quête:distant echoes where is hope ep

Introducing OBI02 – Plight of the Gifted EP by TB Shine, the second release on
Dutch-label OBI Trackz.

Operating under various aliases since the early 2000s, TB Shine is one of the many expressions of Norwegian artist Terje Bakke. Plight of the Gifted EP holds five tracks that drift between hypnotic minimalism and raw percussive workouts, told through disjointed rhythms, haunting atmospheres, and layered tension.

The A side kicks off with Dopamine Dungeon—a slippery, low-end-driven roller wrapped in hazy textures and unstable euphoria. The track traps the listener in a quirky haunt, like the title describes accordingly. Red Army Moody Troopers follows with a tougher edge: straight drums, spectral pads, and an undercurrent of unrest. It’s a track that marches forward but never fully lands, suspended in an unresolved urgency.

On the B side, Plight of the Gifted appears in two versions. The original leans into emotional melodic motifs and fragmented structures, evoking both vulnerability and defiance. The Haunted Version strips things back further—bleeding with space, odd grooves, and a kind of post-club phychosis that lingers long after. Closing the EP is Plague Doctor, a slow-burning piece where a hopeful melody echoes and distant percussion round off the release with a sense of closure while being wrapped in a warm blanket.

With Plight of the Gifted EP, TB Shine offers a layered and personal collection— one that walks the tightrope between control and collapse, rhythm and mood. A fitting next step for Obi Trackz: cryptic, cinematic, and carved with intent.

Returning to an aphotic minefield of sound – Seismic Records is back with its third release, Drum Ring, crafted by Norwegian producer and Ute Records co-founder Ekkel. Emerging from the forests of Nordic electronic heritage, Teo Bachs – aka Ekkel – channels the raw energy of ’90s progressive sounds into his mind-bending productions. From the studio, his signature blend of breaks and intricate percussion create soundscapes that are as cerebral as they are propulsive. Titled Drum Ring, the EP captures the feeling of a complete mental trip through a narrative of tension, ancient textures, and enchanting melodies.

Poised with a sense of urgency, the A-side unfolds with a neatly rolling rhythm. Hradec Fog Fever builds a controlled frenzy of percussive elements, with layers stripping in and out, consistently driving the track forward. Slipping into A2, Owl Foot casts a sonic mist, a haze that tentatively creeps forward, flickering between atmospheric dips and shadowy contours. Vocal-cut whispers transcend through the soundscape, shy yet impactful, drawing you closer. It’s a tender introduction to a minimalist, dark progressive journey – a delicate balance of intrigue and mystery, where each sound lingers like a secret waiting to be discovered.

The B-Side strikes with poignant, powerful drum kicks that reverberate through layers of distortion. Drum Ring displays echoes of tension and unease, building a restless energy that urges deeper introspection. Ancient, enchanting tones weave through the chaos, grounding the frenetic soundwaves in something timeless and mystical. Sealing the EP, Endphase begins with faint, distant string notes that offer a fleeting, hopeful moment of rest. Growling chords and textures swirl, edging you to a meditation, only to be punctuated by sharp, deliberate drum patterns, adding a sense of momentum and purpose – a glimmer of light breaking through the mist. Experience the full cycle of a delicate trip as Ekkel guides you through Drum Ring – a precious and dark progressive journey.

Richie Culver had been waiting his whole life to record I was born by the sea. His debut album immediately and messily inscribed the artist into the canon of outsider music and experimental electronics, serving both as an arresting statement of intent and a painful reckoning with the difficult path that lead up to it, stealing one last glance back at a place he always knew he had to escape. Between grim lamentations, faded memories and anxiety attacks, all told with searing honesty and disarming openness, I was born by the sea excavates a space for hope, finding Culver digging through Humberside silt to find a world weary optimism, the raw material from which his visual and sound art is shaped. For this collection of expansions and inversions, Culver invites a collection of kindred spirits, contemporary inspirations and old heroes to wade into the salt water of his formative years spent living for impromptu raves and afterparties, connecting vivid memories of his birth place of Withernsea to artists hailing from as nearby as Preston and Bridlington, further afield, from Manchester and London, Berlin and Paris, before returning back to Hull, to where it all began.

For some, responding to I was born by the sea means diving even deeper into the record’s furthest reaches. Space Afrika clear away the pummelling loops of noise from ‘It’s hard to get to know you,’ revealing a cool and cavernous expanse in its wake. Distant chatter, previously heard as though through thin, plasterboard walls, now echoes from outside the maddening claustrophobia of the original’s Sisyphean sonics, illuminated as a dense storm cloud suspended amidst a more open scene, washed clean by a lighter rain, allowing the tender heart of the track to beat clear. London producer MOBBS stretches out ‘Pigeon Flesh’ into an epic, 10-minute, cold-sweat spiral, strung-out tension wrung from disconnected phone tones twisted in unexpected directions, snatches of Culver’s voice turned inside-out and deep fried bass threatening to tip the track over into oblivion, the build-and-release of a nervous breakdown experienced in real time. In an act of subversive self-reflection, Morgane Polanski switches one kind of ennui for another in her adaption of ‘I was born by the sea,’ swapping the sea for the city, English seaside towns in January for summer evenings in Paris and flashing lighthouses and sparkling oil rigs for the Eiffel Tower and the traffic around L’Arc de Triomphe. Even Culver finds time to revisit ‘Dream About Yourself,’ a track taken from his EP Post Traumatic Fantasy, breathing new words into its glacial drift, the half-remembered testimony of a shut-in: Woke up in the evening / Pray for me / Don’t trust anyone / Pray for algorithm. Reframed in a more melancholy light, the track’s reverberant keys even more clearly evoke a mournful nostalgia, fresh pain felt in old wounds.

Others find a parallel universe in Culver’s visceral world building. Rainy Miller flips the script with a scorched, avant-drill rework of ‘Daytime TV’, threading puncturing hi-hats and queasy low-end surge through the track’s steady ambient cascade, invoking the irresistible Preston beat magic of Miller’s own essential debut album, Desquamation. Aho Ssan melts away the crystalline textures of ‘Love Like an Abscess’ with the ominous crackle of a nascent fire, building through swathes of organic Max/MSP squelch and brittle, nails-down-chalkboard scrape, swelling and metastasising the original to spill over Culver’s desperate hymn to corporeal desire, at once flesh and not. Teresa Winter transports us an hour up the coast from Withernsea to her native Bridlington, replacing the sea wall of synthesis on ‘Nervous Energy’ with muffled ASMR murk and fever dream whispers, transforming Culver’s unflinching observations into a haunting call-and-response, filling in the blanks with her own eerie utterances, a fleeting conversation with a ghost. In a touching victory lap, Fila Brazillia, eccentric stalwarts of beloved ‘90s trip hop imprint Pork Recordings, whose performances at Hull institution The Lamp convinced a young Culver of the necessity to make his mark on club culture, resurface for their first remix in 20 years. Steve Cobby and David McSherry lead a low-slung, heartfelt stroll back through a suite of tracks from I was born by the sea, tracing a full circle saunter from Culver’s origins to his current musical practice, the sounds of his present repurposed by the sound of his youth. In a gesture that reflects the emotional complexity of the project, Fila Brazillia find joy at the end of Culver’s troubled reflection, picking out an undeniable groove in the stasis of feeling trapped in your hometown. Underlining Hull’s vital musical legacy, from Baby Mammoth to Throbbing Gristle, Cobby and McSherry demonstrate that, though there are certainly storms, by the sea there is also sun and through the fog, if you listen, you can hear a singular sound, a sound now carried by Richie Culver.

Participant is a record label and creative studio run by William Markarian-Martin and Richie Culver

Angel Tears in Sunlight is Pauline Anna Strom's first album in over thirty years; an assemblage of music that refracts the expansiveness, and minutiae, of imagined realms while embracing the kaleidoscopic echoes of our distant epochs. The capacity to collapse time might elucidate the enigma of Pauline Anna Strom. A mystic force in music, emerging during the dawn of new age as the Trans-Millenia Consort, the pioneering synthesist channelled primordial energies into future-facing sound through a series of full-length releases between 1982 and 1988. Little was known about her, except by a constellation of devoted followers who saw a unique legacy forming amidst the (mostly male) synthesist canon of the time. Following the 2017 release of Trans-Millenia Music, an anthology revitalizing the most evocative parts of Strom's catalog, the Bay Area visionary sensed the universe telling her to return to music. As with her work in the 80s, Angel Tears in Sunlight was composed and recorded in the same San Francisco apartment where Strom has lived for almost four decades in synthesis with her machines and "dinosaurs." Populated by a compact array of modern instruments that streamline the sound of her analog past and her beloved iguanas, Little Soulstice and Ms Huff, the terrarium of her home forms an intimate yet limitless ecosystem that defies the constraints of the outside world. Within this sanctuary, Strom becomes lost in time, drawing on the ancient energies of her inner visions. Her hardware forms the crux of translating these ideas into sound. "It's the only way this stuff can be pulled out of myself, the universe, Little Soulstice, an ammonite_," Strom notes. "It couldn't be done without this machinery, because there's no other way to draw and capture these frequencies into sonic interpretation." Strom's process of recording transient live-takes enriches the mystery of her work. She renders the machinery a composer itself, a cohabitation with a living other. "Many musicians wouldn't go that far because of ego," Strom muses. "The equipment has to become part of you and your creativity. That's how I think it all comes together." Music-making becomes a harmonic language of intuition with an instrument, where Strom cultivates sound for a harvest that defies season. Shaped by circadian contours, Angel Tears in Sunlight is a celestial observatory of earthborn phonic mosaics. Strom uncovers a symbiosis between hardware frequencies and apparitions of nature in the record's arena of organic tones, emulating the melodic pulses of primeval terrain. The album transcends both shadow and light, falling to hushed stretches of sound as if not to awaken antediluvian animals, before soaring through the treetops where ancient skies peer over reptilian traffic and unsparing rains.