Suche:blasted

The latest by Andrew Clinco's acid punk alias VR SEX takes its title from an architectural phrase but more importantly refers to the warped, wicked underworld the songs both chronicle and condemn. Donning the moniker Noel Skum - an acerbic anagram of Elon Musk - Clinco vents his scorn for and fascination with the seedy, surreal margins of low-life Los Angeles, doomed to dead ends of vanity, lust, and technology. Although initially launched as an outlet for "heavier sounds" beyond Clinco's duties in new wave fantasists Drab Majesty, the project has ripened into a compelling exercise in world building, weaving themes of gritty city neofuturist sleaze within a framework of driving, distorted guitars and cathode-blasted synths. Echoes of Chrome, Wire, Minimal Man, and Sisters Of Mercy ripple through the collection but ultimately Rough Dimension charts its own twisted vision of "our unforgiving reality." Written and demoed across two weeks alone in a Marseille flat using his prized 1980's Gibson "Invader" and a laptop, Clinco then took the tracks to Strange Weather studios in Brooklyn to record with Ben Greenberg (Uniform, The Men) who helmed 2019's debut, Human Traffic Jam. The results are notably ripping, refined, and riveting. Riffs in alternate tunings chug and churn over mid-tempo drums punctuated by spikes of sci-fi electronics while the vocals swagger and spit venom ("where we walk is also where we shit / but if we bark at our reflections are we hypocrites? / impulses bleed right into our seed / where hate culminates the apple rotted on the tree"). It's a bristling mix of the melodic and the macabre, absurdist observations of fast living and desperate measures, the clock of youth ticking towards midnight as dreams unravel in Babylon. VR SEX's specialty is making these cautionary tales of psychic decay and tainted love a thrill rather than a drag. There's a sunglasses at night glamor to Clinco's choruses and solos, a wit to his black leather judgements ("what is the answer / to cancerous people / walking in my line of sight?"). The music's milieu tends towards parasites and predators but its mood skews refreshingly accelerated and amused, cruising the strip with a cigarette, watching goths and limousines crawl in gridlock beneath digital billboards. The Rough Dimension may be a cesspool, but it's home.

'exclusive tour tapes' limited quantity available for distribution

Limited split tape collaboration between like-minded pranksters Lagoss & Babau. Co-released by Sucata tapes & Artetetra in July 2025.

‘’The chars were emerging as some chunk of makeshift swamp coolers blasted the soil surrounding our motorbikes. Sunburn vapours floating grey all around, licking our necks with heavy hazy tongues. Just oppressive and gross. Blah.

Someone says heat waves are among the most dangerous natural hazards. I guess that the magnetic tides did not help at all. For sure, recreational sleep deprivation aside, it was days of relentlessly documented tipsy headaches, thermometric cicada noises and weird-ass hallucinations. It is what it is. The age of earthquakes. We drink from our black plastic bags with a straw pushing a bit of oxygen thru our reptile brains. Just half a pack of synthetic tobacco for the ride. No internet. Whatever.

She looks at me behind the war metal glasses and the silicone frog mask high on desert dust. Sweaty pools on her shoulders. Eyes purple with adrenaline. Map on the scratched screen. “It says that at this point we should be hearing that fucking flute”. We stop amidst the geysers. We can see the monoliths and stone gods ready to eat up all the solar storms and the thunder. Towards the horizon, second moon is up. Damn. Water rises to our knees, green with bloating sounds. Just what we needed. We’re stuck. "Turn up the radio. Let’s hope it lasts five minutes." After trashing a bunch of fake subtropical signals, the radio plays a flute. She takes off the mask and explodes in a grin: “This is it man, we made it! No man’s land. The real fucking thing.” I light one up and let the sight get blurred: “You betcha.”’’

Das in der schottischen Stadt Edinburgh gegründete Doom-Rock Trio KING WITCH engagierte für die Produktion von "III" den eigenen Gitarristen Jamie Gilchrist, der das neue Album auch in seinem Nameless City Sound Studio mischte. Am Schlagzeug saß Andrew Scott. Das Cover-Artwork gestaltete Blasted Heathen. Die Scheibe beschäftigt sich mit dem Status Quo der Menschheit und unserem scheinbar vorhandenen Wunsch, uns selbst zu zerstören, sowie dem mentalen Kampf, damit umzugehen und dennoch ein positives Leben zu führen.

New Generation Carnival Riddims from St. Lucia and Dominica A hurricane of turbo-charged, body-buzzing tracks collide on Road Fever, a compilation of razor-produced, road-tested instrumental riddims from St. Lucia, Dominica & Guadeloupe that showcases the producers forging the future of Caribbean music in 2025. Road Fever draws together instrumental Dennery Segment and Bouyon riddims originally made for vocalists, presented for the first time as stand alone pieces of music. Distilling carnival riddims down to the bare bones, producers push minimal 150+bpms, FL-percussion packs, DJ/vox samples & synth riffs, bridging trap, drill, dancehall, sped-up Haitian konpa & Angolan kuduro. Ricocheting at the intersection of TikTok culture, best heard blasted through walls of speakers travelled by stage-sized carnival trucks or via bluetooth car speakers, St.Lucia"s "Dennery Segment" sound, (as iconic producer, G6 described in an interview), "sparks your inside; a sound you can"t hear and not move". Amsterdam-based, Curaçao-raised compiler Rozaly echoes G6: "Once you hear it, you can"t unhear or unfeel it. This is a musical movement with an entire history with so many relevant reasons why it still exists, and why it exists the way it exists right now". Rozaly concludes, "there is nothing more simple, let the artists speak."

It’s always fun to let our audience peer through the party peephole with some hot behind-the-scenes info. For months, Black Light Smoke’s Control EP has supplied several of label head Tiga’s secret DJ weapons. In fact, he’s been sneaking out constantly after 9pm to play it out anywhere they’ll have him. And it’s little wonder to those who wonder why, as the Chicago-born producer’s top-flight mix of EBM, electro and Benadryl-soaked vocals has all the right people dancing.

Leadoff track "New York Is Dead” eulogizes the famous Big Apple Dance Party Scene in a way that will confuse the many who have embraced the city’s thriving “Groove With the Avengers” day rave series in Times Square. But the nihilism-liking doesn’t stop there, with the Friday-Til-I-Die attitude of “Black Hole at the Disco,” the pleather-dreaded post-cyberpunk of “Last Song Before Sunrise”, and the oxygen-deprived acid of “Break Your Back” culminating in the 11:45am-peak-time industrial trance of closer “Mind Control.”

Because we want this to be available to as many inhabitants of the blasted apocalyptic landscape we have pencilled in for 2034 or so, we have decided to make this release available both digitally and on vinyl. So whether you’ve managed to jack in illegally to a Spotify Wind Farm or you’re relegated to the hand-cranked misery of a Victrola while living in a barn or something, we’ve got you covered!

LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY has had more than its share of out-of-nowhere bands following from the second big bang that was punk rock. The Babylon Dance Band, Circle X, Your Food, Squirrel Bait, Bastro...these are but some of the exceptional music acts originating in Louisville after 1977. Now it"s time for the great secret of the Louisville first-wave punk scene to be revealed: The Endtables. The Endtables were the crazed brainchild of guitarist Alex Durig, brooding chess-master of the amplified freak-out, and singer Steve Rigot, a flamboyant transgender giant from the shores of southern Indiana who reinvented himself as a Warhol Factory superstar. Like Scarlett O"Hara wrapped in a green velvet curtain, Rigot crafted his own glamorous reality from what was available in the blasted cultural landscape of 1970"s Kentucky. Gold spray paint, duct tape, Ace bandages ... a spectacularly other trailblazer who caused folks to toss their received ideas of beauty and go with the new thing instead. The band first took the stage in late 1978 and was finished by the summer of 1980. In the fall of 1979 they recorded six tracks at a Louisville studio, four of which came out on a 7" EP on their own Tuesday Records. The two remaining tracks ("White Glove Test" and "Trick or Treat") were issued as a single on Self Destruct records in 1991. Both records are among the rarest of any American punk release - more sought after than seen, passed on disintegrating cassette tapes and shouted over upon impact. The music of The Endtables is another chapter in pure American weirdness, as jaw-locking today as the day it was recorded. The scent of modern can be detected in Steve Rigot"s remote vocalese, set against Alex Durig"s guitar outbursts, while drummer Steven Jan Humphrey and bassist Albert Durig (age fifteen!) supply frenzied rhythm. The band rocks its fevered vision to a ferocious degree while Rigot grimly rhymes the truths that remained locked out of the public"s pop tastes in "79-"80. Thirty years of rap and roll later, The Endtables seem inevitable.

The Poison Touch delves deeper into atmosphere while maintaining the gritty undertone that defines us. From start to finish, the listener is blasted with in-your-face raw energy while simultaneously feeling like a hauntingly beautiful experience. This record captures the essence of our live sound while exploring new realms, serving as both a continuation and evolution of our style.

The Poison Touch delves deeper into atmosphere while maintaining the gritty undertone that defines us. From start to finish, the listener is blasted with in-your-face raw energy while simultaneously feeling like a hauntingly beautiful experience. This record captures the essence of our live sound while exploring new realms, serving as both a continuation and evolution of our style.

New York psych-pop band Crumb return with AMAMA, their most carefree and open-hearted album to date. A soundscape full of playful and patchwork experimentation _ glitchy pitch-shifted vocals, cell phone recordings, nautical blips, sax mouthpiece solos, blasted drum samples, and piano strings dampened with Silly Putty _ AMAMA continues to deepen the band's hypnotic sound in a cohesive line back through 2021's Ice Melt, 2019's Jinx, and breakout EPs Locket and Crumb. Without a doubt, AMAMA is Crumb _ singer and multi-instrumentalist Lila Ramani, keyboardist and saxophonist Bri Aronow, bassist Jesse Brotter, and drummer Jonathan Gilad _ at their most animated.AMAMA exists at the crossroads of psychedelia, pop, jazz, and rock, and cements Crumb as a band uniquely their own. Released independently on Crumb Records and produced alongside Johnscott Sanford and Jonathan Rado in Los Angeles, AMAMA is an incandescent statement about searching for solid ground, connection, and clarity in a life of nomadic upheaval.

Since first bonding over Slowdive at a Texas karaoke bar six years ago, musicians Uriel Avila and Jonathan Perez have grown trauma ray into Fort Worth's foremost flag bearer of crushing shoegaze. A five-piece rounded out by bassist Darren Baun, drummer Nicholas Bobotas, and guitarist Coleman Pruitt, the band's debut album, Chameleon, captures their evolving sound at an apex of majestic devastation. A fusion of downer hooks, gauzy melancholia, and bulldozer riffs, the album heaves and crashes across 50 minutes of stacked amplifier alchemy. Lyrically the songs trace similarly lofty and brooding terrain; Avila says "The theme is death. And a chameleon, like death, can shape-shift in and out our lives in different forms." Chameleon opens with "Ember," dreamy and distant, alternately anthemic and apocalyptic, defeated and deafening. Lead single "Bishop" perfectly encapsulates trauma ray's depth and dimension, ripping out of the gate with "the biggest, baddest, saddest wall of sound." Lyrics about being burnt at the stake and "tossed in the flame" float above a stop-start assault of precision distortion, eventually expanding into a lush, heavy, sorrowful end coda. "Spectre" is a mysterious, introspective dirge, envisioned as a "mellow, slowcore, Duster-thing," all feeling and heavy fuzz chords (with no lead guitar). Avila wrote it, "to be a hymnal" from the perspective of someone who won't let go - a ghost, an ex, a shadow self. Although the album is rich with subtleties, graceful lulls, and "breaths of air," the band's three guitar attack is its defining force, a power flexed to its peak on "Bardo." Perez's intentions were blunt: "I wanted to write a riff that was hard as fuck." The result is alternately mean and eerie, veering between noisy one string bends and surging headbang, mapping a middle ground between Unwound and early-Deftones. One of trauma ray's greatest gifts is their ability to make doomy, sledgehammer heaviness sound like an earworm, without production tricks or gimmicks: "Riff, verse, chorus, three guitar parts - that's all you need." This quality is particularly apparent on the title track, a churning slab of amplifier worship, swirling chords, and heavenly, defeated vocals about not belonging, shape-shifting, and death ("A twisted face / Void of attention / An empty space / In your reflection"). "U.S.D.D.O.S" closes the album, swaying across seven minutes of grey skied guitar and haunted voice, subtly thickening as it deepens. Feedback and shrapnel gradually begin raining down, like a satellite disintegrating in the atmosphere. Titled as an acronym after a poem by Chilean writer Roberto Bolaño that loosely translates to "a dream within a dream," the melody softens, smears, and then disappears, slowly swallowed by the gravity of eternal descent. Chameleon is a masterpiece of craft, balance, melody, lyricism, and gravity, flexing a fresh vision of loud-quiet-loud architectures and the vertigo depths of blasted harmonics. From Slowdive to Nothing, to Hum and beyond, the band absorb and expand on their influences into a rare and dedicated alchemy. trauma ray's cinematic tempest is a gathering storm only just taking flight.

Since first bonding over Slowdive at a Texas karaoke bar six years ago, musicians Uriel Avila and Jonathan Perez have grown trauma ray into Fort Worth's foremost flag bearer of crushing shoegaze. A five-piece rounded out by bassist Darren Baun, drummer Nicholas Bobotas, and guitarist Coleman Pruitt, the band's debut album, Chameleon, captures their evolving sound at an apex of majestic devastation. A fusion of downer hooks, gauzy melancholia, and bulldozer riffs, the album heaves and crashes across 50 minutes of stacked amplifier alchemy. Lyrically the songs trace similarly lofty and brooding terrain; Avila says "The theme is death. And a chameleon, like death, can shape-shift in and out our lives in different forms." Chameleon opens with "Ember," dreamy and distant, alternately anthemic and apocalyptic, defeated and deafening. Lead single "Bishop" perfectly encapsulates trauma ray's depth and dimension, ripping out of the gate with "the biggest, baddest, saddest wall of sound." Lyrics about being burnt at the stake and "tossed in the flame" float above a stop-start assault of precision distortion, eventually expanding into a lush, heavy, sorrowful end coda. "Spectre" is a mysterious, introspective dirge, envisioned as a "mellow, slowcore, Duster-thing," all feeling and heavy fuzz chords (with no lead guitar). Avila wrote it, "to be a hymnal" from the perspective of someone who won't let go - a ghost, an ex, a shadow self. Although the album is rich with subtleties, graceful lulls, and "breaths of air," the band's three guitar attack is its defining force, a power flexed to its peak on "Bardo." Perez's intentions were blunt: "I wanted to write a riff that was hard as fuck." The result is alternately mean and eerie, veering between noisy one string bends and surging headbang, mapping a middle ground between Unwound and early-Deftones. One of trauma ray's greatest gifts is their ability to make doomy, sledgehammer heaviness sound like an earworm, without production tricks or gimmicks: "Riff, verse, chorus, three guitar parts - that's all you need." This quality is particularly apparent on the title track, a churning slab of amplifier worship, swirling chords, and heavenly, defeated vocals about not belonging, shape-shifting, and death ("A twisted face / Void of attention / An empty space / In your reflection"). "U.S.D.D.O.S" closes the album, swaying across seven minutes of grey skied guitar and haunted voice, subtly thickening as it deepens. Feedback and shrapnel gradually begin raining down, like a satellite disintegrating in the atmosphere. Titled as an acronym after a poem by Chilean writer Roberto Bolaño that loosely translates to "a dream within a dream," the melody softens, smears, and then disappears, slowly swallowed by the gravity of eternal descent. Chameleon is a masterpiece of craft, balance, melody, lyricism, and gravity, flexing a fresh vision of loud-quiet-loud architectures and the vertigo depths of blasted harmonics. From Slowdive to Nothing, to Hum and beyond, the band absorb and expand on their influences into a rare and dedicated alchemy. trauma ray's cinematic tempest is a gathering storm only just taking flight.

Maelstrom returns to Central Processing Unit for the fourth time, and it's the one born Joan-Mael Péneau's lengthiest drop on the Sheffield label yet. The French artist has been a mainstay in the European electro game since the 2000s, and Malestrom brings that experience to bear on new LP The FM Tapes. He goes about this album with the assurance of a seasoned pro, combining his mastery of electro production techniques with a trademark guile to craft an expertly-paced eleven-track affair.

The first section of The FM Tapes sets out the album's stall with style and aplomb - listeners are in store for a rich feast of off-kilter machine-funk which will feature no shortage of intriguing detours. On opener 'Ondes Courtes' the mix throbs with all manner of strange electronic gristle: a distorted bass hum rattles the monitors; wisps of distortion float across the mix; eerily pretty keys wax and wane before giving way to a radar pulse.

'Ondes Courtes' is an ominous slouch of a scene-setter, and it lines things up perfectly for following cut 'Alt50ser' to lock in. This track's churning, gurgling mid-tempo rattle brings to mind the wacky insistence of Modeselektor. Maelstrom repeats the slow-fast one-two again directly afterwards - 'La Vie Sociale Des', a strange nugget that sounds like an early Eski instrumental stripped for parts and blasted into the cosmos, is an ideal prelude to the twitchy space-funk of 'My Digitone'.

Maelstrom's staying power in the electro world comes, in no small part, from his ability to apply his delightfully idiosyncratic choices to some of the genre's staple production tropes. On The FM Tapes, he marks himself out once more as a pleasingly unorthodox talent by taking tracks in unexpected directions to produce surprising - and often rather moving - results.

There are multiple cuts here which channel the more cerebral end of Richard D. James' AFX/Analord output: 'My Digitone' may be a quicksilver techno-electro number, but there's still something cinematic about the synth treatment here which softens the edges; 'Suede's minor-key oscillations bring other CPU veterans like Cygnus and Bochum Welt into view; 'Res 06', one of two Fasme collaborations on the record, is full of pathos even as the beat programming bangs and whirrs throughout.

While there's a deep emotional undercurrent to The FM Tapes, though, Maelstrom's commitment to bringing the thrills surfaces time and again. If 'Res 06' had Maelstrom and Fasme getting wistful, the album's other Fasme link-up 'Trempo' is one of the hardest club joints here, a piece of old-school Detroit energy replete with some great cascading drum production. Indeed, 'Trempo' comes in the middle of a run towards the album's end where Maelstrom takes the handbrake off - there's a wild-eyed sense of fun to 'The Operator' and 'Upside Down DX7' which has one thinking of the zany cut-and-thrust of KiNK's best work.

Maelstrom's latest drop for Sheffield's Central Processing Unit label is an album of leftfield electro numbers that bring both pounding beats and poignant production.

RIYL: KiNK, Modeselektor, Cygnus, Bochum Welt, AFX

Ever been hit in the face with a wooden plank stuffed with rusty nails? Me neither, but I imagine the effect would be something like the sensation of having Montreal five-piece Puffer blasted into your eardrums. Put simply, this is the midpoint between hardcore and dirty ol’ rock’n’roll - part Poison Idea going dumpster-diving outside the garages of Melbourne’s punk scene, part Fucked Up playing their X records on a rotary sander. They’re equally at home with a pacy blur of riffs as they are going for a four-to-the-floor stomp; either way, the ragged larynx sits perfectly astride the roar, while the guitars go full Bob Stinson at his too-drunk-to-fuck-up best. You can practically hear the leather jackets creaking between phrases. This is music to move to. So what better place to start with this band than an LP compiling their must-have demo from 2022 and the remarkably excellent self-titled EP that followed in 2023? Originally released by New York’s increasingly-essential hc label Roachleg Records, these two highly digestible bursts of punk’n’roll complement each other perfectly. Whether you get your giddy thrills from the raw-as-hell likes of opener ‘Suffering’, or from the non-more-anthemic, holy-shit-I-need-to-bang-my-skull-against-the-wall double whammy of ‘Sister Marie’ and ‘Hard Way To Go’, you are guaranteed to find something to love here. You could always try hitting yourself with that plank, but you’ll probably find you return to this more often. Drunken Sailor delivers the goods again. Get the fuck involved.

Reissue of late-’80s release by lovably manly Australian punk rock trio! Sometime in the winter of 1989-90, I wandered into New York City’s Midnight Records, a store famous for its deep catalog of ’60s garage and psychedelic music, as well as a strong selection of classic punk rock and a cantankerous French owner with ridiculous hair. On this visit, instead of hearing a puny French bootleg of The Standells or the Seeds, as I opened the door I was enveloped in the massive opening chords to the first song on the Cosmic Psychos’ then-new album Go the Hack. “She’s a lost cause / She’s a lost, lost cause!” blasted into the air at maximum volume. In a perfect cinematic moment, the drums announced my entry, the bass dictated my walk, the air became thick with guitar fuzz and wah-wah, and snarled vocals described perfectly a girl’s descent into a cause which was lost. Instead of record shopping, I felt like I’d stepped into a biker movie and was motoring down a long, straight Outback road on a Harley. This was my introduction to the Cosmic Psychos, and I was hooked. I loved that a band could be so powerful, sound so big and unapologetically simple, and incorporate so much of what I loved about music—well, basically the attitudes and sounds of The Stooges and Ramones: setting up songs with a good title or idea, matching it with a massive riff, then running it out with squeals of wah-wah and manly disregard for cleverness or adornment. And they called themselves the Cosmic Psychos! They obviously had no regard for “makin’ it” in those days, when an alternative rock band at least had a chance to sell some records. I was an instant fan. Earlier records proved to be the same formula with even less refinement, and that was definitely a good thing. These were lovably manly Aussies singing about what they knew best: farm equipment, lusting after Elle Macpherson, wishing they were in Van Halen (for the ladies), drinking at the pub, and even more drinking at the pub. Trivia question: In what indie rock song does the lead singer bellow “I love my tractor!”? Answer: None! No scarves or looking like Stevie Nicks straight out of the hairstylist’s for these fellows. They were the real deal before the deal was dealt. And they couldn’t care less. The Psychos enjoyed a long run through the ’80s and ’90s on such Australian labels as What Goes On, Mr Spaceman, Survival and Rattlesnake, as well as American stalwarts Sub Pop and Amphetamine Reptile. Many bands from that era no longer seem vital today, lost in a murk of crisp drums, loud guitars, flannel shirts and shallow aspirations. These first Cosmic Psychos releases are as timeless and necessary as ever—still a bullshit bulldozer, a blurry loud night at the bar, a rollicking time hanging with the guys. The time has come for a new generation to be uplifted by these initial blasts from the Cosmic Psychos. Goner is proud to partner with Melbourne’s esteemed Aarght! Records to bring these platters of primal perfection back into a world that definitely needs them. — Eric Friedl, Oblivians / Goner Records 40th Anniversary tour about to hit UK / EU! Go the Hack!! Essential!!

Limited vinyl edition of 300 copies on 180g white vinyl with download card. Deleted Scene, the 8th studio album from UK producer Stumbleine, overflows with beautiful nostalgia-tinged electronica. The album is steeped with cloud-like beauty, with opener I Can Stop Anytime I Like fusing addictive sampled vocals with soft, glassy guitars, as if a reflecting pool of the listeners' memories. Cinderhaze ripples that pool with a more driving, magnetic force, shifting and pulling its emotional weight in cyclic waves. Ursa Minor Sleeps Forever is fittingly sleepy, circling soft slow synth arpeggios in a dreamy haze, a sound built upon by Somnia to an epiphany-like string bed, never straying too far from Stumbleine's serene haven of melodic grace. On Catastrophette Stumbleine crafts a more dramatic and poignant web of sound, as if running through the memories created by the rest of Deleted Scene. The album as a whole is an escape to a dream-state of Stumbleine's making, captivating, yet familiar, and completely enveloping. According to Peter, "Deleted scene refers to the memories that play over and over inside your own head, replaying hazy copies of hazy copies that evolve into a bittersweet fever dream. Everybody has their own unique collection of deleted scenes slowly distorting and fading away." 'Stumbleine is the alias of Peter Cooper. With roots in the UK post rock scene, the reclusive producer began blending slow dream-like pop with fractured lo-fi beats as Stumbleine in 2012. Melancholic rnb vocals ebb and flow above submerged guitar ballads. Sand blasted samples intertwine with broken beats to create music with a nostalgic fragile warmth. Stumbleine is known for a DIY ethic, releasing music directly to fans or via the independent label Monotreme Records.'

Italian group The Gluts are today announcing their new full-length‘Bang!, out May 31st on Fuzz Club. Arriving following 2021’s ‘Ungrateful Heart’ LP, ‘Bang!’ is the fifth studio album from the
Milan-based band. “Like the sound of a single gunshot, straight to the heart”, the record is balanced between punchy, fast-paced punk songs and noisy experimentalism, perfectly distilling the strength and
energy of their notoriously wild, feedback-blasted live shows. INDIE ONLY! 180g Yellow Vinyl.

One of the greatest, heaviest, and most sought-after guitar records from 1970s West Africa, available on vinyl for the first time in over a decade!!!

Bamako, Mali, 1973: Rail Band, the official orchestra of the Malian state railway, drops their self-titled LP. It’s a relentlessly soulful and hypnotic blend of American funk, jazz horns, and Afro-Cuban music, reflected through centuries-old Mandé tradition and blasted at top volume by some of the continent’s greatest artists.

Led by legendary trumpet and saxman Tidiani Koné and held aloft by the intricate web of Djelimady Tounkara’s rumbling, reverb-soaked guitar, Rail Band’s sprawling compositions embody West African storytelling traditions while exulting in the technology and modernity of a newly independent Mali. Vocalists Salif Keita and Mory Kanté, two heroes of African music who would achieve global fame as soloists, are endlessly emotive, oscillating between silky ballads and funk screams. The band’s sound is filled out by layers of percussion, rolling guitars, and melodic horns filtered through the Caribbean.

Starting in 1970, Rail Band played five nights a week, from 2 pm til the early hours, at the Buffet Hotel de la Gare. Their audience was an international array of businessmen, young partiers, and people of the Bamako night. The band was incredibly versatile, switching genres, rhythms, and styles to meet their crowd. It was a volatile mix, one that would fall apart soon after these recordings were made, with Salif Keita’s departure to start the rival Les Ambassadeurs. Though Rail Band continued in many distinguished forms, the eight songs on this album reveal one of the greatest bands to ever exist, at the height of their creative powers.

On “Duga”, a composition dating back to the 13th century and passed on through oral tradition by the jelis (griots), the Rail Band replace balafon with the interplay of Cheick Tidiane’s speaker-rattling bass and Alfred Coulibaly’s tasteful organ. “Marabayasa,” with its iconic sax intro and Mory Kanté channeling James Brown, is a deep-cut favorite of DJs around the world. Part of a long and regal lineage of Malian guitar orchestras initially tasked with translating the region’s traditional music to modern instrumentation, Rail Band morphed and reenvisioned those traditions with a style and energy that has never been matched.

Ryan Kaiser has already made a name for himself creating daydreamy, sun-blasted, Polaroid-pop as Yot Club. With his second full-length, Rufus, Kaiser is expanding his sonic palette and challenging his own established modes of music making by letting collaborators in. The record includes co-writes with the likes of Tommy English (Carly Rae Jepsen, Kacey Musgraves), and singer Charli Adams, with Patrick Wimberly (formerly one-half of Chairlift) on mixing duties, and the result is a collection of songs that sounds bolder and brighter. From the shimmering surf-pop of opener “Stuntman,” to the minor chord angst and quiet-loud-quiet pulse of “New Day,” to The Strokesian swoon of album closer “Lazy Eyes,” Kaiser lo-fi hooks have a new cinematic scope. It continues Kaiser’s coming of age — looking back, picking it all apart, trying to work it all out, and constantly pushing forward.

Hailing from Brittany, historical center of France's industrial scene and in close proximity to Belgium's infamous rave and EBM innovations, Ekors set out to deliberately blacken and burn the sophisticated sounds emanating from Paris. With releases on Amsterdam's harsh Leyla imprint, fellow French hardcore iconoclast Umwelt's Flesh or Die, and JoeFarr's User Experience, the trio undoubtedly made their name in their lonely redoubt in the timberland, and Rant & Rave is honored to host their theme EP, Forest Killers, as our fifth release.

'Woodchip' conjures nightmares of dead bodies run through a woodchipper rather than more pastoral scenes, its distorted kicks, bone-crushing bass and blasted-apart leads chopping air and anyone unlucky enough to stand in its way. Title track 'Forest Killers' is murderous, the lurching breakbeat and shrapnel percussion approaching like axe falls ever closer until the horror score melody enters, then accelerating frantically as the killers close in. 'Evil Sapp' only seems subdued in comparison, its hammering techno pulse providing scant breathing room as industrial machinery fells nearby trees. Self-explanatory 'Chainsaw Requiem' ups the discomfort as the titular tool buzzes overhead, more Texas Chainsaw Massacre than weekend warrior woodpile work. Amidst squalling leads, ricocheting percussion, fearful blasts of noise, and pounding bass and kicks, Ekors escort us out of the haunted wood, sighs of relief and evil laughs joining in chorus.

Limited edition 300 copies all pressed on mandarin orange coloured vinyl, and housed in a gloss finished full colour outer sleeve with insert, polylined inner bag and download code. Non-Returnable.

Recorded in Finland & the United Kingdom. Winter/Spring 2023

Finnish space travellers Nolla join forces with psychedelic guitar maestro Mike Vest (Bong, Blown Out, Modoki, Artifacts & Uranium, Drunk In Hell)

Inspired by classic space rock, driving hypnotic krautrock and bleak synth soundscapes, the Kaliyuga Express debut album is a story of ends and beginnings, light and darkness, dystopian worlds beyond and their warriors and masters.

Prepare to be blasted into endless black space!

‘Ultra Delays & Octave Hawkwind Guitar Compositions. At the Edge Of Time & The Universe.’

For fans of: Hawkwind, Can, Sun Dial, Bevis Frond, Space Rock, Kosmische Musik etc