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»Memorial« grew out of Nate Wooley’s work alongside Annea Lockwood recording the Columbia River, and in particular from a visit to Kettle Falls in northern Washington, once one of the river’s great salmon fishing and meeting grounds and a place of enormous importance to the Sinixt and other Indigenous peoples of the Upper Columbia. The falls disappeared from view following the construction of the Grand Coulee Dam in 1940, submerged beneath what is now Lake Roosevelt, yet beneath the still surface of the reservoir, a fast current continues to move across the buried cliffs. That tension between what remains and what can only be recovered through memory runs throughout »Memorial«.

In the essay accompanying the record, Wooley returns repeatedly to the idea of translation: the attempt to carry an experience from one form into another, from river to recording, memory to sound, landscape to music. He moves between Lockwood’s sound maps, John Ashbery’s rain falling on canal machinery, Ravel’s attempts to make water move through a piano, Christian Wolff’s »Stones«, and the Sinixt First Salmon Ceremony, where rocks struck together recall the sound of salmon once moving through the river in their thousands. These translations cannot restore what has been lost; however, they allow us to revisit what remains beneath in another form.

»Memorial« exists as an uncertainty, concerned with the distance between a place and its recording, between an event and what survives of it, and with the way listening itself becomes entangled with memory. Kettle Falls remains submerged, the river constrained and radically altered, but the water continues to move over the old rock beneath the reservoir. »Memorial« tries to listen for that persisting memory.

Poem by Alea Coble (February 2026) - Written for Andrew Weathers, Chattonooga Recording Project

Listen to my story and everything will come out true. - Bessie Smith

35° 02' 44.27" N -85° 18' 34.85" W:

Howl. Hammer strikes firing pin. Its echo ricochets over river bend. The woodpecker’s syncopated pop-pop-pop clink and thwap in time with cops practicing prayer at the firing range.

Quick. Sketch a few constellations onto a postcard: empty shotgun shells, these pre-forgotten fossils snaking rusted railroad spikes, like snagged rosary, fallen poplar petals draped over cerulean glass ashtray scattered along glittering fractures, ignored like a treaty. Train tracks reverberate necrophilic boomerang-hunger for mountain air without that coal dust. Eat. Eat. Everything is real estate. Even the air is for sale. Buy it cheap while I.C.E. carves through the valley along the Trail of Tears in unmarked SUVs, traffic stops.

Howl. Callback to estranged entanglements oscillating over holler and highway. Meet on the porch. Haint-blue ceiling. Some ghosts can’t get through anyway. They got tied up on the Walnut Street Bridge by a mob of white spit. Howl. The South should scare you.

But the woodpecker is still nesting, hungry, typing uncannied punctuation marks into black oak: a deed. Home? Takes a side-eyed knowing to call by name. The moon sickles in a sweating glass of iced tea.

Speculation cycle: symmetry as ancient as sour-dank betrayal of the tongue, bitter bones binding blood and lead, alchemical forgetting like I found a hairbrush in the yard while planting wild irises, like someone is charging $10 for an old glass Coke bottle, like semicolons itching restless under new sod from no-one-knows-where. Howl. Sing back. History is soil-in-stereo.

How will this line end? Like riverbank? Like atlatl arching hope smash-through a stained glass window? Words fall out of the sky, and 30 American flags snap at attention on the bridge. Howl. A shift in the wind gallops through the streets tossing her head back, laughing.

Tennessee River, who once kissed Pangea, how she softens at the knuckle-suck of it all, that secret-sweet stowed in the feathers of sandhill cranes lifting up on warm summer breeze: slow-shooting stars bending toward unbothered brevitas.

Howl. The red wolf knows her truest kin is always her shadow’s shadow.

Hello Spiral returns to the same North London block, the same triangulated geometry of balconies and courtyard, but with a shift of orientation. His previous record looked outward from the eighth floor, these four new recordings move inside, into the building’s arteries. Joe explores the hallways of the complex where he has lived and listened for years, using the same tool as before, an iPhone and its voice memo app. The recordings were made in situ, each exactly eleven minutes, captured without ceremony.

The hallways feel different. Less private, less scenic, more neutral. They are the connective tissue between hundreds of domestic units, a space of transit rather than rest. The carpet absorbs certain frequencies. The fire doors catch and release pockets of air. The lights hum. Elevators drone in soft cycles of arrival and departure. These are the institutional sounds of shared living, yet once recorded they begin to behave strangely. A kind of internal weather appears.

As with the previous album, Joe remains attentive to what is often overlooked, irrelevant or discarded. The hallways, with their scuffs and signage, their coded access and polite functionalism, provide an unexpectedly rich field. The ambience is not shaped by storms or scaffolding, not by birds or street spill. Instead the material is the building’s own breath, its mechanical rhythms, the low frequency traces of neighbours, the occasional shuffle of footsteps that pass but do not return.

Joe talks about this record as a possible middle chapter in a trilogy. If so, it sits between the exposed openness of the balcony and whatever comes next. A hinge point. These recordings continue Joe’s long practice of defamiliarization, sharpening attention to the unnoticed while withholding narrative. They invite repeated listening, not for revelation, but for the subtle shifts that occur when a familiar space is treated as an instrument.

»Chitin« captures Berlin-based duo Narval (Peter Strickmann and Evgenija Wassilew) in a series of recordings made during a 2025 residency in the village of Schöppingen, Münsterland. Known for their use of everyday objects, self-built wind and percussion instruments, feedback systems, and small-scale electronics, Narval treat the performance space itself as a collaborator. In Schöppingen, this meant farmhouses, a parish church, a sculptor’s studio, and surrounding cornfields — each site imprinting its acoustics and atmosphere onto the performances. The result is a set of recordings where birds, insects, and ambient traces of rural life seep into the music, blurring the boundary between intentional gesture and environmental chance.

The title refers to chitin: the hard-yet-flexible material that forms insect shells, fungal walls, and crustacean exoskeletons. Like tape or rural matter, it is at once protective and permeable, tactile and intimate — qualities mirrored in the album’s sound world. By working with a deliberately limited palette of tools, Narval allow small sonic details to accumulate into shifting durations, giving each piece the strange, layered texture of surfaces both organic and mechanical. Chitin offers a portrait of site-specific listening where the line between instrument and environment continually dissolves.

Peter Strickmann – objects, smartphone, ceramophone, cornfield, iron bar Evgenija Wassilew – AM radio, prepared Stylophone, feedback, smartphone, Bastl Kastle, iron bar Recorded by Peter Strickmann and Evgenija Wassilew Mastered by Jacob Calland

»Downriver« unfolds like a dérive through obscured geographies, echoing the psychogeographic journeys of Iain Sinclair. Just as Sinclair’s writing blurs the tangible and the imagined, Sequences, the project of Antwerp-based artist Niels Geybels, drifts into spaces where memory and environment overlap. Single-take recordings stretch into slowly mutating drones, fractured textures, and ghostlike voices that seem to seep in from unseen thresholds. The atmosphere is one of decayed grandeur, evoking disused monuments, neglected warehouses, and corners of the landscape where centuries of history accumulate beneath the surface.

This is music shaped by wandering without a map: a patchwork of distortion, hidden detail, and abrupt rupture. The sense of time loosens, the everyday unravels, and new contours emerge out of drift and delay. Downriver situates itself between sound art and environmental music, drawing listeners into liminal zones where place becomes porous, haunted by what has been and what might yet be.

Written and recorded by Niels Geybels Mastered by Jacob Calland

With »Roto«, Derek Piotr revisits the aqueous terrain first explored in his 2016 album »Drono«, where the paradox of water’s stillness and perpetual motion was refracted into looping voices and glitching textures. Conceived as a »spiritual successor« and recorded in 2019, the album has lain dormant for six years before surfacing on Discreet Archive. That stretch of silence seems to have deepened its charge – the sound feels unearthed rather than made, like a whirlpool biding its time in obscurity until now.

Unlike »Drono«’s mosaic of shorter pieces, »Roto« unfurls as two expansive half-hour tracks, allowing Piotr to probe repetition with greater intensity. Vowels accumulate until they shimmer with alien sentience, drones grow dense and psychoacoustic, and the smallest digital artifacts flicker like neural sparks. The result is a work that denies familiarity; recurrence here only breeds strangeness, unspooling into a procession of hidden pulses and altered voices that resist prediction, drawing the listener deeper into a submerged, otherworldly space.

Derek Piotr is a folklorist, researcher and performer whose work focuses primarily on the human voice. His work covers practices including fieldwork, vocal performance, preservation and autoethnography; and is primarily concerned with tenderness, fragility, beauty and brutality. He has collaborated with artists including Scott Solter, Nathan Salsburg and Thomas Brinkmann across various disciplines.

He is lead archivist and creative director of the Fieldwork Archive.