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Tricatel is releasing on gatefold vinyl a selection of tracks composed by Bertrand Burgalat for Ça, c'est Paris! the series directed by Marc Fitoussi, starring Alex Lutz, Nicolas Maury and Monica Bellucci.

Marc Fitoussi - extract from the sleeve notes
After collaborating on my film "Les Apparences", I knew he'd be the ideal man for this series. Someone who could make real revue music, like you'd hear at the Paradis Latin or the Alcazar, and who could also be resolutely contemporary, like when the troupe relaxes and dances in a bar to a hit of the moment.

Stéphane Lerouge - extract from the sleeve notes
It's a genre that dates back to the thirties, that of the backstage musical, a genre with well-defined codes: the struggle of a collective, a troupe of singers and dancers, to put on a show that, despite a tsunami of obstacles, will end in triumph and reveal a new star. A broad spectrum of films can be linked to this, from "Quarante-deuxième rue" to "Tous en scène", from "Chorus line" to "Trois places pour le vingt-six". And today, the original link in this long chain is the series "Ça, c'est Paris!", in which Marc Fitoussi strips away this tradition, reenchanting it, making it crackle with new energy. In the end, his mission is almost the same as that of his main character, Gaspard Berthille (Alex Lutz), heir to a cabaret, the Tout-Paris, for whom he must invent a present, or rather, a future. To carry out this delicate task, Gaspard Berthille needed an accomplice, invisible on screen: Bertrand Burgalat. His freedom, the way he juggles harmony and tonality, shines through in every measure, as if Marc Fitoussi's subject had triggered something decisive and essential in him.

Like a passenger riding shotgun on a road trip, The Villagers Companion offers its own unique perspective and story to tell. Featuring tracks recorded alongside last year’s acclaimed villagers, TVC captures the miles between the start and destination—the faded gas station pit stops, the plastic saint statue stuck to the dashboard for safe travels or luck. It embodies the essence of the journey without the burden of driving—the experience of the ride itself.

The album takes us through the heart of Califone’s magic: reverb-drenched piano chords, electronic whirs, and layers of experimental noise. Guided by Tim Rutili’s abstract, fragmented lyrics—both strange and familiar—delivered through his warm, well-worn vocals, it creates an experience as evocative as it is haunting. Often passing through what seem to be the spaces between radio frequencies, the stations never meant to be heard. Crackles of static, feedback loops, and fleeting signals bloom into meditative moments, with each sound given space to breathe, unravel, and shimmer in slow decay. The result resonates deeply, transforming what might be noise into something profound, hypnotic, and totally immersive.

As with villagers, Rutili and company continue to explore what it means to get lost while surrounded by modern technology. Like a ghost in a machine or a whispered prayer stuck in a telephone line, Califone adds soul—be it damned or saved. And they do so with the kind of transformative magic granted perhaps only to artists a quarter of a century into their craft. The kind that turns a photograph into a tableau, or any darkened space with a microphone into a makeshift confessional. A song into a hymn, and a hymn into a soundtrack to a life.

Free jazz poetry by a spry, 85 year old Joe McPhee, adapting his renowned improvised practice to words - juxtaposed with Mats Gustafson’s sparing brass and electric gestures. It’s an utterly timeless and transfixing salvo, another shiny notch for Smalltown Supersound’s Le Jazz Non Series.

As a common ligature to the OG free jazz scene of ‘60s NYC, with formative binds to its European offshoots and the experimental avant garde, Joe McPhee is a true force of nature who has represented jazz at its freest over a remarkable lifetime. In duo with Swedish free jazz and noise standard bearer Mats Gustafson, he upends expectations with an astonishingly vivid and upfront example of his enduring contribution to freely improvised music. In 11 parts he variously reflects on everything from the neon sleaze and scuzz of NYC to contemporary US politicians and laugh out loud imitations of his previous sparring partners such as Peter Brötzmann, with a head-slapping immediacy that leaves you reeling, spellbound.

McPhee’s flow of rare, organic cadence, ranging from urgent to contemplative and dreamlike, is blessed with a unique turn-of-phrase that surely mirrors his decades of instrumental work. Gustafsson, meanwhile, dextrously takes up the mantle with a multi-instrumental spectrum of sounds, leaving McPhee unbound and able to float and sting on the mic. There’s obvious wisdom in his perceptively penetrative observations, as derived from a rich cultural life well spent, but also a playful naivety and levity in his ability to veer from almost melodic speech to explosive aggression and a knowing, bathetic wit. It’s perhaps hard to believe that McPhee only started incorporating and performing spoken word in his work in the past ten years, a half century since his declaration of “What Time Is It‽” announced his arrival on a legendary debut ‘Nation Time’ (1971), ushering in one of free jazz’s most singular characters in the process.

Oscillating between discordant reflections on life as a touring musician, set to Gustafsson’s skronk and culminating in a snort-worthy imitation of Peter Brötzmann’s gruff German accent, on ‘Short Pieces’ or the glowering growl and noise exhortations of ‘Guitar’, he evokes a more sweetly consonant calm in ‘When I Grow Up’ and eerie threat of ‘The Dreams Book’, and viscerality of ‘Disco Death’, where Gustafson’s tonal versatility comes into hugely mutable play, whilst McPhee’s extraordinary, unaffected voice is a constant. It’s perhaps McPhee’s balance of cool measuredness and wellspring of barbed energies that allows us, at least, to get the most out of this one; not stifling with mannered or manicured enunciation that can trigger certain icks; keeping close to the nature of spoken word in a way that avoids cliche and becomes inherently critical of it within his purposeful, non-hesitant clarity and unflinching approach.

Like a passenger riding shotgun on a road trip, The Villagers Companion offers its own unique perspective and story to tell. Featuring tracks recorded alongside last year’s acclaimed villagers, TVC captures the miles between the start and destination—the faded gas station pit stops, the plastic saint statue stuck to the dashboard for safe travels or luck. It embodies the essence of the journey without the burden of driving—the experience of the ride itself.

The album takes us through the heart of Califone’s magic: reverb-drenched piano chords, electronic whirs, and layers of experimental noise. Guided by Tim Rutili’s abstract, fragmented lyrics—both strange and familiar—delivered through his warm, well-worn vocals, it creates an experience as evocative as it is haunting. Often passing through what seem to be the spaces between radio frequencies, the stations never meant to be heard. Crackles of static, feedback loops, and fleeting signals bloom into meditative moments, with each sound given space to breathe, unravel, and shimmer in slow decay. The result resonates deeply, transforming what might be noise into something profound, hypnotic, and totally immersive.

As with villagers, Rutili and company continue to explore what it means to get lost while surrounded by modern technology. Like a ghost in a machine or a whispered prayer stuck in a telephone line, Califone adds soul—be it damned or saved. And they do so with the kind of transformative magic granted perhaps only to artists a quarter of a century into their craft. The kind that turns a photograph into a tableau, or any darkened space with a microphone into a makeshift confessional. A song into a hymn, and a hymn into a soundtrack to a life.

Alternate versions of tracks from Marc Mac's Def Radio Album. The album marks the return of Marc Mac's long-running Visioneers project. As ever with Visioneers, this record reimagines the default stock of hip-hop's best-stocked jukebox, often beginning from scratch focusing on a central sample used in the original Hip Hop song, to either recontextualise a classic or come up with a new song; whatever the case, the key hallmark of a Visioneers is its live instrumentation, with flaunts a *gauche et droite* mastery over hip-hop's laggard swing.



a A1: What It Mean (Battle Cut) 45

The 2003 debut album and a collection of early rarities from the genuine treasure of the UK underground. Remastered and available on vinyl for the first time in over two decades. “Legendary angular rock…Edgar Allen Poe meets The Fall” (The Guardian 2003) “Jarvis Cocker fronting Fugazi” (Melody Maker 1994) Joeyfat, from Tunbridge Wells in Kent, are the daddy of all the Sprechgesang bands out there. We searched on Wikipedia; they're not even mentioned. Maybe not such a bad thing. There are young scamps climbing up festival line-ups all over the world with more than a passing sonic and aesthetic resemblance. Influence can be picked up in diluted ways, maybe the true source of the river has been forgotten. Foals heard the source, they were there. So were Everything Everything. Ask them. Black Midi heard it third hand. Life Without Buildings heard it. So did Yard Act. You can see the pattern. From the early '90s Joeyfat, led by Matt Cole and Jason Dormon, have been perfecting and re-perfecting the sound. They toured with Green Day in 1994. They released music on the Fierce Panda label. They recorded BBC Sessions for John Peel and Marc Riley and released four albums and countless singles. They flirted with being known and they didn't like what they saw so they kept it local, building a community by setting up the Tunbridge Wells Forum, one of the great UK small venues. Debut album The House Of The Fat is a masterpiece, the musical precision recalls The Sound or B52s. The spot-on attack of the vocal and lyrics makes us think of Fugazi or Zounds. The Unwilling Astronaut compiles early singles and compilation tracks. Going all the way back to 1993 it shows how close to a DC-inspired hardcore band they were, it's a thrilling listen. Joeyfat shouldn’t need a re-introduction but they’re going to get one. The source of the river. The top of the family tree. This is where the resemblance comes from

Double B is Barry from 2-X-Treme and these tracks were written at the same time as that infamous 2-X-Treme EP. Pressed by Barry on a white label and mostly hand-distributed to local south coast record shops. This is a very rare record from a Pompey rave don!

In Todmorden, the oddly-named market border town in West Yorkshire with a habit for embracing the weird and wonderful, a burst of sunshine is a precious thing. Through the thick of Winter, through every season in fact, the town’s folk are used to the wind and rain, fog and mist. As much a part of the town as the trademark deep valley it sits in, here the lay of the land invites the weather in, just as it does the many musicians, artists, and unique characters that have come to call the place home over the centuries.
Bridget Hayden is one such soul who found a home among these hills. The experimental musician, who invites the ghosts in for the classic folk songs that make up her stunning new album, knows only too well about such weather, how rare and treasured the breaks from it are. Her favourite thing to do in the valley, she says, is “to make the most of every tiny minute of sunshine.”
Such aspirations nearly derailed the recording of Cold Blows the Rain, her new eight-song collection released via the Todmorden- based label Basin Rock. Having hired the town’s Oddfellow’s Hall to record these new songs in the late summer of 2022, Hayden says the weather was so good she ended up basking in every second of it, only moving inside to begin recording when the sun was setting, working deep into the night to make up the time.
There’s a good chance, however, that it had to be this way. The songs that make up Cold Blows the Rain are not made for the sunlight. They come, instead, wrapped in mist and coated with drizzle, those elements shaping the album as much as the voice and the instruments held within, as real but ambiguous as the ghosts that linger in the shadows. The sound of the dark valley floor.
Mostly centred around meditative and experimental improvisation, Bridget’s work to-date has seen her spend more than two decades recording and performing on the underground music scene. She’s also toured internationally both as a solo artist and as part of bands such as Schisms and The Telescopes, while working on various side-projects with the likes of Folklore Tapes.
For all of this sonic exploration, so much of her work has been formed around elements of traditional folk aesthetics and, over time, she began to piece together a collection of reinterpreted traditional songs that she absorbed as a child from her mother: through The Dubliners and Muddy Waters, to Bessie Smith and The Leadbelly Songbook. Harvesting her love for Nina Simone, Karen Dalton, Margaret Barry, and more, Bridget takes these traditional songs and transforms them into something uniquely evocative
"It goes back to the womb,” Bridget says of that connection. “I would not call it a memory as it is so deep within my blood and bones. My mum was the source, she sang all the time, as part of life. So it was a very lulling and natural introduction. It seemed common to hear her singing – unbeknownst to her – in time with a raindrop dripping at the window,” Bridget continues. “I’ve always wanted to do a folk record as I love these songs so much. It comes much more naturally to me to sing other people’s words, especially when they’re as beautiful as these old verses.”
Underpinned by waves of analogue reverb, and led by Bridget’s stirring and weather-beaten voice, the songs on Cold Blows the Rain drift and crawl like low heavy clouds on flat-top hills, shaped by the land. The backdrop is equally as arresting, all subtle gloom cast in shadow, a gentle but pronounced swirling of textures, crafted from harmonium and violin courtesy of The Apparitions (Sam Mcloughlin and Dan Bridgewood-Hill).
“The weather speaks the most eloquently about human loss,” Bridget says, articulating such sentiments. “It’s good to feel enveloped by something so much vaster than ourselves. The rain and the tears all become one.”

Jesse Hackett returns with another unclassifiable co-mingling of genres, this time made in collaboration with Durban-based gqom trio Phelimuncasi. The group met up in Nyege Nyege's Kampala studio last year, spending three days engineering a sequence of tracks that turned the acts' respective sounds inside out, stretching urgent vocals over mutating backdrops of time stretched electronic drums, saturated noise and unstable synths.We last heard from Hackett on last year's chilling 'Shadow Swamps', a chilly, surrealist blast of disembodied folk and vintage electronics that added a cinematic twist to industrial music. Phelimuncasi meanwhile followed their acclaimed debut with the enormous 'Ama Gogela', asserting their dominance with tight, dancefloor-fwd, hook-led jams produced by some of the scene's most important beatmakers. In collaboration, both Metal Preyers and Phelimuncasi materialized a few worlds outside their comfort zones, with the Durban trio's words frothing from Hackett's marshy productions like echoes from another universe.Opening track 'Gidigidi ka Makhelwane' erupts in a fizz of beatbox percussion that loops noisily alongside Makan Nana, Khera and Malathon's stirring vocals, delivered in their local isiZulu tongue. Hackett's process is relatively restrained, offering Phelimuncasi the space to work their rousing magic unimpeded and adding punctuation where necessary. But when he takes more of a destructive role, it's just as impressive: on 'Gqom slowgen Chant', he corrupts his rhythm into a ritualistic pulse, letting the trio's words melt into metallic clicks and nauseous atmospheres.Elsewhere on 'Mgiligi wableka', Phelimuncasi's words create a rousing rhythm against a low-n-slow gqom thud from Hackett, and on 'Coffin Roller' he brings to mind '80s video nasty soundtracks, toying with analog synth sequences against Makan Nana, Khera and Malathon's distant chants. 'Like A Corpse' might be the album's most hollowed-out banger, turning the beat into a chopped 'n screwed drag that scrapes clamorously against Phelimuncasi's gurgling raps. Needless to say, there's nothing else like this.Jesse Hackett returns with another unclassifiable co-mingling of genres, this time made in collaboration with Durban-based gqom trio Phelimuncasi. The group met up in Nyege Nyege's Kampala studio last year, spending three days engineering a sequence of tracks that turned the acts' respective sounds inside out, stretching urgent vocals over mutating backdrops of time stretched electronic drums, saturated noise and unstable synths.We last heard from Hackett on last year's chilling 'Shadow Swamps', a chilly, surrealist blast of disembodied folk and vintage electronics that added a cinematic twist to industrial music. Phelimuncasi meanwhile followed their acclaimed debut with the enormous 'Ama Gogela', asserting their dominance with tight, dancefloor-fwd, hook-led jams produced by some of the scene's most important beatmakers. In collaboration, both Metal Preyers and Phelimuncasi materialized a few worlds outside their comfort zones, with the Durban trio's words frothing from Hackett's marshy productions like echoes from another universe.Opening track 'Gidigidi ka Makhelwane' erupts in a fizz of beatbox percussion that loops noisily alongside Makan Nana, Khera and Malathon's stirring vocals, delivered in their local isiZulu tongue. Hackett's process is relatively restrained, offering Phelimuncasi the space to work their rousing magic unimpeded and adding punctuation where necessary. But when he takes more of a destructive role, it's just as impressive: on 'Gqom slowgen Chant', he corrupts his rhythm into a ritualistic pulse, letting the trio's words melt into metallic clicks and nauseous atmospheres.Elsewhere on 'Mgiligi wableka', Phelimuncasi's words create a rousing rhythm against a low-n-slow gqom thud from Hackett, and on 'Coffin Roller' he brings to mind '80s video nasty soundtracks, toying with analog synth sequences against Makan Nana, Khera and Malathon's distant chants. 'Like A Corpse' might be the album's most hollowed-out banger, turning the beat into a chopped 'n screwed drag that scrapes clamorously against Phelimuncasi's gurgling raps. Needless to say, there's nothing else like this.

As Jess Sylvester finished his Hardly Art debut as Marinero in the fall of 2020, he realized it was time for a change. Sylvester grew up in Marin County, on the doorstep of San Francisco. It was a nurturing community for a high-school punk with a pompadour and, later, for a sober songwriter with a proclivity for moody psychedelia. But he wanted to be challenged and inspired by a new setting and scenario around strangers who prompted him to approach his music in unexpected ways. So in September 2020, as the world continued to reel in lockdown, Sylvester headed several hours south to Los Angeles, a city that, despite the relative proximity, the film buff knew largely from classic and cult films situated there. When he arrived, he kept digging into that cinematic past-Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye, with John Williams' classic theme, or classic 90s movies about East LA, many featuring Edward James Olmos. They shaped his understanding of his new town just as it began to open. This is one pillar of the multivalent and endlessly lush La La La, Marinero's new album about sobriety, identity, and fantasy that is playfully named both for the city that helped shape it and the sophisticated pop it contains. Sylvester wrote about characters outside of himself, whether considering the heroine reckoning with her own version of keeping clean or the screenwriters whose work was deemed communist simply as a political convenience. He linked those songs with motivational anthems about self-acceptance and playful numbers about flirting through food, shaping a 12-song set rich with humor, empathy, and encouragement. Sure, La La La is a continuation of the slippery genre play Sylvester started with 2021's Hella Love, 2019's Trópico de Cáncer, or even before that. But it also feels like a fresh beginning for Marinero, as Sylvester realizes how boundless this project can be. He began to think about the music of his childhood, how his mother is from San Francisco with Mexican roots, and how he'd heard so much salsa growing up as an impetuous teenager. So he wrote "Taquero," a red-hot salsa tune that uses tacos and their trappings as a source of endless metaphors for come-ons. And then there was the Ray Barreto or Santana-inspired "Pocha Pachanga," with organ gliding and percussion pulsing beneath his yearning vocals, warped as if by desert winds. In Los Angeles, he found a wealth of players who spoke this music like language itself (including Chicano Batman's Eduardo Arenas), all ready to play with and push these familiar forms. Sylvester has also been sober for 21 years, since a cross-country sojourn to attend college in Boston ended in a chemical haze. Today, he sees friends facing the same decisions he made two decades ago, and he brings bits of that experience to bear in songs that feel like self-help anthems. Recorded with a musical hero (and labelmate) of his, Chris Cohen, "Sea Changes" feels like sunshine breaking through dark clouds, as Sylvester acknowledges the newfound confidence and clarity in a friend who has stepped away from destructive habits. In the past, Sylvester has been intractably linked to his identity as a Mexican-American, born to parents from Mexico and Irish- American descent who settled in San Francisco. That can be limiting, of course, tying him to notions of sound and style that aren't always correct. On La La La, he simultaneously steps into and out of those preconceptions, singing tracks above salsa in joyous Spanish or pondering the dynamics of the Hollywood Ten and blacklists above mysterious lap steel and teasing trumpet. His identity, then, should now be clear: He is a Californian, making music shaped by the diversity of encounters and experiences that are a central part of that state's fabric. Never before has he presented himself so fully and unabashedly on tape as with La La La, an album Sylvester built with new inspirations to deliver new charms.

In the late 1980s, as techno and house made its way around Europe, mutating as it hopped from city to city, one young DJ from Curacao made a mistake that would inspire a brand new sound. While he was performing at Den Haag's Club Voltage, DJ Moortje accidentally dropped a dancehall track at 45RPM rather than 33, and let it play out. Thirsty for a hi-NRG sound, the crowd loved the squeaky vocals and rapid beat, and bubbling (or bubbling house) was born.For the next couple of decades, bubbling was a crucial part of Holland's Afro-diasporic club landscape. And as a new generation of wide-eyed young DJs and producers began to take the reins, it evolved accordingly. In the late-2000s, Den Haag-based teenage prodigy Guillermo Schuurman followed in the footsteps of his uncle DJ Chippie (one of the genre's co-founders) and cousins DJ Daycard, DJ Master-D, Stiko Jnr and DJ Justme, and began performing and writing beats. Using Fruityloops, he fused familiar bubbling rhythms with rap and R&B samples, trance synths and electro house wobbles, and his tracks quickly became a regular fixture on the Dutch circuit."Bubbling Inside" is a collection of Schuurman's most essential cuts from the era (2007-2009), with a couple of newer productions added for context. Crafted solely for the dance, most of these tracks were never properly released and have been painstakingly hunted down and collected by the Nyege Nyege Tapes together with Sascha Roth from Pantropical in Rotterdam and De Schuurman himself. Hearing them together highlights just how forward thinking the young producer was, steering a Dutch institution into the future.2008's 'First One' is a proto-Berghain belter, with booming bass-heavy kicks underpinning the kind of cheeky melodies that remain the calling card of the genre. 'Pier Je Bil!!' ratchets up the tempo, twisting bubbling's syncopated dancehall kicks into a rapid-fire club clatter and decorating them with steel-pan melodies. Elsewhere, 2019's 'Domina' shows how Schuurman's production style has developed as he mutates trap percussion, dubstep bass and eerie synth textures, while retaining the DNA of bubbling. "Bubbling Inside" is a testament to the evolution of the bubbling genre, as witnessed by one of its most visionary producers.

In the late 1980s, as techno and house made its way around Europe, mutating as it hopped from city to city, one young DJ from Curacao made a mistake that would inspire a brand new sound. While he was performing at Den Haag's Club Voltage, DJ Moortje accidentally dropped a dancehall track at 45RPM rather than 33, and let it play out. Thirsty for a hi-NRG sound, the crowd loved the squeaky vocals and rapid beat, and bubbling (or bubbling house) was born.For the next couple of decades, bubbling was a crucial part of Holland's Afro-diasporic club landscape. And as a new generation of wide-eyed young DJs and producers began to take the reins, it evolved accordingly. In the late-2000s, Den Haag-based teenage prodigy Guillermo Schuurman followed in the footsteps of his uncle DJ Chippie (one of the genre's co-founders) and cousins DJ Daycard, DJ Master-D, Stiko Jnr and DJ Justme, and began performing and writing beats. Using Fruityloops, he fused familiar bubbling rhythms with rap and R&B samples, trance synths and electro house wobbles, and his tracks quickly became a regular fixture on the Dutch circuit."Bubbling Inside" is a collection of Schuurman's most essential cuts from the era (2007-2009), with a couple of newer productions added for context. Crafted solely for the dance, most of these tracks were never properly released and have been painstakingly hunted down and collected by the Nyege Nyege Tapes together with Sascha Roth from Pantropical in Rotterdam and De Schuurman himself. Hearing them together highlights just how forward thinking the young producer was, steering a Dutch institution into the future.2008's 'First One' is a proto-Berghain belter, with booming bass-heavy kicks underpinning the kind of cheeky melodies that remain the calling card of the genre. 'Pier Je Bil!!' ratchets up the tempo, twisting bubbling's syncopated dancehall kicks into a rapid-fire club clatter and decorating them with steel-pan melodies. Elsewhere, 2019's 'Domina' shows how Schuurman's production style has developed as he mutates trap percussion, dubstep bass and eerie synth textures, while retaining the DNA of bubbling. "Bubbling Inside" is a testament to the evolution of the bubbling genre, as witnessed by one of its most visionary producers.

Watch out! You are holding the 125th (one-hundred-and-twenty fifth!) album on Tramp Records in your hands! We are honored to celebrate this impressive anniversary with the tenth volume in the Praise Poems series. This time, too, we go on a journey to discover previously unheard regions of jazz, folk and AOR from the 1970s and 80s.

Praise Poems Vol.10 presents sixteen (almost) forgotten rare groove gems, all released between the years 1970 and 1984. One of the many highlights is the opening track: "Fields of Laughter" by Color Me Blu - originally released on an acetate only of which two copies exist worldwide. But there is much, much more to discover. This brandnew volume features a wide range of genres, from AOR (Whiz Kids, Ross Miller, and another previously unreleased track by Harve & Charee) to Latin-Rock a'la Santana (Color Me Blue, Tribal Sinfonia, and Apple) to Soul-Jazz (Ernie Lewis Trio, Joe Bozzi Quintet or Dutch saxophonist Frits Kaatee). Right at the end, one track in particular stands out: the wonderful "It's Good Not To Forget" by George Melvin and his quintet - a fabulously dreamy, thoughtful instrumental piece in the style of Ramsey Lewis with catchy tune potential.

Not many compilation series make it to a tenth edition. And if they do, then you often notice that the quality of the songs goes in the opposite direction to the increasing number of series: namely decreasing. Not so with Praise Poems Vol. 10, which the creators prove in an impressive new way. They have found tracks that were originally either a) pressed by the musicians themselves in very small editions or b) released by small, regional labels. It is understandable that neither the musicians nor these small labels had the necessary knowledge or budget to market their albums or singles professionally. The majority of the bands therefore did not manage to reach a large audience - although they certainly had the potential for the big stage.

"Praise Poems 10 - A journey into soulful jazz and funk from the 1970s" makes these almost 50-year-old treasures accessible to a new audience. We hope that you enjoy discovering your personal favorite song(s) and we are already looking forward to many more releases!

Mehr als zwanzig Jahre ist es her, dass das Hamburger Trio
SONO mit dem Clubhit „Keep Control“ die nationalen und
internationalen Charts enterte und so seinen Weg in die
Dance- und Popwelt ebnete. Zwei Dekaden, die der Band
um Lennart A. Salomon, Florian Sikorski und Martin Weiland Zeit gaben, ihren ganz eigenen Stil zu erfinden: eine
Mischung aus clubtauglichen Beats und lupenreinen Popsongs. Eine Hommage an eben diese Clubs ist nun der neue,
neunte SONO Longplayer „In The Haze“. Für „In The Haze“
haben sich SONO mit angesagten Größen der Club-Szene
zusammengetan, wie beispielsweise dem Hamburger Techno-Produzenten André Winter, dem italienischen DJ Rafael
Cerato und der Hamburger Drum ’n’ Bass Größe Phace.
— Das Album erzählt von dem, was in den undurchsichtigen, vielschichtigen Schwaden der Nebelmaschinen
eben so passiert: Liebe, Tanz, Trennung, Verunsicherung
— Ein emotionales Album, das genauso zum Tanzen wie
auch zum Zuhören und Mitsingen einlädt

Hardanger is a collaboration by Mariska Baars (aka Soccer Committee), Niki Jansen, and Rutger Zuydervelt (aka Machinefabriek). The title refers to the instrument played by Jansen, the Hardanger fiddle. It’s a fresh addition to the established musical chemistry from regular collaborators Baars and Zuydervelt.

The music on Hardanger started with improvisations by Niki Jansen, guided by Mariska Baars, who responded with vocal and guitar recordings. Rutger Zuydervelt used this material as the building blocks for the two long-form pieces found on the album. These tracks are like two sides of the same coin, one a collage-like electro-acoustic piece, the other more drawn-out and contemplative.

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Mariska Baars is probably better known as soccer Committee, creating an experimental blend of ambient rooted in folk music, with minimal arrangements. She has been releasing albums since 2005. In addition to her solo output she is part of improvisation ensemble Piiptsjilling and Fean (Laaps, 2020) and has worked on several duo albums with Rutger Zuydervelt. On other occasions she collaborated with a.o. Annelies Monseré, Wouter van Veldhoven, Peter Broderick and Greg Haines.

Niki Jansen is a violinist who plays both the regular and a hardanger fiddle.She specializes in folk music, especially old Dutch folk music. She plays in various ensembles like Twee violen en een bas (with Jos Koning and Willem Raadsveld), and country quartet Daisy Chain. In addition to music, she also works as a sustainability advisor for governments and institutions and manages a food forest in a cooperative.

Rutger Zuydervelt is perhaps better known as Machinefabriek, the alias under which he releases music since 2004. The stream of releases since is vast, many of them collaborations (with Peter Broderick, Gareth Davis, Chantal Acda, Dirk Serries, and many many more). He regularly works with Mariska Baars, with whom he also plays in Piiptsjilling and Fean (Laaps, 2020). Zuydervelt is an avid composer of scores for film and dance performances, and also works as a graphic designer.

We are glad to introduce you to our new full length album, sound designed and arranged by Spanish duo Crime as Service. Their musical output has always been solid and consistent, always offering diverse visions on techno sound.

For this particular work they have explored the deepest side of their sound palette, starting with the beatless intro Unlocked, made of subtle drones and field recordings.

Next track is Altered Circuits, a bass heavy groove on the first bars soon followed by mechanical components colliding with atmospheres and micro drone. A combination of pressure and deepness.

Shadow Crew follows with a continuous sequence over a shuffled beat, the usual textures appear on top of the main synth line spicing the mood, until bleeps and asymmetrical components complete the equation.

Zombie Botnet changes the mood drastically, adrenaline goes up and new sonic components add hypnosis to the overall feel as the track goes by.

Second slice of plastic opens with Lazarus Group, intense and dark with super effected synth lines running through the stereo field wisely.

Darknet Operation, as the title suggests, is opaque and gray but also liquid with water samples appearing randomly along the arrangement. The groove behind is relentless and effective, one more time mixing intensity with mindfulness.

Unknown Exploits shares similar feelings as the previous one, a combination of tension and sonic details.

Closing the release, Deconstructed Blockchain, aimed directly for the dancefloor with a psychedelic approach on the main sound, constantly mutating and evolving as the minutes go.

A solid collection of well-crafted techno tunes, aside from tendencies and hype, made to last.

Volume 1 of this expertly curated project of 90s Italian House - put together by Don Carlos.

If Paradise was half as nice… by Fabio De Luca.

Googling “paradise house”, the first results to pop up are an endless list of European b&b’s with whitewashed lime façades, all of them promising “…an unmatched travel experience a few steps from the sea”. Next, a little further down, are the institutional websites of a few select semi-luxury retirement homes (no photos shown, but lots of stock images of smiling nurses with reassuring looks). To find the “paradise house” we’re after, we have to scroll even further down. Much further down.

It feels like yesterday, and at the same time it seems like a million years ago. The Eighties had just ended, and it was still unclear what to expect from the Nineties. Mobile phones that were not the size of a briefcase and did not cost as much as a car? A frightening economic crisis? The guitar-rock revival?! Certainly, the best place to observe that moment of transition was the dancefloor. Truly epochal transformations were happening there. From America, within a short distance one from the other, two revolutionary new musical styles had arrived: the first one sounded a bit like an “on a budget” version of the best Seventies disco-music – Philly sound made with a set of piano-bar keyboards! – the other was even more sparse, futuristic and extraterrestrial. It was a music with a quite distinct “physical” component, which at the same time, to be fully grasped, seemed to call for the knotty theories of certain French post-modern philosophers: Gilles Deleuze, Félix Guattari, Paul Virilio... Both those genres – we would learn shortly after – were born in the black communities of Chicago and Detroit, although listening to those vinyl 12” (often wrapped in generic white covers, and with little indication in the label) you could not easily guess whether behind them there was a black boy from somewhere in the Usa, or a girl from Berlin, or a pale kid from a Cornish coastal town.

Quickly, similar sounds began to show up from all corners of Europe. A thousand variations of the same intuition: leaner, less lean, happier, slightly less intoxicated, more broken, slower, faster, much faster... Boom! From the dancefloors – the London ones at least, whose chronicles we eagerly read every month in the pages of The Face and i-D – came tales of a new generation of clubbers who had completely stopped “dressing up” to go dancing; of hot tempered hooligans bursting into tears and hugging everyone under the strobe lights as the notes of Strings of Life rose up through the fumes of dry ice (certain “smiling” pills were also involved, sure). At this point, however, we must move on to Switzerland.

In Switzerland, in the quiet and diligent town of Lugano, between the 1980s and 1990s there was a club called “Morandi”. Its hot night was on Wednesdays, when the audience also came from Milan, Como, Varese and Zurich. Legend goes that, one night, none less than Prince and Sheila E were spotted hiding among the sofas, on a day-off of the Italian dates of the Nude Tour… The Wednesday resident and superstar was an Italian dj with an exotic name: Don Carlos. The soundtrack he devised was a mixture of Chicago, Detroit, the most progressive R&B and certain forgotten classics of old disco music: practically, what the Paradise Garage in New York might have sounded like had it not closed in 1987. In between, Don Carlos also managed to squeeze in some tracks he had worked on in his studio on Lago Maggiore. One in particular: a track that was rather slow compared to the BPM in fashion at the time, but which was a perfect bridge between house and R&B. The title was Alone: Don Carlos would explain years later that it had to be intended both in the English meaning of “by itself” and like the Italian word meaning “halo”. That wasn’t the only double entendre about the song, anyway. Its own very deep nature was, indeed, double. On the one hand, Alone was built around an angelic keyboard pattern and a romantic piano riff that took you straight to heaven; on the other, it showcased enough electronic squelches (plus a sax part that sounded like it had been dissolved by acid rain) to pigeonhole the tune into the “junk modernity” section, aka the hallmark of all the most innovative sounds of the time: music that sounded like it was hand-crafted from the scraps of glittering overground pop.

No one knows who was the first to call it “paradise house”, nor when it happened. Alternative definitions on the same topic one happened to hear included “ambient house”, “dream house”, “Mediterranean progressive”… but of course none were as good (and alluring) as “paradise house”. What is certain is that such inclination for sounds that were in equal measure angelic and neurotic, romantic and unaffective, quickly became the trademark of the second generation of Italian house. Music that seemed shyly equidistant from all the rhythmic and electronic revolutions that had happened up to that moment (“Music perfectly adept at going nowhere slowly” as noted by English journalist Craig McLean in a legendary field report for Blah Blah Blah magazine). Music that to a inattentive ear might have sounded as anonymous as a snapshot of a random group of passers-by at 10AM in the centre of any major city, but perfectly described the (slow) awakening in the real world after the universal love binge of the so-called Second Summer of Love.

For a brief but unforgettable season, in Italy “paradise house” was the official soundtrack of interminable weekends spent inside the car, darting from one club to another, cutting the peninsula from North to centre, from East to West coast in pursuit of the latest after-hours disco, trading kilometres per hour with beats per minute: practically, a new New Year’s Eve every Friday and Saturday night. This too was no small transformation, as well as a shock for an adult Italy that was encountering for the first time – thanks to its sons and daughters – the wild side of industrial modernity. The clubbers of the so-called “fuoriorario” scene were the balls gone mad in the pinball machine most feared by newspapers, magazines and TV pundits. What they did each and every weekend, apart from going crazy to the sound of the current white labels, was linking distant geographical points and non-places (thank you Marc Augé!) – old dance halls, farmhouses and business centres – transformed for one night into house music heaven. As Marco D’Eramo wrote in his 1995 essay on Chicago, Il maiale e il grattacielo: “Four-wheeled capitalism distorts our age-old image of the city, it allows the suburbs to be connected to each other, whereas before they were connected only by the centre (…) It makes possible a metropolitan area without a metropolis, without a city centre, without downtown. The periphery is no longer a periphery of any centre, but is self-centred”.

“Paradise house” perfectly understood all of this and turned it into a sort of cyber-blues that didn’t even need words, and unexpectedly brought back a drop of melancholic (post?)-humanity within a world that by then – as we would wholly realise in the decades to come – was fully inhuman and heartless. A world where we were all alone, and surrounded by a sinister yellowish halo, like a neon at the end of its life cycle. But, for one night at least, happy.

Imaginary friends Akka & BeepBeep share the third release on their label: Floral Ancestors by Raduns. The 12” offers blooming ambient rooted in dub, lush drone and hand-picked cosmic that’s all grown deep in Detroit.

Spacious sonic arrangements vividly swell yet keep grounded within a sculptural rhythmic core. Raduns sows synth basslines and wispy pads next to harmonious guitars and muted field recordings. Grooving propulsion drives throughout. Rhythms appear, in negative space, like outlines between leaves. Recorded with machines direct to SD card, the compositions represent ephemeral blessings of experience. As if strolling into a verdant conservatory, the layered and diverse sensations blend into one cohesive revelatory experience.

On their first record, Raduns draws an ancestral line in Detroit as inspiration. A time when you could ride a streetcar from Dexter-Linwood to Belle Isle. A time before freeway expansion demolished vibrant Black neighborhoods. A time before the rebellion, motown and white flight. A time when Raduns’ great-grandparents were florists in the city, serving the community in times of celebration and times of grief. This melancholic circle shapes the project in which Raduns summons these Floral Ancestors, stretching upward from the darkness of the earth into the light of the world back down once more.

AKKA’s Side: “Grass Boulevard” exhales a luscious soundscape that develops through wave-crashing synths and circulated guitars to a transplanted acid lead. “Spread” lays out a decoration of blended sample and hold synth with kosmische styled guitar licks. Tracked as a single take in a Detroit community studio, the tune intuitively reseeds the symbiotic sprout between krautrock and Detroit techno.

BEEP’s Side: “Metrograde Bouquet” submerges you into the bulb of a handcrafted vase. Dub techno roots grow out into murky water with energy that is subtle yet profound. “Oldest of Arrangements” textures breaths of misty air cascading ventilating in on itself. The track’s time seems to stretch and disappear within a dark and deep undercurrent. A harmonic and reverberant resonance closes the record in a flowering of beauty and peace.

“You’re a flower child. Put this music out.” - Someone Important in Detroit

Young Kingz II marks Krept & Konan’s first album since top-5 charting Revenge Is Sweet, a project which cemented their place in music history as UK rap royalty and saw them become the first British rap act to headline the O2 London. It also follows the duo’s equally ground-breaking 2017 release of 7 DAYS and 7 NIGHTS, which saw them become the first act ever to have two mixtapes simultaneously enter the Top 10 of the Official UK Albums chart, and their 2015 debut album The Long Way Home which debuted at no. 2 on The Official UK Albums Chart, becoming the highest charting British Rap album in UK chart history.

With Young Kingz II, Krept & Konan are set to continue their legacy and undisputed relevance in the British music scene. Returning to their independent roots, they come full circle with the follow up to their 2013 released Young Kingz mixtape which catapulted the duo into the Top 20 of The Official UK Albums Chart, earning them a Guinness World Record for the highest charting UK album by an unsigned act.

Young Kingz was pivotal in establishing Krept & Konan as trailblazers in the UK rap scene, kickstarting their reputation for repeatedly breaking records and consistently breaking ground. With a broad-ranging rollcall of featured artists, it heralded their signature approach to collaborations of enlisting fledgling artists (such as s then little-known MC, Stormzy), alongside more established ones (George The Poet, Chip, Tine Tempah and Giggs). It also saw Krept & Konan gain traction across the Atlantic with US rappers French Montana, Chinx Drugz, Lil Durk stepping up on the remix of the mixtape’s second single release, "Don’t Waste My Time", and garnered them a BET Award (Best International Act) and MOBO Award (Best Hip-Hop Act).

‘Young Kingz II’ is poised to be yet another milestone in Krept & Konan's unstoppable career. As unapologetic pioneers in UK hip-hop, they continue to push boundaries and set new benchmarks in British music.

Limited edition classic black vinyl mini-album of cathartic slowcore by The Declining Winter, the new vehicle of Richard Adams, formerly of Domino Records post-rockers, Hood. The next release on the acclaimed boutique English independent label, Second Language Music, will be ‘Last April,’ the new mini-album by The Declining Winter, a raw, deeply emotional monument of loss, grief and heartbreak that treads in the footsteps of Red House Painters’ ‘Down Colorful Hill,’ Low’s ‘I Could Live In Hope’ and Songs: Ohia’s ‘Didn’t It Rain.’ This is not a heart-on-your-sleeve record. It does away with the sleeve and goes straight for carving a heart on the arm. Recordings which emerged out of a period of shock, grief and trauma, these six songs were all written on the same night and form a stately tribute to a loved one lost. The Declining Winter strip things back to just Richard Adams’ plaintive voice and acoustic guitar, alongside the beautiful, irrefutably melancholy string arrangements/playing of Sarah Kemp (Brave Timbers). There’s been no attempt to plane off any rough edges – here and there, the creak of a chair, a guitar note missed, a voice almost cracking with emotion – these recordings are like cathartic scrawls in a diary. Only this one has been left out for anyone to read. As with his previous band, Hood, Adams has a way of evoking a particularly pastoral, English melancholy, of lonely morning hikes in inclement weathers, of rain on slate in the West Yorkshire streets where he was raised and still lives.