Search:veil of light

2020 has been one rough ride for everyone, forcing us all to review what we thought was normal and maybe, one would argue, even our priorities.

Two years have passed since their previous Inflict LP and we don’t really know how what recently happened impacted on the band’s mastermind Michael but what’s sure is that Veil Of Light are now a fully grown-up band.

Landslide is their fifth full-length (and their third on Avant!) and it’s definitely their most elaborated album.

Ten new songs, rather than the usual eight, with a perfect balance of Coldwave-inspired intimate atmosphere and synthpop catchy melodies. Musically speaking it’s still clear where the Swiss duo draws their influences from, right in between New Order’s moodiness and The Klinik trying one softer, less brutal approach to their Electro. But a new sense of privacy is reflected all through these new tracks, enhanced by lyrics now more personal than ever.

The Prayer Wheel is a page torn out of a private diary, Love And Money is a mechanical mantra for a no-way-out situation; Suburban War is a confession of defeat whispered at night, No Return is the last dance before reaching the point of.

This is the kind of record that takes its time, and takes its toll, we just need to sit down and listen because there’s much to discover.

RIYL: Depeche Mode, New Order, Naked Eyes, Lust for Youth, Black Marble

RIYL: Depeche Mode, New Order, Naked Eyes, Lust for Youth, Black Marble. 2020 has been one rough ride for everyone, forcing us all to review what we thought was normal and maybe, one would argue, even our priorities. Two years have passed since their previous Inflict LP and we don't really know how what recently happened impacted on the band's mastermind Michael but what's sure is that Veil Of Light are now a fully grown-up band. Landslide is their fifth full-length (and their third on Avant!) and it's definitely their most elaborated album. Ten new songs, rather than the usual eight, with a perfect balance of Coldwave-inspired intimate atmosphere and synthpop catchy melodies. Musically speaking it's still clear where the Swiss duo draws their influences from, right in between New Order's moodiness and The Klinik trying one softer, less brutal approach to their Electro. But a new sense of privacy is reflected all through these new tracks, enhanced by lyrics now more personal than ever. The Prayer Wheel is a page torn out of a private diary, Love And Money is a mechanical mantra for a no-way-out situation; Suburban War is a confession of defeat whispered at night, No Return is the last dance before reaching the point of. This is the kind of record that takes its time, and takes its toll, we just need to sit down and listen because there's much to discover.

Exactly two years after their latest Front Teeth LP, the Zürich-based duo VEIL OF LIGHT is back with a new album called Inflict which will be out May 10 on Avant! Records. This is their fourth full-length and their industrial-tinged synth-based post-punk keeps on getting better, making Inflict their strongest release to date. In these eight new cuts you'll hear how their sound has gotten heavier, bulkier, even more beat-driven. Tracks like So Hard and Holy Wars display drums pounding like noises from a rusty machinery, synths on You Done Me Wrong and Fact2019 they’re so sharp they can slice through your skin, Europe and Animal Instinct feature melodies from the abandoned industrial district of your ghost town. We could go on but you are probably aware of what these two Swiss are all about, and if you don’t you'll know the Veil Of Light when you face it. Artwork by Basel-based visual artist and photographer Samuel Trümpy. Limited edition LP on orange vinyl!

‘Confession' is an album of quiet upheaval. An album about closeness that arrives late and unexpectedly. About stability rubbing up against desire. About the way friendship can suddenly tilt into something charged — and how that charge unsettles everything around it. Where earlier work often observed from a distance, Confession turns inward. The voice is closer, warmer, less shielded. “This wasn’t the album I intended to make,” says Carla dal Forno. “I originally wanted something veiled and abstract, but I realised I couldn’t hide behind abstraction — the songs only worked when I leaned into emotional truth.”

This is dal Forno’s fourth LP, written and recorded over several years in a small country town, in a studio housed inside a partially abandoned hospital. Long corridors, humming lights, emptied rooms — a place built for care and waiting, now quiet enough for thoughts to echo. That stillness shapes the record: intimate, watchful, unadorned. “I live in a small country town that offers a stillness my life didn’t previously have,” she explains. “In that quiet, feelings I might’ve ignored in a busy city grew loud.” Dal Forno sings plainly and conversationally, with an emotional precision that sharpens the everyday into something quietly unsettling.

The album moves through paired states: going out and staying in, wanting and withholding, devotion and distraction. Domestic calm set against private unrest. A long-held relationship offers safety and routine, while a newer connection opens emotional fault lines — longing, jealousy, fantasy, self-exposure. “At the heart of the album is a friendship that became emotionally charged in an unexpected way,” dal Forno says. “That shift brought daydreaming, jealousy, tenderness, confusion, self-awareness — and eventually acceptance.”

The drama here is internal, incremental, lived. Musically, Confession feels lighter on its feet than its subject matter suggests. Melodic basslines anchor the songs while guitars, harmonies, and gently off-kilter rhythms move around them. There’s a looseness, even a playfulness — “like the sensation of tension lifting once you finally admit something to yourself,” as dal Forno puts it. The album traces a subtle arc: attraction blooming where it shouldn’t; obsession quietly taking hold; fantasy overtaking reality; clarity arriving slowly, sometimes painfully. Visually and emotionally, Confession returns to modest spaces: backyards, beds, night streets, overgrown paths. “The record exists in that contrast,” dal Forno reflects. “Peaceful surroundings, unsettled interior.”

Like all of dal Forno’s work, Confession resists clean conclusions. It doesn’t moralise desire or romanticise restraint. Instead, it lingers in the in-between — where love is stable but not total, where yearning teaches as much as it hurts, where solitude becomes a form of care. Plain-spoken but emotionally complex. Rooted and restless. Held together by bass, breath, routine, weather. An album about admitting what you feel —and living with what that admission changes.

Tucked in the heart of Koreatown, Los Angeles, lies The Libra Hotel—the titular architecture of Nick Malkin's new album and site of his musical and psychogeographic exploration. Unlike most musical "site-specific" studies, Malkin remains wholly ambivalent to the documentarian approach, instead sharpening an auteur-like focus on the site as a conceptual and highly expressive backdrop. The Libra is musically explored as a space that houses a noir fragmentation of identity—the exhausted trope of a complicated protagonist walking through rain-soaked street corners and fumy neon lights—where an inner monologue is rendered in both miniature and at a cosmic scale. Casting aside stifling tropes around field recording, ambient, and improvised music, Malkin's work finds its own unique fidelity and emotional core through the assembly and reassembly of memory. Nearly every sound on the album—from frayed saxophones, lambent pianos, and dissected jazz drum kits—are multiplied, shattered, and reconstituted into shapes that adorn The Libra in a motion-blurred fog. The narrative of the Hotel suddenly appears as if out of the mist, with intersecting characters interacting within its walls by happenstance. Adminst the languid set pieces, wraith-like sonic grains gravitate around wide subbass beams that give structural form to The Libra, a narrative tension like when a scene is shot from hundreds of different perspectives: an image both luminous and veiled.

Much like Frank Sinatra's own spatial residency immortalized on "Live at The Sands," "At The Libra Hotel" showcases an exuberant view of entertainment, hospitality, and a form of masculinity, one that can quickly detourn into darkness. Knowing this, Malkin extracts a melancholic core out of The Libra locale. The flickering shadows of American decadence are shown in their ephemeral honesty, lines that trace how even in everyday life virtue is tested, sanity is tested, even reality is tested within the confines of desire, within the night. The album is draped in fleeting textures, carefully arranged with a trance-like microtonality, the faint inflections and articulations of a jazz band cascading into dissipated stillness. Voicemails about changed locations and covert eavesdropping on guests' whispered conversations provide an atmosphere of missed connection and voyeurism—a purloined letter of desire receding into a vanishing point. Like the music itself, The Hotel, a chapel perilous at the intersection of desolation row, the center of it all, yet simultaneously at the edge of town, becomes a structure between libidinous virtuality and actuality—our inevitable half-light.

Ultimately, the pensive atmosphere of "At The Libra Hotel," powerfully asserts a plea for the kinds of intimacy only possible in transient spaces. Here, memory cascades into a force that feels like something supernatural, perhaps even religious, yet always subject to the infidelity of our imagination. Here, the album opens into its primary psychodrama, the transient nature of subjectivity itself and how this becomes fractured in the tumult between our commitments and desires. Within this nocturnal space, to quote Louise Bourgeois, "you pile up associations the way you pile up bricks. Memory itself is a form of architecture."

He knew now that this was the only way with life. He knew now that fear and pleasure go together like the nut and the shell. - Vicki Baum, Grand Hotel (1929)

Five years after his debut Music For Video Stores (2020), Squama co-founder Martin Brugger is back on the label with his new album The Shell.
It's an introspective record on which field recordings, noisy synths and lo-fi folk guitars yield contemplative emotions with a veiled dream-pop sensibility, the sparse instrumentation and an eerie atmosphere mirroring the quarrels of the inner self.
Otherwise created in solitude in his Munich studio, the record features two contributions from label mate Lilian Mikorey (aka PILLBERT).

Since the early 2010s, photographer and producer Izaak Schlossman has been surreptitiously using the Topdown Dialectic moniker to frame his most enigmatic and most psychedelic productions: faceless pure sound experiments that ogled dub and techno archetypes from somewhere far beyond the veil. This generous 2LP collection surveys over a decade of persistent activity, pulling together recently unearthed gear written between 2013 and 2016 (the same time period as the iconic Peak Oil trilogy) and muddling it with more contemporary material. It's a rare chance to fully comprehend the slow, measured evolution of the project: its genesis as a method to fractalize various bass music frequencies with suggestion rather than over-compression, and its ongoing advancement through sensitively finessed ASMR ambiance towards spangled neo-psychedelia.

So it's no surprise that the lengthy suite of five-minute snapshots was initially devised while Schlossman was preparing for his first ever Topdown Dialectic live appearance in 2025. A hazed early morning, open air performance that's still lodged in the memory banks of anyone who witnessed it, the set provided the narrative anchor for the album, blurring the past and present and reaching tentatively into the future - ideal material for audiences whose brains are fully plasticized. The tracks, while divided, sound as if they're breathing over and into one another; beats and phrases materialize and dissolve just for moments, leaving the mind to fill in the gaps with any available sonic material. What might reflect the bright neon light of acid house at first soon embodies the flicker of a candle over a desk of drum machines in a Midwestern basement, or the first blush of sunlight over a tiny campground as subwoofers creak in the distance.

It's music that asks the listener to be involved in the creation itself, projecting their own shapes on the negative space, their discreet fantasies on haunted stretches of near silence. Schlossman's identity was never the point, Topdown Dialectic was always a scrying stone intended to divine far more personal revelations.

Accepting the darkness can be a liberating experience. Realising, and struggling with just who we are and what world we live in requires it. By further complicating the fractured sense of beauty found on his droning 2022 release, ‘I dreamt we found a way’, Bristol-based composer, Rob Winstone creates a language that encapsulates the lifelong reach for our own personal heavens, along with the darkness and fear on which those foundations are built.

Winstone’s instrumental palette continues to reach out far from behind his keyboards, however the sound of ‘sifting through heaven’ is stripped back and pared down, putting melody front and centre. 'postcards and loose tea', a love song written for Winstone’s partner during a period coming to terms with health difficulties had previously self-released with heavy spectral and granular manipulation from the artist. Here Winstone re-presents the original: “the stripped back recording I made in my old damp and cold studio that was in a building that has since been demolished”. It reflects the composer’s own journey, doing away with veils and histrionics, and embracing emotional bliss wherever it can be found, warts and all. Even the rumbling dark ambience of ’hospital corridor’ - where distant chimings, groans, and droplets synthesized from field recordings made nervously in a hospital waiting for test results coalesce - harbours a sacred-seeming beauty and aseptic warmth within its very bleak sense of dread.

There’s no better way to describe Winstone’s method than ‘sifting through heaven’. The hymnal organ chords, sketched out acoustic guitar phrases, scattering drum thuds, and meditative field recordings may flit between tenebrous to incandescent, but his focus is always on the embrace of love; “a view of life that embraces positive growth, yet doesn't deny immense suffering,” as he puts it. The album is bookended by two of Winstone’s most outright peaceful moments, summarising his core message: 'in spite of it all...' '...love finds a way'.

Luminary and guiding light of the Wave and Italo resurgence, Curses returns to Wrong Era Records under the veil of Tutto Vetro, presenting the mechanical masterpiece ‘Trust The Beat’ in this fresh form. A master of cinematic body music, Tutto Vetro ignites the release with 'Trust The Beat,' a slamming and enigmatic proto cut. 'Wild Things' delves deeper into his talent for infectious melodies and commanding percussion.

What once slipped out under a veil of anonymity now steps into the light: the original mystery record was, in fact, Tuff City Kids. The duo’s playful fingerprints are all over it— equal parts homage and mischief.
Fast forward to today, and the circle closes with an EP that reimagines the spirit of that covert release, pushing it into sharper, modern focus. Where the first outing thrived on secrecy, this one thrives on revelation—same DNA, but recut for the present tense.

Nottingham's Balearic dons Coyote have been digging around in the vaults and turned out four more masterful edits for a grown-up get-together. The fourth edition of this crucial series opens with the gentle guitar strums of 'Back To The Wall', which is intimate and perfect for gathering around the campfire. 'Easy' brings Americana and folky vibes with a lead harmonica and slow grooves, while 'Moon' is a lighter sound with more masterful plucking and undulating grooves with subtle funk and a nice breezy vocal. 'Taling The Veil' shuts down with some late-night yearning and proggy guitar hints that will have you gazing at the stars.

Arriving two years after the first chapter, Absurd Matter 2 isn’t just a sequel, it’s an evolution, redrawing the boundaries established by its acclaimed predecessor. The Berlin-based Italian producer tempers his confrontational sonics with rare moments of introspection, shifting seamlessly between blown-out noise, warped hip-hop, mutant club experimentation, and weightless ambience. Textures disintegrate and reassemble, rhythms flex and crumble, and every detail balances on the edge of fantasy. It’s a poetic, layered response to Nino Pedone’s changing physical reality: the gradual hearing loss and perceptual renegotiation triggered by Ménière’s disease, which struck him in 2022. At first, the experience felt like betrayal, a brutal disconnection from the very sense that had shaped his life. But over time, the disorientation turned into a strange kind of focus. The silence between sounds became as expressive as the sounds themselves.
The first Absurd Matter was a visceral reaction to trauma; the second is more reflective – an ambiguous chronicle of sensory recalibration. Pedone doesn’t represent his altered inner reality through extremes, but through depth, zooming in on illusory distortions, tense rhythmic fluctuations, and fragmented sonics. Dense, immersive, and mystical, the album mirrors Pedone’s evolving relationship with perception itself.
Tinnitus-like feedback wails and noir-ish strings introduce “Repeater”, making it immediately clear that Pedone is painting a more delicately finessed image this time around. Fleshed out by raps from cult MCs billy woods and E L U C I D, the track is marked by subtle, sophisticated contrasts: the blurred, inverted rhythms that couch Armand Hammer’s haunted back-and-forth, and the glitchy interference that offsets the lavish orchestral phrases. Backwoodz associate Fatboi Sharif lends his Lynchian drawl to “Bandage Chipped Wings”, grounding Pedone’s lysergic rhythmic distortions with syrupy, horror-inspired couplets. Pedone also invites discomfort into “Crash Landing”, with droning, metallic tones that contradict South Central rapper ICECOLDBISHOP’s elastic flow. “Bitch, I don't give a fuck about anybody,” he squawks over Pedone’s incongruous rasping textures and time-warped beats, “cash out at any party.” Working alongside London’s Loraine James on production, Pedone reunites with Moor Mother on “I Saw The Light”, blending James’ soft-focus atmospherics with soundsystem-damaging, overdriven bass hits and rusted percussive snips. Moor Mother’s assertive words hover over the wreckage, tightening Pedone’s themes of overstimulation and altered awareness as they stutter and veer off course, vanishing into the backdrop.
Contrasting his more pensive experiments, Pedone’s dancefloor deviations are more concentrated on Absurd Matter 2 than ever before. He torches a stuttering dembow structure on “X”, obfuscating the rhythm’s familiar energy with disturbing audio hallucinations. On “Splintered”, he reunites with Kenyan prodigy Slikback, mangling neon-lit trance arpeggios with dissociated trap rhythms. He sharpens his skills to a fine point on “Oblivion Step”, observing 2- step through a lens of distortion and personal abstraction, shaking blipping synth leads over neck-snapping drums and counteracting the momentum with airless sci-fi soundscapes.
Perhaps the album’s most surprising moment arrives with “Viel”, which features vocals from Los Angeles-based composer Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith. Together, Pedone and Smith chance upon their notion of dub techno, fogging synth stabs and ghostly vocal traces into eerie harmonic distortions. On some level, it’s almost pop music, a far cry from the bleak dissonance of Absurd Matter and a hopeful way to reframe turbulence as transformation. Absurd Matter 2 doesn’t simply document a process; it enacts one. It doesn’t offer clarity; it invites disorientation. It’s not a map of the labyrinth, but a foghorn piercing the darkness.

Teasing dread atmospheres and zooming in on microscopic details that bring every beat in every bar to life, Seb Uncles returns to Samurai Music with another deep dive into his exquisitely crafted, cinematic progression of the drum & bass tradition.

Even a cursory glance at the Eusebeia back catalogue tells you Uncles is an artist committed to the storytelling promise of breakbeat culture. His work has been heavily tipped towards albums since he first broke through around 2015, and across more than 10 long-players he's cultivated a strong line in moody, evocative jungle and drum & bass more concerned with world-building and subtle detail rather than aggression and intensity.

Following up on his 2023 LP for Samurai, X, on Undertones Uncles applies his signature meditative tones to a broad expanse. There's a consistent sound palette that leans on the warm snarl of monosynth low end and aqueous pads, delicately edited breaks and crisply sculpted synth percussion, but Uncles moves with dexterity around different tempos and structures within this considered sound world. The overarching notion is one of things lurking beneath the surface - a comfortably open theme to be approached and understood from any number of angles. It certainly chimes with the upfront detail and brooding tension that gives the Eusebeia sound such depth.

There are moments of direct drum pressure, such as fierce opener 'Undertones' with its diced-up breaks and icy chords, the boisterous jungle dread of 'Uncover' and chasmic roller 'Root Out', but on the likes of 'Beneath The Surface' and 'Out In The Open' it's the mellow elements that take precedence over the deft drum science. The motion is persistent and nuanced, but it's achieved without deferring to default dancefloor tropes.

'Emergence' marks a pointed shift towards a delicate strain of techno that maintains the album's sound at a mid-paced pulse, focusing on synth shapes and textures to achieve propulsion with only the lightest of drum parts. Alongside the energetic intrigue of Uncles' sonic choices, the melodic make-up of the track is a compelling showcase for his emotionally ambiguous approach, both rousing and chilling in the same curious chord shapes.

From the half-time prowl of 'Lifting The Veil' to the creeping textures and haunted phrasing of 'Brought To Light', Undertones is another stunning exercise in widescreen jungle. It flows naturally from the rich body of work Uncles has cultivated over the past 10 years while carving out its own unique pocket - a reminder if you needed one of the profound sound bedded into the Eusebeia project.

We all remember with mixed feelings the past two years of domestic isolation: a temporary anomaly in which the world had to adjust to a new routine, a new rhythm. In these daunting yet precious circumstances, Italian producer Markeno has found his rhythm back, dusting off old records and re-approaching his past musical love affairs that he believed to be long forgotten. Here, in the fertile limbo that connects past and future, “Dock lown (exploring)” is born: a 3-tracker release with a chameleonic nature and an undeniable groove, in which Markeno is able to tactfully combine different genres such as indie, post-rock, African mu- sic, electro and funk.

In the contemporary music scene, overly saturated with catchy melodies and seductive lyrics, it is refreshing to encounter a composition like “Fase 01”, which starts from a purely percussive structure. Just when the ear is settled and well inserted into the tangle of drums, here comes the melodic twist, no less than at the fourth minute, injecting an unexpected groove and chalking out the contours of a track with multiple personalities: a little esoteric, a little synth-wave, quirky and badass. The temperature rises with “Zona Ros- sa”, in which the electro hint sketched in “Fase 01” becomes more pronounced, opening the doors to a dense psychedelic scenario. A shamanic loop accompanies the electric bass and escorts us through the smoke of the bonfire, veils swayed by the wind and colored lights that sparkle in the night. The ritualistic humming of ‘’Zona Rossa”’ is still hearable, floating in the rarefied atmosphere, while the last track “Limbo” makes its entrance and confirms once again the poliedric but congruous essence of this release, whose percussive attitude lures you in and whose hypnotic and groovy body makes you stay. At least for one more dance.

Sara Berton

Dark Entries again shines a spotlight on bathhouse disco don Patrick Cowley with a newly remastered release of Kickin’ In. Although Cowley tragically passed from AIDS-related illness in 1982, he left an extensive archive of unreleased tapes, many of which Dark Entries has had the honor of releasing. While working as a lighting technician at The City, SF’s disco cabaret, Cowley saw rising star Frank Loverde perform. Cowley asked Loverde to contribute vocals to some material in progress, and Frank, Linda Imperial, and Peggy Gibbons joined Cowley in the studio. The resulting songs included “Kickin’ In,” a 9-minute cybernetic disco stormer that taps into the essence of Cowley’s hi-NRG sound: equal parts spaced out and zoned in on the dancefloor. In May 1978 Cowley joined Loverde on stage at The City to perform “Kickin’ In” as they opened for disco diva Sylvester.

“Kickin’ In” was initially released in 2015 via Honey Soundsystem who found the tapes in the basement of Megatone Records owner John Hedges. This newly remastered version was made possible due to the discovery of the original multi-track recordings of "Kickin’ In," allowing for a fresh mixdown by Jim Hopkins as well as the creation of a new instrumental version. Also included are two impeccably sleazy Cowley jams recorded in 1980, “Thief of Love” and “Make It Come Loose.” Cowley narrates excerpts from his erotic journals on these raunchy slow-burners, capturing the vibe of SF’s leather bars and backrooms. “Thief of Love” features frequent Cowley collaborator Paul Parker on background vocals. This reissue of Kickin’ In includes features an illustration by Gwenaël Rattke that originally appeared Cowley’s erotic journal, Mechanical Fantasy Box, as well as a postcard with lyrics. “Patrick parted the veil and entered a dark world of forbidden vices, wondrous musical panoramas and bold, strident, hopeful possibilities. Patrick brought the future to us and laid it at our feet.” – David Diebold, Tribal Rites

The life of the solo electronic artist is equal parts privilege and loneliness. You hurtle across the sky to spend a few hours in a dark club, behind the decks or on stage at the microphone. A brief grasp at transcendence, then the lights are on. Afterwards, you chat with friends you made last month, last year, or an hour ago. Back on the train, the plane. A couple weeks of this, then home. Repeat. It was against this backdrop that Ana Roxanne and DJ Python (Brian Piñeyro) struck up a singular friendship and collaboration, culminating in the shared musical language of their new project, Natural Wonder Beauty Concept. Brian and Ana met in New York City in the winter of 2020. They’d respectively put out critically acclaimed albums but due to extenuating global circumstances, the real-world implications of those records were yet to be seen. Ana’s debut LP, Because of a Flower, released in fall 2020, trades in both ethereality and directness, stretching timeless pop and R&B forms into shimmering ambient magic. When the Bay Area-born, Mills-trained artist sings, on record or live, time slows down and we enter a languorous yet ecstatic present. The second album from Queens-based deep reggaeton innovator DJ Python, Mas Amable, also subverts easy temporality. Released in spring 2020, Mas Amable floats in liminal space—not quite a dance record, a downtempo record, nor an ambient record—unfurling at a wistful pace, naturally suited for a strange period when each day felt the same yet wildly different.

Saxophonist, producer and composer Brian Allen Simon explores darker hues, transposing waking and altered states under his studio veil Anenon. On the deeply evocative new album 'Dream Temperature', he shifts electronic processing to the foreground, introducing digitized wind instruments and unworldly atmospherics, not heard since his innovating mid-late 2010s output.

A longtime Los Angeles resident, born and raised, Brian Allen Simon has expressively operated under the moniker Anenon, releasing the highly revered 'Petrol' (2016), 'Tongue' (2018) and the viscerally beautiful 'Moons Melt Milk Light' (2023), in a line of unwavering musical dialogues. While the penultimate album was a deliberate, reductive, entirely acoustic detour that was born out of a want to unplug, 'Dream Temperature' sees Brian primed with a newly discovered wind synthesizer as his central compositional tool, alongside acoustic piano and tenor saxophone. The entirety of the album's electronics are triggered by Brian's lungs, generating otherworldly synths modulated by expressive breath control, channelled through the laptop as the core processing chamber for added textural components and field recordings.

A free floating and heavy emotional resonance marks 'Dream Temperature' from beginning to end, invoking the feeling of waking up, still heavy from a night of half-remembered dreams, and continuing one's day in this state. Simon maps out the album's spatial voice early on the statement title track, a deep, yet compact cut, generated from digital saxophone rasps that whistle by in close proximity, along with haze filled textures and sub bass. There is a sonic oscillation of urban grit and pastoral drift throughout as tracks pass by like introspective thoughts, fueling both a tense and ethereal quality that underpins the album. Interluding solo and part-solo piano improvisations 'Last Sun 1' and '2' are positioned adjacent to the buffering digital soundscapes. Their softer, still processed timbres pierce the melancholic exterior, offering a contrasting tenderness that could echo the grace of Ry?ichi Sakamoto, the spiritualist rigor of ECM's Keith Jarrett and a touch akin to Aphex Twin's piano miniatures. 'Nulle Part 1+2' signals the first appearance of an acoustic wind instrument, as tenor saxophone flourishes are juxtaposed against noisy drones, all shouting at the void, with notes resurfacing like lost digital data.

The album was recorded at home during either sunset or nocturnal hours between September of 2024 and October of 2025, a period in which Brian found himself craving more lengthy and intimate studio time as he searched for more pronounced textural qualities amidst his new sonic ambitions. 'When The Light Appears, Boy' shows further evidence of this deeper universe, revealing a grittier edge as the album's essential blueprint is sonically inked. A sprawling expanse of wind synths rhythmically encircle the listener before a dreamy, ghostly ambience blankets 'Toyama'. The sound is evocative of the productions of post dubstep era luminaries such as Burial or the productions of HTRK's Nigel Yang. More isolating and enveloping than the previous all acoustic record, this is music both disorienting and yet warmly inviting all at once. A sonic diarist at heart, personal field recordings were also taken from Sardinia, Japan, Big Sur and LA which intersect at unexpected moments throughout the album's 31-minute play time.

'Dream Temperature' is a vital coalescence of both Simon's electronic and acoustic practices with repositioned electronics akin to earlier works, both haunting and elegant, yet still profoundly personal. Simon continuously resonates as an experimental outlier treading an enthralling, non-linear musical path. This music resolutely glows with an unknowing aura, like an untapped energy source waiting to be discharged.