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Another DINTE tape curated by cult WFMU show and blogger Bodega Pop; Gary Sullivan's long-running project rooted in a passion for digging for music in bodegas and cell-phone stores across NYC's boroughs. This edition focuses in on late 1990s and early 00s hip-hop & rnb from across Southeastern Asia.

"While on a work trip to Chicago in the mid-2000s, I was craving a bowl of pho. A bit of sleuthing led me to hop on the red line "L" up to Argyle Street, ground zero of Chicago's Little Saigon. In the 1960s, Chicago restaurateur Jimmy Wong invested in property on Argyle Street with a vision to build the city's new Chinatown, a kind of mall with pagodas, trees, and reflecting pools. In 1971, the Hip Sing Association, a labor/criminal organization, established itself in the area, and along with Wong, they bought up 80% of the buildings on a three-block stretch of the street. Wong reportedly broke both hips in an accident, leaving his dream to wither; in 1979, Charlie Soo of the Asian American Small Business Association brought it back to life.

Soo expanded the area into a vibrant mix of Chinese, Vietnamese, and other Southeast Asian businesses, pushing for renovations, including an Argyle station facelift and the Taste of Argyle festival. At the time I exited the station and crossed the street to get a better look at a shop with a poster for A Vertical Ray of the Sun in the window, the area was home to some 37,000 Vietnamese residents.

Opening the door, I was gobsmacked by a cavernous Southeast Asian media store, bigger than any I'd been to in Dallas, Montreal, New York, or Seattle. I spent some time at the bins, pulling out collections by some of my then-favorite singers — Giao Linh, Khánh Ly, Phương Dung — before approaching the register to ask the young woman behind the counter if the they carried any Vietnamese rap. It was a longshot, I knew, but if such a thing existed on physical media and anyone carried it, it would be this place.

'Have you heard Vietnamese rap?' she replied, her tone of voice and facial expression betraying a comically exaggerated level of distaste. I admitted my ignorance but assured her that I had long cultivated a high threshold for cheesy pop music of all kinds and genuinely tended to like hip hop from around the world.

She rolled her eyes and pointed to an area I had missed. I walked toward a far corner of the store and knelt over a small box on the floor sparsely populated with CDs, VCDs, and cassettes. I pulled out half a dozen Vietnamese hip hop compilations and a strange-looking CD with a cavalcade of odd typefaces in a queasy multitude of colors: THAILAND RAP HIT, it boasted, with 泰國 "燒香" 勁歌金曲 below it. The information on the back provided an address in Kuala Lumpur and the titles in Thai and English translation. The first track included three simplified Chinese characters after the English-language version of the title, "The Chinese Association": 自己人.

WTF was going on here? Walking back to the register, I waved the CD, asking "What's up with this one?" She gave me a look. I placed it on the counter so she could bask in the cover's full glory. She shrugged. "I'm guessing it's Thai rap?" She looked disappointed in me when I said I'd take it.

It turned out to be a Malaysian pressing of half-Chinese Thai hip hop artist Joey Boy's third album, Fun Fun Fun from 1996, and it completely changed my sense what the genre could sound like. The rapper's self-assured, effortless, silly-but-cool rapid-fire delivery weaved in and out of the most bizarre, antic beats I'd ever heard. The six Vietnamese hip hop CDs were a mixed bag, mostly "serious" sounding mimicry of US rapping over predictable production, but the highs were very high. When I got home and listened to it all, I made a point to find as much hip hop from this part of the world as I could.

The tracks collected here provide a limited but potent reflection of the two-decade ascendency
and ultimate world-takeover of hip hop, as it displaced rock and its endless variants for millions of listeners. This not a fair and balanced overview of regional production: I've only included tracks from Cambodia, Indonesia, Myanmar, Philippines, Thailand, and Vietnam. Nor is this a biggest or most important artists collection; instead, I've tried to recapture the pure visceral thrill of that first time I heard Joey Boy, choosing bangers that sound like nothing else, from nowhere else."

—Gary Sullivan

Presented together for the first time, American composer John McGuire’s Pulse Music series (1975-1979) blurs the popular narrative that Minimalism was a reaction against Europe’s angular, intellectual, inscrutable high-modernism. McGuire, born in California, studied at Occidental College in Los Angeles and UC Berkeley before going to Europe to study with Karlheinz Stockhausen, Krzysztof Penderecki, and Gottfried Michael Koenig. His compositions lock serialism’s warped geometries onto an evenly spaced grid, perfectly preserving serial music’s multi-dimensionality while smoothing its wildest disjunctures and sharpest angles. If serialism is Montreal’s Habitat 67 modular housing complex, McGuire’s Pulse Music compositions are the primary-colored grids of Le Corbusier’s L’Habitation apartment complex — an exuberant expression of the same materials and principles.

Every layer of pulses is made distinct through its timbre, register, and tempo. We hear them as a plurality, organized like stars in the sky. Every so often the sky rotates and the stars appear in a different arrangement. Our ear naturally starts to draw connections and, as it sweeps between one layer and another, what was discrete becomes continuous. Pulses become flows; quantitative reality becomes qualitative experience.

“The hand knows best,” the painter Margaux Williamson says. “A shape produces itself, where I go toward what is intuitive, rather than logical.” The shapely, intuitive songs that comprise Ada Lea's third album, when i paint my masterpiece, are surprising, imagistic, tactile. They stand before us and we feel their brushstrokes. Alexandra Levy holds her guitar against the backdrop of a sea of her paintings on the album cover and it’s tempting to ask: is painting a metaphor here, for music or life? No! As ever, she resists tidy metaphors. She’s a master of this kind of thorny lowercase title that germinates and grows with time. In a real, profound way, music and painting go hand-in-hand as she unveils a new style of subversion and surrealism inspired by her transdisciplinarity.

Levy is a Renaissance woman, and Ada Lea’s albums have been swelling in scope alongside the evolution of her artistic life. Her recent turn toward pedagogy—teaching a songwriting course at Concordia University and co-facilitating a community-based group called The Songwriting Method—weaves another vivid thread into her multifaceted practice. Her debut LP, what we say in private, blurred the lines between interior and performative worlds. Her sophomore record, one hand on the steering wheel the other sewing a garden, featured vignettes centered on Montreal. On this sprawling and ambitious album, written over three years and whittled down from over 200 songs, she asks: what happens when you… pause? How can a life be held suspended in song? The album is a kaleidoscopic exploration of the transformations art can bring: the vision of an uncompromising artist dancing bravely and freely between registers and across mediums.

The album marks a reset—a quiet revolution. After years of relentless international touring, Levy felt an urgent need for community and renewal. Gruelling road schedules with very little support left her wondering: who am I really doing all this for? The system was uncaring and broken, and so it was that she came to envision a new healthy and healing mode of musical genesis. “For me, that looked like resting, extending my creative reach, going back to school, studying painting and poetry,” she explains. “Taking a step away from music as guided by industry expectations. Simplifying things. Getting a job, starting to teach. Engaging with the process rather than the product.” This need for a more deliberate creative renewal was rejected by her existing systems of support, so she began the search for an alternative.

Club music culture necessarily shifted gears in many ways during and after the course of the pandemic. Older participants found their way into other interests and younger participants took new reigns to orient spaces they felt good inside of. The agenda for the music, and the cultural industry surrounding it at large, took a more frivolous and “fun” turn. Clubs needed to recoup lost money, people needed more refreshing catharsis for their nightlife escape, and in some pockets scattered around the globe a newer and younger cadre of producers/promoters/DJ’s pulled optical cues from a scattering of “darker” influences to give an alternate aesthetic to the aforementioned “vibes” culture. In the midst of this, a large polarization of conceptual energy shifted within the compositional and utilitarian machinations of the club music culture leaving behind the brooding and cerebral placeholders for different kind of enjoyable hedonism. Terrestrial Paradise’ “Artificial Hell” harkens to another prescient time before that shift occurred. “Artificial Hell’ might just be an illustration of what all of this fun escapism encapsulates.

Terrestrial Paradise is the latest moniker from Montreal come Los Angeles based producer Jaclyn Kendal. Having developed and cemented her sonic positionality with releases on North American labels like Ascetic House and Summer isle over the years, as well as a series of monolithic live sets, Bank is pleased to announce Kendal’s Terrestrial Paradise first full length album “Artificial Hell”. Over the course of nine recordings, “Artificial Hell” gives a master class in pressurized industrial techno of the slower variety. Fitting with the legacy of Bank’s output since it’s inception, Terrestrial Paradise’s aesthetic sensibilities sit within the canon of a certain tinge of club music imbued with a sense of natural grit, sans pretense.

“Artificial Hell” nods to artists like Scorn, Regis, and 400 PPM while maintaining it’s own territory in the landscape of cerebral and brooding rhythmic techno. Ominous, mechanistic drones sit above succinctly exacted percussion composition and sound design. Throughout “Artificial Hell”, Kendal shows her proficiency with the push and pull of building and releasing tension. On tracks like “Salvation” and “Relativity” she melds her synth wash wallscapes with driving percussion, serving as both a hint and counterpoint to the the entirety of the latter part of the album taking on spartan ambient compositions as a way to keep the listener in a subdued stasis. This album is a statement piece from a long time participant in the North American underground music sectors. It reminds the listener through perilous, considered rhythms and darker drone impositions to cement themselves back into a place where not
everything is always a good time.

The cornerstone track from Chloe´'s new album, an adventurously dark landscape dotted by Montreal rock band Suuns' singer Ben Shemie's vocals, Recall deserved this long-awaited quartet of astounding remixes, which serve as extensions of her latest full-length Endless Revisions' second single, released last October on Lumie`re Noire, the label founded by Chloe´.Moire´, Matthew Dear's latest signing to his Ghostly International label (which released the London artist's debut album in early 2017), retained a smattering of Ben's syllables, setting them to a captivating retro- futuristic remix that straddles two worlds, along the milestones of a restrained beat in a mesmerizingly ethereal and ghostly road trip that could last forever.German Crosstown Rebels signee Jonathan Kaspar's version is a more banging techno version, rounding out the EP's wide array of moods and genres. Over a formidably progressive build-up, the mood remains dark thanks to Ben's stretched-out vocals, and Recall's original universe is made more dynamic with a sped-up tempo, added percussions, and a concluding harmonisation finale that brings it all into the light. Douglas Greed, previously remixed Chloe´'s Driven (released on BPitch Control back in 2015,) similarly chops up the vocals, but takes them down a different road, reassembling the original's elements to create a different track, resulting in a fascinating free-form re-reading, an adroit upcycling, a long detour through the German producer's favoured poetic techno backroads - possibly inspired by the surroundings of Jena, Greed (a.k.a. Mario Wilms') hometown, and homebase of the Freude Am Tanzen label, the serious stable of geniuses directed by the incomparable Robag Wruhme.In a more motoric register, Autarkic's re-imagines Recall via a different narrative lens, re-populating and grounding it all at once. The Israeli Red Axes accomplice, who released an excellent debut album (I Love You Go Away) on Disco Halal last April, has a knack for propelling fanatics of rock urgency straight to the dancefloor. A gang of machines amplifies Shemie's voice, highlighting its minutiae of suffering and pleasure, leading the listener into dawn.