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Unic joining forces with Alin Crihan‘s enigmatic Discret Popescu alias for a sweeping sonic journey with The Dreamtime EP, inspired by the ancient continent of Australia.

From the echoed, metaphysical resonance of A-side cuts ‘The Outback’ and ‘The Coast’, Discret Popescu begins to paint a story of deep connection and timeless transcendence. As we turn things over, the B-side speaks in increasingly euphonious phrases, with ‘The Serpent’ and ‘The Dreamtime’ capturing a truly ephemeral essence. A sound that is reminiscent of the respect and love that the indigenous culture of Australia has for their land and dreaming.

The debut full length album from Gloved Hands, entitled Empty Terminal, finds the musician straying from the dance floor in search of something amorphous and less tangible. Ambient in nature, the eight tracks that comprise the LP have a deep focus on texture, space, and human feelings rather than a need for constant propulsion and momentum.

The A-side, the more rhythmic and percussive of the two, is awash with vague echos and smudged, slow-moving chords. Subaqueous drums shift in and out of focus. Sound sources are at once distant and intimately close. The curtains part to reveal a glimpse of a crystalline melody or a fraction of a vocal phrase only for the room to fill with fragrant smoke and go dark. It is a place beyond the dance floor. Perhaps it's a place without any floor at all.

The B-side is even more fragile and diaphanous. The foreground and background are obscured, leaving a hazy mesh of delicate, interwoven forms and rhythms; glistening and brushing against one another in the warm, dimly-lit space in between. With a swirling mix of cavernous bass and sweet-but-never-saccharine melody, the details are stretched and abstracted into something new yet familiar. The compositions ripple in midair, appearing and vanishing, close but just out of reach.



b A2 The Hungry Army Arrived As the Beans Ripened Master

Perugia producer, synth collector and linchpin of the underground scene Feel Fly pokes his head above the trenches to deliver a consummate four track EP Mediterranean Dreams - Part 1.

Onironauta rolls up all the best bits of spaced-out disco and italo house into an expansive dancefloor soundtrack that would sound equally at home in a Den Haag squat as by an Ibizan hillside pool. Sounding in turns both futuristic and nostalgic, it sets the tone for the dream-like timezone in which this EP resides.

Meanwhile slowed-down 303 chugger Grace In Space sounds perfect for Room 2 - that is, if the room is on an orbiting space station and someone adjusted the gravity settings. The track concludes the side with timeless balearic drift and a dash of kosmiche afro percussion sprinkled on top.

Flip the 12” over and the title track Mediterranean Dreams seeps through, with more than a slight nod to the summer of ‘88, like a faded photograph. The revolving chord progression and melodic synth phrases that weave through the groove fit together sweeter than the cogs in a swiss watch.

EP closer Becalmed rounds proceedings out in fine cosmic disco style, firing more 16th note lasers through the dry ice than KITT, as melancholic pads float over the rhythm section like a négligée. It’s a stylish way to sign off a collection of tracks that are equal parts fond memory, hopeful optimism, and hazy dance-fuelled hedonism.

‘Antidawn’ reduces Burial’s music to just the vapours. The record explores an interzone between dislocated, patchwork songwriting and eerie, open-world game-space ambience. In the resulting no man’s land, lyrics take precedence over song, lonely phrases colour the haze, a stark and fragmented structure makes time slow down.‘Antidawn’ seems to tell a story of a wintertime city, and something beckoning you to follow it into the night. The result is both comforting and disturbing, producing a quiet and uncanny glow against the cold. Sometimes, as it enters 'a bad place', it takes your breath away. And time just stops.

It’s not normal to take 31 years to release a follow up album. But then Network was never a normal sort of record label, and often opted for the quirky rather than the quick buck. The logo was launched in 1990 and that year, along with a slew of startlingly good singles, created and issued two bio-rhythm compilations, each of which showcased cutting edge USA techno rubbing shoulders alongside its’ sparse UK bleep counterpart.

At the time the words quality and dance music compilations were not phrases shared that much. bio-rhythm 1 and it’s almost instant follow up bio-rhythm 2 bucked the trend with groundbreaking exclusive tracks, iconic minimal artwork and surreal sleeve notes.

Each of the albums have been hailed by many as piece de resistance primers to electronica music.

As well as capturing the zitgeist of a blurry everything of that moment experimental time, they have endured to be acclaimed as all time iconic classics. So why was there no follow up? One reason was that things were moving so bewilderingly fast at the time for Network that the emphasis was always on the next thing, not regurgitating repetitive beat ideas.

Another was that the opportunity arose to direct the acumen gained from the bio-rhythm experience at the release of two (now equally acclaimed) compilations from Frank and Karen Mendez’s cult Nu-Groove label.

The current Network reconstruction meant an opportunity to re-indulge and finally release bio-rhythm 3. Matt Anniss’s splendid sleeve notes are reproduced below and tell you all you need to know about the carefully selected (and mostly exclusive to this collection) tracks on 2 x 12 vinyl for increased sonic joy. Network. We continue.

after midi010 the label will now also spotlight on their outstanding artists - starting with the probably best techno-producer in town: fin phranklin !!! his debut solo-ep ranges from rampaging off-beat techno like t.raumschmiere to some more electronic easy-listening vocoder techno - just a pure pleasure to listen to

First time reissue of JP / US free jazz rarity.

The 1970s were Marion Brown’s most searching decade, a period during which he sought to move beyond the free jazz of the previous era and find more personal approaches to structuring improvisation and composition. After leaving New York for Europe in 1967, Brown began reshaping his music into what he described as “a more deliberate kind of music that had more structure to it,” pacing it so that moods and modes could develop over time. Albums such as In Sommerhausen, Afternoon of a Georgia Faun, Geechee Recollections, and Sweet Earth Flying trace this evolution: rhythmic structures moved to the foreground, harmony receded, and composition became a matter of orchestrating interlocking rhythmic parts as one would polyphonic lines.

Released in 1976, Awofofora is an overlooked but crucial entry in that sequence. At the time, its use of funk and reggae beats, electric guitars, and grooves drawn from contemporary Black popular music led some to misread it as a jazz-rock detour. In retrospect, it is entirely consistent with Brown’s methodology. As he admired in the Art Ensemble of Chicago, the stimulus comes from within the community. Here Brown filters Afro-Caribbean rhythms and funk through his own sensibility, abstracting their structural qualities rather than adopting surface style.

“La Placita,” making its first recorded appearance, layers distinct rhythmic phrases in a manner reminiscent of African drum ensembles, over which Brown and trumpeter Ambrose Jackson spin extended improvisations. The standard “Flamingo” is reshaped through diasporic rhythm and lyrical soloing, while “Pepi’s Tempo” and “Mangoes” harness crisp funk and reggae grooves to generate what Brown called a “manifestation of community” through collective improvisation. Even the overdubbed solo feature “And Then They Danced” reflects his structural thinking, ingeniously re-voicing a duet composition for two alto saxophones performed by one player.

This was the only recording by a short-lived band that briefly polarized audiences during festival appearances in 1976. Yet Brown consistently sought unity across change: different sounds, same principles — rhythm as structure, melody as architecture, collective improvisation, and above all, the primacy of tone. Awofofora stands not as a departure, but as a vivid synthesis of the elements he had been refining since the late 1960s, its grooves and golden alto lines conveying a sound drawn, in his words, “from life and from the world of experience.”

Chris Acker’s latest collection of songs, Famous Lunch, is in his words, a “growing pains album.” When writing the record, the New Orleans' based folk musician found himself hunting for a voice that wasn’t just an imitation of the one he’d been using on the last 30 songs he’d made. “At the same time, I worked hard to find a certain voice for myself over the previous 3 records and I didn’t want to abandon that.”

While the album finds him continuing to transcribe life’s fleeting and provocative banalities with refreshing grace, the songs on Famous Lunch are intentionally more absurd, stylizing his lyricism as both poetic and disarming simultaneously— commencing with “Sh*t Surprise”—an earworm with a vernacular that stays true to its title. Inspired by George Saunders and Sasha Pearl (and wanting to make a song that sounds like Eagles saying the word “sh*t” over and over), “Sh*t Surprise” is the most Chris Acker song possible, in that its earnestness arrives in spades and comes varnished with a one-of-a-kind, spectacular gnarliness. “We’d match our breath in the upstairs room and we’d hold together ‘til I smelled like you,” Acker sings, before nose-diving into that unforgettable chorus about stepping in a smelly, disgusting pile of sh*t.

More than anything else, Famous Lunch finds Chris Acker at his most sentimental and grateful, as he sings about Bunn coffee machines, gas pumps smelling like “the underside of a fingernail” in August, “10-inching” bread, stealing country club lawn-mower motors, father-son fables, impatient buffet lines, and a broom that “hasn’t been used since the last time I used it.” Acker’s eye for detail remains, and his lexicon includes phrasings that spin out like a hypnotic wash cycle. Seeing the world through his eyes, language remains something worth falling into—growing pains and all.

Carlos Dafé (born October 25, 1947) is a singer and songwriter from Rio de Janeiro, recognised as one of the iconic voices of the Brazilian samba-soul era. Born into a family of musicians and trained at the conservatory, he rose to prominence in the 1970s alongside Tim Maia, Cassiano, and Hyldon, shaping the sound of Rio Noir with his warm baritone voice and soulful phrasing. His 1977 album, Pra Que Vou Recordar, became a cult classic among collectors and DJs worldwide, earning him the title of "Prince of Brazilian Soul." Still active today, Carlos Dafé remains an essential reference for artists exploring the boundaries between samba, soul, and MPB (Brazilian Popular Music). Released in 1977, Pra Que Vou Recordar reveals Carlos Dafé at the peak of his art, blending samba-soul, MPB, and the warm groove of the 1970s Rio de Janeiro scene. Surrounded by some of the city's finest musicians, Dafé showcases his baritone voice in deeply melodic arrangements and a series of songs that have become fan favourites. An album imbued with soul and elegance. The sound of BrazilianBlack music at its most sincere and timeless.

On 'Vesturgata Gaze', Hitam traverses a new biome. Geographically and metaphorically. Through this introductory release on Omen Wapta, a remarkable voice in techno lunges into artistic deliverance. Here we, the listeners, find ourselves with an EP that harbours the emotive voltage of a perspective-pivoting trip. Tectonic shifts reshuffle subterranean frequencies, rhythmic phrases carry the timbre of ancient rainfall and we humbly stand witness as ceremonial incantations demarcate indigenous land. In elusive ways, this record assigns a bardic function to mostly nonverbal music. All five tracks consistently resemble traces of life-affirming encounters by sculpting Iceland's geological features into sound. 'Vesturgata Gaze' shows that commitment and intimate collaboration, taking on bold artistic ventures, touching moss and glaciers - that's what can break the mould.

Here is the record you have been waiting for! The first ever scratch vinyl by DMC world triple champion Skillz, entitled You Know My Skillz.
The record includes original sounds, phrases, sounds Fx and much more. To celebrate this release like it should be done, the famous artist Grems did the artwork of this beautiful yellow clear record. Turntablists, switch on your turntables!

In a sharp-angled, fiercely inventive reflection on the nature of club culture and digital fatigue, Simo Cell and Abdullah Miniawy reunite to deliver their new album, Dying is the internet, to Dekmantel's UFO series.

French producer Simo Cell has blazed a singular path from his dubstep-influenced origins to become a leading light in contemporary leftfield club music, twisting up adventurous rhythms and flamboyant production in pursuit of a perpetual freshness for the floor. Egyptian singer, poet, producer and composer Abdullah Miniawy has become equally omnipresent in the past 10 years, straddling the arts world and leading with his piercing Arabic lyricism while maintaining an eternally curious spirit that leads into open-ended, experimental music from the abstract to the propulsive.

Following up on their 2020 EP for BFDM, Kill Me Or Negotiate, Miniawy describes their sharply focused new album as "a playful prophecy about the triggers of a new global revolution." Cell considers the title, Dying is the internet, to be a mantra about "how the internet lost its soul," becoming "less about sharing ideas and more about surviving in a digital business ecosystem." Deliberately at odds with the reel-ready two-minute attention span of the average social media surfer (i.e. everyone), the pair set out to make an album that takes its time to reveal nuanced ideas and expressions. Rather than one-note despair for the modern malaise, Cell and Miniawy offer a philosophical reminder that this present moment in the human experience is a temporary phase, no matter how overwhelming it feels.

Dying is the internet finds Miniawy experimenting with auto-tune across the record, while Cell has developed his voice design chops and compositional instincts, moving closer to fully realised song structures without losing the fundamental 'clubbiness' of each track. The result is a cohesive, wildly original kind of heavyweight dance music that slings out hooks left right and centre, from Miniawy's laconic trumpet looming through low-slung 'Reels in 360' and 'Travelling In BCC' to the persistent handclaps that bring 'Living Emojis' to life. Miniawy's poetry explores the power of insistent, repeated phrases in a break from his more typically structured form.

Kenyan powerhouse Lord Spikeheart adds extra snarl to stripped-back, slow-burn opener 'I See The Stadium', but otherwise Dying is the internet is purely the work of Miniawy and Cell casting their considerable chops out into unexplored territory. The results are electric, bound together by a consistent economy of sound that burrows into a shroud of bass-heavy minimalism barely masking Cell's incredibly detailed studio flex. Even the beatless flourish of the Miniawy-produced 'Tear Chime' comes loaded with physicality — a sensory rush at the mid-section of the album bookended by some of the most idiosyncratic club music in recent memory.

Both Simo Cell and Abdullah Miniawy have already proved themselves as fearless innovators across different fields. The strength of their partnership lies in their ability to make space for each other while letting their distinctive sonic identities ring loud and true. Dying is the internet has immediacy and physicality to translate over a soundsystem, but its intricacies are purpose-built for repeat visits and contemplation, unveiling hidden dimensions the deeper you dive into it.

The first resonant space Zosha Warpeha played in was the Emanuel Vigeland Museum in Oslo, Norway. Built as a mausoleum, its walls reach up into a gradual archway, creating an environment where sound expands and reverberates for twelve seconds before decaying into silence. Warpeha was greeted only by dim lights when she entered, and it wasn’t until she had spent several minutes listening that she was able to make out the frescoes that covered every inch of the room: graphic depictions of the cycle of life from conception through death. As the sound of her Hardanger d’amore encountered the walls and these slowly emerging scenes, they obscured its point of origin in both time and space, augmenting its own life cycle. The experience sat in the back of her mind over the next several years as she developed her own patient style of composition and performance, one that comes into full bloom on her new album I grow accustomed to the dark.

When Warpeha was selected as an artist in residence at Brooklyn’s ISSUE Project Room in 2025, she saw it as an opportunity to more intentionally explore how her music might fill a room with ample natural reverb. I grow accustomed to the dark documents two single-take solo performances for Hardanger d’amore and voice at IPR, with both pieces composed in a unique tuning system developed to interact with the space itself. Listeners can trace resonance from the contact of the bow on gut strings into the body of the instrument, its five sympathetic strings offering another layer of refraction, before the sound is thrown about the cavity of the room. The echoes emerge like a photographic double exposure, or wisps of smoke that linger in the air, creating ghostly harmonic convergences that blur the line between what is there and not-there. Sound begins to act like light, a synesthetic alchemy that transforms drones into beams and ornamental trills into flickers.

Both side-long compositions, “filament” and “visual purple,” exemplify a duality that animates Warpeha’s music: an expressive, individualistic style that draws on extensive knowledge of her instrument’s history in folk traditions, and an austere, devotional quality maintained by focus and precision. Though very different in character and structure, both pieces evolve slowly through numerous repetitive phrases, passages of stillness, and bursts of intensity. “filament” opens with a cycle of delicate melodic fragments played and sung around a drone before blossoming into an outpouring of swooping arpeggios, harmonics flying from the strings like sparks off a bonfire. The disorienting pulsation of harmonic beating forms the core of “visual purple,” the close-tone dissonance building to a swarm of open strings ringing boldly throughout the space. After the knotty tones reach their climax, the piece collapses into studied quietude, hushed, but without any drop in intensity.

When Warpeha first visited the Vigeland Museum in 2019, she was in Oslo to deepen her relationship to the Hardanger fiddle through the study of Norwegian traditional music, which is primarily passed down aurally. The experience of learning songs by ear, not only internalizing the tune but also absorbing the techniques and tonalities by listening, was a crucial step in her development as a composer. The years since have seen her sharpen those skills as a prolific member of the New York avant-garde and improvised music communities. Warpeha’s music encourages listeners to join her in this journey, to listen closely with each repeated phrase and through each dramatic shift. Like the frescoes on Vigeland’s walls, with time and intention, the depth of I grow accustomed to the dark comes on like a revelation.

Strut Records presents a fresh look at Oblivion Express, the 1971 album that marked Brian Auger’s shift into a new musical frontier. After years spent shaping the sound of British jazz-soul with the Trinity, Auger stepped into the new decade with a leaner, electrified ensemble and a renewed sense of purpose. This record captures the moment that transformation took shape.

Oblivion Express introduced a sound that was distinctly Auger’s own. Rather than echoing the fusion emerging in the United States, Auger developed a language rooted in the UK’s jazz underground, culminating in a spaced out jazz- rock / prog-fusion album awash with larger than life drum fills and Auger’s virtuosic organ playing. Between bassist Barry Dean and drummer Robbie McIntosh the album moves effortlessly between tight, articulated phrases and broader, improvisational passages. The trio’s interplay forms the backbone of the album and sets the tone for the sound that would define the early years of the Express.

Album opener “Dragon Song” launches with a restless drive that immediately signals Auger’s new direction. Auger chose to record this version of John McLaughlin’s piece (his friend and former bandmate in 'The Niddy Griddys') after hearing McLaughlin’s album Devotion during its mix at New York’s Record Plant Studios. Auger was blown away, recalling, “Oh my god, this is amazing. I wanted to record that myself - and I did!”. Pieces like “Total Eclipse” demonstrate the Oblivion Express’ command of dynamic contrast, and title track “Oblivion Express” explores the cinematic and compositional prowess of the group through stripped back, building moments vs. explosive melodic breakdowns. Riff-heavy “The Sword” later became known through Madlib’s usage in 2014 tracks “Yeti Movie” and “Parodies”.

In retrospect, Oblivion Express stands as a jazz leaning, prog-rock masterpiece and foundational moment in Auger’s catalogue. It captures the starting point of a new sound that is more focused, more urgent, and fully committed to the possibilities of jazz-rock at the dawn of the seventies. The album remains a vivid document of a band discovering its identity and setting the stage for the further array of influential releases that would follow.

Für Chantal Michelle ist das Komponieren von Musik wie eine Art Choreografie. In surrealen Klangwelten verbinden sich verschiedene Töne miteinander - sie bewegen sich zusammen und entfernen sich dann wieder voneinander - in einem Prozess, der sich ständig im Hörfeld wiederholt. Diese sich ständig verändernde Konstellation zeigt, wie zerbrechlich und veränderlich Wahrnehmung sein kann, ein Thema, das in Michelles Arbeit immer wieder auftaucht. Michelle, die schon früh eine Tanzausbildung absolvierte, bringt eine ausgeprägte räumliche Sensibilität in ihre Arbeit ein: ein intuitives Verständnis dafür, wie Formen koexistieren und sich durch drei Dimensionen bewegen, sowie eine Wertschätzung für die Schönheit, die sich in ungewöhnlichen Gegenüberstellungen von Materialien und Ideen findet. Seit sie 2021 ihre Solokarriere gestartet hat, hat sie internationale Anerkennung für ihre geduldigen, akribischen Aufnahmen bekommen, die oft zusammen mit Installationen, Mehrkanalkompositionen und Klangskulpturen entstehen. Innerhalb dieser subtil verwirrenden Klangarchitekturen können neue Beziehungen entstehen, neue Grenzen gezogen werden, und die Zuhörer werden zu einer Erfahrung von Zeit eingeladen, die sich der Linearität widersetzt. All Things Might Spill, Michelles erstes Album für Shelter Press, ist eine Auseinandersetzung mit anhaltender Spannung und der mysteriösen Erfahrung der Zeitdehnung in den Momenten kurz vor einem Bruch oder Zusammenbruch. Die Musik bewegt sich in einem Raum der Instabilität, und obwohl sie durchgehende Töne und definierte melodische Phrasen verwendet, herrscht eine Atmosphäre der Unentschlossenheit - wie ein Moment der Unruhe, der auf unbestimmte Zeit in der Schwebe bleibt. Ein Großteil des Albums wurde in den Wintermonaten 2024 in Berlin aufgenommen, wobei viele frühe Morgenstunden in einem Raum subtiler Unruhe verbracht wurden. Man sagt, dass Licht in die Dunkelheit eindringt, und diese Übergangszeit, die von Erwartungen geprägt ist, ist in der Musik zu hören. In ,Presence of Border" winden und verflechten sich nebulöse Stimmen, während sie über mehrdeutigen Harmonien schweben, die sich in unendliche Ferne zu erstrecken scheinen. Die beiden kurzen Stücke ,Magnetic Field I" und ,Magnetic Field II" enthalten bearbeitete Aufnahmen einer Tromba Marina, gespielt von der argentinischen Klangkünstlerin Alma Laprida. Die Gegenüberstellung von kratzigen Tönen und hauchzarten Obertönen erzeugt tamburaähnliche Drones, die den Zuhörer in einen schwer fassbaren Mittelpunkt ziehen. Später auf dem Album gibt es in ,Drying of Frozen Soils" modale Klarinettenlinien von Severin Black, die anfangs in dem nebligen, synthetischen Hintergrund fast nicht zu hören sind, bevor sie sich zu einem gespenstischen Kontrapunkt entwickeln. Eine ähnliche Struktur aus Unklarheit und Klarheit prägt den Titeltrack, in dem wortlose Gesänge eine laute Feldaufnahme durchdringen, die auf einer Fähre aufgenommen wurde, die den East River von Brooklyn nach Manhattan überquert. Das ist Musik mit einem weitläufigen Terrain und einer dichten Atmosphäre. Veränderungen sind langsam, aber dramatisch, jede Verschiebung ist sorgfältig geplant, um Gefühle des Staunens und der Vorfreude zu wecken und gleichzeitig eine erhabene Sensibilität dafür zu bewahren, wie einzelne Klänge mit der Bewegung ihrer Umgebung in Beziehung stehen. Michelle verzichtet meisterhaft auf Narrative und komponiert in drei Dimensionen. Wir bleiben mit der Mehrdeutigkeit des Wortes ,might" zurück - der anhaltenden Möglichkeit des energetischen Ansturms des Bruchs, des Ausbrechens, mal am Horizont, mal unmittelbar bevorstehend, irgendwie beides gleichzeitig.

Delphine Dora, the prolific French composer and multi-instrumentalist, graces Marionette with a suite of keyboard instrumentals that evoke futurism and the transcendental. Based in France and actively releasing music since the 00’s, Delphine’s remarkable solo and collaborative projects loosely connect the dots scattered across modern classical, folk, ambient, and poetic writing - always seeking new ambitions in terms of her sound.

Leaving behind the chaos of city life for the quiet solitude of a small village in the French countryside, Delphine finds herself fully immersed in the present moment and committed to her multi-disciplinary creative practices, savoring the experiences of deep listening in nature and her environment. Drawing from an academic background in Outsider Art and Art Brut, Dora yearns to express intimate inner dialogues, revealing the beauty of vulnerability through transportive musical passages to the mystical and sublime.

L’inéluctable pulsation du temps was composed in 2018, at a time when Delphine’s life was becoming increasingly busy, marked by relentless touring and concerts unfolding in rapid succession across different places. Written in parallel with L’Inattingible, her most ambitious album, it stands as its instrumental counterpart. The recordings reflect a period of exploration and assimilation of the Nord Electro, an instrument that opened up vast sonic possibilities, particularly for the development of rich polyphonies inspired by repetitive music. The track titles draw inspiration from an essay by Hartmut Rosa on the notions of acceleration and alienation - a reflection that resonates strongly with the pre-covid era right before the quarantine. The album reveals Delphine’s most colorful and rhythmic side, an aural mille-feuille, in total contrast with her previous melancholic vocal works.

On L’inéluctable pulsation du temps, Dora sustains atmospheric drone miniatures that form the foundation for flowing, cyclical arpeggios, spiraling into a liminal dream space where the repetitive phrasing of melodies rewards introspective listening. The compositions move through (dis)enchanted landscapes, taking unexpected turns into more haunted terrain, their contours further blurred by Dora’s intuitive articulation and sense of refinement. By mirroring both the acceleration of time and the experience of alienation, Delphine conjures up timeless sonic meditations, rendering the inevitable pulsation of time as something at once mesmerizing and unsettling.

Taupe’s latest album release, waxing | waning delivers jazz experimentalism, ‘skronk’, avant-rock, and electronics, by the Glasgow-based trio, due out via Minority Records. Across its seven tracks, waxing | waning captures Taupe’s approach – bold and boundary pushing – shaped by a fresh shift in the band’s dynamic and compositional approach.

Taupe’s waxing | waning, co-composed and realised by its players in a studio that was once an undertaker’s premises in Glasgow, is an absolutely affirmative album, an act of cultural defiance in desperate times.

Comprising Mike Parr-Burman (guitar, bass guitar, electronics), Jamie Stockbridge (alto and baritone saxophones) and Alex Palmer (drum kit, percussion), Taupe work up a storm of skronk, free jazz and harmolodic frenzy whose closest relations include Zu, Melt Banana and John Zorn. However, waxing | waning is from its opening, stuttering blasts, an exercise in seeking out and claiming new territory, finding unique and novel permutations in which jazz, rock, electronics interbreed at breakneck pace. Here is a group determined to say and do things they don’t get to say and do elsewhere in their musical lives.

‘Lemonade Tycoon’ hits the ground skronking. It’s cubistic jazz, cumulative in its impact, avoiding the white lines of the conventional freeway, bridling, bustling, coming at you from all angles – a three way conversation of astonishing rapidity, fast track, telepathic communication – everyone from James Chance to Albert Ayler coming at you at once, before morphing in to a spidery scrawl of electronics and furious percussion. ‘Anti-Bird-Spike BirdNest’s‘ title somehow sums up the sort of mental images evoked by the music – its sheer creative disobedience, as if being chased in vain, like a delivery rider evading capture by ICE agents -– shapeshifting, assuming different shades, sprouting metal quills and, in its midsection, seeming almost to swallow itself alive, before regurgitating itself in a sublime mess.

‘Interlude (Stride)’ is not exactly ambient, more a horizontal enmeshment of percussion, drones, reverberant noise, electronics, a sonic mulch. ‘allcapsallbold' reminds of early Aksak Maboul, in its playfulness, a haywire series of short phrases, subject to mechanical interference, a complex weave of irregular rhythms, increasingly eloquent sax phraseology and caustic guitars, which land heavier and heavier. ‘Pet Boss' is the new jazz equivalent of a highly evolved, mature conversation among brilliant equals, sharp, empathetic, complementary, rising to a collective, joyful noise. On the title track, electronics descend like a shower of bright particles, intensifying in their luminosity, whitening the skies, as sax and drums kick up a tempestuous, spontaneously sculpted noise that summons the ghosts of the great free jazz players, before a dark calm descends slowly. Finally, ‘Turn Push Kick’, a burgeoning chatterstorm of electronics, before the group kicks in, at angles to one another, led by abrasive guitars, reminiscent of Sunn O))) in their ritualistic concussion, riffing, digging deep amid squealing sax and piledriving percussion.