quête:eternal basement

Nicz Records puts out it's 5th release.
Debut EP from duo ONTHEGROUND - straight from Berlin, functional heavy beats, bearing roots in early 90's techno.

South Street International return with the house goodness once again, reissuing Vick Lavender’s house anthem “The L.O.V.E. Song (From Chicago To New York)”. Originally self-released on his label Sophisticado Recordings by the Chicago producer and musician, this is one of those timeless deep house gems that’s become an underrated weapon for discerning DJs worldwide.

Lavender – known for his work with Glenn Underground as part of the legendary Strictly Jaz Unit – has been shaping deep and soulful house for over three decades, blending world music, jazz fusion, R&B and more into a sound that’s both spiritual and deeply rooted in the dancefloor. Here he brings the best of both cities into one track: the soulful musicality of Chicago, the cosmopolitan polish of New York. Warm Rhodes, fluid percussion, and vocal refrains ride over a groove that’s equally at home in a dark basement session or a sunrise terrace set.

With originals changing hands for eye-watering prices on Discogs, this official reissue makes this must have record accessible again. Lovingly remastered by The Bakehouse and presented on South Street International, This record is a must-have for fans of deep house, and anyone who believes in the eternal conversation between Chicago and New York.

The 15th release on Ohm Series features tracks by Alessandro Crimi, TmShuffle, Armin Bender, Nacime B.
It's another strong releases - well selected by label boss Bjarnar Jónsson aka OHM.
Don't miss!

Sticking a dirty thumb in the eye of fate, our third collaboration sees this marrow deep family malarky turn official as Pace Yourself teams up with YS’s own imprint ERF REC for a split release. As if our status as minor celebrities and footnotes of the underground could level off no further: the unification no one asked for is here. Sticking it to the man, handing your arse to ya on plate; cauterising infected suburban minds world over.

Burn is the second YS album and written as a direct follow-up album to Brutal Flowers. If their first album was an exercise in the incremental, a construction of poise and patience, Burn, should be taken way the fuck at it’s word: it quite literally finds catharsis in twisted reverse. Birthed out the malignant kick found in deconstruction and chaos. Evil twin, psychotic younger sibling, call it what the hell you like. It might take you a moment to get the lay of the land in this darkly mutated world. Like a bug eye’d native first confronted with a zippo, the hit is radical and instant: a new way for the world to go up in smoke.

Splice the Seattle slacker scene with the spliffhead soundsystem culture of the 90s Bristol trip-hop scene, then cross-breed that with the DIY optimism and glee in creation found in the cut-and-paste worlds of skate, graffiti and hiphop, now run that through the skitzo basement mind of John.T. Gast and you’re close to the kind of scorched earth and spiked suburbia that birthed Burn.

Dunno quite what YS have been ingesting of late but this massively twisted LP touches on a host of gloriously fucked totemic underground sources while not sounding much like any of them. It has the ballsy swagger and hard flipping of the script as Massive Attack’s seminal Blue Lines. Indeed, the eponymous album tracks sound similar - the opener ‘Burn’ is like a hard nosed jammed out redux of ‘Blue Lines’. Getting into a kind of slow-spinning overdubbed maximal euphoria ending with mumbled downer vocals, struggling to conceal their tongues in their cheeks there’s an air of paranoia and proto-conspiracy theory. It’ll leave you scratching your head, feeling like you’ve stepped into a New World Order governed by a cacophony of drop outs, dope fiends and apocalyptic stoners. A cracked out world somewhere between Richard Linklater’s movie Slacker (1990) and Marc Singer’s Dark Days (2001).

The rest of the album parts like a tongue on a wine glass: Smith and Mighty, Bandulu, ambient Luke Slater records, Wah Wah Wino, Nurse with Wound, Land of the Loops, Placid Angels, Adrian Sherwood, Urban Tribe and DJ Shadow can all be heard in momentary splatters - but Burn like other works by YS, is its own ritual beast. ‘Moth’, a track which has been knocking about the underground deejai circuit for many moons, is a real raw chopped and screwed slice of stoner erotica that reeks of obsession and unrequited desire. Elsewhere, on tracks like ‘Switch’, ‘Trying’ and ‘Drift’ the throughline from Brutal Flowers can be heard. Underneath the driving heavy gravity the trademark emotional intimacies of YS linger: eternal recurrence, ghosts of static and shortwave, worn memories of the playful and painful sort. The brief moments where flashes of orchestral ambience get out from underneath the swagger are so pure, personal and unguarded that for a moment they leave you completely lonesome. In the album’s closer ‘End’, you can hear the fleeting promise and DIY possibilities of an analogue world and embers of ash that flutter in its wake: where it seemed, for a brief moment, that collective of DJs, engineers, rappers, graffiti artists and skate crews were emerging from the streets, giving the middle fingers to the system, before just as quickly disappearing back to the doldrums of obscurity. ‘End’ is a bittersweet ode to early soundsystem culture, MCs and pirate radio - an out of step time where for a moment the underdogs and weirdos seemed to be kicking on the door of something bigger.

A veritable teenage doof suite dosed with desire, claustrophobia and deviance. Burn is a good old howl at the moon: lonely, raw, and out for blood; basement style exegesis at its best. A thump to the gut, a stud through your blood. A dubbed-to-death classic straight out of the annals of nowhere. A perfect post card from oblivion. A bleak, bold and personally ferocious vision of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

This is everything that record collectors skip dates for. Fuck the scene and keep that shit underground. That’s what it is all about. Know what I mean, if you do? You’re in…

Hot on the heels of 12bit Jungle Out There's 'Right Mind' EP, Foundations Records brings you the hotly anticipated follow-up from rising star Arkyn on 'The Spirit EP' Drawing influence from classic '93 era jungle techno on the likes of Basement Records, it's perhaps his most accomplished work to date in his first foray into all hardware production. Arkyn is a UK based DJ and Producer. His production is influenced from a wide range of music he grew up listening to including Reggae, Dub, Soul, Techno and Funk to name a few. After discovering rave music through the underground party scene in Northampton, he began to cut his teeth DJing and has since gone on to play at some of the most established Jungle/Hardcore events in the country including Distant Planet, The Rave Story and Calling The Hardcore among others. He also recently debuted at Fabric for Motive Hunter Audio's takeover. Arkyn has released on FFF's 3am Eternal, Billy Daniel Bunter's Music Mondays and Motive Hunter Audio to name a few. He also runs his own label TufStuf Records. FOUNDATIONS002 - Arkyn - The Spirit EP Four tracks of Hardcore Jungle Techno and 4x4 made with Akai S3000 XL sampler, Roland 909, Roland JV 1080, Korg 01/W FD and Roland D50.

Unsighted is the Brooklyn based project of Nicolás Sierra ,and Mutante returns with a new sonic manifesto: an EP that channels the rough energy of EBM, the analog sensibility of Minimal Synth and the hypnotic pulse of New Beat.

This EP is a distorted time capsule, where corrosive basslines, martial rhythms and analog synths coexist in constant tension. It is a statement without nostalgia but with retro DNA, designed for sweaty dancefloors, smoky basements and minds that vibrate on the fringes of the mainstream.

Foreboding EP is a collection of tracks that don't ask for permission, they hit you straight on, like a post-industrial alarm on eternal loop.

Repress

2x February Griessmuhle closing party, it was a Monday during the day I had a hard weekend but I know the last party from Griessmuhle is still running (one day longer already) I ended up playing that night because Tham made the closing with the other synoid resident Acierate in B2B. We ended up doing an eternal afterparty at my place until Wednesday morning when he showed me this track and immediately closed it for KAOS.

Following this iconic moment in the history of contemporary Berlin club culture. Alexander Repro strikes the third tune on KAOS being the first one to made it to such a number. This techno-trance cinematic bomb will make the basements and warehouses shake whenever they let us rave in them. The Soundtrack for the post-corona movement that we all hope is about to come.

Stealing the show with his first appearance, you may have heard of him with his continuous prolific bomb outcome in Lobster Theremin, his classy Eurodance edits or his mighty U4E compilation. One of the most talented out there right now. And we will hear much more from him soon. Warm welcome to Julian Muller with a song dedicated to his mother Nancy. Keep the fire bro!

Closing the record, one of the classiest of its kind, Binary Digit post-melancholia around 150BPM acid that will make you feel as hopeful as happy and as sad. Feelings overload.

In pure Herrensauna fashion, wearing DIY decolored pants I type: "this is bleached punk" for disc-jockeys and collectors.

Camelot, the legendary seat of King Arthur's court in Early Middle Ages Britain, was probably not a real place. A corruption of the name of a real Romano-Briton city, the word "Camelot" accumulated symbolic, mythic resonances over centuries, until achieving its present usage as a near-synonym of "utopia." In the mid-20th century alone, Camelot inspired an explosion of representations and appropriations, among them the violent, affectless Arthurian court of Robert Bresson's 1974 film Lancelot du Lac and the absurdist iteration of Monty Python's 1975 Holy Grail, both of which feature armored knights erupting into fountains of blood; the mystical Welsh world of novelist John Cowper Powys's profoundly weird 1951 novel Porius, with its Roman cults, wizards and witches, and wanton giants; and the nationalist nostalgia of President John F. Kennedy's White House. Unsurprisingly there are fewer Camelots in more recent memory. Camelot, Canadian songwriter Jennifer Castle's extraordinary, moving 2024 chronicle of the artist in early middle age, charts a realer, more rooted, and more metaphorical place than the fabled Camelot of the Early Middle Ages (or its myriad depictions), but it too is a space more psychic than physical. In Castle's Camelot, the fantastic interpenetrates the mundane, and the Grail, if there is one, distills everyday experience into art and art into faith, subliming terrestrial concerns into sublime celestial prayers to Mother Nature, and to the unfolding process of perfecting imperfection in one's own nature. Co-produced by Jennifer and longtime collaborator Jeff McMurrich, her seventh record is at once her most monumental and unguarded to date, demonstrating a mastery of rendering her verse and melodies alike with crisply poignant economy. For all their pointedly plainspoken lyrical detail and exhilarating full-band musical flourishes, these songs sound inevitable, eternal as morning devotions. "Back in Camelot," she sings on the lilting, vulnerable title track, "I really learned a lot / circles in the crops and / sky-high geometry." The album opens with a candid admission of sleeping "in the unfinished basement," an embarrassing joke that comes true. But the dreamer is redeemed by dreaming, setting sail in her airborne bed above "sirens and desert deities." If she questions her own agency_whether she is "wishing stones were standing" or just "pissing in the wind"_it does not diminish the ineffable existential jolt of such signs and wonders. This abiding tension between belief and doubt, magic and pragmatism, self and other, sacred and profane, and even, arguably, paganism and monotheism, suffuses these ten songs, which limn an interior landscape shot through with sunstriped shadows of "multi-felt dimensions" both mystical and quotidian. The epic scale and transport of "Camelot," with its swooning strings, gives way dramatically to "Some Friends," an acoustic-guitar-and-vocals meditation in miniature on Janus-faced friends and the lunar and solar temperatures of their promises_"bright and beaming verses" versus hot curses_which recalls her minimalist last album, 2020's achingly intimate Monarch Season. (In a symmetrical sequencing gesture, the penultimate track, the incantatory "Earthsong," bookends the central six with a similarly spare solo performance and coiled chord progression, this time an ambiguous appeal to _ a wounded lover? a wounded saint? our wounded planet?) Those whom "Trust" accuses of treacherous oaths spit through "gilded and golden tooth"_cynics, critics, hypocrites, gurus, scientists, doctors, lovers, government, the so-called entertainment industry_sow uncertainty that can infect the artist, as in "Louis": "What's that dance / and can it be done? What's that song / and can it be sung?" Answering affirmatively are "Lucky #8," an irrepressible ode to dancing as a bulwark against the "tidal pools of pain" and the "theory of collapse," and "Full Moon in Leo," which finds the narrator dancing around the house with a broom, wearing nothing but her underwear and "big hair." But the central question remains: who can we trust, and at what cost faith, in art or angels or otherwise? Castle's confidence in her collaborators is the cornerstone of Camelot. Carl Didur (piano and keys), Evan Cartwright (drums and percussion), and steadfast sideman Mike Smith (bass) comprise a rhythm section of exquisite delicacy and depth. This fundamental trio anchors the airiness of regular backing vocalists Victoria Cheong and Isla Craig and frames the guitars of Castle, McMurrich, and Paul Mortimer (and on "Lucky #8," special guest Cass McCombs). Reprising his decennial role on Castle's beloved 2014 Pink City, Owen Pallett arranged the strings for Estonia's FAMES Skopje Studio Orchestra. On the ravishing country-soul ballad "Blowing Kisses"_Pallett's crowning achievement here, which can be heard in its entirety in the penultimate episode of the third season of FX's The Bear_Jennifer contemplates time and presence, love and prayer_and how songwriting and poetry both manifest and limit all four dimensions: "No words to fumble with / I'm not a beggar to language any longer." Such rare moments of speechlessness_"I'm so fucking honoured," she bluntly proclaims_suggest a state "only a god could come up with." (If Camelot affirms Castle as one of the great song-poets of her generation, she is not immune to the despairing linguistic beggary that plagues all writers.) Camelot evinces a thoroughgoing faith not only in the natural world_including human bodies, which can, miraculously, dance and swim and bleed and embrace and birth_but also in our interpretations of and interventions in it: the "charts and diagrams" of "Lucky #8," a daydreamt billboard on Fairfax Ave. in LA in "Full Moon in Leo," the bloody invocations of the organ-stained "Mary Miracle," and all manner of water worship, rivers in particular. (Notably, Jennifer has worked as a farmer and a doula.) The album ends with "Fractal Canyon"'s repeated, exalted insistence that she's "not alone here." But where is here? The word "utopia" itself constitutes a pun, indicating in its ambiguous first syllable both the Greek "eutopia," or "good-place"_the facet most remembered today_and "outopia," or "no-place," a negative, impossible geography of the mind. Utopia, like its metonym Camelot, is imaginary. Or as fellow Canadian songwriter Neil Young once sang, "Everyone knows this is nowhere." "Can you see how I'd be tempted," Castle asks out of nowhere, held in the mystery, "to pretend I'm not alone and let the memory bend?"

. For Fans Of: The Weather Station, Weyes Blood, Adrianne Lenker, Phoebe Bridgers, Joan Shelley, Lana Del Rey, Cass McCombs, Angel Olsen & Neil Young. Camelot, the legendary seat of King Arthur’s court in Early Middle Ages Britain, was probably not a real place. A corruption of the name of a real Romano-Briton city, the word “Camelot” accumulated symbolic, mythic resonances over centuries, until achieving its present usage as a near-synonym of “utopia.” In the mid-20th century alone, Camelot inspired an explosion of representations and appropriations, among them the violent, affectless Arthurian court of Robert Bresson’s 1974 film Lancelot du Lac and the absurdist iteration of Monty Python’s 1975 Holy Grail, both of which feature armoured knights erupting into fountains of blood; the mystical Welsh world of novelist John Cowper Powys’s profoundly weird 1951 novel Porius, with its Roman cults, wizards and witches, and wanton giants; and the nationalist nostalgia of President John F. Kennedy’s White House. Unsurprisingly there are fewer Camelots in more recent memory. Camelot, Canadian songwriter Jennifer Castle’s extraordinary, moving 2024 chronicle of the artist in early middle age, charts a realer, more rooted, and more metaphorical place than the fabled Camelot of the Early Middle Ages (or its myriad depictions), but it too is a space more psychic than physical. In Castle’s Camelot, the fantastic interpenetrates the mundane, and the Grail, if there is one, distills everyday experience into art and art into faith, subliming terrestrial concerns into sublime celestial prayers to Mother Nature, and to the unfolding process of perfecting imperfection in one’s own nature. Co-produced by Jennifer and longtime collaborator Jeff McMurrich, her seventh record is at once her most monumental and unguarded to date, demonstrating a mastery of rendering her verse and melodies alike with crisply poignant economy. For all their pointedly plainspoken lyrical detail and exhilarating full-band musical flourishes, these songs sound inevitable, eternal as morning devotions. “Back in Camelot,” she sings on the lilting, vulnerable title track, “I really learned a lot / circles in the crops and / sky-high geometry.” The album opens with a candid admission of sleeping “in the unfinished basement,” an embarrassing joke that comes true. But the dreamer is redeemed by dreaming, setting sail in her airborne bed above “sirens and desert deities.” If she questions her own agency whether she is “wishing stones were standing” or just “pissing in the wind” it does not diminish the ineffable existential jolt of such signs and wonders. This abiding tension between belief and doubt, magic and pragmatism, self and other, sacred and profane, and even, arguably, paganism and monotheism, suffuses these ten songs, which limn an interior landscape shot through with sunstriped shadows of “multi-felt dimensions” both mystical and quotidian. The epic scale and transport of “Camelot,” with its swooning strings, gives way dramatically to “Some Friends,” an acoustic-guitar-and-vocals meditation in miniature on Janus-faced friends and the lunar and solar temperatures of their promises—“bright and beaming verses” versus hot curses which recalls her minimalist last album, 2020’s achingly intimate Monarch Season. (In a symmetrical sequencing gesture, the penultimate track, the incantatory “Earthsong,” bookends the central six with a similarly spare solo performance and coiled chord progression, this time an ambiguous appeal to … a wounded lover? a wounded saint? our wounded planet?). Those whom “Trust” accuses of treacherous oaths spit through “gilded and golden tooth” cynics, critics, hypocrites, gurus, scientists, doctors, lovers, government, the so-called entertainment industry sow uncertainty that can infect the artist, as in “Louis”: “What’s that dance / and can it be done? What’s that song / and can it be sung?” Answering affirmatively are “Lucky #8,” an irrepressible ode to dancing as a bulwark against the “tidal pools of pain” and the “theory of collapse,” and “Full Moon in Leo,” which finds the narrator dancing around the house with a broom, wearing nothing but her underwear and “big hair.” But the central question remains: who can we trust, and at what cost faith, in art or angels or otherwise? Castle’s confidence in her collaborators is the cornerstone of Camelot. Carl Didur (piano and keys), Evan Cartwright (drums and percussion), and steadfast sideman Mike Smith (bass) comprise a rhythm section of exquisite delicacy and depth. This fundamental trio anchors the airiness of regular backing vocalists Victoria Cheong and Isla Craig and frames the guitars of Castle, McMurrich, and Paul Mortimer (and on “Lucky #8,” special guest Cass McCombs). Reprising his decennial role on Castle’s beloved 2014 Pink City, Owen Pallett arranged the strings for Estonia’s FAMES Skopje Studio Orchestra. On the ravishing country-soul ballad “Blowing Kisses” Pallett’s crowning achievement here, which can be heard in its entirety in the penultimate episode of the third season of FX’s The Bear Jennifer contemplates time and presence, love and prayer and how songwriting and poetry both manifest and limit all four dimensions: “No words to fumble with / I’m not a beggar to language any longer.” Such rare moments of speechlessness “I’m so fucking honoured,” she bluntly proclaims suggest a state “only a god could come up with.” (If Camelot affirms Castle as one of the great song-poets of her generation, she is not immune to the despairing linguistic beggary that plagues all writers.) Camelot evinces a thoroughgoing faith not only in the natural world including human bodies, which can, miraculously, dance and swim and bleed and embrace and birth but also in our interpretations of and interventions in it: the “charts and diagrams” of “Lucky #8,” a daydreamt billboard on Fairfax Ave. in LA in “Full Moon in Leo,” the bloody invocations of the organ-stained “Mary Miracle,” and all manner of water worship, rivers in particular. (Notably, Jennifer has worked as a farmer and a doula.) The album ends with “Fractal Canyon”s repeated, exalted insistence that she’s “not alone here.” But where is here? The word “utopia” itself constitutes a pun, indicating in its ambiguous first syllable both the Greek “eutopia,” or “good-place” the facet most remembered today and “outopia,” or “no-place,” a negative, impossible geography of the mind. Utopia, like its metonym Camelot, is imaginary

With the buzz around her building, Priddy made her biggest splash with the 2021 release of her debut album, The Eternal Rocks Beneath. The 10 self- penned tracks are delivered with a maturity and depth that belie the fact that this is her first full length release. At times tender, at times carrying a darker edge, the stories she weaves are transporting. Not surprising then that Nick Drake, John Martyn, Tunng and Scott Matthews are amongst her many influences.

The album was recorded over a 2-year period at Rebellious Jukebox studios, a little basement studio hidden beneath inner-city Birmingham and presided over by masterful producer Simon Weaver. The ensemble cast of musicians, including a sweeping string section, occasionally cut through by raw electric guitar and drums, as well as Richard March (Pop Will Eat Itself) on double bass and Mikey Kenny on fiddle, enhance Priddy's command of melody and lyricism and provide the perfect backdrop for the feelings of nostalgia and timelessness that underpin the record. Many of the songs were written during Priddy's teenage years and early twenties and reference themes of childhood and distant memories.

The title, 'Eternal Rocks Beneath' reflects this is Priddy's first album; the culmination of her earlier life experiences and the bedrock for whatever follows next.

Lost in time yet always in season, here’s a blast of that old perennial, the punk rock, representative of the swiftly changing times around Bailey’s Crossroads, just outside Washington DC, in the early 80s. Skam recorded this stuff in 1982-1983, then broke up, leaving these songs to be released… maybe never? Or more preferably, now, to race into the bloodstream of jaded, faded today with all the vigour and rigour of Skam’s eternal youth.

Though they didn’t release any records during their three years of existence, it’d be wrong to call Skam ‘never-was’ - in addition to these recordings, there’s a trail of flyers for shows with Scream, No Trend, United Mutations and Media Disease, as well as the memories of the student alumni from Bishop O’Connell High, class of ‘83 or so.

The conglomeration of scenes around the greater DC area at that time produced a variety of bands, but the prevailing recollection of the era is of the incendiary hardcore punk and subsequent straight edge values of the Dischord bands. The band that became Skam was a world apart; they were posited for the first time by 8th graders Vince Forcier and Jack Anderson at a Jackson Browne concert, and their initial rehearsals in their parents’ basement were highlighted by covers of Beatles, Stones, Who and Led Zeppelin songs. Bad covers.

It wasn’t until they’d been playing a bit that they discovered The Ramones, and it was then that the die was cast and pedal pressed to the metal for another frantic couple of years.

The Skam recordings from 1982 have an undeniably Clash-like countenance that sets them definitively apart from the ‘First Four’ of Dischord - in some ways, prefiguring the pop-punk sound of Green Day at the dawn of the 1990s instead - but subsequent recordings found them quickly evolving - or devolving - into a personal mastery of savage riffs and tempos, as well as post-punk conceptions.

But even as they were verging into this new territory, their three years together had frayed their alliance and they soon broke up. Jack joined No Trend, Vince played in Racer X and then Second Wind. And life went on. However, the rediscovered Skam tapes make for an incredible addendum to the more well-known music of that incredible time and place

Simone De Kunovich
Mythical Figure
Use variably, whenever you need: D.J. at MainStage, High Profile Fashion Event, Underground
Basement Club, Balearic Terrace Situation.
Gifted selector. Room filling presence. Oversized packaging.
He (here) deals three cards.
“Flow My Tears“ High Roller Euro House
„Super Mana Drain“ OMG Modern High Energy
„Warp Lord“ Early Morning, Playful Dark Eternal Bliss
„He who masters the sound glows“

It"s 2023, and even the turn of century seems a long time ago now - but oddly, Purling Hiss"s guitar-band ethos feels ever more timeless. The Hiss aren"t just a simple part of the tradition going back 50-odd years Their DNA, pulsing in waves of punk and classic radio rock, grunge and slacker, is ineffably, re-singably music - but their signature crushed guitar harmonics, fused with deep soulfulness, meld into something that cuts us with fresh heartbreak, an eternal recurrence that seems to be happening right now today, as it pours off the turntable and runs down the street. Drag On Girard, the first Purling Hiss album in six years, cruises through these states of mind and places in time. As before, but with new twists, Mike Polizze and his gang let loose with the chaos and noise implied by their name, applying high-end splatter and slow-rolling low end to eight vehicles, running the gamut from gleaming pop gems to head-cleaning epic jams before they"re done. One of the unique qualities of Drag On Girard is a specific lead-rhythm arrangement of the guitars, emitting the expected formidable roar while setting a certain type of rhythmic strut for the band. The two guitars style also trips power-pop impulses in the tunes, with sung-along harmony vocals that evoke classic collective magic and burnish the tunes one by one. Once this vibe"s established, side two turns around and stretches out with the molten flow of Purling Hiss at their very most epic; couched within loose improvisatory structures, the title track and "Shining Gilded Boulevard" play further with the yin/yang of nostalgia and truth as they trade places looking meditatively back to them old days and all their harshness and beauty.

Celebrating 10 years in the game this year and after a slight covid-induced pause, Dixon Avenue Basement Jams are back with fresh new summer heat straight from the depths of the colosseum on their Neutralizer sub-label. Longtime friend of the DABJ crew Delphi (who is also one half of Tiger & Woods alongside Marco Passarani) joins up with four shining examples of forward thinking machine driven funk, the type you can only expect to hear from the eternal city of Rome.

Strictly limited hand stamped edition on Carmine Red vinyl. Don't Sleep on this one, people.

Fiddlehead wasn’t supposed to make a second record. But, if we’re being totally honest, they weren’t supposed to make their first record either. Formed in what singer Pat Flynn describes as “a deeply, deeply, laughably depressing part of my life,” Fiddlehead was born with modest intentions. Flynn and his then-roommate, guitarist Alex Dow, decided to work on some songs, and with Basement having just broken up, guitarist Alex Henery entered the fold. Drummer Shawn Costa and bassist Adam Gonsalves—who has since been replaced by Casey Nealon—linked up with them and, all together, they wrote what would become the Out Of The Bloom EP. Those five songs established what Fiddlehead would be, a band that merged elements of post-hardcore, post-punk, and classic ‘80s emo into something that felt distinctly theirs.

Between The Richness effectively picks up where Springtime & Blind left off, as Flynn dives headfirst into that same subject. But astute listeners will notice a major difference this time: Flynn is singing about himself. “These massive things happened in my life between the first record and this record. It just so happened that I ended up getting married, I had a child, and it was around the 10-year anniversary of my father’s passing. So what if I want to write another record about how I feel about the loss of my father? Will people be like, ‘Pick another topic, dude.’ So, the opening track is called ‘Grief Motif’ because it’s the idea that this is an eternal struggle that will never go away. Take it or leave it, but it will be part of this dude as long as he’s got a pen in the hand.”

Between The Richness explodes with an energy that usurps that of Springtime & Blind. The guitar riffs of Dow and Henery are their most anthemic and combustive yet, making songs like “The Years,” “Get My Mind Right,” and “Down University” not just serve as the backbone for Flynn’s personal ruminations, but empathetic, emotional musical stabs that hit the listener just as hard. Meanwhile, Costa and Nealon give the songs a propulsive heft, allowing a track like “Million Times” to dart into unexpected territories without ever feeling alien

Fiddlehead wasn’t supposed to make a second record. But, if we’re being totally honest, they weren’t supposed to make their first record either. Formed in what singer Pat Flynn describes as “a deeply, deeply, laughably depressing part of my life,” Fiddlehead was born with modest intentions. Flynn and his then-roommate, guitarist Alex Dow, decided to work on some songs, and with Basement having just broken up, guitarist Alex Henery entered the fold. Drummer Shawn Costa and bassist Adam Gonsalves—who has since been replaced by Casey Nealon—linked up with them and, all together, they wrote what would become the Out Of The Bloom EP. Those five songs established what Fiddlehead would be, a band that merged elements of post-hardcore, post-punk, and classic ‘80s emo into something that felt distinctly theirs.

Between The Richness effectively picks up where Springtime & Blind left off, as Flynn dives headfirst into that same subject. But astute listeners will notice a major difference this time: Flynn is singing about himself. “These massive things happened in my life between the first record and this record. It just so happened that I ended up getting married, I had a child, and it was around the 10-year anniversary of my father’s passing. So what if I want to write another record about how I feel about the loss of my father? Will people be like, ‘Pick another topic, dude.’ So, the opening track is called ‘Grief Motif’ because it’s the idea that this is an eternal struggle that will never go away. Take it or leave it, but it will be part of this dude as long as he’s got a pen in the hand.”

Between The Richness explodes with an energy that usurps that of Springtime & Blind. The guitar riffs of Dow and Henery are their most anthemic and combustive yet, making songs like “The Years,” “Get My Mind Right,” and “Down University” not just serve as the backbone for Flynn’s personal ruminations, but empathetic, emotional musical stabs that hit the listener just as hard. Meanwhile, Costa and Nealon give the songs a propulsive heft, allowing a track like “Million Times” to dart into unexpected territories without ever feeling alien