Clark – he'd written that he believed "music has a life of its own." But his prescience and presence of mind were truly manifested in the fact that he kept an archive of he and Lee's work. As perfectly imperfect as "Is It What You Want" now sounds in a post-Personal Space world, Lee and Isaac's lone official release was in fact just a taste. The bulk of the Is It What You Want album is culled from the pair's essentially unheard home recordings – complete songs, half-realized experiments, Isaac's blue monologues and pronouncements et al – compiled, mixed and programmed in the loose and impulsive creative spirit of their regular get-togethers from decades ago. The rest of us, it seems, may have finally caught up to them.

On the prospect of at long last reaching a wider audience, Isaac says simply, "I been trying for a long time, it feels good." Ever the survivor, he adds, "The only way I know how to make it to the top is to keep climbing. If one leg break on the ladder, hey, you gotta fix it and keep on going… That's where I be at. I'll kill death to make it out there."

For Lee it all feels akin to a personal resurrection: "It's like I was in a tomb and the tomb was opened and I'm back… Man, it feels so great. I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin." Success at this stage of his life, he realizes, probably means something different than what it did back when he was singing and dancing in Isaac's front yard. "What I really mean by 'making it,'" he explains isn't just the music being heard but, "the story being told."

Occasionally Lee will pull up "Is It What You Want" on YouTube on his phone, put on his headphones, and listen. He remembers the first time he heard his recorded voice. How surreal it was, how he thought to himself, "Is that really me?" What would he say to that younger version of himself now?

"I would probably tell myself, hang in there, don't give up. Keep striving for the goal. And everything will work out."

Despite what's printed on the record label, sometimes you do get more than one chance.

We are proud to present the official 40-year anniversary issue of Imagination's debut album Shake It. Remastered from original tapes, this deluxe edition is a double vinyl LP with gatefold sleeve, featuring a newly available lyric insert.

Shake It covers a diverse spectrum of styles and sounds, all combining to a unique soulful amalgam that ranges from sunshine AOR funk ("Mornin' Lights") and leftfield disco ("Strawberry Wine") to psychy, epic, downtempo, vocoder grooves ("Can't Stand Without You") and more. Originally released in 1980, it fast became one of Germany's most collectible privately-pressed LPs.

Shake It was the creation of young thoroughbreds working hard on becoming professional musicians, trying to take their next big step in the music business. Starting out as a pure jazz-rock combo in the mid '70s (as we hear on the recently released lost studio tapes, I'm Always Right (The WDR Tapes 1977)) Imagination left behind their instrumental roots, incorporating new musical trends and styles.

Uwe Ziss, their saxophonist and flutist, became one of two lead singers in Imagination. He would be joined by the younger Roger Mork, a student of original guitarist Willi Hövelmann, around 1979. Roger's voice would best be heard on the aforementioned "Mornin' Lights", one of the various standout tracks on Shake It. However, there is much more that this album offers.

There are brilliant soulful soft rock ballads like "Clouds Flee Before The Wind" and "Waitin for your Call" or the catchy "California" song that switches from a dreamy Westcoast sound (as the title implies) to danceable rhythm & blues with equal ease. Last but not least, we have unearthed three unissued bonus cuts. On one, the demo take of "Clouds Flee Before The Wind", we hear, for the first time ever, the original refrain of this song, which, for some strange reason, was taken out from the final mix on Shake It.

When all eight original songs were recorded and mastered in June, at the well-equipped West Aix-La-Chapelle studio, the stage was set for Imagination's long-desired career push. They'd initially press about 2500 copies of Shake It selling it mainly, locally, directly to their hometown fanbase in Düsseldorf. Meanwhile, their manager would attempt to arrange a record deal with a music label. Unfortunately, this became more difficult than expected. Negotiations with a smaller publishing company were made by Imagination, and Shake It was repressed on Nash Records in 1981 without their consent, under the false promises of a nationwide promotional tour which would never come to fruition. At the same time, the group would face a UK band under the same name achieving mainstream success, making it difficult (not to say entirely impossible) to perform as "Imagination". Though the band would remain active after Shake It, they'd split shortly after Nash's duplicitous reissue hit store shelves.

Luckily, through time, Shake It itself has remained worthwhile, creatively, for those who stumbled upon it and financially, too, becoming quite the sought after gem in record collecting circles. This deluxe anniversary double vinyl issue makes the LP available once again at a far more reasonable price, featuring the original, illustrious, eye-catching, Roy Lichtenstein-influenced banana art, as well as previously unavailable press pictures and more.

As the sun sets on a quaint East Nashville house, a young man bares a piece of his soul. Facing the camera, sporting a silky suit jacket/shirt/slacks/fingerless gloves ensemble that announces "singer" before he's even opened his mouth, Lee Tracy Johnson settles onto his stage, the front yard. He sways to the dirge-like drum machine pulse of a synth-soaked slow jam, extends his arms as if gaining his balance, and croons in affecting, fragile earnest, "I need your love… oh baby…"

Dogs in the yard next door begin barking. A mysterious cardboard robot figure, beamed in from galaxies unknown and affixed to a tree, is less vocal. Lee doesn't acknowledge either's presence. He's busy feeling it, arms and hands gesticulating. His voice rises in falsetto over the now-quiet dogs, over the ambient noise from the street that seeps into the handheld camcorder's microphone, over the recording of his own voice played back from a boombox off-camera. After six minutes the single, continuous shot ends. In this intimate creative universe there are no re-takes. There are many more music videos to shoot, and as Lee later puts it, "The first time you do it is actually the best. Because you can never get that again. You expressing yourself from within."

"I Need Your Love" dates from a lost heyday. From some time in the '80s or early '90s, when Lee Tracy (as he was known in performance) and his music partner/producer/manager Isaac Manning committed hours upon hours of their sonic and visual ideas to tape. Embracing drum machines and synthesizers – electronics that made their personal futurism palpable – they recorded exclusively at home, live in a room into a simple cassette deck. Soul, funk, electro and new wave informed their songs, yet Lee and Isaac eschewed the confinement of conventional categories and genres, preferring to let experimentation guide them.

"Anytime somebody put out a new record they had the same instruments or the same sound," explains Isaac. "So I basically wanted to find something that's really gonna stand out away from all of the rest of 'em." Their ethos meant that every idea they came up with was at least worth trying: echoed out half-rapped exhortations over frantic techno-style beats, gospel synth soul, modal electro-funk, oddball pop reinterpretations, emo AOR balladry, nods to Prince and the Fat Boys, or arrangements that might collapse mid-song into a mess of arcade game-ish blips before rallying to reach the finish line. All of it conjoined by consistent tape hiss, and most vitally, Lee's chameleonic voice, which managed to wildly shape shift and still evoke something sincere – whether toggling between falsetto and tenor exalting Jesus's return, or punctuating a melismatic romantic adlib with a succinct, "We all know how it feels to be alone."

"People think we went to a studio," says Isaac derisively. "We never went to no studio. We didn't have the money to go to no studio! We did this stuff at home. I shot videos in my front yard with whatever we could to get things together." Sometimes Isaac would just put on an instrumental record, be it "Planet Rock" or "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" (from Evita), press "record," and let Lee improvise over it, yielding peculiar love songs, would-be patriotic anthems, or Elvis Presley or Marilyn Monroe tributes. Technical limitations and a lack of professional polish never dissuaded them. They believed they were onto something.

"That struggle," Isaac says, "made that sound sound good to me."

In the parlance of modern music criticism Lee and Isaac's dizzying DIY efforts would inevitably be described as "outsider." But "outsider" carries the burden of untold additional layers of meaning if you're Black and from the South, creating on a budget, and trying to get someone, anyone within the country music capital of the world to take your vision seriously. "What category should we put it in?" Isaac asks rhetorically. "I don't know. All I know is feeling. I ain't gonna name it nothing. It's music. If it grabs your soul and touch your heart that's what it basically is supposed to do."

=

Born in 1963, the baby boy of nine siblings, Lee Tracy spent his earliest years living amidst the shotgun houses on Nashville's south side. "We was poor, man!" he says, recalling the outhouse his family used for a bathroom and the blocks of ice they kept in the kitchen to chill perishables. "But I actually don't think I really realized I was in poverty until I got grown and started thinking about it." Lee's mom worked at the Holiday Inn; his dad did whatever he had to do, from selling fruit from a horse drawn cart to bootlegging. "We didn't have much," Lee continues, "but my mother and my father got us the things we needed, the clothes on our back." By the end of the decade with the city's urban renewal programs razing entire neighborhoods to accommodate construction of the Interstate, the family moved to Edgehill Projects. Lee remembers music and art as a constant source of inspiration for he and his brothers and sisters – especially after seeing the Jackson 5 perform on Ed Sullivan. "As a small child I just knew that was what I wanted to do."

His older brother Don began musically mentoring him, introducing Lee to a variety of instruments and sounds. "He would never play one particular type of music, like R&B," says Lee. "I was surrounded by jazz, hard rock and roll, easy listening, gospel, reggae, country music; I mean I was a sponge absorbing all of that." Lee taught himself to play drums by beating on cardboard boxes, gaining a rep around the way for his timekeeping, and his singing voice. Emulating his favorites, Earth Wind & Fire and Cameo, he formed groups with other kids with era-evocative band names like Concept and TNT Connection, and emerged as the leader of disciplined rehearsals. "I made them practice," says Lee. "We practiced and practiced and practiced. Because I wanted that perfection." By high school the most accomplished of these bands would take top prize in a prominent local talent show. It was a big moment for Lee, and he felt ready to take things to the next level. But his band-mates had other ideas.

"I don't know what happened," he says, still miffed at the memory. "It must have blew they mind after we won and people started showing notice, because it's like everybody quit! I was like, where the hell did everybody go?" Lee had always made a point of interrogating prospective musicians about their intentions before joining his groups: were they really serious or just looking for a way to pick up girls? Now he understood even more the importance of finding a collaborator just as committed to the music as he was.

=

Isaac Manning had spent much of his life immersed in music and the arts – singing in the church choir with his family on Nashville's north side, writing, painting, dancing, and working various gigs within the entertainment industry. After serving in the armed forces, in the early '70s he ran The Teenage Place, a music and performance venue that catered to the local youth. But he was forced out of town when word of one of his recreational routines created a stir beyond the safe haven of his bohemian circles.

"I was growing marijuana," Isaac explains. "It wasn't no business, I was smoking it myself… I would put marijuana in scrambled eggs, cornbread and stuff." His weed use originated as a form of self-medication to combat severe tooth pain. But when he began sharing it with some of the other young people he hung out with, some of who just so happened to be the kids of Nashville politicians, the cops came calling. "When I got busted," he remembers, "they were talking about how they were gonna get rid of me because they didn't want me saying nothing about they children because of the politics and stuff. So I got my family, took two raggedy cars, and left Nashville and went to Vegas."

Out in the desert, Isaac happened to meet Chubby Checker of "The Twist" fame while the singer was gigging at The Flamingo. Impressed by Isaac's zeal, Checker invited him to go on the road with him as his tour manager/roadie/valet. The experience gave Isaac a window into a part of the entertainment world he'd never encountered – a glimpse of what a true pop act's audience looked like. "Chubby Checker, none of his shows were played for Black folks," he remembers. "All his gigs were done at high-class white people areas." Returning home after a few years with Chubby, Isaac was properly motivated to make it in Music City. He began writing songs and scouting around Nashville for local talent anywhere he could find it with an expressed goal: "Find someone who can deliver your songs the way you want 'em delivered and make people feel what you want them to feel."

One day while walking through Edgehill Projects Isaac heard someone playing the drums in a way that made him stop and take notice. "The music was so tight, just the drums made me feel like, oh I'm-a find this person," he recalls. "So I circled through the projects until I found who it was.

"That's how I met him – Lee Tracy. When I found him and he started singing and stuff, I said, ohhh, this is somebody different."

=

Theirs was a true complementary partnership: young Lee possessed the raw talent, the older Isaac the belief. "He's really the only one besides my brother and my family that really seen the potential in me," says Lee. "He made me see that I could do it."

Isaac long being a night owl, his house also made for a fertile collaborative environment – a space where there always seemed to be a new piece of his visual art on display: paintings, illustrations, and dolls and figures (including an enigmatic cardboard robot). Lee and Issac would hang out together and talk, listen to music, conjure ideas, and smoke the herb Isaac had resumed growing in his yard. "It got to where I could trust him, he could trust me," Isaac says of their bond. They also worked together for hours on drawings, spreading larges rolls of paper on the walls and sketching faces with abstract patterns and imagery: alien-like beings, tri-horned horse heads, inverted Janus-like characters where one visage blurred into the other.

Soon it became apparent that they didn't need other collaborators; self-sufficiency was the natural way forward. At Isaac's behest Lee, already fed up with dealing with band musicians, began playing around with a poly-sonic Yamaha keyboard at the local music store. "It had everything on it – trumpet, bass, drums, organ," remembers Lee. "And that's when I started recording my own stuff."

The technology afforded Lee the flexibility and independence he craved, setting him on a path other bedroom musicians and producers around the world were simultaneously following through the '80s into the early '90s. Saving up money from day jobs, he eventually supplemented the Yamaha Isaac had gotten him with Roland and Casio drum machines and a Moog. Lee was living in an apartment in Hillside at that point caring for his dad, who'd been partially paralyzed since early in life. In the evenings up in his second floor room, the music put him in a zone where he could tune out everything and lose himself in his ideas.

"Oh I loved it," he recalls. "I would really experiment with the instruments and use a lot of different sound effects. I was looking for something nobody else had. I wanted something totally different. And once I found the sound I was looking for, I would just smoke me a good joint and just let it go, hit the record button." More potent a creative stimulant than even Isaac's weed was the holistic flow and spontaneity of recording. Between sessions at Isaac's place and Lee's apartment, their volume of output quickly ballooned.

"We was always recording," says Lee. "That's why we have so much music. Even when I went to Isaac's and we start creating, I get home, my mind is racing, I gotta start creating, creating, creating. I remember there were times when I took a 90-minute tape from front to back and just filled it up."

"We never practiced," says Isaac. "See, that was just so odd about the whole thing. I could relate to him, and tell him about the songs I had ideas for and everything and stuff. And then he would bring it back or whatever, and we'd get together and put it down." Once the taskmaster hell bent on rehearsing, Lee had flipped a full 180. Perfection was no longer an aspiration, but the enemy of inspiration.

"I seen where practicing and practicing got me," says Lee. "A lot of musicians you get to playing and they gotta stop, they have to analyze the music. But while you analyzing you losing a lot of the greatness of what you creating. Stop analyzing what you play, just play! And it'll all take shape."

=

"I hope you understood the beginning of the record because this was invented from a dream I had today… (You tell me, I'll tell you, we'll figure it out together)" – Lee Tracy and Isaac Manning, "Hope You Understand"

Lee lets loose a maniacal cackle when he acknowledges that the material that he and Isaac recorded was by anyone's estimation pretty out there. It's the same laugh that commences "Hope You Understand" – a chaotic transmission that encapsulates the duality at the heart of their music: a stated desire to reach people and a compulsion to go as leftfield as they saw fit.

"We just did it," says Lee. "We cut the music on and cut loose. I don't sit around and write. I do it by listening, get a feeling, play the music, and the lyrics and stuff just come out of me."

The approach proved adaptable to interpreting other artists' material. While recording a cover of Whitney Houston's pop ballad "Saving All My Love For You," Lee played Whitney's version in his headphones as he laid down his own vocals – partially following the lyrics, partially using them as a departure point. The end result is barely recognizable compared with the original, Lee and Isaac having switched up the time signature and reinvented the melody along the way towards morphing a slick mainstream radio standard into something that sounds solely their own.

"I really used that song to get me started," says Lee. "Then I said, well I need something else, something is missing. Something just came over me. That's when I came up with 'Is It What You Want.'"

The song would become the centerpiece of Lee and Isaac's repertoire. Pushed along by a percolating metronomic Rhythm King style beat somewhere between a military march and a samba, "Is It What You Want" finds Lee pleading the sincerity of his commitment to a potential love interest embellished by vocal tics and hiccups subtlely reminiscent of his childhood hero MJ. Absent chord changes, only synth riffs gliding in and out like apparitions, the song achieves a lingering lo-fi power that leaves you feeling like it's still playing, somewhere, even after the fade out.

"I don't know, it's like a real spiritual song," Lee reflects. "But it's not just spiritual. To me the more I listen to it it's like about everything that you do in your everyday life, period. Is it what you want? Do you want a car or you don't want a car? Do you want Jesus or do you want the Devil? It's basically asking you the question. Can't nobody answer the question but you yourself."

In 1989 Lee won a lawsuit stemming from injuries sustained from a fight he'd gotten into. He took part of the settlement money and with Isaac pressed up "Saving All My Love For You" b/w "Is It What You Want" as a 45 single. Isaac christened the label One Chance Records. "Because that's all we wanted," he says with a laugh, "one chance."

Isaac sent the record out to radio stations and major labels, hoping for it to make enough noise to get picked up nationally. But the response he and Lee were hoping for never materialized. According to Isaac the closest the single got to getting played on the radio is when a disk jock from a local station made a highly unusual announcement on air: "The dude said on the radio, 107.5 – 'We are not gonna play 'Is It What You Want.' We cracked up! Wow, that's deep.

"It was a whole racist thing that was going on," he reflects. "So we just looked over and kept on going. That was it. That was about the way it goes… If you were Black and you were living in Nashville and stuff, that's the way you got treated." Isaac already knew as much from all the times he'd brought he and Lee's tapes (even their cache of country music tunes) over to Music Row to try to drum up interest to no avail.

"Isaac, he really worked his ass off," says Lee. "He probably been to every record place down on Music Row." Nashville's famed recording and music business corridor wasn't but a few blocks from where Lee grew up. Close enough, he remembers, for him to ride his bike along its back alleys and stumble upon the occasional random treasure, like a discarded box of harmonicas. Getting in through the front door, however, still felt a world away.

"I just don't think at the time our music fell into a category for them," he concedes. "It was before its time."

=

Lee stopped making music some time in the latter part of the '90s, around the time his mom passed away and life became increasingly tough to manage. "When my mother died I had a nervous breakdown," he says, "So I shut down for a long time. I was in such a sadness frame of mind. That's why nobody seen me. I had just disappeared off the map." He fell out of touch with Isaac, and in an indication of just how bad things had gotten for him, lost track of all the recordings they'd made together. Music became a distant memory.

Fortunately, Isaac kept the faith. In a self-published collection of his poetry – paeans to some of his favorite entertainment and public figures entitled Friends and Dick Clark – he'd written that he believed "music has a life of its own." But his prescience and presence of mind were truly manifested in the fact that he kept an archive of he and Lee's work. As perfectly imperfect as "Is It What You Want" now sounds in a post-Personal Space world, Lee and Isaac's lone official release was in fact just a taste. The bulk of the Is It What You Want album is culled from the pair's essentially unheard home recordings – complete songs, half-realized experiments, Isaac's blue monologues and pronouncements et al – compiled, mixed and programmed in the loose and impulsive creative spirit of their regular get-togethers from decades ago. The rest of us, it seems, may have finally caught up to them.

On the prospect of at long last reaching a wider audience, Isaac says simply, "I been trying for a long time, it feels good." Ever the survivor, he adds, "The only way I know how to make it to the top is to keep climbing. If one leg break on the ladder, hey, you gotta fix it and keep on going… That's where I be at. I'll kill death to make it out there."

For Lee it all feels akin to a personal resurrection: "It's like I was in a tomb and the tomb was opened and I'm back… Man, it feels so great. I feel like I'm gonna jump out of my skin." Success at this stage of his life, he realizes, probably means something different than what it did back when he was singing and dancing in Isaac's front yard. "What I really mean by 'making it,'" he explains isn't just the music being heard but, "the story being told."

Occasionally Lee will pull up "Is It What You Want" on YouTube on his phone, put on his headphones, and listen. He remembers the first time he heard his recorded voice. How surreal it was, how he thought to himself, "Is that really me?" What would he say to that younger version of himself now?

"I would probably tell myself, hang in there, don't give up. Keep striving for the goal. And everything will work out."

Despite what's printed on the record label, sometimes you do get more than one chance.

Sympathetic Magic is an ecstatic, delirious, and deeply touching piece of music; a towering new work in Kim Myhr’s increasingly substantial output as an artist and composer. Sympathetic Magic is the follow-up to Kim Myhr’s 2017 album You | me, which was widely praised and received an honorary mention at the 2018 Nordic Music Prize. While the immersive warmth of You | me is still present, Sympathetic Magic is more expansive than its predecessor. A band of eight musicians playing a wide variety of instruments including electric 12-string guitars, drum machines, vocals, synthesizers, organs and lots of drums and percussion, has created a work of a grander scale. The shimmering, oceanic waves of You | me has been traded for cosmic currents in Sympathetic Magic. Put simply, Sympathetic Magic is a collection of song-like structures that has expanded into symphonic proportions. “With You | me, I wanted to create an ocean of sound, where the listener is surrounded by a myriad of elements that has equal importance in the music. I wanted to challenge this a bit, to push certain elements forward. The result is a more song-like kind of music than what I’ve done before.” – Kim Myhr Just before starting working on Sympathetic Magic, Kim bought an old 70s Yamaha organ (the YC45d), after falling in love with the sound of it on different recordings. At first, he thought the organ would be a subtle element on the new record, but it ended up becoming a focal point: “It’s a brilliant in-your-face sound that brought an ecstatic quality to the music. Playing around with this instrument, along with an 80s Roland Juno synth and a new drum machine took the music in new directions.” – Kim Myhr. Thematically, Sympathetic Magic circles around a longing for collectivity and togetherness. While the world was locked down in 2021, thanks to a commission from Oslo Jazz Festival, Kim had the opportunity to delve deeply into this project, working with the members of the band, one at a time: “The music created a situation of unexpected positivity. It felt like a social project even if I spent most of the time on it alone. And all this positive, joyful energy felt quite magical, arriving like out of thin air in this otherwise grim situation. It all felt like a hallucination, which fed back into the music. Sympathetic Magic is like a dream within a dream.” – Kim Myhr The title of the record is a term coined by James Frazer in The Golden Bough. He writes: “things which have once been in contact with each other continue to act on each other at a distance after the physical contact has been severed”. “In a closed down world where all our connections with the outside suddenly are remote or absent, the line between the real and imaginary is blurred. I felt that the term perfectly summed up the thoughts, processes and sentiments that went into the making of this record”, says Myhr. “Kim Myhr is a master of slow-morphing rhythms and sun-dappled textures that seem to glow from the inside”. The Guardian 1/And I Thought These Are My People 2/Gifting Senselessly In Endless Lavishness 3/Move The Rolling Sky 4/Iridescent 5/Up To The Sun Shall Go Your Heartache 6/I Wonder If I Shall Fall Right Through The Earth 7/Heart Streams

Big Crown Records is proud to present another strong 7" offering from the legendary Sunny & The Sunliners. Pulling two very in demand tunes from Sunny's Keyloc Records catalog and making one unstoppable reissue 45 that will put these tunes back in the mix around the globe. Since we released the first Mr Brown Eyed Soul compilation in 2017 the price of Sunny's records have skyrocketed. We are sure a lot of people will be happy to be able to get their hands on these tunes and it will be great to see them getting spins in a whole world of new circles. The A side, "If I Could See You Now" is a classic dance floor burner from Mr Brown Eyed Soul. From the first note of the organ intro those in the know will be grinning ear to ear, as soon as the beat drops and Sunny starts singing anyone who never heard this tune before will be hooked. "Give Me Time" is a bit of a sleeper in Sunny's catalog. Not one of the flagship tunes that everyone knows but absolutely worthy of reissue and becoming one of the classics alongside "Should I Take You Home", "Smile Now, Cry Later", etc. The band is as sharp as the man himself on this one, running through the beautiful arrangement while Sunny pleads for time to get over his lost love.

Big Crown Records is proud to present another strong 7" offering from the legendary Sunny & The Sunliners. Pulling two very in demand tunes from Sunny's Keyloc Records catalog and making one unstoppable reissue 45 that will put these tunes back in the mix around the globe. Since we released the first Mr Brown Eyed Soul compilation in 2017 the price of Sunny's records have skyrocketed. We are sure a lot of people will be happy to be able to get their hands on these tunes and it will be great to see them getting spins in a whole world of new circles. The A side, "If I Could See You Now" is a classic dance floor burner from Mr Brown Eyed Soul. From the first note of the organ intro those in the know will be grinning ear to ear, as soon as the beat drops and Sunny starts singing anyone who never heard this tune before will be hooked. "Give Me Time" is a bit of a sleeper in Sunny's catalog. Not one of the flagship tunes that everyone knows but absolutely worthy of reissue and becoming one of the classics alongside "Should I Take You Home", "Smile Now, Cry Later", etc. The band is as sharp as the man himself on this one, running through the beautiful arrangement while Sunny pleads for time to get over his lost love.

While Bobby Oroza puts the finishing touches on his next album, he treats us to this killer two-sider to end out 2021 and hold us over until the new record is finished. Bobby's debut album "This Love" made big waves around the world and amassed him a cult following from the US to Japan and everywhere in between. He found big love in the sweet soul scene early, but has since made fans in a myriad of circles and subcultures globally. It has by now become clear that his music is not just one thing, analog soul textured for sure, but also with an array of influences that span far beyond the soul ballad world. It is that inability to really nail down his sound that has become the biggest charm, an esoteric and profound passion permeate the lyrics and vibe of everything about Mr. Oroza. This new 7" shows off two sides of Bobby's song writing, an upbeat number on the "plug" side and a heavy duty ballad on the flip. The A side "The Otherside" is an optimistic tune that Bobby humbly shares his story about the troubles we can create for ourselves and the possibility of having a change of mind that frees us from them. The track is equally encouraging with its sunny energy that carries an important message from Bobby to anyone who is struggling and can't see a way out. The B side "Make Me Believe" is another instant classic for the slowie enthusiasts. A moody, soul bearing, cry for help that comes off with a sweet- ness.

Highway Butterfly: The Songs of Neal Casal is a 5LP vinyl boxset
celebrating the prolific body of work Casal left behind over the course of
14 studio albums
Recording sessions for the project began in February 2020 led by co-producers
Dave Schools of Widespread Panic and seven time Grammy- Award winning
recording engineer/ producer Jim Scott at PLYRZ Studios in Valencia, CA.Over
forty artists appear on the tribute including Susan Tedeschi and Derek Trucks,
Jonathan Wilson, Phil Lesh and The Terrapin Family Band, Steve Earle, Warren
Haynes, Jaime Wyatt, and Shooter Jennings among numerous others. The first
single and video from the recording was captured during the initial sessions in
February 2020. It features Billy Strings with Circles Around the Sun performing
"All The Luck In The World.

Over nearly 20 years, Howlin Rain may have become the quintessential independent American rock ’n roll band: a steam-spitting Hydra of cranked guitars, kicking asphalt dust through a kaleidoscoping travelogue of desert motels and dives, volleying forth transmissions of sci-fi poetry from the blacktop veins of this cracked and aching country.

Now, in America 2021, capping these strangest and sorest of times, the band returns with The Dharma Wheel, a six-track, 52-minute dive into a joyous fantasy realm of exaggerated present.

“I wanted The Dharma Wheel to be a portal from our everyday world, the one from which you stand on hard ground and hold the album in your hands and peer into the artwork, and into another universe,” says songwriter, guitarist and vocalist, Ethan Miller. “You enter into that universe with your eyes and ears and mind and take a ride through free-form meditation on these ideas — from big, fundamental concepts about our existence right down to the grease that rolls down the arm of a pulp novel killer as he eats a gas station hot dog in an old Dodge in an alleyway.”

Lyrically, Miller has completed his evolution into a mushroom-plucking Whitman of the West, singing outlandish tales in a topographic blend of Humbead’s Revised Map of the World and an inverted U.S. where downtrodden bodhisattvas roam the back streets and moonless country roads.

“Down in Florida swamps, run by nature’s law, standing in the water, Eden gone. Two men loading rifles, beasts making time, they shot a boy from an orange tree and watched the colored birds take flight, watch the colors as they soar and dive.” — ‘Under the Wheels.’

The band, Jeff McElroy (bass, backing vocals), Justin Smith (drums/percussion, backing vocals) and Dan Cervantes (guitar, backing vocals), again sounds hardwired into Miller’s vision, building tracks that swagger and sway in response to his verse. Lending a hand this time around is the legendary Scarlet Rivera (Bob Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue) on violin, and the endlessly inventive Adam MacDougall (Chris Robinson Brotherhood, Circles Around the Sun) on keys.

Songs were shaped via the blast furnace of endless gigs, then recorded often mere hours after the band slipped the stage.

“The captured sonic fact about this record is that it’s the sound of a band that rehearsed this material a lot and put a ton of work into its construction and was on the road a lot and recorded on days off in the tour schedule,” Miller says. “In some cases we were on stage on Saturday night playing these songs at quarter-to-2 in the morning and by Noon the next day we were sipping coffee in the studio playing them for the machine.”

Rivera’s violin is the first sound heard as the album dawns on the instrumental “Prelude.” Soon, the band joins, twirling the theme into a psychedelicized awakening. “Don’t Let the Tears” brings the boogie, with MacDougall’s madcap synth work and wah-wah guitars showering 70’s glitter upon a parquet dance floor of the mind. “Under the Wheels” and “Rotoscope” center the album with taut, compositional epics populated by murdering drifters and fuzz pedal explosions. The blue hour comedown of “Annabelle” meditates upon the weariness of lost love, with Rivera again amping the heartache via her violin strings.

“In the evening the trains go by, and shake the dust from dirty walls, sometimes I feel like a spider in an old mason jar, who threatens only convex light from down the hall. I’ve been lost to the world since the photos of the black hole, landed on my desktop screaming, perhaps the all and nothing all-in-one is just too much to take, for particles and matter that never found their way.” — ‘Annabelle’

The record closes with the 16-minute title track, a multi-movement suite which cycles from Crazy Horse-meets-Traffic jams through colossal, mass-moving funk stomp, eventually cresting and washing into a sing-along gospel lament.

The Dharma Wheel is an album of great depth, and one steeped in good vibes: a rich, glistening world of the ultra-vivid. As illustrated in Arik Roper’s cover art, the grand dharmachakra has been set in motion, churning off the California coast.

“We were trying to build a world big enough that the imagination won’t go soft on you after just a few listens and where our love for this music, and music in general — along with a good dose of audacity — create a magic carpet ride through the world of The Dharma Wheel,” Miller continues. “In pursuing that I think we also managed to make a record that has a lot of joy in it: the joy of playing music, the joy of experiencing music, the joy of storytelling and poetry, the kind of singular joy and extended ecstatic moment that only a real ‘band’ can express in just that way.”

And it’s this joy, this exuberance and dedication to the lines of cosmic expression — all centered in the exalted art of the everyday — that constructs the heart of the record. At its core, The Dharma Wheel is the triumph of a working band, a transmission from a never-paused before arriving for our strange, bruised, spectacular now.”

Over nearly 20 years, Howlin Rain may have become the quintessential independent American rock ’n roll band: a steam-spitting Hydra of cranked guitars, kicking asphalt dust through a kaleidoscoping travelogue of desert motels and dives, volleying forth transmissions of sci-fi poetry from the blacktop veins of this cracked and aching country.

Now, in America 2021, capping these strangest and sorest of times, the band returns with The Dharma Wheel, a six-track, 52-minute dive into a joyous fantasy realm of exaggerated present.

“I wanted The Dharma Wheel to be a portal from our everyday world, the one from which you stand on hard ground and hold the album in your hands and peer into the artwork, and into another universe,” says songwriter, guitarist and vocalist, Ethan Miller. “You enter into that universe with your eyes and ears and mind and take a ride through free-form meditation on these ideas — from big, fundamental concepts about our existence right down to the grease that rolls down the arm of a pulp novel killer as he eats a gas station hot dog in an old Dodge in an alleyway.”

Lyrically, Miller has completed his evolution into a mushroom-plucking Whitman of the West, singing outlandish tales in a topographic blend of Humbead’s Revised Map of the World and an inverted U.S. where downtrodden bodhisattvas roam the back streets and moonless country roads.

“Down in Florida swamps, run by nature’s law, standing in the water, Eden gone. Two men loading rifles, beasts making time, they shot a boy from an orange tree and watched the colored birds take flight, watch the colors as they soar and dive.” — ‘Under the Wheels.’

The band, Jeff McElroy (bass, backing vocals), Justin Smith (drums/percussion, backing vocals) and Dan Cervantes (guitar, backing vocals), again sounds hardwired into Miller’s vision, building tracks that swagger and sway in response to his verse. Lending a hand this time around is the legendary Scarlet Rivera (Bob Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue) on violin, and the endlessly inventive Adam MacDougall (Chris Robinson Brotherhood, Circles Around the Sun) on keys.

Songs were shaped via the blast furnace of endless gigs, then recorded often mere hours after the band slipped the stage.

“The captured sonic fact about this record is that it’s the sound of a band that rehearsed this material a lot and put a ton of work into its construction and was on the road a lot and recorded on days off in the tour schedule,” Miller says. “In some cases we were on stage on Saturday night playing these songs at quarter-to-2 in the morning and by Noon the next day we were sipping coffee in the studio playing them for the machine.”

Rivera’s violin is the first sound heard as the album dawns on the instrumental “Prelude.” Soon, the band joins, twirling the theme into a psychedelicized awakening. “Don’t Let the Tears” brings the boogie, with MacDougall’s madcap synth work and wah-wah guitars showering 70’s glitter upon a parquet dance floor of the mind. “Under the Wheels” and “Rotoscope” center the album with taut, compositional epics populated by murdering drifters and fuzz pedal explosions. The blue hour comedown of “Annabelle” meditates upon the weariness of lost love, with Rivera again amping the heartache via her violin strings.

“In the evening the trains go by, and shake the dust from dirty walls, sometimes I feel like a spider in an old mason jar, who threatens only convex light from down the hall. I’ve been lost to the world since the photos of the black hole, landed on my desktop screaming, perhaps the all and nothing all-in-one is just too much to take, for particles and matter that never found their way.” — ‘Annabelle’

The record closes with the 16-minute title track, a multi-movement suite which cycles from Crazy Horse-meets-Traffic jams through colossal, mass-moving funk stomp, eventually cresting and washing into a sing-along gospel lament.

The Dharma Wheel is an album of great depth, and one steeped in good vibes: a rich, glistening world of the ultra-vivid. As illustrated in Arik Roper’s cover art, the grand dharmachakra has been set in motion, churning off the California coast.

“We were trying to build a world big enough that the imagination won’t go soft on you after just a few listens and where our love for this music, and music in general — along with a good dose of audacity — create a magic carpet ride through the world of The Dharma Wheel,” Miller continues. “In pursuing that I think we also managed to make a record that has a lot of joy in it: the joy of playing music, the joy of experiencing music, the joy of storytelling and poetry, the kind of singular joy and extended ecstatic moment that only a real ‘band’ can express in just that way.”

And it’s this joy, this exuberance and dedication to the lines of cosmic expression — all centered in the exalted art of the everyday — that constructs the heart of the record. At its core, The Dharma Wheel is the triumph of a working band, a transmission from a never-paused before arriving for our strange, bruised, spectacular now.”

Osaka-born and New York-based pianist Erika Dohi is a multi-faceted
artist with an eclectic musical background. From highly polished
raditional classical to bold improvisation, she is a dynamic performer
whose timeless style and unidiomatic technique sets her apart in
contemporary NYC avant-garde circles.
Dohi’s vast repertory is impressive but what makes her truly such a
barrier-defying artist is what lies ahead. ‘I, Castorpollux’, Dohi’s debut
solo album, is a profound personal excavation set to a gripping
andscape of wild, genre-fluid composition, a virtuosic but emotionally
generous convergence of the technical and the spiritual. With
understated piano and keyboards at its centre, ‘I, Castorpollux’ is
equal parts hazy nostalgia, science-fiction soundtrack and
electroacoustic experimentation.
The project features contributions from Channy Leaneagh (Polica),
Andy Akiho and Immanuel Wilkins, among others, and is produced by
William Brittelle.
The central theme to the album is the ‘split-self’ and variable
perceptions of time that Dohi has faced at formative moments in her
ife. She experienced the 1995 Kobe earthquake at age 7. Hiding
under a table during the worst of it, she later emerged to find the
world around her crumbled. In her immediate vicinity, a fixture of her
childhood remained standing. The Tower of the Sun, a type of three
aced time machine itself from Expo 70, designed by artist Taro
Okamoto, is a trail-marker on Erika’s journey, a stand-in sigil to
unlock the mysterious sounds of her work, with 70s synths and retro
sci-fi aesthetics permeating the album’s narratives.
Much of the album was written while living in Texas where the split
between her Asian self and the idea of being an American
necessitated a near mountain of self-discovery to reconcile how she
elt and who she was within the social backdrop of a strongly
conservative environment. It is no wonder that the character of the
Dioscuri, Castor and Pollux from Greek and Roman mythology
esonate so deeply with her, or Haruki Murakami’s Two Moons and
heir strange light.
From her contributions to various projects and her participation in the
Artist in Residency collaborations, Erika has become a staple of the
37d03d community.

All Day I Dream is excited to finally bring to life Powel's new album "The Beauty of a Polaroid”. A long time in the making and highly anticipated, Powel takes us on a beautiful ride.

“Bandiera Di Carta” represents the ongoing collaboration between instrument builder and composer Pierre Bastien and the
London based experimental duo Tomaga (Valentina Magaletti and Tom Relleen).
Bastien has been called a “mad musical scientist with a celebrity following” by The Guardian (UK) having collaborated with the
likes of filmmaker Pierrick Sorin, fashion designer Issey Miyake, singer and composer Robert Wyatt as well as Aphex Twin,
who released three of his albums on his label Rephlex.
Tomaga have made more than a dozen records since forming in 2014, pursuing a path of fearless experimentation and sonic
brinksmanship that has won them fans and plaudits from far and wide, including Thurston Moore, with whom they collaborated
on the CAN Project with Malcolm Mooney, Deb Goodge and others in 2017, as well as Wire, Silver Apples and Stereolab, with
whom they toured extensively in summer 2019.
The artistic collaboration between Pierre and Tomaga began with two commissions: from Fructose Festival in Dunkirk and the
revered underground festival Supersonic in Birmingham UK. Recording initially at a studio in the industrial port of Dunkirk, the
uneasy bond between borders and states seems to have been a theoretical motor to the collaborative sessions, as well as the
bleak landscape of the seaport frontier. This inspiration found further manifestation in the cover image for ‘Bandiera Di Carta’.
Resembling a white paper flag, it is, in fact, a photograph of Bastien’s paper and air sound machine installed on stage at
Teatro Carignano in Turin as part of the trio’s performance there. This charged, ambivalent image of a blank flag evokes the
transcendence of the national, a prescient visual motif that meditates on the contemporary uncertainty around notions of
national identity and borders but perhaps also a ‘carte blanche’ for the artists involved, in which they can deviate from the
confines of their usual practice into new and strange territories.
For each piece, Bastien’s unique sonic style: by turns his kinetic mechanoid motors, capriciously arrhythmic pipes, or the
peculiar susurrus of paper, creates a world in which Tomaga introduce their musical palette. Magaletti’s percussion anchors
these sometimes chaotic forces into beguiling syncopations, with Relleen’s synthesizer and organ work creating harmonic
counterpoints and interruptive provocations, to which Bastien responds with lyrical turns on prepared trumpet, rubber band, tin
foil and bass ocarina.
The results are curiously evocative of free jazz by the likes of Sun Ra or Art Ensemble of Chicago paired with the percussive
sound worlds of artists like Francis Bebey or Muslimgauze along with unique and sometimes bizarrely exotic tonal landscapes
of composers like Catherine Christer Hennix, Carl Stone, or Egisto Macchi. All three musicians seem to find space to bloom in
ways that are markedly different from their individual work and the resulting album is a strikingly original and powerfully bold
affirmation of what can happen when venturing beyond the normal in pursuit of the other.All tracks written & produced by Tomaga (Tom Relleen & Valentina Magaletti) & Pierre Bastien.
Mixed and mastered by Rashad Becker.

Returning for his third appearance on Frigio, Maurizio Martinucci (aka TeZ, Most Significant Beat and permanent member of Clock DVA since 2010) introduces one of his darkest works to date. Forged in his studio/lab in Amsterdam, the Italian artist casts three works of industrial paranoia with none other than Clock DVA delivering a very special remix.

The same intensity, the same fevered energy that permeated Dusk, is plain to hear in this production. Pulsating drums are pierced by metallic groans and choking voices for the alienating assault that is “Amna.” Clock DVA take on this factory floor demon, soothing and reworking the original. Keys cascade against throbbing basslines and stuttering rhythms, vocals by Adi Newton taking the form of a poem that circles and swoops in a track of brimming with a primal force. Stalking chords introduce “Dene.” A lancing beat lashes a lone string, static and resonance building as layers of machine noise make their inhuman presence known. The end comes from the hull of an abandoned ship, or so it sounds. Aquatic echo swirls around a spread of sunken snares, shrieks and slicing through the crash and squeal of wrought iron. Primordial music from the mind of Pragma.

Snad aka Shyam Anand is an artist from Chicago of Indian descent. He just moved to Berlin. And this is his first release on Suol.His debut EP for us is a three-tracker and absolute quality. Its title 'Home Away From House' alludes to a musical career spanning three continents and to the 'most enlightened circles', as Snad puts it, 'who still travel the Silk Roads and who take their underground seriously -- wherever they call home'. What this means becomes apparent quickly as the title track drops us straight into a softly stabby, hypnotic little sequence on top of an elegantly subtle combination of a drum machine groove and synth bass. Things build up patiently with luscious delayed chords before rising strings transport us to a beautiful place where the Goa sun shines onto the streets of Chicago. Just like all tracks on the EP, 'Cut!!!' is purely instrumental but it doesn't need words to tell its story. Clever drum programming and cool reverbs are in perfect harmony with a melodic bass riff and a silky, modulating analogue lead that guides us to the end with a smile.

'Deep Looking', the EP's final track, has a solid groove at its centre and some delicious ear candy around it. Syncopated toms and claps join forces with a fast hi-hat pattern to provide plenty of momentum for this otherwise dreamily floating acid house number.