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Master edit man Delfonic is back with more reworked gold from his favourites folder. He kicks off with the funky horns and disco lushness of 'Up & Down', then 'JaJaJa' slows things down and layers in some chunky drums to a cosmically-minded workout. 'Unity Together' is a percussive jumble with funky hooks and grooves that are always on the move and bubbling beneath the smooth vocals. Last but not least is 'Feeling It', which we really love. This one has a buttery male vocal adding weight to buoyant and instrumental disco grooves that dazzle with bright melodies and life-giving strings. A wonderfully uplifting EP.

Sugaring a Strawberry, the sophomore record from Julia, Julia, is a study in coming undone—on purpose. Recorded at COMA, Julia Kugel's home studio, and mixed through a custom Flickenger clone, the album drifts in and out of clarity like memory itself. It's emotionally retrospective, creatively unvarnished, and deeply human. You can hear it in the hiss, the warmth, in the vocals so raw they're like an open window. These songs weren't engineered for perfection. They were built to breathe. Her long-time collaborator and husband, Scott Montoya, mixes it all so loosely that you can hear the air between tracks— a space that makes the music feel inhabited rather than recorded.


"Bound" opens the album like a secret passed between sisters, solemn and unspeakably close. It begins with the softest of touches: hushed guitar, a near- whispered delivery that carries the intimacy of someone singing only for one other person. It's a love song, but not romantic, more ancestral in the way long bonds can be. All glow and undercurrent, "I Know," is like hearing someone hum through a wound. The track arrives as if it had been waiting, coiled and complete, to be sung. Its pulse is slow but insistent, anchored on a hypnotic loop and a vocal that's half-incantation, half-confession. One of the most outward-facing songs on the record, "Feeling Lucky," opens like a cigarette flicked in the dark– smoky and a little bit slick. Built on a skeletal beat and a nearly detached vocal, it leans into a sarcastic swagger that barely masks the ache beneath. The delivery is droll and glazed, the instrumentation is sparse and a little woozy, leaving space for her voice to sway—a shrug of a song, stylish in its sadness. "A Love That Hurts" drifts in on soft, fingerpicked guitar and a dry, close-mic vocal that feels both haunted and immediate. The mix is stripped down and analog-warm, letting tape hum and silence frame the emotion. Julia sings like she's remembering something she doesn't want to, each line a slight unraveling. Like the rest of the album, "A Love That Hurts" doesn't push toward resolution. It sits in the ache, sifts through it, makes it beautiful.

Sugaring a Strawberry doesn't seek catharsis so much as stumbles into it. There's a quiet volatility to these songs like they might fall apart if you press too hard. It moves in shadow and softness, asking questions it doesn't answer. It doesn’t end with closure. It ends with truth.

Following three acclaimed albums, a string of sought-after 45s, and collaborations with vocalists including Yurika and Sophia Solompon, championed by esteemed tastemakers such as Gilles Peterson, Cerys Matthews, and Jeremy Sole, "Nadir" finds Sababa 5 at their enigmatic and irresistible. Sababa 5"s latest album, "Nadir", delves into a darker, more sophisticated, and cinematic fusion of psychedelic soul and Middle Eastern rock. The title, Nadir, is an astronomical term referring to the point on the celestial sphere directly beneath an observer, diametrically opposite the zenith. Metaphorically, it signifies the lowest point or a moment of adversity. This duality resonates with the band"s exploration of contrasting musical themes-melding the cosmic and the terrestrial, the ethereal and the grounded. The name encapsulates the album"s essence, reflecting a journey through deep, introspective soundscapes that are both otherworldly and rooted in raw, earthly grooves.

GATEFOLD DOUBLE VINYL WITH SPOT UV FRONT COVER

Following the skewed-unself-help-brilliance of ‘Sus Dog’ (which marked his first full foray into songs, abetted by Thom Yorke), and its companion piece ‘Cave Dog’, Chris Clark returns to the dancefloor’s simple, but no less affecting pleasures, with ‘Steep Stims’.
“I found it hard to pull away from listening to this record, hard to stop making it, I had to remove myself from the Stims and stop enjoying it at some point. The album feels like nature to me. I love it when electronic music feels more naturalistic than acoustic music, more potent, that’s the devil’s trick, the promise of electronic music.” comments Chris.
“I used an old synth - the Virus on all of the tracks. I used it at Mess in Melbourne - run by my friend Robin Fox - I loved it so much I had to buy one when I got back to the UK, it took a while to find. They’re a bit clunky to program but make some of my most favourite sounds.”
‘Steep Stims’ marks a back-to-basics approach, invoking the early years of gung-ho creativity enforced by limitations in technology at the time. “Most of the tracks on this album capture the spirit of making music on old samplers, which don’t have much memory time”, explains Clark. “It reminds me of making ‘Clarence Park’, my first album, where I would have to finish tunes in the session, as they would be saved on floppy disks and I couldn’t easily go between tracks. This new record is just a few synths and a few choice sounds; the writing is the important thing.”
Made quickly, ‘Steep Stims’ reflects the immediate rave energy of his live show, but that’s not to say it’s basic floor fodder, as it’s rife with personality, synth magic, and knack for melody. Although swift and impressionistically captured rather than laboured over, it’s still formidably deft, with plenty of oddball weirdness lurking beneath the dancefloor.
Soft, orange, scorched, brutal, the opening track ‘Gift and Wound’ captures the classic dance music dread / awe / euphoria combo perfectly, before ‘Infinite Roller’ merges sparkly-minimalism with snarling bass and soft sines, which turn more dense and metallic as it progresses.
The melancholic smoke belch of ‘No Pills U’ gives strong classic vibrations, which is belied by its creation, made in just 20 minutes. “I love working quickly sometimes”, comments Clark. “Inspiration hits, rough and ready. It’s off the cuff but also screams ‘don’t gild the lily with nonsense, keep it simple keep it clean’”. Segueing into its elder brother, the piece becomes bigger and beatier on ‘Janus Modal’, where it permutates for over 7 minutes of fluttering, beatific club majesty.
At ‘18EDO Bailiff’ you inexplicably find yourself at a clearing, things have suddenly got much quieter. You enter a decrepit and eerie old house, and as you move through its unsettling interior, you arrive at ‘Globecore Flats’. A real piano tuned to 18 notes per octave gives the pair of tracks a haunted, olde worlde feel, which promptly gets eaten by a huge tech step tearout monster, birthing a strange but exotic beast.
The white hot ‘Blowtorch Thimble’ is all hooktasm-rave-hyper-amen-energy, whilst acidic flute leaps around like Ian Anderson on pingers throughout the catchily simple jump-up lurch of ‘Civilians’.
“‘In Patient’s Day Out’ is like some sort of Morricone-does-kraut-rock-with-drum-machines, but that’s probably just in my head” says Clark. “I made several versions of this then went with the early mix but cranked through some choice outboard because it just had something.”
Drumless, yet still full of exhilarating-big-trance-drama, ‘Who Booed The Goose’ flashes by in stroboscopic fast forward, then ‘5 Millionth Cave Painting’ gives a palate cleanser, letting “the virus with its delicious broken, luxurious reverb have a moment”, before ‘Negation Loop’ swoops down in all its glory, with Clark’s tweaked vocals leading deconstructed trance breakdowns, tape edits and brutal noisebursts.
An antidote to the bombast of its predecessor is ‘Micro Lyf’, which closes the set on a poignant note, of sorts. Muted staccato gives way to field recordings “that gradually put it in this outside space; alien in a meadow somewhere nameless. It feels like a sinkhole. The record kinda swallows itself up and then is gone”, ends Chris.

One Instrument welcomes Morning Seance, composer and sound artist, originally from Italy and based in Vienna. On this debut LP, Morning Seance traces a drifting narrative composed of unstable harmonies, fluid structures, and ghostlike forms. The album unfolds like a dream told in fragments, oscillating between fluctuating pulses and decaying transmissions, from nocturnal stillness to acoustic mirages. The first half of the record moves through zones of suspended tension and evanescent contours, where tracks like “Be faster than your own depression” and “The tenderness of our own autobiography” sketch fragile architectures of affect. The second half enters a more spectral terrain — “Breakfast in a night club,” “A visit to the Brion-Vega tomb” — not places, but agglomerates of sonic sensation, detached from any personal frame.

With each piece, the music dissolves and reconstitutes itself, resisting finality or form, and doing so with an indestructible joy that hums beneath the wreckage. This is degenerate ambient music: anti-geometric and subject to emotional weather — not a refuge, but a slow collapse of structure and purity, where atmosphere gives way to excess and disobedience.

The album is crafted entirely from a single source: the Roland Alpha Juno-1. Despite this constraint, it achieves a vast sound spectrum, transforming one synthesizer’s voice into a layered landscape of textures and moods.

The electronic music of Morning Seance is built on constant variation and intricate, looping patterns with no clear beginning or end. This variation is not simply applied to an audio element, but enacted as a compositional logic — avoiding mechanical combinations and obvious rhythms. The result is a mutable mass of audio matter and tonal debris, guiding the listener through richly divergent environments.

On Beacon Hill: at twilight we find Anthony Moore, roots winding backwards to the halcyon days of Slapp Happy and the "70s progressive art rock scene, at guitar and piano. With the atmospheres and accompaniments of AKA & Friends, he breathes infernal new life into songs from his six decades of multivarious music making. This new delivery system is unto a séance, a communal incantation, twining Anthony"s avant and pop traditions together in a darkly radiant coil of folky chamber music; a rope to lower the listener through cobwebs and murk, unveiling new life beneath Anthony"s mad old lines. AKA are Anthony Moore, Keith Rodway and Amanda Thompson. A pagan family of sound worshipers hailing from that unholiest of all places: Hastings UK, home of Crowley and Turing. Like their sinister forbears in that infamous tradition, this latest trinity shares a passion for subverting pattern and number, factoring unlikely permutations arising from sea and horizon, greensward, the southerly aspect, and the planisphere as half-world. Their equatorial shore speaks of a planet of water and earth, fire and air. AKA"s humble tools of choice for this endeavor are guitar, piano, organ, synthesizer and vocals. The Friends of AKA are Tullis Rennie, trombone and electronics; Olie Brice, double bass; Richard Moore, violin; and Haydn Ackerley, guitar. They too navigate the shoreline of the south coast, haunt the same taverns and regularly play together in whatever combinations fit the bill. Leaving the drums (and their drummer) at home to realize anew these dreamladen songs, AKA & Friends ensure that the notes fall around the beat and not on it, so as to define the pulse with absence. As such, time is liberated, prised free from the merciless clock; a rhythm of waves, passing through a steady-state universe of no beginnings and no endings. Discontinuities are dissolved, all is transition.

Leviathan Whispers is an album of longings, laments, deliriums and drones, savage and sublime. Within are breaths, hums and bone songs for shadows and fl ames to dance to. Tim Hill is an inspirational fi gure within the UK arts, jazz, noise and improv world. A shapeshifting maverick exploring Britain's diverse musical traditions, from rough music to industrial folk, free jazz to dub, post-punk to avant-rock, incorporating ambient electronics, hymns and noise. Having worked with pioneering arts company Welfare State International, Tim’s performed inside Stonehenge, on the back of trucks at Notting Hill Carnival, leading giants through the streets of London, Dublin and Galway, at Olympic Torch events, celebratory feasts and leading humanist funerals. Tim is also festival director for The Sound of the Streets, a charity promoting outdoor music and musical director of the Wye Valley River Festival where he helps street bands across the country including The Big Noise in Taunton and Horns of Plenty in Oxford.

Leviathan Whispers is a spectral, contemplative selection of Tim's recorded work, including material created for art installations, outdoor projects, solo performances and personal meditations. Inspired by landscape and the eternal pull of Blake's Albion, baritone, alto and soprano saxophones are mixed with tape loops, old synths, recycled live recordings, woodwinds and reeds. Other sounds are processed by Colin Potter (Nurse With Wound) and drone artist Jonathan Coleclough. The album artwork and accompanying videos feature sound sculptures by Michael Fairfax (Royal Society of Sculptors) alongside unsettling visuals by fi lm-maker and junk-alchemist David Young. "an amazing player - there's a weight to his music with a wonderfully dark edge" Corey Mwamba / BBC Radio 3 Fans of Colin Stetson, John Surman, Anna Von Hausswolff , William Basinski and La Monte Young will fi nd much to savour on this new 12" LP. LAUNCH PARTY: we're holding a special launch event with a live performance and talk by Tim Hill on Saturday, 15th November inside a beautiful Victorian chapel beneath Royal Berks Hospital, Reading.

In 2023, k.d.b lived in a crumbling farmhouse on the edge of the River Maas. Each morning, he’d wake at 6:00 and walk along the river’s bank with his dogfriend Miemel, pausing at sunrise for a cup of coffee.

It’s 6:34, and a thick rug of mist rolls out across the river. It’s so dense that k.d.b can’t see the water beneath it. Then comes the sun: a single ray cutting through the mist like a tube of light, landing on Miemel’s face. In her mouth is a CD she’s picked up, and on the CD is the title Instrumental Romance.

'What is Instrumental Romance?' thinks k.d.b. 'Romantic instrumentals? Or a romance used instrumentally? As in, a romance used to get something—like love?'

Miemel drops the CD and turns her attention to a stray purple grape on the path. Grapes are poisonous to dogs, and as she bends toward it, k.d.b. shouts, “NO!” At that precise moment, a large fish rises from the mist. It launches into the air, mouth wide open, and hangs there above the clouds. His shout, having traveled across the river, bounces back towards k.d.b with a “NO,” and in perfect synchrony, it appears the fish is also shouting at Miemel. The timing is so perfect, they can’t be sure it isn’t.

The fish falls back down, entering its watery world with an eerie, splashless silence, leaving k.d.b and Miemel standing open-mouthed on the bank. Before they can register the perfection of this duet, another fish (or maybe the same one again) rises from the mist in the exact same spot and launches into the air. Without thinking, k.d.b shouts again. The word “ROMANCE” comes out. This time, however, he is slightly too late, and the word is too long, so “ROMANCE” lingers on after the fish has already fallen back down.

'What even is romance?' thinks k.d.b. 'The construction of mystery or excitement with dead red flowers and timing?'

A foghorn sounds behind him, and k.d.b turns 180 degrees to see a boat moving freight, right to left, along the River Maas. 'That’s strange', he thinks. 'If the river is there, then what’s that behind me, below the mist?'

Staring at the boat and its shipping containers as they float out of sight, k.d.b imagines a man. The man is standing at the bottom of a small valley, holding a fish. 'Who is this man, and what does he want?'

- Jacob Dwyer

Mona Steinwidder (Museum of No Art) and Mitko Mitkov have spent years exchanging sounds and words across Hamburg's creative landscape - Swimming Pool Reflections is where those exchanges accumulated in Steinwidder's studio beneath the slanted roof of a former barracks. Premiered in November 2024 for Gesa Troch's exhibition "you say water is sweet", the work intertwines Mitkov’s texts (originally composed as emails to members of a swimming club, as imaginary as they are real) with Steinwidder’s clarinet and synthesizer, full of dubby resonance.

Swimming Pool Reflections isn't about swimming. It's about standing at the edge and watching - the way light fractures through water, how shadows play across tile, everything that forms and dissolves in the viewer's eye. The libretto moves through straits where bodies of water collide, small lakes with white slides, pools suspended in generic landscapes generated from uploaded photographs. Binary gods and transparent shadows. Sediment and cosmic hands weaving existence on overdimensional looms.

Across two uninterrupted sides, words float like those oil spots Mitkov describes: "swallowing light, drifting between the waves, forming a strange pattern". The music holds space for these reflections without trying to contain them. Everything stays permeable. Everything keeps moving.

For our ninth offering we have ventured out of our small but fertile swamp in search of another source of magick. Meandering across boggy pastures new, we crossed paths with Steevio, who sat hovering serenely in the fern covered shade of a nearby valley. Instantly recognising the singular vision of this fabled artist, we hastily gathered our nets and cast them under Steevio’s branches, capturing four beautiful offerings as they wriggled towards us. Upon the return to our mulch, it became clear that we could not contain Steevio’s creations, so willful was their vitality. It was therefore all we could do to release them back to the universal dance from whence they came.

The dance germinates with the writhing polyrhythmic ‘Apricity’. Hearing the crunch of frost laden grass beneath our webbed toes, we look above us to search for the sun. Angular beams of light escape over the horizon, as the warmth of Steevio’s machines coalesce. A glistening hi hat breaks through the membrane to bind his creation and anchor its ever shifting arms.

‘Octopus’ glides gracefully through a sun-dappled kelp forest. Sub frequencies rumble up from the shadowy darkness below, rippling along the fronds as they ascend. As the ocean begins to churn, a wriggling melodic tentacle parts the foliage, gleaming with primordial energy. Its joyful visit to the surface realm leaves us with a brief yet powerful reminder of the mystery beneath.

The glow of the midwinter sun warms our bones on ‘Apricity (Sunrise Mix)’. Percussive elements bubble out of the depths, forming intricate cascading patterns as they grow over the perfectly formed kicks. The moog filter tames the brew with Steevio’s intuitive restraint , until he releases its mighty power upon the gleeful forest dwellers, to their rapturous gratitude.

With ‘Adref’ we return home. The sedate tempo provides oceanic space for a melody which inhales and exhales over a familiar landscape of perfectly tuned percussion. With each breath the melody seems to increase its reach, until it’s buried deep within our bones, its memory resonating on long after it’s gone.

Steevio’s music reflects the universal moments where seemingly chaotic and disparate elements are suddenly revealed to be perfectly harmonious. Of course examples of this are always universally present in nature, and have been eternally, but we have to be reminded to appreciate them. In the same way that a wave deposits a perfect line of shells on a beach, dew freezes on grass, or individual strands of mycelial hyphae bind together to form incredible patterns, Steevio’s music is likewise; effortlessly considered. For us, it has more in common with the unrelenting flow of a river than it does with dance music. It is psychedelic music in the same sense that nature is intuitively psychedelic; without ever leaning into any tried tropes of what is culturally considered ‘psychedelic’ music.

It's not often where I sign a whole release off the back of a demo folder sent to me but when Radicall sent me some tunes he'd made on the Polyend Tracker, I was well impressed by the quality of the tunes & knew I had to have some for the label.

I narrowed it down to my favourite four and thankfully, they were all available for signing and ready for release, probably one of the most seamless releases I've worked on since I started Future Retro London a few years back!

Big thanks to Radicall for his wicked tunes!

Akhira Sano is a Tokyo-based artist working across sound, drawing, installation, and video. His practice finds generative potential for music in life's fleeting incidents, etching meaning from unassuming spaces and resonances. With releases on 12k, LAAPS, IIKKI, and The Trilogy Tapes, Sano has steadily carved out a distinctive voice within minimal and experimental music - one that privileges attentiveness and patience over spectacle.

"To Material Past", Sano's debut for SWIMS, carries this thread with a single 30-minute work built solely using glockenspiel tones and field recordings from his local neighbourhood. This is a night walk with no map or end point; Sano follows irregular, coiling fragments that extend to form a tessellating luminous whole - like a subliminal mass of tree roots quietly shifting the concrete slabs beneath our feet.

Under this faded gauze of gestures and interactions, Sano's glockenspiel interjects like a grandfather clock, softly marking the partitions that make up a day's collected experience; clicking and chiming like the sleeping brain, as it sifts and catalogues a lifetime's ephemera of thoughts, faces and puzzles.

In between the folds of ceremony and commonality lies a perennial spring of musical expression.

A statement along the time continuum, or a testament to the resilient resourcefulness embedded in that truth, forms the philosophical approach of this album – the first outing of Dídac.
Studying an extensive archive of instruments, artifacts, and field recordings at the Musée d’ethnographie de Genève—a space steeped in folkloric gesture – Dídac encountered a cosmos of liturgical music and folk song. Anchored in reverance for tradition and transformation alike, this album navigates the old-world Mediterranean lore through a post-modern ambient lens, threading drone, gentle rhythm, electroacoustic textures and the crude tactility of archival material into one woven tapestry.

Under the guidance of Dr. Madeleine Leclair, Dídac was invited to work within one of the world’s most extensive ethno- musicological archives—L’AIMP. In the saturated basements and tape-lined backrooms of the museum, he submerged himself in the sounds of ritual and rural life: wax cylinders from the Eastern Mediterranean, tapes of liturgical hymn, the worn edges of communal song.
In a makeshift studio on the fourth floor of the museum, he sifted through the hours of material he collected, gradually discovering that the archive was no static source – It did not dictate; rather, it served as a companion—offering not answers, but questions. Not a beaten track, but a cluster of sonic clues and riddles. Samples do appear occasionally, tenderly interwoven into the dialogue of the songs. In Dídac’s self-titled debut, the past is not worn as ornament or kitsch; it is listened to and responded to. The museum, its archives, and the visit to Geneva became a foundational culisse of sorts, igniting a myriad of rough cuts and improvisational outtakes.
Dídac, or Diego Ocejo Muñoz, was born in Madrid in 1994 to a family of both Catalan and Castilian origin.

Brought up in a religious household, the influence of the Catholic Church innately shaped the social fabric, schooling and daily life. This lingering dominance led the adolescent Diego into a path of rejection of everything sacramental, promptly resorting to subversion in the shape of grafitti, skateboarding and underground music. Only later in life, after a rigorous venture as an acid and electro producer, the Church re-emerged before him in new light, invoking a deep fascination for its mysticism, iconography and choral tradition.

Spain in general and Catalonia in particular, has long served as a crossroads of the eastern–western Mediterranean continuum, with many of its cultures sharing aspects of way of life and ceremony. At the MEG, Diego found himself puzzled with this realization, resulting in a sonic amalgamation that reaches farther away from the rugged mountains of Catalonia than you might perceive at first encounter.

The deeply embedded memory of rite and public ceremony, religious hymn and landscape—sieved through the undercurrent of personal re-emergence, forms the emotional topography of this album. The record does not trace this landscape; it inhabits it. Its repetitive mysticism and ambient, wide-eyed gaze could possibly evoke (perhaps redundant) comparisons to artists such as Dimitris Petsetakis, or Popol Vuh’s late 70’s cinema scores.
The delicate lines between the sacred and the secular – between memory and re-invention – serve as a cipher to understanding this album in its entirety. Titles like Malpàs Mines or Pantocrator’s Portal Outro nudge toward a folkloric and devotional bedrock—places where labor and spirituality coexist, where names preserve both dust and veneration.

Nevertheless, this is far from mere nostalgia. It is a reclamation — singing alongside the spirits of the past, nurturing what still hums beneath the soil. It is an intimate reflection on tradition, rebellion, adolescence, ceremony and fantasy – a pastoral contemplation on what once was and what is to be.

25 has always been a mystical number in the world of Kiosk ID, woven into our story since the earliest days of Bar 25, Holzmarkt 25, and every chapter since. When midnight struck on December 31st of last year and 2025 arrived, the magic of the number was undeniable,echoing through Kater Blau, Holzmarkt, and Kiosk ID—and calling for a celebration like no other. As our lasers lit the night, two core Kiosk ID artists—Britta Arnold and Sascha Cawa—took to the decks, weaving a spellbinding journey crafted specifically for this moment. Months in the making, they unfolded a beautifully hypnotic tribute to the magic of 25, premiering five tailormade tracks in the process. That moment lives on as Kiosk ID no. 40—a special double LP capturing the magic of that night. Side A features the live New Year’s recording: an unfiltered document of Britta and Sascha’s hypnotic, otherworldly, and deeply danceable set, as it unfolded in real time—strobing into the first moments of the new year. Sides B, C, and D feature five exclusive studio originals, written and produced specifically for this night. On ‘Counting’, Britta and Sasha unfold their brand of stripped darkness and rolling groove work, while ‘Reformer’ teeters on taut coils of suspended synths. With ‘NGVMT’, the energy bursts open—a radiant block-party roller with throbbing staccato swagger and clanking metallic arpeggios. ‘Beam’ lifts off into pure cosmic wonder, its fluttering, airy themes spiralling skyward. ‘Good Life’ rolls the credits with a beautifully introspective soliloquy, tender and reflective beneath gentle waves of aspirating piano chords. Together, these recordings offer both an auditory keepsake and an invitation to relive that unforgettable night or discover it anew. Across five hypnotic compositions and a half hour of dance floor bliss, ‘Good Life 25’ encapsulates the ever-evolving sound

The Spice of Life, released in November 1969, stands as Marlena Shaw's second--and final--studio album for Cadet Records, produced and arranged by the renowned Richard Evans and Charles Stepney. From the opening, Shaw's voice--both playful and powerful--cuts through the lush yet tight-knit arrangements, weaving together a vibrant tapestry of soul, proto-funk, jazz, gospel, and blues. The album features two defining classics: her deeply resonant original of 'Woman of the Ghetto' and a signature take on Ashford & Simpson's 'California Soul', both staples in sampling culture (you'll probably find that you're more familiar with Shaw's material than you thought.) Evans and Stepney's arrangements are far from mere support--they're panoramic and inventive. You'll hear kalimba flourishes, psych-tinged guitar accents, and bongo-fueled organ textures that elevate each track, keeping the atmosphere rich but never overwhelming. Moments like the Bacharach-styled 'Looking Through the Eyes of Love' or the dramatic flair of 'Stormy Monday' showcase their widescreen sensibility and Shaw's versatility. Beneath its musical elegance, "The Spice of Life" carries a weighty current of social commentary. Tracks such as 'Woman of the Ghetto' and the succinct, fierce 'Liberation Conversation' bring political and feminist themes into a soulful, expressive framework--adding unexpected depth to the sophisticated sonic palette. This album offers an immersive journey through soul-jazz mastery, one that rewarded listeners with sampling gold for decades to come. Reissue on 180g vinyl.

Shadows fold into colour. Memory dissolves into noise. You brush up against the walls of the mind. Touch is soft as breath. On ‘B side’, Areliz Ramos follows her work’s current into its more “fantastic and elusive… and even romantic” side; a place where fantasy loosens the bolts of reality and memory, and emotion is alluringly refracted into musical collages and loose-strung compositions. Across the album, voices drift in and out of an intimate space, while pensive guitar lines stumble and bloom like scribbled unresolved notes in a diary. Beneath its icy, often chaotic surface, ‘B side’ radiates a deep sense of joy and fragility. Ramos sketches out an entire world by free association, collaging notions and echoing quiet thoughts into deeply honest snapshots of daydreams.

Areliz Ramos is a Peruvian producer living in London, recognized for an evocative palette weaving lo-fi and downtempo threads into dreamlike, abstract emo narratives. While her debut ‘Frío’ (Where to Now?), orbited around homesickness and estrangement, ‘B side’ embraces imperfection, incorporating her guitar (named "Frank"), pedals, synthesizers, and her own vocal textures for the first time, privileging emotional immediacy over technical precision. The creative process behind this album reflects a conscious decision to let go, loosen control, let intuition lead, and engage her own ‘B’ side.

Rather than constructing a safe haven from hardship, Ramos offers a cracked mirror, staring right at it, embracing that vulnerability. The gentle and beautiful ‘B side’ explores fleeting satisfaction, or the elusive comfort sitting just out of sight.

Developed over three years across residencies, tours, and periods of deep listening, “Your Whistle Tells of Landscape” finds Australian sound artist Alexandra Spence continuing her investigations into the perceptual entanglements of sound, place, memory, and imagination. Like much of the artist’s work, it unfolds at the liminal edge between the real and the imagined — between what is heard and what is remembered.

Composed from a constellation of materials gathered across sites and seasons — snowscapes recorded in Vancouver, insect choruses from a Sydney backyard, ceramic fragments unearthed while mudlarking with tinysound — it renders an intimate cartography of experience: one shaped equally by ecological resonance and internal drift. Each piece traces a kind of imaginary geography, where sonic ephemera become proxies for topography, weather, or myth.

The album is informed by time spent at EMS (Stockholm) and MESS (Melbourne), where Spence deepened her engagement with microtonality and tuned feedback systems, and by dialogues with sympathetic artists such as Tashi Wada and Patrick Farmer. Sound materials were sourced from Serge Modular systems, a custom lyre built by Tim Wall, amplified objects, handmade electronics, and Spence’s own field recordings captured within rockpools, beneath sand, and among a flock of sheep in the French Pyrenees. On “Magenta,” a collaboration with Delphine Dora, the domestic and mythic intertwine, as layers of voice, environmental recordings, and Halldorophone feedback drift in and out of one another like overlapping weather systems.

Despite its diverse material palette, the album resists spectacle or accumulation. Instead, it moves with a quiet sense of continuity and a rich interiority — less a sequence of compositions than a set of situated attunements. Across its duration, sounds seem to murmur, glint, or hover right at the edge of presence, invoking a listening practice that is as much about orientation as it is about reception. These are pieces not simply about place, but of place — etched with the grains of time, vibration, and breath.