quête:shelter point

2026 Repress

Mr. G, aka Colin McBean, presents a remastered, 23-track compilation entitled 'OG Retrospective'

'The day I found my original studio masters and got my rights back was the starting point, and then I realised it's 25 years on and it's time to recode, remaster and reevaluate because I've never looked back properly. I've always been like a bat out of hell, never quite thinking I'm good enough or great at what I do, but it's important to celebrate, because there's nota lot of people still here, still doing it after this length of time'.

With new masters provided by Simon at the renowned London mastering house The Exchange London, a direct link to the original mastering done by the late-Nilz (Nilesh Patel) from The Exchange, Mr. G's 'OG Retrospective' marks a reflective period in McBean's life.

'All I've ever done is write and move forward, but more and more, I get the new generation sending me videos of my old tracks and sometimes I don't even recognise them, so finally I thought, 'ok, you're comfortable in your own skin, let's really see how you sounded at the beginning, how you've changed, how have the techniques changed'?

It was quite raw going back over these; some of the memories are riddled with pain and angst - friends dying, where I was in my life at the time, having a heart attack and so on. Having a sound, too, can be a cross to bear. You're only ever competing with yourself, your only game is being better than your last game, so if you dwell on the past too much you can't move forward. Getting to the point where I can look back and feel happy, feels good.

Invariably, what will come from this is 'more', because, with my own label I have endless possibilities and will continue telling my story.'

Rising from the ashes of Timebox, Patto delivered a bold fusion of progressive rock, jazz, and blues powered by Mike Patto’s soulful vocals and Ollie Halsall’s stunning guitar work. Their second album, Hold Your Fire (1971), originally on Vertigo, is a true gem of early ’70s progressive rock.

Original artwork in gimmix gatefold sleeve. Remastered by Prof. Stoned. Insert with detailed liner notes by Ralph Heibutzki and rare photos / memorabilia.

“…an exceptionally fine album, with songs and playing of a standard rarely achieved in rock music…” - Nick Saloman (Bevis Frond)

Shadows Lifted from Invisible Hands is an autobiographical record, comprised of four songs that Hoff refers to as ambient media. Each track is composed from sources drawn from his own involuntary aural landscape, specifically musical earworms and tinnitus frequencies.

Neither sound nor a daydream, the earworm (or stuck song) emblematizes music as a commercial form—immediate, ubiquitous, and persistent. Likewise, tinnitus is inaudible and unscrupulous, manifesting across a spectrum of frequencies at will. The cognitive swirling of these phenomena provides an ambivalent, internal soundtrack that scores a person’s movement through the world.

Those suffering from tinnitus or those who have grown accustomed to the “Tinnitus Effect” in movies will likely recognize the buzzing pitches on the record, but will likely not recognize the songs. Distorted and distilled, Shadows Lifted from Invisible Hands features altered versions of four commercial pop songs: Blondie’s “Heart of Glass,” David Bowie’s “Space Oddity,” Madonna’s “Into the Groove,” and Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day.”

Having been haunted by these songs on and off for years, Hoff tweaks the tracks, transposing and recomposing them for orchestral instrumentation. Speaking back to these involuntary echoes, these tracks go to great lengths to obfuscate their sources; to be sure not to simply re-introduce each earworm, as though they were samples. Otherwise, what’s the point? No one needs another stream.

Besides, earworms are not music, although we perceive them as such. They are non-cochlear and exist as an affective force that is neither subjective nor objective, which is to say they are an invasive—and alien—phenomenon. Like tinnitus, they are aggravated by economic, social, and environmental forces as well as emotional states, mental health, and aging. Hoff doesn’t underplay his own struggles with mental health in discussing the record—noting a long history of depression and its acuteness over the last few years, which serve as the backdrop to the composition of this record.

Scratch any pop song hard enough and you’ll find sadness underneath it. Subdermal, the songs on this record evoke a type of ephemeral weariness and despair. By recasting the original songs through their shadowy doubles, Hoff provides a window into the dark core of pop music. At the center of which lies capitalism’s desperate attempt to replicate itself through a cheap high built on echoing refrains. Just below the surface the listener finds a hangover of shadows dancing through the mind.

On her fourth full-length album as Shedir, Sardinian sound artist Martina Betti offers a profound meditation on what it means to be human on the threshold of uncertainty.

We Are All Strangers is a series of ambient tapes-tries shaped by duality and introspection, where sound becomes a space to explore the tension between identity and ambiguity, presence and disappearance, connection and solitude. Inspired by the idea that we are all strangers, however, first and foremost to ourselves, Betti crafts seven fluid, slow-burn compositions that inhabit a sociological liminal zone—what she comments as an “inner elsewhere.”

These aren’t songs in the traditional sense, but evolving sonic environments that feel like emotional states made audible. Environmental textures, submerged electronics, and deep low-end pulses coalesce into a dreamlike architecture of sound: immersive, fragile, and quietly transformative.

Rather than offering answers or closure, the album invites us to live in radical openness—to stop trying to define everything we see and feel, and instead bathe in what remains unnamed. In this sense, We Are All Strangers is an invitation: to sit with uncertainty, to embrace the unfinished, and to find resonance even in our collective disconnection.

For listeners drawn to the introspective frequencies of Rafael Anton Irisarri, Félicia Atkinson, or Lawrence English, Betti’s music offers a similarly haunting and immersive experience—one where strangeness is not a flaw, but a starting point. In her hands, ambient music becomes a kind of reflective shelter: a place to brush against each other in the dark and begin to learn, as she puts it, “the difficult art of closeness.”

Unlike anything we have heard from her before, Okkyung Lee returns to Shelter Press with "Just Like Any Other Day: Background Music For Your Mundane Activities", a deeply intimate body of recordings at the juncture of ambient music, minimalism, and the baroque, that stands as radical intervention with what experimental music can be, and the place that organisations of sound occupy in our lives. For more than two decades, Okkyung Lee has stood at the forefront of the most radical trajectories of experimental music: a virtuosic cellist and improviser, renowned for her creative rigour and emotive depth. Particularly noteworthy for her range, dexterity, and adaptability, over the last five years Lee's output has revealed unexpected shifts and developments that move far afield from the realms of free improvisation for which she is most well known. 2020's "Yeo - Neun", a heart-wrenching, ambient chamber work - drawing inspiration from the Korean popular music of her youth - was issued by Shelter Press to great critical response, followed closely by "Teum (The Silvery Slit)" - one of a series engrossing electroacoustic works created at Groupe de Recherches Musicales in Paris - on Portraits GRM, and then "Na-Reul" in 2021, regarded by Lee as a closing statement of more than two decades living in New York, which set the precedent of her allowing her emotions to fully occupy the forefront of the music for the first time. Marking her return to Shelter press, "Just Like Any Other Day": Background Music For Your Mundane Activities", encounters Lee upturning the apple cart once again, weaving a profoundly intimate artistic statement on completely unexpected terms. Like its three aforementioned predecessors, "Just Like Any Other Day" belongs to broadening shift in Lee's approach to composing that roughly aligns with her return to her native South Korea, having lived in the United States since her late teens. Infused with a deep reengagement with her own culture and relationship to memory, it is equally a response to those critical challenges and questions provoked by significant life change. Worked on in isolation, and continuously returned to, over the course of four years, the album's nine pieces began with a simple recognition that experimental music is not always what we imagine it to be. It is a practice and a pursuit - a music for which, at its inception, the outcome is unknown - rather than an idiom defined by certain syntaxes, approaches, and qualities of structure and sound. From this departure point, Lee began to inquire after the utility of music itself: what is it for, what does it do, and what place does it (or can it) occupy in our lives? This solitary and durational journey, each composition gradually moving through different phases and evolutions over years, led Lee toward uncharted ground: a music that is not only playful, introspective, and seductive, but also intended to provoke a relationship to experimental music beyond its normative expectations. Rather active or deep listening, it pursues passive listening. Rather than a grand statement, it is discreet. Rather than virtuosity, it embraces the elegant and direct. Even more strikingly, for the first time, the music of "Just Like Any Other Day" encounters Lee leaving the cello entirely behind. Created at home on keyboard, computer, and an inexpensive cassette recorder, "Just Like Any Other Day" presents a remarkable form of ambient music - organisations of sound that become their own environment, to be occupied - intended, as the album's subheading infers, as Background Music For Your Mundane Activities. An expansion of the creative pathways opened by the Korean pop imbued compositions of Yeo - Neun, aspects of electronic process explored by "Teum (The Silvery Slit)", and the emotive foregrounding of "Na-Reul", each of the pieces presented across the two sides of "Just Like Any Other Day" implies something far greater than the limits of its own temporarily: a mood, provocations of memory and place, mirrors for the solitude within which it was made, and palpable emotion lingering just out of grasp. For Lee, each of the album's compositions could be continued or looped for an indeterminate duration: straddling a ground between the minimal and the baroque, enveloping the listener in endless cycles of appreciating, repetitive and rhythmical notes, flirting with the melodic and implying a disembodied imagism that borders on the profound. Remarkably beautiful and direct, Okkyung Lee's "Just Like Any Other Day: Background Music For Your Mundane Activities" - issued by Shelter Press on vinyl - represents a radical reconfiguration of experiential music, stripped to its bare essence in defiance of the widely presumed aesthetic signifiers. Unlike anything we've heard from her before, this immersive body of intimate recordings not only reveals new dimensions of Lee's striking range as an artist, but also of how we might regard and occupy music itself: an ambience to lived and felt like a second skin.

Slikback releases "Attrition" – a densely detailed, cinematic exploration of sound packed with intricate rhythms and gleaming textures.

Slikback’s "Attrition" marks his first full-length album for Planet Mu, delivering an immersive melding of cinema and game sound design with tough dance music. It's like a sci-fi film for the ears, exploring a chain of events with dark atmospheres and dramatic pacing; trapdoors and jump scares for your ears. These contrasts and the dense painterly colour of his sounds give it a beastly beauty.

The album came to life during a period of transition, while waiting for a visa after recently moving to Poland from Kenya, where he grew up. With this unexpected pause in travel, Slikback found himself working at a slower, more deliberate pace. Writing for a label instead of self-releasing also introduced new dynamics, like feedback and structured release schedules. Rather than feeling restricted, he saw this process as a blessing. In a happy and reflective headspace—newly married and welcoming a newborn child—he was able to fully develop his compositions. “I was finally able to explore ideas to a point where I didn’t feel the need to change anything,” he shares. "Attrition" is the result of that creative freedom. While "Attrition" nods to familiar genres, drawing on elements of Gqom, Dubstep, Tech-Step, and Hardcore Techno, it pushes them into new territory, shaping high-tech, intricate compositions. “I worked on the tracks back and forth, drastically transforming some from their original sketches,” Slikback explains. “I wanted to create a journey within each track, like something alien emerging from emptiness—beauty from chaos.” The album opens gently before diving into fast-paced 140bpm sounds, reminiscent of earlier Planet Mu releases. Midway through, "Taped" shifts the energy with a shimmering, 160bpm rolling bassline. As the album progresses, its intensity builds. The music grows darker, faster, and more unpredictable, culminating in a final track that bursts apart in a thrilling, chaotic climax. A standout moment in Slikback’s career, "Attrition" is a masterclass in sound design and vision. Strange yet beautiful, intense yet rewarding—it’s the most strikingly unique album you’ll hear all year.

Aunes is a rare solo album from peripatetic Australian cellist-composer-performer Judith Hamann, presenting six pieces recorded across several years and countries. Developing the collage techniques and expanded sound palettes heard on their previous releases, Aunes makes use of synthesizers, organ, voice and location recordings alongside the dazzlingly pure, enveloping tones of Hamann's cello. The record takes its name from an old French unit of measurement for fabric, varying around the country and from material to material. Unlike the platinum metre bar deposited in the National Archives after the Revolution as an immovable standard, an aune of silk differed from an aune of linen: the measure could not be separated from the material. In much the same way, in these six pieces_which Hamann thinks of as `songs'_formal aspects such as tuning, pacing, melodic shape and timbre are not abstractions applied universally to musical material but are inextricable from the instruments and sounds used, even from the places and communities in which the music was made. Audible location sound embeds the music in its place of making, as in the delicate duet for church organ and wordless singing `schloss, night', where shuffles and cluttering in the reverberant church space form a phantom accompaniment, gradually displaced by a uneasy shimmer of wavering tones from half-opened organ stops. `Casa Di Riposo, Gesu' Redentore' documents a walk up a hill to an outdoor mass in Chiusure, layering voices near and far with footsteps, insects and other incidental sounds. Like in the work of Moniek Darge or Luc Ferrari, location recordings are folded on themselves in space and time, their documentary function dislocated to dreamlike effect. On other pieces, it is the emphatic presence of the performing body that grounds the music, whether in the intimate fragility of Hamann's softly sung and hummed vocal tones or the clothing that rustles across a microphone on the opening `by the line'. The idea of a music inextricable from its material conditions is perhaps most strikingly communicated on the album's briefest piece `bruststärke (lung song)', composed from layered whistling recorded while Hamann suffered through an asthma flare up, the results halfway between field recordings of an imaginary aviary and the audiopoems of Henri Chopin. More than any of Hamann's previous solo works, a strong melodic sensibility runs through Aunes, even when, like on `seventeen fabrics of measure', the music hangs together by the merest thread. At other points, Hamann's love of pop music is more obvious: the rich synth harmonies of `by the line' could almost be a melting fragment of a backing track from Hounds of Love. The expansive closing piece `neither from nor toward' exemplifies the highly personal musical language that Hamann has developed in recent years through constant solo performance (and a rigorous discipline of instrumental practice), pairing two overdubbed voices with the boundless depth and harmonic richness of just-intoned cello notes, calling up Ockegham or Linda Caitlin Smith in its elegiac slow motion arcs. Hamann's most personal work yet, Aunes arrives in a striking sleeve reproducing a section of a painting made from sewn pieces of dyed wool by Wilder Alison, a friend and fellow resident at Akademie Schloss Solitude, one of the temporary homes where much of this music was recorded.

The new album from Tears For Fears, Songs For A Nervous Planet, features four new studio tracks plus live recordings of Tears For Fears on tour and at their best. The album features live performances of hit songs like “Shout”, “Head Over Heels”, “Everybody Wants To Rule The World”, “Mad World” & more. Spanning all eras of the band from The Hurting to The Tipping Point and beyond, this record takes you on the incomparable sonic journey that is a Tears For Fears live show and their career to date.

The new album from Tears For Fears, Songs For A Nervous Planet, features four new studio tracks plus live recordings of Tears For Fears on tour and at their best. The album features live performances of hit songs like “Shout”, “Head Over Heels”, “Everybody Wants To Rule The World”, “Mad World” & more. Spanning all eras of the band from The Hurting to The Tipping Point and beyond, this record takes you on the incomparable sonic journey that is a Tears For Fears live show and their career to date.

Cantoma’s new album, “See In The Sun” feels like the welcome return of an old friend. This sensation perhaps reflecting the recording, which found Phil Mison working with a team of trusted talent. More than 20 singers, players and engineers were involved , including Quinn Lamont Luke , Luna Asteri, Robin Twelftree , Justin Drake , Andre Espeut, Robin Lee, Patrick `Dawes, Gizelle Smith and Audun Waage. Collectively they’ve created 10 tracks - joyful jams between accordion, flute, and kalimba, Reeds, orchestral strings, brass, bongos, and Spanish guitar.

The LP possesses fewer introspective moments than its predecessors. The music, on the whole, is moving its feet. Making its way toward a twilight dance floor. There’s also an emphasis on “proper” songs. Lyrics are sung, and spoken, in English, Spanish and Japanese. Their predominate themes are friendship, togetherness and love.

Unashamedly optimistic in its outlook, “See In The Sun” seems to wish only the very best for everyone. Phil says he never planned it that way, it just happened. Perhaps a consequence of all the friends gathered. However, this message comes at a point when the world is poised, hoping, more than ready for positive change.
Robert Harris - Ban Ban Ton Ton.

Isik Kural returns with Moon in Gemini, a luminous scrapbook of slow-flowing narratives couched in intuitive and symbolic storytelling. Bending a playful take on environmental music to the folk song form, Isik's vocals coo atop pastoral field notes, airy chamber instrumentation and archival recordings culled from a curious musical life. A tender pastiche coalesces across the suite of Moon in Gemini's fourteen pieces, and Isik invites the listener to daydream as-deep-as-possible. "The songs on Moon in Gemini don't mind being slower or taking their time to reach the listener," says Isik, who wanted the title to speak to the album's dreamy, liminal nature. "I enjoyed how the phrase could be used to describe an object, a time or a place simultaneously," he explains. Similarly and subsequently, these songs contain a multiplicity of sonic artifacts, moments and spaces that span Isik's rich musical career to date. With the bulk of the album realized between Amasya, Turkey and Isik's current home in Glasgow, in both domestic and studio recording environments, additional tracks unearthed from his personal recording archive lend their lush patina. The record emerged as a fertile space to reimagine a handful of previously unreleased songs and unfinished ideas spanning the past fifteen years of his life and work, including streetside sounds documented while growing up in Turkey and recordings made while studying music engineering in Miami, Helsinki and Glasgow. Looking to the more recent past, Isik found himself wanting to build upon some of the methodologies and textures explored on his 2022 album in february, seeking a newly intimate, vocal-forward sound. He points to the track "film festival" from that album as a door through which to enter Moon in Gemini, where sample-based arrangements are presented in the context of asymmetrical "build ups and progressions" and ambience and vocals intertwine. Inspired in part by listening to iconic, if not sometimes misunderstood, singers such as Nina Simone, Aldous Harding and Ed Droste of Grizzly Bear, Isik aimed to carve out a new space for his voice on Moon in Gemini, experimenting with novel recording and mixing techniques. Captured at his aunt's farmhouse in Amasya during an extended three week recording session, we find Isik's vocal high in the mix, front-and-center and on newly expressive terms. As a songwriter, Isik is an intuitive and playful lyricist who allows his deep love of literature to flow through his off-kilter texts. Here, echoes of Silvina Ocampo's poem "Dialogues of the Silence" reverberate from the margins of "Most Beautiful Imaginary Dialogues". Likewise, Elliott Smith and Virgina Astley shapeshift through "Behind the Flowerpots," some lines of which were based on misheard lyrics from Smith's "Stickman" and Astley's "Some Small Hope." Attuned to the magic of happy coincidences, other unexpected "themes and connections between tracks flourished" during the recording process, resulting in some songs being more "thematically and lyrically connected to each other compared to previous records." The duos "Prelude" and "Interlude" as well as "Grown One Iota" and "After a Rain" explore connected stories, while "Almost a Ghost" and "Behind the Flowerpots" serendipitously emerged out of a conversation with Stephanie "Spefy" Roxanne Ward, whose balmy vocals heard highlighting in february return and call out to Isik's in sweet dialogue. Plumbing these new potentials of structure and songwriting, Isik also developed a taste for an expanded sonic palette, one enriched by the lulling undertones of live woodwinds and strings. The resulting collaborations with flutist Tenzin Stephen, harpist Kirstin McCarlie and clarinet player Giulia Tamborino envelop the record in an altogether "dreamier sound," swaying pastel and awash in lunar light. Moon in Gemini, brimming with natural imagery and lullaby-inflected tones, tunes into states of being where the wonder filled sound of everyday is heard and felt, perfectly imperfect in its poetry; where the invisible steps forward; where dauntless ghosts wait around every corner and play enriches the soul; where bird song fills sun-soaked afternoons and carries us on its wings into each enchanted evening. Isik Kural's Moon in Gemini will be released on vinyl, Japanese import CD, and digital editions on September 6, 2024. On behalf of Isik and RVNG, a portion of the proceeds from this release will benefit Mor Çaty Women's Shelter Foundation, whose social work at their solidarity centers and shelters supports women building lives unhindered by gender-based discrimination and male violence under free and equal conditions.

Coloured vinyl repress of Penguin Cafe album Rain Before Seven… A sense of optimism infuses Penguin Cafe’s fifth studio album, not the braggadocious, overconfident kind, but more a blithe, self-effacing optimism in keeping with the national character. Even when all signs point to the contrary, it operates within the certainty that things are going to be alright. Probably.

The title comes from an old weather proverb with the rhyming prognostication — fine before eleven — hinting at a happy ending, irrespective of the science: “I found it in a book and I'd never heard it before,” says Arthur Jeffes, leader of Penguin Cafe. “It has faintly optimistic overtones and I quite like it. It's fallen out of usage recently but it does describe English weather patterns coming in off the Atlantic.”

From the widescreen reverie of opener ‘Welcome to London’ with its cheeky nod to Morricone to ‘Goldfinch Yodel’, the self-described “Maypole banger” at the denouement, there’s a welcome sense of sanguinity, always with an undercurrent of exotic rhythmic exuberance. Playfulness pervades, with a titular nod to A Matter of Life... from 2011, the last album title that concluded with an ellipsis. That Penguin Cafe debut is the bridge between the legendary Penguin Cafe Orchestra, led by Arthur’s father Simon Jeffes, and the much- loved descendent, led by Arthur.

“Stylistically it's really satisfying to get back to playful rhythms and instruments,” says the younger Jeffes, who kept the group’s debut from 12 years ago in mind when writing the new album. “Certainly when starting out, I became aware that we’d stopped using quite a few of the textures that had been there at the beginning—and it was certainly there in my dad's earlier stuff. So there's a lot of balafon and textures from completely different parts of the world, musically and geographically: ukuleles, cuatros and melodicas that you can hear.”

Encouraged by co-producer Robert Raths, the rhythmic elements of Rain Before Seven... have never been more to the fore and, at times, even hint at the electronic. ‘Find Your Feet’, for instance, is underpinned with more than just a pulse. Mixed by Tom Chichester-Clark, it brings to the musical melange what Arthur describes as a “near electronic feel”. He adds, excitedly: “There are elements of fun here which we haven't really done with the last three records.” Another ebullient highlight is ‘In Re Budd’, dedicated to the late ambient godfather Harold Budd, who Arthur discovered had died on the day he’d been writing the celebratory ear worm with a deceptively tricky syncopation. Played on an upright piano with some “prepared” felt to accentuate the bounce, Jeffes feels a track with an Afro Cuban Cafe vibe would appeal to Budd’s contrariness.

Bob Dylan was at several crossroads in the mid-1970s. Artistically, he was largely written off as being past his prime. Emotionally, he was suffering through a painful divorce from his then-wife Sara Lowndes. Creatively, he appeared at a stalemate, his previous decade's unprecedented run of transformational brilliance finished. Then came Blood on the Tracks.

A start-to-finish cycle that documents a lover's pursuit of, entanglement with, and loss of a woman, the bracingly intimate 1975 effort remains one of the most encompassing break-up albums ever made and ranks as the most personal statement of the Bard's career. To hear it is to experience the agony, frustration, trauma, highs, lows, confusion, sadness, and, ultimately, requisite redemption associated with intimate relationships gone astray. Dylan maintains it's a work of fiction, but it's evident close-vested autobiographical premise is what helps make it universal: It's the icon singing through tears, going out of his mind, battling hallowing emptiness, firing shots across the bow, and accepting culpability. It is, in short, a consummate expression of love's darker sides and the consequences of what happens when dreams unravel.

As part of its Bob Dylan catalogue restoration series, Mobile Fidelity is thoroughly humbled to have the privilege of mastering the iconic LP from the original master tapes and pressing it on dead-quiet LP at RTI. The end result is the very finest, most transparent analogue edition of Blood on the Tracks ever produced – and the first-ever proper analog reissue. Fantastically presenting both the solo acoustic and band-supported songs with the utmost clarity, dynamics, presence, immediacy, spaciousness, imaging, and balance, this version shines a high-powered light on the fluid vocal phrasing, timbral shifts, functional rhythms, and inward-looking strumming that contribute to every song here serving as a wound-exposing confessional.

For all the melancholic pain, unresolved questions, shattered memories, wasted times, unrequited dialogues, and weary regret within, Blood on the Tracks remains as daring as it is reflective. Rather than follow for a monotone caustic vibe, Dylan's songs burrow into the subconscious for the manners in which they are even-keeled, mellow, and occasionally, even peaceful. Dignity, honour, poignancy, and fairness – all traits uncommon in any situation in which partners dissolve histories, change hearts, and attribute blame – instil the record with equilibrium on par with the consistency of the flowing melodies.

Throughout, tunes come on and proceed as if they could continue forever, Dylan spinning poetic verses and conversations amidst finely tied knots of acoustic notes, chords, and fills, the deceivingly simple architecture conjuring the intertwined refractions of a bezeled jewel, various angles, colours, and textures conjoining into a gorgeously inseparable whole. Backed by Tony Brown's flexible albeit subtle bass, Buddy Cage's country-streaked pedal-steel guitar, and Paul Griffin's soul-baring organ – an instrument used to shadow, tuck-point, and illuminate here as effectively as any time in rock history – Dylan pours soulful emotion, open his veins, and bleeds.

Ranked 16 on Rolling Stone's list of the 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, and replete with existential thought, piercing directness, raw singing, and majestic arrangements,

Given the sonic and artistic merit of this album, we anticipate huge demand.

El Nido: a welcoming embrace in uncertain times. The world changed forever in the second quarter of 2020. The life we were used to ceased to be, as we were overcome by constant fear, distrust in all that surrounded us and a fatalist attitude towards the world we lived in. With the pandemic came lockdown, mandatory isolation for months, empty streets, face masks, hand sanitizer, the fear of going out, an absurd roll call of Covid fatalities, the daily tension of not knowing when it would all end and the urge to "get back to normal," something that certainly never happened. Out of that pandemic saturation and that urge for "normality" came El Nido ("The Nest"), the third album by Italy-based Colombian producer Montoya, who describes this record as "becoming virgins of destiny again, facing up to that fatalist world and creating that longing for tranquility. Savoring that moment prior to the pandemic, that instant when the most important thing wasn't the immediate reality or the global situation." Montoya sees El Nido as that quiet place that you think of when you close your eyes; it is a beach or a mountain, a sunrise or a sunset, a wave in the sea refreshing your body, or an almost-whispering wind that immediately silences everything around you. On his previous records, Iwa in 2015 and Otún in 2019, his work as a producer prevailed, feeding the growing wave of Latin American electronica, fusing IDM and techno with indigenous root music, Andean folklore and rhythms from the tropical Caribbean coast and ancestral Pacific in terms of instrumentation. But on El Nido Montoya splits the balance, offering us five merely instrumental tracks and six collaborations with Latin American artists, including Colombians Nidia Góngora on "Soñé," Montañera on "Sierra" and Pedrina on "Nubecita." It also features Mexican artist Pahua on "Flor del Mar," the Peruvian Lara Nuh on "El Faro" and the Franco-Venezuelan La Chica on "Palosanto." Starting from the name itself ("The Nest"), an evocation of home, El Nido is also a Filipino municipality on the island of Palawan, a place that turned out to be Montoya's last live experience before the pandemic. That place with crystal clear seas and white sand became the scene and starting point for this work, reflecting on the abstraction of a chaotic world and proposing blurred destinations with each song, like places that exist within memories when we close our eyes, letting us inhabit them, for a couple of minutes at least. On the other hand, it's a record that approaches love; as a yearning and a refuge, as a guide and an anchor, but also as a rhetorical figure that makes us vibrate and elevates us, while at the same time keeping us grounded and letting us settle in the place that we can use as our shelter.

Third Pressing of Gilroy Mere's Adlestrop on blue vinyl with a blue cover.

Adlestrop is inspired by the remains of the rural railway stations, that were closed in the wake of the 1963 Beeching Report.

“This record started with Edward Thomas’s poem Adlestrop and a chance visit to the village that it takes its title from. I wanted to see the station, but found it was no longer there, all that remains is the old platform sign Adlestrop, now part of a local bus shelter. However as I walked around the village I was struck that; “all the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire” were still singing away - like ghosts from Thomas’ verse.

Visiting Adlestrop spurred me to get hold of a copy of the Beeching Report which, in Appendix 2, lists all the services and stations recommended for closure in the 1960s. The names read like an epic British poem, from halts to branch-line stops and stations and singular terminals for public schools, mines, ferries and even an asylum. There’s Ravenscar where a resort was planned but got no further in its construction than the station, and a hotel - the grid marked out for the roads never laid. Bethesda, a short branch line from Bangor up towards Snowdonia, was used for slate and passengers and is now just a quiet green valley, Christ’s Hospital on the old Cranleigh Line, opened with seven platforms to cope with the daily flood of pupils attending the famous school nearby which never came as it was a boarding school. Many of the stations have vanished, with just fields and car parks left in their place, some are repurposed as houses, or shops, or abandoned as artefacts of a lone-gone industrial past.

Armed with a digital recorder, and with a copy of Beechings Report as my guidebook I made notes and recordings on my travels around the country, and used them as the starting point for a set of pieces that try to capture the fading layers of history, in the areas where the stations had once stood making sure each track retains something of the real place within them. Back in my studio I reacted, improvised, and crafted musical responses to each station, trying to capture the ghosts and former lives of the stations and their imprint on the present.”

Gilroy Mere is Oliver Cherer who trading as Dollboy, Rhododendron, and Australian Testing Labs as well as his own name has meandered his way through the backwaters of left of centre English folk, ambient and electronic music, issuing numerous albums of original music to much critical acclaim via highly regarded boutique labels such as Static Caravan, Second Language, Deep Distance, Polytechnic Youth, and Awkward Formats.

Shelter Press extend a quietly cine-poetic invitation to visit the Outer Hebrides via immersive sounds - field recordings of psalm singing and local dialect - collected and arranged by interdisciplinary artist Joshua Bonnetta, going hand-in-hand with Shelter Press’ core interests in the fading light of its 10th year in operation. A beautiful artefact - complete with 60 page photobook.

Accompanied by an evocative photo study and access to an accompanying film and essay, Bonetta’s second release for Shelter Press following 2016’s ‘Lago’ imparts a real feel for the archipelago, off the north west coast of Scotland, where he was stationed during an artist’s residency during 2017-2019. Stitched together from observant field recordings and interviews with residents on the islands of Barra, Berneray, Harris, Lewis & North Uist, the work elicits a sense of timelessness in its slow drift between shores, hills, standing stones and the intimacy of its voices, including Gaelic spoken word, folk song and whistling. Save for the appearance of a plane overhead, the sounds of car and boat motors, plus a little bit of electronic disturbance that pull you into the modern era; the results practically imagine what it would have been like to visit the islands with a recording device at any point since the last ice age. 

For Bonetta, who hails from rural Canada, the similarities between his formative landscapes and those of Scotland must have appeared familiar, perhaps a subconscious recall/reminder that the two places shared a landmass, albeit 425 million years ago. His sound sensitive subtlety and cinematic ear in arranging his collected sounds serves to highlight the way the modern world only just infringes on Innse Gall’s ancient landscapes and only relatively modern tongues (if we’re thinking in geologic terms of scale). We hear the sounds of its avian population seamlessly eliding its humans in the whistling of Alick Macauley, and the natural cadence of of its mild oceanic climate mirrored in lilting Gaelic folksong, here performed by Calum McDonald, Joey Morrison, and Maggie Smith, and more generally practiced by only a tiny percentage of Scotland’s population (some 1%) but still surely alive in its meridian isles where time moves much more slowly.

With the nuance and poetry expected of a Shelter Press title, ‘Innes Gall’ reflects on the area’s anglicised name, meaning “islands of the strangers”, with calming, soberly documentarian results as heartwarming and fascinating as a visit to the area, just without the effort of travel, and from the comfort of your own living space. Bonnetta is incapable of ignoring the cinematic frame, and intersperses each shot with enough poetry to keep you entranced.

Deca’s streak of entrancing releases continues with Smoking Gun, an album that deftly blends psychedelic, raw production with sharp insights and clever lyricism. But it’s also much more than that. Smoking Gun is a sonic representation of an artist grappling with living in America, a country with a network of broken systems that leaves Deca questioning when and if it may turn around. To say this all makes for a compelling listen would be a vast understatement, because the New York City-based rapper/producer knows the key to presenting this material. He does it in a way that’s both refreshing and new, but never isolating or simply too oddball. There’s a left-field quality to his work, but Deca knows exactly what he’s doing. To prove that point, he enlisted fellow outside-the-box thinkers like Blu and Homeboy Sandman to appear on some of the album’s standout cuts. “Shelter,” which features Blu, is a jazzy, dusty piece of thoughtful hip-hop with crazy flows and lyrics to match. It’s so good you’ll wish these two would record an entire project together, and the same goes for Boy Sand’s appearance on “Dawn Wind.” Backed by Deca’s own low-key funky production, both he and Homeboy Sandman go verse for verse, each offering their own take on how to liberate yourself from the machine that aims to surveil and control both our outer world and inner peace. Other tracks embody a similar energy, including the justifiably cynical “St. America (feat. DJ Stan Solo)” and stunning “Tuning.” The latter track may just be the most impressive piece on Smoking Gun, thanks in part to the mind-melting beat-switch. It’s a thrilling musical journey that furthers Deca’s narrative about mankind’s ethical plight, and the problems we collectively face. TRACKLIST: 1. Smoking Gun (Intro) 2. St. America (feat. DJ Stan Solo) 3. Tuning 4. Blight 5. Flight Path (feat. Ichiban, DJ AWHAT!) 6. Hive of Industry 7. Crab Apples 8. Shelter (feat. Blu) 9. Tunnel Under 10. Dawn Wind (feat. Homeboy Sandman) 11. War Heads 12. The Eagle's Descent

Freedom is both an integral and multi-layered topic for improvised music, describing its mechanics, aesthetics, and values and often an underlying political dimension as well. In the case of free jazz specifically, the word carries additional weight given the music's deep connection to the black liberation movement of the 1960's and 70's.

The passionate and unclassifiable work of Calgary-based improviser Jairus Sharif embraces each of these definitions of freedom and others, albeit strictly on its own personal and idiosyncratic terms. Since early 2020, the 34 year-old autodidact has been generating a steady stream of homespun solo recordings that forge unprecedented connections between hip-hop abstraction, cosmic skronk, outsider jazz, and staunch post-punk DIY ethos.

Leading up to the pandemic, Sharif's immersion in spiritual and exploratory jazz had culminated in him deciding to purchase an alto saxophone. Unbeknownst to him this instrument would be a catalyst for him to discover his own ardently individualistic artistic voice.

Prior to that point, he had always been somewhat of a solitary musical traveler. In 2002, he acquired his first instrument—a pair of Technics 1200s — but struggled to find local collaborators that had equal investment in hip hop culture. Ultimately, Sharif picked up the guitar, turning to the resilient local punk community, that had also nurtured both of his mothers some time earlier.

As Black Lives Matter gained momentum in the wake of George Floyd's murder, Sharif was suddenly flooded with an acute awareness of his own identity. It compelled him to zealously plunge headlong into open-ended spontaneous solo creation. Water & Tools, his strange and stirring debut for Toronto's Telephone Explosion Records (home to full-lengths from the likes of Brodie West's Eucalyptus, Mas Aya, and Joseph Shabason), offers a glimpse into this ongoing hermetic journey.

As Sharif dedicated himself to uncovering his own deeper musical truths, he assembled a home studio in his basement, cobbling together a drum kit from bits his bandmate had left at his house pre-pandemic, chaining effects together and outfitting the entire space with microphones. Somewhere between the chaos of child's treehouse and the tidy import of a shrine, this space (pictured on the album's back cover) consecrated his own imagination. He laid it out to maximize access to any and every tool in his arsenal, providing him a freedom to explore that he had never permitted himself to consummate before.

Within this cozy private universe, his recent purchase—the saxophone—assumed new meaning. It furnished a tangible connection to the black radicalism that mobilized free jazz, but also something far more personal. From a technical standpoint, the instrument was completely unfamiliar to him, yet rather than this being a hindrance to Sharif, his inexperience opened fruitful path forward, unencumbered by preconceptions. Resolving to shirk formal training, convention, and build his own understanding of it from scratch, allowed him to access his most raw, fundamental creative impulses. The Saxophone's inseverable bond with breath compounded this effect, echoing revelatory discoveries he had been making about breathing through yoga, research, and psychotherapy. Of course, the parallels with BLM's harrowing rallying cry—“I can't breathe”—were not lost on him either.

Water & Tools is a dense, contradictory statement with a blustery surface that shelters a soulful heart. It's generous music, exuding profound vulnerability—grappling with the loss of one his mothers, Lisa—all the while brimming with electric wide-eyed wonder. Almost every one of the nine pieces seems to carry some semblance of a groove, while remaining completely untethered from pulse. For Sharif, this collection is an expression of newfound lucidity, however for the listener his sonic concoctions act as powerful psychotropics. At points, there's a timelessness that's conveyed through the music's processional, ritualistic tenor, and yet there's an endless amount of wild, futuristic detail waiting to unspool at any given moment. Similarly, while this recording emerges from Sharif's private pilgrimage and personal emancipation, he also leaves room for collaboration. Woven throughout Sharif's one-man-ensemble textures, one finds Maxmilian Turnbull (of Badge Epoque, U.S. Girls, and Cosmic Range infamy) providing sundry keyboards and treatments, as well as his mixing skills.

Whether conjuring effusive psychedelia or plumbing introspective depths, the music that Jairus Sharif produces is singular, visceral, and wondrously unpredictable. Water & Tools sketches a raw, firsthand account of his nascent explorations within his own unbridled imagination.