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FatCat was recorded in a single session-live, with all four musicians together in the same place. What you hear on the record isn't a polished production, but a one-of-a-kind recording of four people playing at the same time in the same room.
This is not a nostalgic gesture. It's a stance. As music is increasingly understood as the output of a prompt, the question of what actually makes music becomes urgent again. Not flawless, efficient production, but the imperfect moment and its context. Not the result, but the process in which four people listen to each other, react to each other, misjudge, and find one another. This fallibility - the hesitation before an entrance, the slight pull in the timing, the glance between musicians that signals a turn - is not a weakness but the substance itself. It cannot be synthesized, because it isn't a data point but a lived relationship: between the instruments, between the people, between their shared history and what emerges new in this one take. The album is thus also a statement on the question of where, in the age of generative music, authorship and art can still be located: not in the result alone, but in the shared risk taken in creating it.
"The question was always: how do I bring my work as a producer and beatmaker onto the stage? How can something that usually happens alone behind closed studio doors become a live experience?" With the album FatCat, Sepalot pursues this question to its logical conclusion: what began as a live performance now becomes the recording itself - the studio becomes a stage for a day, and the stage becomes the definitive version of the album.
The love for electronic music remains, the raw pressure of hip hop is still palpable - and yet everything on FatCat sounds like a fresh start, captured in the very breath in which it was played.
On stage as in the studio, the four characters fit together like a puzzle. Sepalot's signature as producer and mastermind is unmistakable. On drums, Fabian Füss, longtime partner behind the kit and the voice that makes Sepalot's radio hit "Rainbows" so unforgettable. On bass, Robin Jermer. On trumpet, Matthias Lindermayr, multiple award-winning jazz virtuoso with his own albums on Enja Records. And then there's Sepalot himself, who turns it all into more than just the sum of its parts.
The eclectic beats, the pulsing bass, Sepalot's passion for atmospheric sound design - all of it remains, now joined by an element of jazz and captured in its most immediate, unpolished form. The album shows what four people in one room are capable of: a sound born of shared experience, and precisely for that reason, unique.

"Some of my earliest musical memories were listening to my local pirate stations in the early 90's. The signal was quite weak in my area, and the sound was doused in FM static, creating this interesting amalgam of rhythm and noise. I found a strange sort of comfort in this, often falling asleep while listening to the radio, in bed, with my headphones on. The stations were run by young people, no older than kids really, relayed from non-descript flats, scattered around Bradford, Leeds, and the surrounding towns of West Yorkshire. The setups were primitive, and the production quality (and often the mixing) were dubious at best. But there was an endless supply of passion, and listeners tuned in because they were thirsty for something the legal stations could never supply. These voices on the other side of the transmission were, for many of us, a bridge into the future. One, which sadly, never really came to be. Hardcore, Static: Pirate Transmissions From The North of England 1990-1994 is a celebration of this unique period in UK history. The North of England feels overlooked during this time, with history's focus firmly gazed on London. But the signal was everywhere. These pirate stations were crucial for many young people, who were trying to find their place and identity in the UK. Many of these transmissions, even the ones which were recorded onto tape, have since become lost media, effectively erased from history. Radio, at least in the analogue domain, isn't something most young people have any experience with. Pirate radio was this unique flashpoint in time, and for me at least, it was important enough for me to want pay my respects to it" Dennis/36

Common Blah is the debut full-length by Portland, Maine's Weakened Friends. Founded by songwriter Sonia Sturino, drummer Cam Jones, and bassist Annie Hoffman in 2013, the trio is a low pressure outlet for volatile music. Recorded by Hoffman and perfected over the last year, the songs broadcast heavy feelings amid screech and feedback with little more than a distortion pedal the clog up the signal chain. The album also features guest shredding by peer and kindred spirit J Mascis (on the song Hate Mail). Common Blah will be out via Don Giovanni Records on October 19th.

Sequel Records was born from an idea of ​​its founder, Mysterious, the label focuses mainly on a techno sound with hypnotic and futuristic nuances. The first release is entrusted to various artists such as Linear System, Mariano Dc, Linear Phase and Translate.
Full color cover and 180g vinyl, limited edition.

With Scream If You Don’t Exist, Richie Culver metamorphoses from outsider musician to underground fixture, feeling his way from the fringes towards a growing community of musicians that have gravitated towards his singular sound world. Building upon the stark catharsis of his previous dispatches, on his sophomore album the artist draws from grimdark drone, industrial noise, experimental hip-hop and UK rave to map out a space for himself, caught between genre and discipline. While on his debut, I Was Born By The Sea, Culver took a last glimpse back at his grey, salt-flecked past while struggling towards somewhere brighter, here, he documents the process of finding fresh waters, parsing through the complexity of inhabiting a more open and optimistic place while contending with the weight of his resolve, staring hard won self-acceptance in the face. The album’s title speaks to this creative and emotional work, serving both as the foundational paradox from which the artist’s new discordant sound emerges and as a call to action, a defiant cry in the face of existential angst.

Part of this process involves visiting familiar territory with renewed focus. Macabre opener ‘Hottest Day Of The Year’ signals an unpleasant memory with crow caw, queasy, gas leak ambience and dental drill whir as Culver recalls a life lived in nihilism: “Everything is just something that happened / Reductionism, muscles spasms, a mother’s first contraction.” Yet, on Scream If You Don’t Exist, Culver’s irresistible formula for ragged machine poetry is shot through with palpable urgency. No longer listless and despairing, he finds new intricacies for these compositions, tracing a stark interplay between crushing bass excavations and penetrating vocal clarity, a contrast picked out in the delicate threads of rhythmic pulse suggesting themselves in the blunt pressure and skittering creep of ‘Weakness’, on which Culver offers up vulnerability as a tentative solution to self-described emotional constipation: “Please do / Do take my kindness for weakness / For I am weak / And that is ok.” The amniotic soundscape of ‘YOLO (then u die)’ gives way to depth charge drone and unnerving machinic improvisations, like a noise show heard from deep in the Mariana trench, while on ‘Underground Flower’ the low-end fog lifts to reveal a brighter, colder scene. “Love me for who I could be / Not who I am,” he pleads, tending gently to his own tenacious bud.

Scream If You Don’t Exist gives us a glimpse of this flower in bloom. On the album’s cursed self-help tape title track stuttering loops of off-kilter keys and childlike repetition make light of the very real risk of disappearing all-together, a nervous breakdown rendered as a malfunctioning nursery rhyme. Paranoiac anthem ‘Say 4 Sure’ introduces bit-crushed boom-bap stomp, as though hammered out on a water-logged Game Boy, swarms of loose-wire noise sparking up against guttural grunts and ragged exhalations, while ‘On The Top’ enacts a seance for the hardcore spirit, with loops of rave piano and hiccuping vocal chops pirouetting through knackered samples, air raid sirens and the ghostly crash of breakbeat cymbals. As though in response to the solitary nature of much of his musical exploration, this time, the artist invites other voices into the world of Scream If You Don’t Exist. On ‘Swollen’, the unflinching, brimstone prophecy of Billy Woods sounds clear through an expanse of spirallic bass, preaching the same frayed gospel as Culver when he issues the quietly devastating contemporary diagnosis: “Computer broke but it still works for now / That’s the best you can say for most of us anyhow,” while another fearless correspondent from the fringes, Moor Mother, brings earthbound heft to the ambient drift and obliterating barrage of ‘Restaurants,’ teasing out meaning with elongated intonation and pitch-shifted intensity.

It’s during the album’s most meditative moments that we might recognise this space Culver has found for himself for what it really is. ‘OMG They’re Gone’ follows a chopped and slowed monologue from Culver’s wife, who works as a death doula, reflecting on her own experiences with grief and the reality of living within a culture both terrified and ignorant of the process. Floating over glistening ebb, etherised croons and luminous chimes, her words stand as a prescient reminder of the power of ephemerality. Just as Culver flourishes in imperfection, here we can find enormous strength in transcience. But it’s with ‘Just Jump In,’ which unfurls like a buoyant counterpart to the sparkling oil rigs of ‘I was born by the sea’, that Culver illuminates the hopeful waters we realise we’ve been making our steady way towards. “I know now / That you loved me,” he admits, a revelation a lifetime in the making. Through the rawest reflection Culver has found a way forward, driven by an optimism drawn from a resolve to be better, to love and be loved, an admission to weakness and the discovery of a new kind of strength. “Don’t test the water,” he reassures us and himself, “just jump in.”

Scream If You Don’t Exist will be released in November 2023 by Participant, on limited edition vinyl, and digital download . The release will be accompanied by a series of films directed by Mau Morgo, Josiane M.H Pozi, William Markarian-Martin, Simon Bus, and Bruxism.