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Today, Anjimile Chithambo, better known as Anjimile, announces his new album, The King, out September 8th, his first full-length since 2020’s breakthrough Giver Taker. To herald the announcement, he shares lead single, ‘The King’, accompanied by a visualiser by Daniela Yohannes, whose striking painting takes centre stage on the album cover.

Highlighting the artistic shift from Giver Taker to now, ‘The King’ opens with a lofty, melodic choir, an intro that belies the song’s motives. Suddenly, sinister arpeggios interrupt the reverie, and the voices grow darkly serious. Deeply steeped in the confusion, grief, and rage of being Black in America, ‘The King’ pushes back against the tired adage, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” hissing, “What don ’t kill you almost killed you// What don’t fill you//pains you// drains you.”

“If Giver Taker was an album of prayers, The King is an album of curses.” In his second album, Anjimile continues exploring what it means to be a Black trans person in America. The brutally honest reflection of 2020’s deadly summer is less reminiscent of the pink cloud of early sobriety and more rooted in the reality of seeing brutality with clear eyes. Drawing from influences ranging from religion, Phillip Glass, and lived experiences, the album is a grand step forward for Anjimile. Nearly every sound you hear on The King comes from two instruments: an acoustic guitar and Anjimile’s own voice. Other than a few beautiful contributions from Justine
Bowe, Brad Allen Williams, Sam Gendel, and James Krivchenia (Big Thief), the album is the result of a year in LA working intimately with Grammy and Juno winner Shawn Everett.

Today, Anjimile Chithambo, better known as Anjimile, announces his new album, The King, out September 8th, his first full-length since 2020’s breakthrough Giver Taker. To herald the announcement, he shares lead single, ‘The King’, accompanied by a visualiser by Daniela Yohannes, whose striking painting takes centre stage on the album cover.

Highlighting the artistic shift from Giver Taker to now, ‘The King’ opens with a lofty, melodic choir, an intro that belies the song’s motives. Suddenly, sinister arpeggios interrupt the reverie, and the voices grow darkly serious. Deeply steeped in the confusion, grief, and rage of being Black in America, ‘The King’ pushes back against the tired adage, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” hissing, “What don ’t kill you almost killed you// What don’t fill you//pains you// drains you.”

“If Giver Taker was an album of prayers, The King is an album of curses.” In his second album, Anjimile continues exploring what it means to be a Black trans person in America. The brutally honest reflection of 2020’s deadly summer is less reminiscent of the pink cloud of early sobriety and more rooted in the reality of seeing brutality with clear eyes. Drawing from influences ranging from religion, Phillip Glass, and lived experiences, the album is a grand step forward for Anjimile. Nearly every sound you hear on The King comes from two instruments: an acoustic guitar and Anjimile’s own voice. Other than a few beautiful contributions from Justine
Bowe, Brad Allen Williams, Sam Gendel, and James Krivchenia (Big Thief), the album is the result of a year in LA working intimately with Grammy and Juno winner Shawn Everett.

Boy Harsher, Portishead, Thom Yorke, Radiohead, Beak>, ERAAS, SUUNS. Over the past seven years, Public Memory's distinctive use of analog synthesizers, electronic beats mixed with organic percussion, lo-fi sound design, and gritty ambience has created a singularly eerie and shadowy world. The first seconds of Public Memory's new record, Elegiac Beat, thrust us immediately into that world. We are in media res, with a feeling of sudden movement from a sensible point A to B. Given some time however, we realize that there is something askew–a bit of brightness here, some shadows pushed aside, some jazz and funk amongst the dub and Krautrock. This is an unfamiliar, ambiguous mood that pushes Public Memory towards new ground. We still drift past the clouded lights and hollowed out buildings of previous albums, but with an occasional bounce in our step now, a bit of golden haze around the edges. First single "Savage Grin" cements this clearly. The track has a jazzy, trip-hop flavor, albeit filtered through Public Memory's narcotic, hazy lens. We could be in a hotel lounge in the alps somewhere on holiday, or out of time in a majestic, sparkling ballroom. But we still have the feeling of being haunted, or perhaps even hunted in some way. This feeling intensifies and comes to a head towards the ever-darkening end of the track, leading directly into "Afterimage", in which someone almost imperceptibly sings "I hear them coming" in a twisted, auto-tuned flail. Second single "7 Floor" begins with flanged drums and damaged synthesizer stabs, evoking a kind of apparition floating towards us in the mist. As the track moves on there is, similarly to "Savage Grin", a contrast in feeling between a cold exterior roaming and an interior, warmer, human place. This time however, we move from the colder to the warmer as the synths from the track's beginning make way for a Rhodes-style organ and backing string synth, infusing an unexpected sense of peace. But like "Savage Grin", the track moves to its end through an in-between place beyond the haze. Faded and distant synthesizers meld with voices–human, or perhaps otherwise–that beckon us, or perhaps warn us. We can't be sure which. Third single "Far End Of The Courtyard" brings us closest to classic Public Memory territory with hip-hop beats, chopped and screwed samples, lo-fi ambience, and ghostly electric pianos complementing the vocals. There is darkness, perhaps more here than in the previous two singles, but with a crucial moment of uplifting lightness so subtle it may be missed upon first listen. As an inverse to both "Savage Grin" and "7 Floor" we end with brightness, the jazzier side of the record pushed to the forefront as the track fades away on that golden haze. In the end though, the haze may be just that: a vapor, a mist, a slight dusting of some other world on top of the degraded one Public Memory so effectively portrays. Elegiac Beat is between two places, and as it straddles the line between the two, we are uncertain if the light it brings shines directly from the sun, or if it is dimly reflected through that majestic ballroom world. For fans of 1990s Bristol trip hop, coldwave, and Thom Yorke's The Eraser

Black Truffle is pleased to announce The Leisure Principle, a new solo LP from London-based bassist and sound artist Otto Willberg. A key player in the London underground, Willberg is often heard on acoustic and electric bass in free improv settings and bands with Laurie Tompkins (Yes Indeed) and Charles Hayward (Abstract Concrete), as well as the fractured No Wave unit Historically Fucked. His previous solo releases have ranged from extended technique double bass to explorations of the acoustics of a 19th century artillery fort. But nothing Willberg has committed to wax so far prepares a listener for The Leisure Principle, six unashamedly melodic improvisational workouts created almost entirely with heavily filtered bass harmonica and electric bass. On the opening ‘Reap What Thou Sow’, a single-note bass harmonica loop pulses along underneath a roaming bass solo, the side-chained envelope filtering (where the dynamic behaviour of the bass determines the filter for both bass and harmonica) fusing the two instruments into a single stream of burbling shifts in resonance. After several minutes of patient exploration of this low-end landscape, the music suddenly opens up in widescreen with the entrance of Sam Andreae’s graceful melodica chords, spreading out across the stereo field. From this epic opener, each of the remaining pieces goes on to explore a slightly different aspect of the terrain. On ‘Shadow Came into the Eyes as Earth Turned on its Axis’, a similarly buoyant harmonica bass line provides the foundation, but this time playing a soulful descending riff, its almost R&B feel abstracted and half-obscured by the filtering. On ‘Mollusk’, echoed bass arpeggios skitter between elegiac chords somewhat reminiscent of the opening of John Abercrombie’s ‘Timeless’, before settling into a hypnotic groove. On the record’s second half, Willberg pushes further into the possibilities of his idiosyncratic instrumentation. On ‘Wetter’, bass and harmonica come together into a monstrous, growling jaw harp; on ‘Had we but world enough and more time’, the subtly shifting pulsating patterns start to feel almost like a kind of evaporated, drum-less dub techno until an eruption of wheezing bass harmonica gives the piece a comically folkish turn. Willberg’s melodically inventive and virtuosic bass performance calls to mind any number of fusion touchstones, from Jaco Pastorius to Mark Egan’s singing tone in the early Pat Metheny Group—even Anthony Jackson’s work with Steve Kahn. But with its radically reduced instrumentation, The Leisure Principle is also an exercise in minimalism, and the absence of percussion gives even its funkiest moments a strangely abstracted quality. At times, its uncanny blend of the abstruse and the immediate suggests the fried pop experiments of David Rosenboom or the skewed but deeply musical DIY of 80s underground groups like De Fabriek. Both easy on the ear and profoundly strange, The Leisure Principle proudly takes its place among the most eccentric offerings on the Black Truffle menu.

Lee Gamble’s UIQ label unveils a second album from Filipina-Australian artist Corin Ileto, deploying a brace of swarming alien chorales and rapturous digital rave noise to explore the idea of sound as a sentient being. Bold and operatic, cinematic and cybernetic.

Named after the iconic choral work by 20th Century avant-garde legend György Ligeti (as immortalised by Stanley Kubrick in 2001), ‘Lux Aeterna' explores the idea of micropolyphony, a term Ligeti described as a complex polyphony "in which harmonies do not change suddenly, but merge into one another." Like Ligeti, Corin isn't primarily concerned with melody or rhythm, but timbre: the colour and quality of sound itself.

Taking its time to unfurl, the album opens with ‘lumen naturae’, winding tonal clouds that eventually latch onto a misshapen hoover sound that curves into the abyss. Corin shows her hand more formally on 'sunta', balancing layered cybernetic drones against ratcheting metallic rhythms and unstable textures. When the track cuts to almost-silence, it reminds us of Akira Rabelais' ghosted 'Spellewauerynsherde' (itself an impressionistic granulation of vocal recordings), before being disrupted by a dynamic kick that shares DNA with club music.

But despite her occasional flirtations with the club, Ileto doesn't appear to have any interest in making functional dance music. Instead, she emphasises momentum and texture. Like a celestial opera, ecstatic trance is reimagined within the context of sacred liturgy – merging hyper-real soundscapes with Gregorian chant and medieval instrumentation. Chrome-plated clangs and growling subs highlight the album’s sci-fi leanings, tapping into a sort of retro-futurism that balances a hi-tech mindset with a feeling of deep vulnerability and alienation.

These days, singer-songwriter and actor David Blue tends to be remembered only in relation to Bob Dylan. A member of the supporting cast in mid-60s Greenwich Village and The Rolling Thunder Revue. Yet to categorise Blue in this way is reductionist, and does him an injustice. He was something of an archetype of the 60s generation of Greenwich Village singer-songwriters. Yet, esteemed by his peers, he was overlooked. He released seven albums in a decade, and his acting career was shaping up when he died suddenly at the age of just 41. His passing was barely noted in the rock press, and in the subsequent years Blue was all but forgotten. Of late, though, that’s changed. His albums started to reappear on CD on small labels and, in 2020, both Rolling Stone and Mojo magazines published major reappraisals. Blue – at last – was getting the attention denied him in life.



It wasn’t until 1965 that Blue, as Dave Cohen, released his first recordings – three songs on Elektra’s Singer Songwriter Project. All betrayed a debt to pre-electric Dylan. But then again, so did much else coming out of Greenwich Village at the time. Elektra contracted Blue to do his own album, and in 1966 David Blue was released – his first recording to appear under that name. Electric folk rock with a garage band attitude, somewhat in debt to Highway 61, it didn’t sell well. Shortly after the album’s release Blue formed and toured with The American Patrol, a four-piece rock band, recording an album for Elektra that was never released.



Now, for the first time, Hanky Panky and Mapache release those historical abandoned American Patrol recordings, along with the three tracks included on Elektra’s 1965 LP Singer Songwriter Project, as David Blue And The American Patrol The Lost 1967 Elektra Recordings & More and David Blue, his self-titled 1966 debut album, on two exclusive vinyl editions limited to 500 copies

*REISSUED ON LIMITED EDITION BLUE VINYL*

London-based electronic songwriter Ryan Lee West aka Rival Consoles to release his most personal work to date in the form of a mini-album titled ‘Night Melody’ through Erased Tapes on 5th August 2016. During the release of his acclaimed full-length album ‘Howl’ and heavy touring in late 2015, Ryan came out of a 13-year long relationship and found himself making music throughout the winter months. The result of his efforts is a 34-minute, 6-track mini album ‘Night Melody’, born out of and shaped by long hours working into the night. It’s nocturnal in sound; mysterious in the way that the early hours so often are.

“I found myself, in a silent home, with the days getting dark very early. I’ve never before in my life been affected by the lack of light so much. I just remember it always being night time. I would either make music into the night, go out drinking with friends, or go to parties and dance into the early hours, every day, week after week, month after month, until eventually the days became brighter again.” The opening statement ‘Pattern of the North’ starts off with a collage of spliced synth melodies, inspired by anxiety that accompanies going home for Christmas. It’s followed by ‘Johannesburg’, an early sketch gradually filled out during his tour in South Africa.


“After playing it around some of the cities, I got a lot of inspiration to bring it to life and push it into something that really moves me. I think this is one of my most colourful pieces of music, with its driving rhythm and almost a homage to Terry Riley’s ‘In C’ towards the end, with a build of very simple, hypnotic parts. I especially love that for over five minutes the piece is tied to just one note. This makes the ending very dramatic, because all of a sudden there is this harmonic change.” ‘Lone’ started life around the time Ryan was working on his ‘Sonne’ EP in 2014. It’s the result of constant adjustments to find the perfect balance of fragility and assurance. As everything on the album, it’s a carefully considered, emotionally mature piece. “I think, as I get older, I need music to represent something and not just sound interesting, though of course the two are connected.” The closing statement ‘What Sorrow’ is a fitting end to the album, building from gentle melancholia to a joyous crescendo. It’s a sensibility that’s central to the record; joy and sorrow both find their counterpoints.


“This record is very personal to me and I hope it offers something for other people, as it helped me to make it and to listen to it. Almost every synth line was recorded intuitively, without perfection but with a lot of intention and expression. I’m not interested in making something sad or making something happy. I want music to be bittersweet, to be more complex, like life – containing moments of vibrant colour and hope, as much as darkness and sadness.” This summer will see Ryan follow on from his recent North American Tour with the appearance at many festivals including Lovebox, Secret Garden Party, La Route Du Rock, Sea Change and Tale of Us-curated Afterlife party at Space, Ibiza.

Jade Warrior is the debut self-titled and self-produced album by Jade Warrior, released in 1971 as part of the progressive rock movement. The album sets the scene for what the majority of the band's albums were to sound like, mixing various ethnic sounds with a progressive and otherworldly sound, as well as sudden changes between slow acoustic guitar melody, to distorted and heavy electric guitar with a faster tempo.

Limited edition classic LP, reissued on 180g vinyl, audiophile pressing
One of the best albums by the ill-fated trio of Bill Evans with bassist Scott LaFaro and drummer Paul Motian.

Penguin Guide To Jazz review:
"All the Vanguard music is informed by an extra sense of discovery, as ifthe musicians were suddenly aware of what they were on to and werecelebrating the achievement.

This is music which continues to provokemarvel and endless
study." - Richard Cook & Brian Morton

Fonseca is the son of a Senegalese mother and a father from Cape Verde. Hence the Portuguese sounding name: Louis Vera Da Fonseca.

In the 1950s, he founded the group Les Anges Noirs (The Black Angels) in Brussels, named after the Brussels club in the Boomkwekerijstraat, which quickly became very popular in Belgium, Africa, and the West Indies. The famous Manu Dibango was even musical director and pianist there for a period. Manu Dibango would later become one of the emblematic figures of African music. Soon Fonseca was nicknamed “the King of Afro-Cuban rhythm”.

After several great successes from the early sixties to 1968, Fonseca suddenly disappeared from the music scene in the late 60's. Whether he died in 1970, as can be read on some sites, cannot be said with certainty.

The self-titled album Fonseca Et Ses Anges Noirs is available as a limited edition of 500 individually numbered copies on translucent red coloured vinyl and includes an insert.

Washed Up Color Vinyl is Clear w/ White Splatter! A white ship sailing in a sea of blackness, Codeine's swan song arrived in 1994 amid grunge's ascension to alt radio's godhead status. John Engle's guitar alternates between crystalline and sludge, and Stephen Immerwhar's distorted bass floats on top of punishing drums from newcomer Doug Scharin (Rex, June of 44), resulting in nine perfect meditations on the loneliness and uncertainty of early adulthood. "Codeine's unyielding numbness creates its own kind of warmth _ the feeling of cold water running for so long that it suddenly feels hot." _ Spin

A white ship sailing in a sea of blackness, Codeine's swan song arrived in 1994 amid grunge's ascension to alt radio's godhead status. John Engle's guitar alternates between crystalline and sludge, and Stephen Immerwhar's distorted bass floats on top of punishing drums from newcomer Doug Scharin (Rex, June of 44), resulting in nine perfect meditations on the loneliness and uncertainty of early adulthood. "Codeine's unyielding numbness creates its own kind of warmth _ the feeling of cold water running for so long that it suddenly feels hot." _ Spin

Brian Jonestown Massacre, Velvet Underground, TOY. “Upon the highways of Freedom, where Evil is like a Ferrari… “ Unbeknownst to its members, Index For Working Musik was born on an evening in late 2019 amidst the discovery of a collection of faded b&w photocopies that had been marinating on the floor of a urine-alley in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona. An assortment of sacred and profane imagery were crumpled amongst an essay on early Christian hermits, entitled Men Possessed by God, the meaning of which was enticingly vague. Received together, they planted the seeds for a new endeavour. Though Max Oscarnold and Nathalia Bruno were already engaged in a creative ping-pong of sorts, the results to this point had only totaled a 30 min long ½ inch tape containing one track and four interludes. They needed a page and they needed ink, and they needed a place and it needed energy. Suddenly by chance or divine intervention, their experimental venture had been given form and direction. Back home in London’s cursed smog, they moved themselves and their 8-track studio into a basement in E8, where the project’s gravitational pull gained strength, quickly developing into an unexpected collective with the incorporation of drummer Bobby Voltaire, double bass player E. Smith and guitarist J. Loftus. As the world shifted around them and the Plague Years followed, it became increasingly clear that they were not going to leave that small basement room. The scarcity of light or outer world presence was less a limitation, instead the main tool at hand, allowing the recording to stretch for boundaryless days in architectural isolation, and forcing them to make straight forward free guitar music, adopting a ‘first thought, best thought’ approach. 35 minutes of repeat phrased guitars, slow-clipped drums and dulcet vocals where the recurring landscape is the desert. Reel-to reel-loops of Afghan music compete with the found sound overlays of voices recorded at the queue of the pharmacy and drum machines borrowed from Spanish heroes, channelling both far-off climes and snippets from a closer reality. It’s a strange psychic brew, built of imagined mysticism and domestic realities, of fever dreams and days that stretched into weeks of months. What was sparked by that discovery in the Gothic Quarter was actually a realisation that what they were looking for was with them all the while, buried as it was in piles of voice memos and recorded guitar feedback. Men Possessed By God they may be not: it was self-possession that was to guide their way in the end. “Life, despite all its destructive changes, remains indestructibly powerful and joyful

In the quiet surrounding the pandemic, Madeline Kenney made sonic sketches in the basement studio she shared with her then-partner. She arranged phrases that called her—the sharp knife of a synth cutting a path along a blooming arpeggio, drums stuttering firm and tight. Working this way, she amassed a collection of songs she had no particular aims for. Some formed her 2021 EP Summer Quarter, others languished.

But in 2022, Kenney’s partner left suddenly and without warning, plunging her into the solitary act of untangling what happened. In the wake of her ensuing depression, she revisited these songs and found in them something prescient. She’d already laid the foundation for A New Reality Mind.

That her relationship’s end came without warning is only half true, though. The warnings were in the feelings and fears that inspired Kenney’s critically-acclaimed third album, Sucker’s Lunch (2020), which was co-produced by Jenn Wasner (Flock of Dimes) and centered around the idea of flinging oneself freely into the seemingly-assured destruction of new love, come what may.

If sonically Sucker’s Lunch was letting yourself be pulled into the warm bath of a good story, A New Reality Mind reflects the harsh light of truth coming to break the spell. But as sobering as morning light can be, there’s brilliance to it, too. To see in the clarity of day is a gift. A revolution. Rather than reckoning with love lost, the songs on A New Reality Mind grapple with the self that chose to fall. “I guess I only needed to look twice / Reflected in my attitude, my constant compromise,” Kenney sings on “Red Emotion,” the musical landscape screeching and gasping around her observations of how she made herself small to keep the dream of love alive.

These notions of sight and vision pervade the record as Kenney stands before the infinity mirror of selves she’s been to preserve bonds in her life. On “I Drew a Line,” Kenney contends with the stories she’s told herself to keep plodding along, and the way those stories shape her perceived reality. She invokes John Berger’s Ways of Seeing—“Everything around the image is part of its meaning,” we hear him say. “Everything around it confirms and consolidates its meaning.” Here, Kenney isn’t interested in shaming herself for being carried away by the fantasies of the heart, but rather in investigating the unavoidably human propensity to do so. “I, like everyone else, am muddling through my most ordinary disaster of a life,” she acknowledges, a sentiment which reverberates through album opener “Plain Boring Disaster.” “I don’t need to start again,” she sings at the song’s close. “But I can change when it ends.” We may all be doomed to repetitive, ordinary heartbreaks, Kenney realizes, but at least we can cultivate a capacity to witness our missteps and build new realities for ourselves.

This is Kenney’s most expansive work, while also her most solitary. Produced and recorded alone in her basement, these songs are manifestations of what it feels like to be transformed by pain. Textures collide and collude; sonic ornaments emerge and dissipate capriciously; saxophones soar untamed, as on the 80s pop elegy to self-sacrifice, “Reality Mind”. These songs beg you to dance, then pull the rug out from under you once you’ve caught the beat, leaving you dizzy like the whiplash of love’s end.

But in the propulsive power of A New Reality Mind, there’s also acceptance, self-forgiveness, and a willingness to move forward into life, with all its ways of making a sucker of you. “That way of living, I’m over it,” Kenney declares of the habits that hold her back on “Superficial Conversation”. “I do not need to be reminded of what I did,” she assures, the song opening wide and beaming, like a smile expanding to taste a new breath of air.

Debut vinyl by Cruz Perro Maldito, a Tenerife based trio forever imbued in the collective imagination and folklore myths of the magical and misty mountain of Agua García, located in Tacoronte district at the foot of Teide Volcano (Tenerife/Canary Islands). Their music is an explosion of free jazz improv where sophisticated sound textures emerg-ing from modular synths and processed guitar create abstract and random rhythmic patterns with complex saxophone lines guiding the ensemble from quiet to menacing passages of sudden bursts of noise and frenzy.


Entitled Truquetin Resorte, the album takes inspiration from the rich history of mechanical automata, such as Talos, the bronze giant who defended the island of Crete and was eventually defeated by Jason and his Argonauts. Or Apega de Nabis, a replica of King Nabis’ wife whom crossed unsuspecting victims with its iron spikes hidden in the device's lower arms, hands and breasts.

Or even René Descartes and his infamous daughter- like Automaton replica, an eerie creation from the renown philosopher to evoke his dead daughter
These myths and more serve as reminder of a mechanical world’s past, a world of complex automata stories with me-chanic ‘imitating’ beings as its problematic protagonists. An eerie counterpoint to our current uber modern digital world and its rapid advancing A.I.s.

repressed !

Number 060 in our catalogue, and we are keeping it tight and sharp. Oscar Mulero is the mind behind this creature, offering three cuts of merciless techno exercises both physically and digitally.

Opening track is "Tormenta", Storm in spanish, a fast paced groove with almost all elements up from the very beginning. Wisely distorted drums, continuous filtered sequences, a sharp elastic line running and mutating across the structure. Direct and mental at the time.

"Espectro Rojo", Red spectrum translated begins with obsessive distorted evolving lines, shuffled hi hats and precise kicks. The stereo field is constantly worked out augmenting the experience exponentially.

"Gradiente de Voltaje" closes the EP, the overall feel is less distorted and more opaque and lo-fi. The liquid filtered bassline is soon joined by distorted hats, alternating patterns and twisting the sounds wisely. No sudden interruptions, no abrupt changes, just the right dose of hypnosis to use as a powerful tool.

blue + red marbled vinyl
"Dog Eared"! Named as such as it marks a turning point in my productions and releases. Made while moving from Bristol back to London this as a theme pops up throughout the EP.

"Ithaca Vox" is the name of my first ever favourite preset - a CMI-inspired pad from GarageBand which I've been using since I was 11 but never on a release. The track also samples the screeching of Victoria line on my way back from nights out.

"Bubble Trouble" caused many headaches to finish hence the addition of the word "Trouble". The track pops, floats and bursts into the space between simplistic cartoon sound sources and excessively over the top sound design and production.

"Dive" dives further into these production ideas swapping tight space tiny bubbles for wide grinning resonance. The twisting track cuts these resonances leaving a large valley of missing frequencies that gets suddenly filled by an unrelentingly simple bell centring the listeners balance.

"From Window to Wall" gives a not so subtle nod to one of my favourite excessive chart hits as well as a further nod to the source of some of the track samples (see if you spot them).

"Calpohol" is the first collaboration Ive released (another reason to Dog Ear this release). Made from an afternoon of recording with Delay Grounds on his custom Eurorack the track was shaped by us over the weeks that followed.

Black Truffle is pleased to announce Symphony No. 107 –The Bard, a previously unheard archival recording of the legendary improvising ensemble MEV (Musica Elettronica Viva), captured in concert at Bard College, New York in 2012. Formed by a group of American expat composers in Rome in 1966, the MEV ensemble played an important role in the development of free improvisation, bridging the live electronics tradition begun by Cage and Tudor and the high-energy squall of free jazz. Early recordings like Spacecraft or The Sound Pool unleash volleys of metal and glass amplified with contact microphones, howling winds, primitive synthesizer bleep and raucous audience participation, the intensity of which puts much later ‘noise’ to shame. In later decades, the ensemble would go through many iterations, often including legendary free players like Steve Lacy and George Lewis. In its final years, MEV settled into the core trio of founding members heard here: Alvin Curran, Frederic Rzewski, and Richard Teitelbaum, using piano, electronics, and small instruments.

Curran, Rzewski, and Teitelbaum were life-long friends blessed, as Curran says, with ‘incompatible personalities’: major figures in the post-Cagean experimental tradition, they explored countless divergent and even contradictory paths as composers and performers, from agitprop songs to brainwave-controlled synthesis. MEV is the sound of these three personalities coming together, their contributions radically individual yet attaining a state of ‘fundamental unity’ that Rzewski, in a text written in the collective’s earliest years, defined as the ‘final goal of improvisation’. Of course, listeners familiar with aspect of the trio’s individual works might hazard some guesses about who is doing what: the crisp piano figures are probably Rzewski’s, the cut-up hip-hop samples most likely Curran’s, the sliding, squelching synth possibly Teitelbaum’s. But often these identities are dissolved in a constantly shifting hall of mirrors, the listener unable to tell which of these pianos is live and which is a sample of a past virtuoso, or whether a horn blast derives from ethnographic documentation or Curran cutting loose on Shofar. The two side-long sets here occupy a similar terrain of constantly shifting texture and instrumentation, unexpected interruptions, and moments of sudden beauty. The first set is sparser, at times almost ominous, as a bell repeatedly sounds across wheezing harmonica, seasick orchestral textures, and creaking wood, making room for episodes of yodelling and delicate prepared piano before exploding into a storm of buzzing synth and piano fragments. The second set is more frenetic, moving rapidly across centuries and continents: cars crash into post-serial piano pointillism, wailing voices collide with chopped and screwed hip-hop samples, Hollywood strings are buried under layers of electronic gurgles. The performance slows in its final moments, making way for a sampled voice repeating the phrase ‘protest and the good of the world’, reminding us that MEV’s idea of freedom was always more than musical. Symphony No. 107 –The Bard is a beautifully recorded example of the endlessly multi-layered later MEV sound, accompanied by new liner notes by Alvin Curran (now the only surviving member of the group) and a selection of previously unseen photographs from across the many decades of the group’s activity. Arriving in an elegant sleeve bearing a beautiful photograph by Francis Zhou of the Olin Hall at Bard College where the concert was recorded, this is an essential document from a major group in the history of experimental music. As Rzewski wrote, this music is ‘like life, unpredictable, sometimes making sense, mostly not’.

Next up is an overdue reunion with a familiar face. After his outstanding contribution to Cocoon Compilation S and his first solo EP on Cocoon Recordings, Raxon is back with a more than equally fascinating sound. The Egyptian-born and now Barcelona-based artist is back on it again, delivering two tracks that will take you on a journey through the depths of robotic soundscapes.
Intricate beats, hypnotic synthesizer melodies, deep bassline grooves, and distinctive EFX sounds create Raxon’s very special signature sound.

Straight drum programming paired with chirping percussions takes us away to embark on a travel through space and time while distinctive claps poke through a futuristic nebula of floating and shifting sequences. The twisted melody of “Robotalia” carries us to a parallel dimension of machine sound and if you listen closely, you can hear the robots’ screwing and sawing. Warping bleeps and mechanical effects complete the robotic feeling. Raxon’s understanding of structures and architectural abilities are reflected through the arrangement, slowly increasing to ecstasy.

“Kryptonite” scores with alien soundscapes. Stuttering vocals are the questions, while futuristic and dramatic chord stabs are the direct answer. A straight, radiant sound appears as an electronic trombone from outer space, offensively supporting the driving bassline. The symbiotic interplay between the euphoric synthesizer hook line and the relentless beat with pushing sharp hi-hats visualize powerful images in one's mind's eye. Suddenly the beat stagnates and results in a morphing break going head over heels developing a start-stop pitch effect that not only builds up tremendous tension but also bears an increased risk of melting your brain. We just love tape delay!