Suche:dusty trick

2026 Repress

It’s rare that a certain sound is entirely an artist’s own. Although undeniably a stew of impeccable influences – from blues to folk to Latin to dusty funk, soul and hip-hop – one cannot hear a Tommy Guerrero song without immediately recognising it as his - and his only.
The cult skater from San Francisco is globally renowned as one of the original members of the legendary “Bones Brigade” team. And as an accomplished multi-instrumentalist, his laid-back soul is beloved by all who’ve basked in its blissful glow.
There’s something elemental about this music that really stirs the soul. Strikingly beautiful and instantly addictive, it’s a kind of funk-fuelled, melody-driven, groove-based magic. There’s a serenity and heart in the playing that radiates warmth and splendour, as if crafted for endless sunsets. His albums that surfaced on Mo Wax at the turn of the century have been treasured since their release and it’s two of his most vital LPs that we’re honoured to reintroduce.
The originals were quietly pressed on to a single piece of vinyl so we’ve worked closely with Tommy this year to bring you these fresh, limited editions. They have been lovingly remastered, cut nice and loud on to heavyweight double vinyl and presented in deluxe gatefold jackets.
Soul Food Taqueria continued Guerrero’s guitar soul but represented a step forward with its polished production and greater complexity of instrumentation. Denied the promotion it deserved upon release, it flew under the radar. It is now the most wanted record of his wondrous back catalogue.
Guerrero’s atmospheric touch and subtle guitar provide lush, glimmering pieces of musical texture. Within his spacious compositions, uniquely arranged instruments flourish alongside each other to create a languid soundtrack for halcyon days.
As ever, the diversity on display is beguiling. From bossa nova, samba and cumbia rhythms to understated folk, funk and soul grooves, this is another exotic set of mellow gold; perfectly represented by ESPO’s memorable artwork. Furthermore, the title’s hybridity reflects the intoxicating sweep of stylistic flavours served up, reminding us that, however tricky it is to categorise Guerrero’s special blend, it’s always a pleasure to indulge in something so creative and adventurous.
Dubby, bass-heavy instrumentals give way to moody folk-soul – witness “It Gets Heavy”, featuring melancholic vocals from Gresham Taylor – whilst “Thank You MK” is a gentle ode to the tropics, featuring ethereal instrumentation, bright bass and warm, jazzy guitars. The second half in particular contains a number of stunning ambient tracks – check “Lost Unfound”, “Another Brother Gone” and “Broken Blood” - built around minimalist, laid-back grooves and detailed guitar orchestrations which wouldn’t be out of place on the latest Jonny Nash release.
Guerrero closes this flawless set with a moment of true beauty. Restrained and graceful, “Falling Awake” is a pared back piece containing meditative guitar melodies set against melancholic piano arrangements. It brings proceedings to the most peaceful close. Seductively good, it reminds you just how great simplicity can sound.

In the late summer of 1994, Upadhmanyia (John Mackaay & Michel Rehatta) invited Leo Verhoef (LFU) to collaborate on a track. They met a few more times afterward at a power station converted into a studio in IJsselstein, The Netherlands. "Hasiya" was quickly born and was already in stores by early November 1994. John & Leo drove to house club iT in Amsterdam, where they gave the track to DJ Marcello, resulting in an iT hit! The track was quickly picked up by DJs worldwide, and Richie Hawtin used it in a live set in Denver on November 19th of that year, which can be heard on SoundCloud (Hasiya is mixed around 43:00). The track was also a huge hit on dance floors in England and Spain.
In late 1994, Hasiya appeared on a CNR Music EP titled "Welcome To The Club," along with four other hits from producers like Pete Lazonby, The Shaker, and Drum Club. A double CD of the same name followed in early 1995, released in Belgium, featuring Hasiya alongside artists like Robert Miles, Digital Express, Aura, Natural Born Grooves, and other hits of the era. In early 1995, Arcade released "House Party '95 the Kinky Klubmixx," mixed by Koen Groeneveld & Addy van der Zwan. The same CD was released in Scandinavia as "House Party '95 (5)." Hasiya flourished among the most popular house tracks of the time. The record spent three weeks in the Dance Music Mega Top 30 and peaked at number 22 around the holidays of late 1994.
For 31 years, Hasiya was only available on record, CD, tape, or YouTube. Starting November 21, 2025, it will be resurrected from the underground into the world of digital downloads and streaming. The 2025 Remaster, along with five new mixes, will be widely available, including a limited vinyl release of 350 copies. The 30 test pressings have already been received with open arms by various DJs and received immediate support from Eris Drew and Octa Octa during ADE.
Because Hasiya was created in 1994, the only available remix material is the original DAT tape, which, thankfully, was still stored in an old box in a dusty attic. Most of the sounds for the new versions have been recreated and re-recorded.
Rehatta's Reanimated Mix:
This remix - created by one of the two founders of Upadhmaniya - combines driving, percussive beats with a thrilling, progressive break featuring ascending, dizzying strings. This trick returns shortly afterward to rev things up again. An accessible remix for dance floors worldwide.
LFU 2025 Version:
This straightforward, raw techno version with a touch of acid is ready to rock dance floors. LFU's updated version of the 1994 original, which he created with Michel & John, will undoubtedly remain a head shaker from here on out.
John Consemulder Metaphysical Mix:
With a pumping groove and a funky bassline as an intro, John Consemulder's remix immediately strikes a chord. A refined and elegant approach to the original, with sounds as mysterious and exciting as the flowing lava in the 'Gruta das Torres' - a cave in the Azores - the setting where this tech-trance remix was created.
Davje Remix:
Davje's version begins with the typical club and hard-trance bassline of the late '90s. You're drawn into a trance journey where beat changes sometimes try to throw you off track. Davje's creative Hammond organ interpretation of the Hasiya theme surprises and transports you back to the hippie era by the end of his remix.
Bojcot Remix:
Junglist Bojcot creates an exciting, nuanced, and mathematical remix with a beat that feels like jungle and half-tempo. He conjures up the sounds of LFU's 2025 Version, creates a bassline that sounds like a disturbed bumblebee, and adds a surprising string section. Massive!

No sleep ‘til side B. Hard Drive Library drops HDL N°06 — equal parts bump, grit, and cheek. Chopped just enough to raise an eyebrow, these edits aren’t here to ask permission.
No fancy tricks, just raw grooves with just the right amount of illegal. One for the heads, one for the hips, and one that’ll make you check the label twice. Play it loud and act like you found it in a dusty bargain bin in ’99.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

A Paris resident of Minsk origin, Lina Filipovich’s ‘Music for an imaginary dancefloor’ explores the liminal space between club music and something altogether weirder, elusive, and abstract. Nervous, varied and amplified by various delays, the LP was written from improvisations on analogue synthesizers between June and December in 2022.

Atonal drones and atmospheric textures convey imagery of charcoal skies and silk tapestries; an idealised parallel world untethered from reality and bodies, towards something more ethereal – floating freely in red carpet lined corridors.

“In my previous works, I used pre-existing sounds to create new pieces. I was interested in the appropriation and decontextualization of materials from various traditions and contexts. However, in this album, I don't deconstruct; instead, I attempt to co-write with the machines, relying on their aesthetics and my imagination.”

Lina's LP trickles down the spine, pulse-raising and gooseflesh on tender skin, analogous to the aftermath of a sweaty fever dream. Speaking the language of spirits in the allure of the dark.

Press release by Asmi Shetty

LEMON YELLOW VINYL

As mui zyu, Hong Kong British artist Eva Liu navigates the tricky territory of ever-changing identity, merging fantasy and folklore to create a stage for self-acceptance and deliverance. On her debut full-length Rotten Bun for an Eggless Century, Liu utilizes chopped-up sound- scapes, delicate industrial ambience and sweet pop melodies to introduce a character--a guide--who can be stretched across worlds to offer the catharsis of patience, perseverance and understanding. This isn't a character formed from a desire to escape or flee the real world, but rather a way to submerge even deeper into ourselves. Rotten Bun for an Eggless Century is a reflection of everyone, and everything, that made us who we are. On her 2021 a wonderful thing vomits, Liu was praised for her seamless integration of darkened, often ominous instrumentation and pillowy-soft vocals. As the front person of UK indie-rock trio Dama Scout, Liu effortlessly navigates a disorientating genre-bending sonic landscape with a playful, gentle dexterity. Now, with the help of Dama Scout bandmate Luciano Rossi as co-producer, Liu's first solo full-length builds upon these previous worlds to form a blossoming, more upbeat patchwork of lo-fi percussion, poignant lyricism and oddly alluring arrangements. The writing process of Rotten Bun for an Eggless Century prompted Liu to explore more of her Hong Kong heritage, allowing a space for acceptance and celebration. "I am Chinese and I am owning it," she explains. "Before, I would resent it. I tried doing things that would make me like less Chinese somehow." As the album began to take shape, Liu read the traditional Chinese folklore writings of Pu Songling and joined local East and Southeast Asian groups. It opened a portal into a new self, where Liu could blend her love of video games and film scores with traditional Chinese instruments.

’Angelo lost his shit over it. Aaliyah’s 3rd favourite track of all time is on it. David Bowie rocked up with it to a TV interview, declaring it “the most exciting sound of contemporary soul music”.

In 1996, Lewis Taylor released his self-titled masterpiece. A true modern classic, it’s an album that was years ahead of its time. Forget 25 years ago, it could easily have been made in 2021. An effortless blend of neo-soul, sophisticated pop, smart grooves and laid-back white funk, it enjoyed rapturous reviews from critics and music legends alike. But the album never managed to make an impact and given what was likely a token vinyl release at the time, the original records have long since been near-impossible to find. Lewis Taylor’s Lewis Taylor remains a holy relic for some and criminally unknown to most.

Lewis Taylor’s impeccable influences created a dazzling sonic palette: the LP as a whole suggests the visionary brilliance of Prince; the vocal stylings evoke the yearning power of Marvin Gaye; the effortless guitar playing shares the virtuosity of Jimi Hendrix; the haunting tones conjure Tricky; the innovative production and engineering invite comparisons to studio mavericks like Todd Rundgren and Brian Eno; the multi-layered, complex harmonies flash on Pet Sounds-era Brian Wilson; the dark, drama is reminiscent of both Scott Walker and Stevie Wonder; the complex arrangements create textures and moods with the feel of Shuggie Otis on Inspiration Information; the bold experimentation is akin to progressive artists like Faust and Tangerine Dream; the atmosphere is in conversation with Jeff Buckley’s Grace… and we could go on. That might all sound like marketing hyperbole, but not as far as Be With is concerned. It is a genuine wonder how an album this good could’ve passed so many people by.

But despite all the reference points, the similarities are really only skin-deep because the album sounds truly original. It occupies its own distinct, strange universe that feels dark and brooding one moment, bright and joyous the next. Ultimately, Taylor sounds like Taylor.

Although you wouldn’t know it from the credits, the album wasn’t the work of Lewis alone. Sabina Smyth gets an executive producer credit on the original sleeve, but in fact she worked with Lewis on the production and arrangements, did a lot of the backing vocals and she co-wrote Track, Song, Lucky and Damn with Lewis.

Lewis clarified all this in a Soul Jones interview with Dan Dodds in 2016. He explains how not giving Sabina the credit she was due at the time was an unfortunate consequence of where his head was at and he’s now trying to set the record straight.

Together they created an exquisite and sensually-charged record, with a freshness to the writing that makes the songs catchy, melodic-yet-deep and sometimes even funky. The music is predominantly guitar-led and a mixture of organs and synths, live drum loops and electronic percussion make for a sort of modern soul backing orchestra.

On the surface the album is gorgeously laidback, but beneath the lush, sometimes slick, production there’s a murkiness in the seriously gritty funk/hip-hop instrumentation. Lewis Taylor can be a claustrophobic listen. Even its one-word, often seemingly throw-away track titles add to the sense of unease. In its most positive moments, there’s still a sense that things aren’t quite right. The magic comes from this compelling tension.

The languid, strutting “Lucky” is a sensational opening statement. Sinuous electric guitar winds around the shaking percussion with a killer bass line rattling your bones, and Lewis’s voice is sublime. Its six-and-a-half unhurried minutes manage to distill the work of Marvin, Al Green and Bobby Womack because yes, it’s *that* good. Up next is the tough, dusty drum and jazzy, unsettling psych-guitar workout of “Bittersweet”. Aaliyah described it the “perfect song”, which says it all. By turns loping and soaring, tightly coiled and blasting free, 25 years on its discordant, swaggering majesty still sounds like future R&B.

The swinging, blue-eyed funk of “Whoever” oozes sophisticated sunshine soul for hazy days before “Track” sweeps in. The music tries to lift us up, beyond the reach of the vocals trying to drag us back down as Taylor sings “my mood is black as the darkest cloud”. The spare, dubby electro-soul of “Song” closes out the first half of the album with barely contained dread as it creeps towards the lush, synth-heavy coda.

The smouldering “Betterlove” eases us into the second half, coming on like a languorous response to the call of “Brown Sugar”, before sliding into the shuffling, softly-rocking “How”. Somehow the remarkable “Right” manages to both warm things up and smooth things out even more. Taut yet luxurious, it’s definitely not wrong.

“Damn” was to have been the album’s title track and you might also be able to hear its influence on D’Angelo’s Voodoo, maybe most obviously in the chaotic closing moments of “Untitled (How Does It Feel)”. Building to a screeching wall of noise that suddenly cuts dead, “Damn” sounds like the natural end to the album, with the celestial a cappella “Spirit” serving as a heavenly reprise.

When it came to the sleeve, art director Cally Callomon heard Taylor’s music as “sideways off-camera glances at a plethora of influences he had” and wanted to interpret that visually: “I went off into night-time London to see if I could find his song titles in off-beam low-fidelity photographs. I even found a shop called Lewis Taylor”. With a slide for each of the album’s ten tracks, nine of them are on the inner sleeve and the slide for “Damn” makes the front cover. It should’ve been the album’s title, but concerns over distribution in the US scuppered this.

One of UK soul’s most fascinating artists, Andrew Lewis Taylor is an enigmatic figure and a hugely under-appreciated talent. A prodigious multi-instrumentalist who got his start touring with heavy blues/psych outfit the Edgar Broughton Band, he released two albums of psychedelic-rock as Sheriff Jack before Island signed him on the strength of a demo alone. But Taylor was destined to be one of those artists unable (or unwilling) to be pigeonholed and despite the best efforts of Island’s publicity department the music never sold in the quantities it needed to or deserved to. Island eventually let him go in the early 2000s and in June 2006, Lewis Taylor retired from music.

Typical for the mid-90s, this CD-length album was squeezed onto a single LP for its original vinyl release. Simon Francis’s fresh vinyl mastering now spreads out the ten tracks over a double LP so nothing is compromised. And as usual, the records have been cut by Pete Norman and pressed at Record Industry. The original artwork has been restored at Be With HQ and subtly re-worked to work as a double.

This sprawling psychedelic soul opus really is a forgotten should-be-classic. We know that there are those of you who know, and as for the rest of you, we’re a bit jealous that you’re getting to hear Lewis Taylor for the first time.

Who is Harvey Couture? Some say he’s a survivor of French pop music’s sun-soaked synth-pop era of the early 1980s, others that he’s a more suave and stylish Serge Gainsbourg for the nu-Balearic era. There were even rumours circulating that he’s a musical mobster from the Cote D’Azure: a shadowy member of the mafia who deals in synths, drum machines and fretless bass guitars rather than guns, money and drugs. In truth, not even Leng Records knows much about the man behind the moniker, though his vividly kaleidoscopic, retro-futurist debut album, Scellé En Cristal, does offer a number of crafty clues. Whether listeners will make the necessary deductions to solve the mystery remains to be seen; regardless, it’s the music that matters, and on that score Scellé En Cristal simply cannot be faulted.

Rich in humid, afternoon-bright musical delights, the set sees our publicity-shy hero mix and mangle a multitude of musical influences – think proto-Balearic European synth-pop, Prince style purple funk, immersive ambient, early INXS style synth-rock, the electronic end of zouk and much more besides – with constantly colourful and imaginative results. Couture is most at home adding his variously seductive, sexy and sleazy vocals to bubbly, upbeat and mid-tempo numbers that combine delay-laden drum machine beats with surging synths, fluid bass, stylish guitars, lashings of leftfield pop nouse and plenty of tongue-in-cheek Gallic flair.

For proof, check the throbbing, off-kilter alien-funk throb of ‘Les Portes De La Perception’, the bustling, percussion-laden cheeriness of ‘Crème Solaire’ and the loose-limbed, toe-tapping brilliance of ‘Je Nes Peux Pas’, where chiming, steel pan style melodies and pots-and-pans percussion hits jostle for position with sliding fretless bass notes and flash-fried guitars. Check to ‘Passion’, a swaggering slab of bustling electrofunk/synth-rock fusion rich in ‘Rockit’-style scratches and restless synth-bass. The influence of languid, sunset-ready European pop records of the 1980s – those cuts that would later become sought-after amongst dusty-fingered collectors of Mediterranean music – is another recurring feature of Couture’s cultured but joyous debut album. It can be heard amongst the drowsy guitars, yawning bass and tumbling lead lines of ‘Look Within’, the pleasingly laidback ‘Invincible Line’, the elastic bass, fluorescent synth sounds and stuttering machine drums of ‘Marche’.

Yet Couture is no one-trick pony. Horizontal and loved-up moments of a more downtempo hue can be found scattered across the album, with the enveloping ambient awe of ‘Les Portes’ – all swelling chords, gentle melodies and atmospheric field recordings – and slowly unfurling ‘Whale Song’ both lingering long in the memory. Harvey Couture may not be ready to step out of the shadows just yet, but his music most certainly is. We have a feeling that Scellé En Cristal is just the start of the mystery monsieur’s musical journey.

Floating Points' personal collection of global soul, ambient, jazz and folk treasures form the latest in the warmly revered Late Night Tales series.

Sam Shepherd aka Floating Points' music taste is notoriously tricky to define, ranging from ethereal classical at one end to coruscating techno at the other, united only in a firm belief in the transcendental power of music to move hearts, minds and - yes - feet. Similarly, his production career has ranged from early experiments in dance music with breakout records such as the 'Shadows EP' and collaborating with legendary Gnawa master Mahmoud Guinia to his expansive album 'Elaenia', which met with critical acclaim upon its release in 2015.

This Late Night Tales excursion into the depths of the evening reflects his broad tastes. The globally-travelled producer has collected untold treasures on his travels from dusty stores in Brazil to market stalls near his hometown. There's the gorgeous 'Via Làctea', culled from Carlos Walker's debut album, Abu Talib's (Bobby Wright) plaintive 'Blood Of An American' and Robert Vanderbilt's gospel reworking of Manchild's 'Especially For You'. Raw soul and feeling oozing from each song's pores.

At the other end of the music scale are the modernists, such as Québécoise Kara-Lis Coverdale who weighs in with the indelible 'Moments In Love', Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith whose 'Milk' is an exercise in tranquility, while Sarah Davachi's meditative mix-opener offers respite from a weary world.

We have some exclusive tracks for Late Night Tales; alongside Davachi's offerings there is also Toshimaru Nakamura's 'Nimb #59', as well as the now traditional cover version. hepherd delved into his childhood
memory for this one, a track taken from the first album his parents bought him, Kenny Wheeler's 'Music For Large & Small Ensembles': Sam offers up his interpretation of 'Opening Part 1'. Wheeler also contributes horns to Azimuth
track The Tunnel, written and performed by Norma Winstone and John Taylor who, coincidentally, are the parents of Floating Points' drummer Leo Taylor. Closing the album, Lauren Laverne reads the suitably nocturnal poem 'Ah! Why, Because The Dazzling Sun' by Emily Brontë.

'I tried to find music that reflects the stillness of night. And because my musical interests lie all over the place, it's quite difficult to distil that notion down to just a few songs. I was quite keen to have some electronic music in there but I also really wanted to have some soul music mixed in, so I had to try and find a pathway between all of this different music.' - Sam Shepherd (Floating Points) March 2019