Cristina Camargo broke onto the Brazilian boogie scene in 1980 with the single "Moral Tem Hora", penned by the by then already famous brothers Marcos and Paulo Valle. They were soon joined by the arranger/producer/musician powerhouse Robson Jorge and Lincoln Olivetti, who worked with practically all the big MPB stars from Jorge Ben and Gal Costa to Caetano Veloso and Gilberto Gil. Armed with the endless possibilities that the burgeoning Brazilian music scene provided, the group went into the studio and produced the eponymous debut album Cristina Camargo.
The result is a very special record built around that successful single that does what Brazil does best: blending their own musical heritage with sounds in vogue in the rest of the world, in this case the boogie disco that was all the rage in the USA in the first half of the 1980s. Expect endearing choirs, tight grooves, and a killer production value on par with the big-budget studios up north.
Cristina Camargo is available as a limited edition on yellow vinyl and includes an insert with lyrics.
Repressed LP on Neon Orange Vinyl. Come Away With ESG - 35-year anniversary release of the classic genre-busting debut album by the Bronx sisters ESG. The sample-friendly opus that’s the inspiration for hip-hop, house and post punk. Music that falls outside of the no wave, new wave and post punk library, it’s for the dance floor but it’s not funk, there’s no horns, no driving organ; it’s the opposite of Sly And The Family Stone but no less cool and no less groovy. “A lasting document of their unique brand of minimal funk that would influence subsequent post-punk, hip-hop, and dance music acts. Stripped down to the most basic of drumbeats and rudimentary bass lines, ‘Come Away’ confirms the notion that the real rhythm is what happens between the beats. AllMusic // “This is dub disco with a punk edge.” Paste // “Uncut punk-funk straight off the streets of the South Bronx.” Record Collector // “ESG are that rare thing” Guardian // “Come Away with ESG sounds so shockingly current.” Paste // “A musical snapshot of New York City at the beginning of the '80s.” Allmusic
Madelyn Byrd returns to Glasgow’s Somewhere Press with a hazed set of weightless soundscapes. »Night Rider« opens in widescreen with the chirp of cicadas dancing across a desert landscape, before Shiroishi’s saxophone eventually cuts through the dark like neon. The story Byrd tells is close to their heart: they spent their teenage years in the Sonoran Desert, the vast subtropical expanse spanning parts of Arizona, California, and Mexico. Its seemingly alien landscape — pocked with giant, tree-like cacti and looming rocky outcrops — is lodged in the cultural memory, a quality Byrd draws on as they slowly reveal their poetic narrative.
The album plays like a road movie of sorts, moving through Byrd’s memories and setting them to very different rhythms. Clattering drums emerge on »Of Nature, Of Bodies, Of Dreams«, while Byrd’s soft tones, processed to sound almost otherworldly, glide gently across the metallic clangs. Each track highlights a form of movement: there is the microscopic, insectoid crunch of »Imprint«, where guitar prangs meet Shiroishi’s spirited runs, while »Into Sonoran Pool« creates motion from the atmosphere itself, recreating the thick desert air with shimmering electrical currents and psychedelic processes.
At this point, the album begins to echo Robert Ashley’s late-period theatrical work: compositions that broke with familiar formats, juxtaposing dialogue with knowingly experimental orchestral flourishes. Byrd strikes a similar note through a fusion of poetry, sound design, choral music, and chiming, listless ambient elements that also recall Harold Budd. Budd grew up in the Mojave Desert, which borders the Sonoran, creating an eerie parallel with the moods he conjured throughout his long career.
Byrd finds a similarly aesthetic link to the West Coast landscape, referencing the history of experimental music while establishing their own voice. As the album rides into the sunset with a roar of engines, they offer a distinct vision of pop: »What Is, What Was« integrates a chugging break and ketamised vocal hook, while the finale, »In Perfume, Remember«, lands as a James K-like heartmelter.
Coil’s 17-minute soundtrack for »How to Destroy Angels«, performed on January 19, 1984: ritual music ›for the accumulation of male sexual energy‹, structured around magickal and numerological concepts.
Throughout history man has made and used music for two distinct and separate purposes. In recent years, particularly since the advent of sound recording, the most popular use of music has been for entertainment - the temporary amusement and distraction of as large a number as possible. As a consequence, many people tend to overlook its more fundamental and ancient use as a tool for affecting man's body and spirit. The many varieties of religious music from around the world contain a vast quantity of clues to the way in which sound can affect the physical and mental state of the serious listener, yet many find their associations with religion itself too difficult a stigma to overlook in their appreciation of the sound and its potential, for its own sake.
On this record, hopefully the first in a series, we have tried to produce sound which has a real, practical and beneficial power in this modern Era. Specifically, it is intended as an accumulator of male sexual energy. Although we make neither claims nor rules for its use, we do suggest that for maximum potency it should only be played in circumstances that exclusively male and/or onanistic in nature. What these are is entirely up to you.
The execution of the piece was structured around concepts we felt would work for us - in this case magickal and numerological rather than conventionally musical in form. One image or symbol which we drew upon that may be useful to bear in mind is that of Mars, often indicated by the male symbol.
Should this music have any power, over and above the banal and transitory titillation achieved by most records available now, it is a positive and beneficial power to be used and controlled by the listener, as he desires.
Coil’s 17-minute soundtrack for »How to Destroy Angels«, performed on January 19, 1984: ritual music ›for the accumulation of male sexual energy‹, structured around magickal and numerological concepts.
Throughout history man has made and used music for two distinct and separate purposes. In recent years, particularly since the advent of sound recording, the most popular use of music has been for entertainment - the temporary amusement and distraction of as large a number as possible. As a consequence, many people tend to overlook its more fundamental and ancient use as a tool for affecting man's body and spirit. The many varieties of religious music from around the world contain a vast quantity of clues to the way in which sound can affect the physical and mental state of the serious listener, yet many find their associations with religion itself too difficult a stigma to overlook in their appreciation of the sound and its potential, for its own sake.
On this record, hopefully the first in a series, we have tried to produce sound which has a real, practical and beneficial power in this modern Era. Specifically, it is intended as an accumulator of male sexual energy. Although we make neither claims nor rules for its use, we do suggest that for maximum potency it should only be played in circumstances that exclusively male and/or onanistic in nature. What these are is entirely up to you.
The execution of the piece was structured around concepts we felt would work for us - in this case magickal and numerological rather than conventionally musical in form. One image or symbol which we drew upon that may be useful to bear in mind is that of Mars, often indicated by the male symbol.
Should this music have any power, over and above the banal and transitory titillation achieved by most records available now, it is a positive and beneficial power to be used and controlled by the listener, as he desires.
Dark Entries is ecstatic to announce Terminal Fascination, a retrospective release of the music of Camille O’Grady, subversive artist, leather witch, punk poet, and gender saboteur. O’Grady cut her teeth in New York’s burgeoning punk scene at clubs like CBGB’s, where her band Leather Secrets would share the stage with acts like Television. She became one of the few women to be welcomed into the Mineshaft, Wally Wallace’s legendary Manhattan gay BDSM club. Towards the end of the 70s, she would trek west to San Francisco to be with her partner, performance artist and gallerist Robert Opel, who was tragically killed in 1979. O’Grady would pass away from COVID in 2020, with her voluminous works across various media - text, image, and sound - having been unpublished during her lifetime.
Working with O’Grady’s estate, Dark Entries has assembled thirteen of her finest recordings, including instant classics like “James Dean to the Rescue,” “Tourniquet,” and, of course, “Toilet Kiss.” Two songs, “Angel with a Key” and “Love Comes Like a Cutthroat,” were recorded at a studio in Los Angeles for a 7” release that never materialized, while the rest of the material was recorded live in 1979 at The Ambush, a San Francisco leather club. O’Grady’s songs, often written from the perspective of a gay man, explode like a genderfuck version of Patti Smith, like Buffy St. Marie in leather, like the hedonic utopianism of the 1960s dragged (blissfully) through the broken glass of the 1970s. The release of Terminal Fascination coincides with the publication of ‘A Cross-Worlds Angel,’ a 300-page book of O’Grady’s work by Phillip Zimmerman. The record includes an insert featuring liner notes, lyrics, and photographs. Celebrate Camille O’Grady, the artist Jack Fritscher described as an “earth mother, a leather lioness of the arts.”
Subject Sue is an Amsterdam-based artist creating dystopian nightclub music at the intersection of darkwave and ethereal techno. Inspired by queer club culture and the fragile edge between euphoria and estrangement, her music unfolds into a cinematic nocturnal haze.
Music has always been part of her life. As a vocalist and keyboard player, she performed in various projects and studied Visual Arts, where she explored themes of alter egos, personal realities, and the tension between subjectivity and objectivity in storytelling. Over time, she shifted from being an observer of these themes to embodying them herself. What began as an alter ego gradually evolved into something more personal.
Through Subject Sue, she explores desire, identity, and the strange beauty of the night, transforming fragments of her subjective inner world into cinematic club music. Drawing inspiration from Amsterdam’s queer nightlife and fleeting moments of intimacy, she creates music that inhabits the space between desire and isolation.
Debut EP Details In The Dark explores the blurred boundaries between lust and romance, intimacy and alienation through six tracks rich with pulsating synthesizers, textured soundscapes, and haunting vocal harmonies.
Dark Entries is Elbow Deep in the Hoopla thanks to J.D. Slater. Legendary actor, director, and composer J.D. Slater is sometimes known as “the Lou Reed of gay porn.” Slater cut his teeth in the New York punk scene, even opening for the Talking Heads and Blondie at CBGB with his project Frenzy. A true polymath of the erotic, he co-founded Raging Stallion Studios with Chris Ward in 1999, which has remained a prolific outlet in the world of gay pornography. Elbow Deep collects the scores from three late 1990s fisting-focused Club Inferno films: At Arm’s Length, Hand Over Fist, and Heads or Tails. Never before released, these works show Slater digging deeper into the electronic music production techniques that were blossoming in that era, like loop-based sampling. Says Slater, “Suddenly I could have access to every instrument in the world. My whole concept of sound and structure evolved with the technology.” The works here are trance-inducing groovers, laced with acid and dosed with brooding ambience. Check out the Gregorian vibes on “Grand Fuck,” the legato lurch of “Stallion Funk,” or the frosty atmospheres of “At Arm’s Length.” Elbow Deep in the Hoopla comes with an insert featuring an interview with J.D. Slater. Starkly sexy, these tracks remind us of Slater’s creed: “The main rule for writing a porn score is to remember what you are writing for.”
In the early 90s, led by Nicola Conte, the Fez collective in Bari, Italy, reshaped contemporary jazz through groove, experimentation and a distinctly Mediterranean sensibility. Within this environment the earliest recordings associated with what would become Schema Records first appeared, released at the time through Right Tempo. With a series of three 45rpm releases Schema Records revisits some of its earliest productions, all newly remastered from the original masters. In this third 7”, The infectious pulse of “Sweat” contrasts beautifully with the refined elegance of “Fez Bossa”, together painting a vivid portrait of a scene driven by creativity, musicianship and an unwavering passion for groove. Newly remastered from the original recordings, this 45rpm edition brings these landmark performances back to life for a new generation of listeners while offering longtime collectors a beautifully renewed listening experience.
“What Robot Says L” on What Robot Says Records is a deeply immersive Dub Techno journey crafted for demanding listeners who seek atmosphere, precision, and emotional depth beyond conventional dancefloor music. Across four carefully sculpted tracks, the release moves through shifting moods and textures, balancing raw energy with subtle elegance while exploring the deeper and more hypnotic side of techno.
A1. Nicolas Barnes – Dusted Maze opens the EP with a smooth and introspective approach, combining delicate textures, refined grooves, and floating harmonic layers that capture the timeless spirit of classic Dub Techno through a modern lens.
A2. Continuing the journey with TM Shuffle, Monoder – Vihreesametti delivers a warmer and more fluid interpretation of the genre, blending rolling grooves, dub-driven chords, and sophisticated sound design into a deeply immersive experience.
On the B-side, B1. Denizo – Versus follows with dark dub pressure, stripped-back rhythmic architecture, and evolving ambient detail, creating a hypnotic late-night atmosphere filled with tension and movement.
B2. Closing the EP, The Open Circle – Shinkai dives into deeper and more mysterious territory, emphasizing submerged atmospheres, minimal rhythmic tension, and profound spatial depth that slowly unfolds with every listen.
WRSL1 – “What Robot Says L” is not designed for casual listening, but for those who appreciate Dub Techno as an evolving exploration of mood, space, and sonic detail — a refined and highly immersive statement from some of the genre’s most skilled contemporary artists.
but wait a minute.. Does anybody know What Robot Says?
For the third release on Earthbound, Mihail P steps into a slightly different frame of mind with Silent Mirrors — an EP that pulls his atmospheric, emotive sound toward the rougher edges of 90s tech house, breakbeat and electro.
While Mihail P has become known for spacious productions, warm pads and mellow melodic detail, Silent Mirrors is about merging that side of his sound with something more direct and club-focused. There is a clear nod here to the halcyon days of UK tech house and labels and artists such as Primitive Urges and Pure Science, but filtered through Mihail P’s own sensibility rather than treated as an exercise in nostalgia.
IRST ALBUM IN 10 YEARS.
TOURING WITH TROPICAL FUCK STORM IN NOVEMBER (DATES BELOW).
PRODUCED BY DAN LUSCOMBE (THE DRONES) WHO IS ALSO PART OF THE LIVE BAND.
PREVIOUS ALBUMS ON HARDLY ART/SUB POP AND REMOTE CONTROL.
VERY LIMITED BLACK VINYL AND INDIES ONLY PINK VINYL . NON-RETURNABLE.
‘Jarrod Quarrell, creator of Lost Animal, is one of the most underrated songwriters in Australia and one of our all-time favourites. He creates poetic expressions. His work is very interesting in a highly original way and richly emotional. The songs reveal themselves more over many listens and always feel fresh. His powerful, beautiful, transformative, and unforgettable songs possess the vast depth of the human spirit.’ - GIMMIE GIMMIE GIMMIE ZINE
‘Quarrell has developed a collaged techne that embodies a heart-on-sleeve attitude. Lush melodic delays wash with an influx of lyrics that pierce with uncanny imagery and diction.’ - VICE
It’s not every day you hear about a new Lost Animal album. In fact, it’s been ten years between drinks. The debut Ex Tropical (Hardly Art/Sub Pop) was released in 2011, and followed by You Yang (Remote Control) in 2016. So what happened, and where’s frontman/mastermind Jarrod Quarrell been for the last ten years?
From the horse's mouth, “I don't give a fuck about productivity”. A humbling reply. It confirms Quarrell's MO: here’s an artist as a non-conformist. And when he does see fit to bless us with his unique vision of what music can sound like, it has the ability to completely charm and disarm. Amongst a sea of rock bands, LA is essentially a solo act. Simply put; LA is JQ. But on the other hand, amongst an ocean of solo acts, LA possesses the grandiosity of a full band, punk in spirit, but without being fast, or heavy.
Armed with keys and synths, timbres align more with what a toucan might listen to, as opposed to what's heard commonly throughout Melbourne's gig economy. Strings are gently plucked and horns are tenderly blown. These are the colourful brush strokes that decorate the upper frequencies. They’re the ticket to a far away land;exotic, and potentially very dangerous. If the crew from Hear My Eyes are reading this, consider Lost Animal performing Give Some Get Some as the soundtrack to the next time you screen The Hangover Part 2. Yeah, the one where shit gets super fried in Thailand.
The album examines the underbelly of what a ten year journey might rub up against. As one may expect, a lot of that action is below the belt. Tracks like Do That Thing, and In
Rewinding, a few things have happened in the past ten years that are worth illuminating. Shags is no longer commandeering the bass full time. Though he does make an appearance on a couple tracks. The main difference from present day to yesteryear LA is Dan Luscombe (The Drones). Luscombe has jumped into the role of producer (and also part of the live band). One could say he’s a producer of the Spector-ilk: playing a hands-on approach and assisting Quarrell's song crafting. He may have suggested to add a chorus or two, but the chord progressions remain distinctly Lost Animal. You'll recognise them easily by their beauty, combined with either fragility or rigidity. Luscombe is arguably the defining force that made this album happen. Perhaps he had Quarrell at gunpoint. Yet to be confirmed. Regardless, thank fuck for Luscombe because it may have been another decade.
But the album's defining feature is arguably Quarrell's lyricism. He may not cross-examine where he's been, but his voice does unmask where he is: absolved and reincarnated. The decade-long journey has resulted in him looking inwards and unlocking himself. The album's many mantras suggest that he may be a bird (I'm a Bird Now), or that he is living on another planet (Never is Forever). Whatever and wherever he may be,
Give Some Get Some invites the listener to reflect on their own journey over the past decade. Because the game's got a price. So ask yourself what have you taken, and what have you given? Life ain't a box of chocolates. It's a bowl of berries. And when fruit symbolizes temptation, get some.
IRST ALBUM IN 10 YEARS.
TOURING WITH TROPICAL FUCK STORM IN NOVEMBER (DATES BELOW).
PRODUCED BY DAN LUSCOMBE (THE DRONES) WHO IS ALSO PART OF THE LIVE BAND.
PREVIOUS ALBUMS ON HARDLY ART/SUB POP AND REMOTE CONTROL.
VERY LIMITED BLACK VINYL AND INDIES ONLY PINK VINYL . NON-RETURNABLE.
‘Jarrod Quarrell, creator of Lost Animal, is one of the most underrated songwriters in Australia and one of our all-time favourites. He creates poetic expressions. His work is very interesting in a highly original way and richly emotional. The songs reveal themselves more over many listens and always feel fresh. His powerful, beautiful, transformative, and unforgettable songs possess the vast depth of the human spirit.’ - GIMMIE GIMMIE GIMMIE ZINE
‘Quarrell has developed a collaged techne that embodies a heart-on-sleeve attitude. Lush melodic delays wash with an influx of lyrics that pierce with uncanny imagery and diction.’ - VICE
It’s not every day you hear about a new Lost Animal album. In fact, it’s been ten years between drinks. The debut Ex Tropical (Hardly Art/Sub Pop) was released in 2011, and followed by You Yang (Remote Control) in 2016. So what happened, and where’s frontman/mastermind Jarrod Quarrell been for the last ten years?
From the horse's mouth, “I don't give a fuck about productivity”. A humbling reply. It confirms Quarrell's MO: here’s an artist as a non-conformist. And when he does see fit to bless us with his unique vision of what music can sound like, it has the ability to completely charm and disarm. Amongst a sea of rock bands, LA is essentially a solo act. Simply put; LA is JQ. But on the other hand, amongst an ocean of solo acts, LA possesses the grandiosity of a full band, punk in spirit, but without being fast, or heavy.
Armed with keys and synths, timbres align more with what a toucan might listen to, as opposed to what's heard commonly throughout Melbourne's gig economy. Strings are gently plucked and horns are tenderly blown. These are the colourful brush strokes that decorate the upper frequencies. They’re the ticket to a far away land;exotic, and potentially very dangerous. If the crew from Hear My Eyes are reading this, consider Lost Animal performing Give Some Get Some as the soundtrack to the next time you screen The Hangover Part 2. Yeah, the one where shit gets super fried in Thailand.
The album examines the underbelly of what a ten year journey might rub up against. As one may expect, a lot of that action is below the belt. Tracks like Do That Thing, and In
Rewinding, a few things have happened in the past ten years that are worth illuminating. Shags is no longer commandeering the bass full time. Though he does make an appearance on a couple tracks. The main difference from present day to yesteryear LA is Dan Luscombe (The Drones). Luscombe has jumped into the role of producer (and also part of the live band). One could say he’s a producer of the Spector-ilk: playing a hands-on approach and assisting Quarrell's song crafting. He may have suggested to add a chorus or two, but the chord progressions remain distinctly Lost Animal. You'll recognise them easily by their beauty, combined with either fragility or rigidity. Luscombe is arguably the defining force that made this album happen. Perhaps he had Quarrell at gunpoint. Yet to be confirmed. Regardless, thank fuck for Luscombe because it may have been another decade.
But the album's defining feature is arguably Quarrell's lyricism. He may not cross-examine where he's been, but his voice does unmask where he is: absolved and reincarnated. The decade-long journey has resulted in him looking inwards and unlocking himself. The album's many mantras suggest that he may be a bird (I'm a Bird Now), or that he is living on another planet (Never is Forever). Whatever and wherever he may be,
Give Some Get Some invites the listener to reflect on their own journey over the past decade. Because the game's got a price. So ask yourself what have you taken, and what have you given? Life ain't a box of chocolates. It's a bowl of berries. And when fruit symbolizes temptation, get some.
At the foot of the mountain. Our gaze is inclined toward the summit.
Toward the ascent. The destination that awaits us.
From the valley, we look up at the summit: our destination. But also the path: the true destination.
We can already trace our route, and we are already imagining ourselves walking up there. Along the small ridge, just above the tree line. There, we take a short break and look for the exact spot in the valley where we were standing earlier. It is strange to grasp that we have actually climbed this mountain. To look down from up here at the place where we were just moments ago – the same place we looked up from, toward the place where we are standing now.
And now, knowing what it is like to be up here, we remember what we imagined it would be like back then. What we believed it would mean to stand here.
Along the way, our gaze wanders back and forth. Up toward the mountain, down into the valley, sometimes only at our shoes. We keep walking, one step after another. Our thoughts detached. Our body functioning purely mechanically.
Step left. Step right. Step left. Step right.
Our mind has completely detached itself, and our thoughts race at an immense speed. They summon the most different moments. Moments from our lives. Moments that shaped us, that made us who we are. Or are we perhaps simply trying to understand who we are and how we got here?
It is strange that reaching the summit and looking down could make us believe that we have finally reached, or are striving toward, some superior, triumphant position. When in fact, it is really only about looking at the path we inevitably have to take. Processing impressions from a certain distance. Reconsidering what we have experienced, without losing sight of what lies ahead.
Our gaze turns back toward the summit.
Is there a destination?
An ascent? A summit? A descent? The return?
Or is it only about the insights we encounter along the way?
Am Fuß des Berges. Unser Blick ist zum Gipfel geneigt.
Auf den Aufstieg. Das Ziel, das uns erwartet.
Vom Tal aus blicken wir auf den Gipfel: unser Ziel. Aber auch den Weg: das wahre Ziel. Unsere Route kann man jetzt schon abstecken, und wir stellen uns bereits vor, wie wir dort oben laufen. Über den kleinen Grat, leicht oberhalb der Baumgrenze. Dort machen wir eine kleine Pause und suchen genau die Stelle im Tal, an der wir vorhin noch standen. Es ist verrückt, zu begreifen, dass wir diesen Berg tatsächlich hinaufgestiegen sind. Von hier oben auf den Ort hinunterzusehen, an dem wir eben noch waren – an denselben Ort, zu dem wir hinaufgeblickt haben, als wir noch dort unten standen. Und jetzt, da wir wissen, wie es ist, hier oben zu sein, erinnern wir uns daran, was wir uns damals darunter vorgestellt haben. Was wir geglaubt haben, es würde bedeuten, hier zu stehen.
Unterwegs wandert unser Blick hin und her. Hinauf zum Berg, hinunter ins Tal, manchmal nur auf unsere Schuhe. Wir gehen weiter, einen Schritt nach dem anderen. Unsere Gedanken losgelöst. Unser Körper funktioniert rein mechanisch. Schritt links. Schritt rechts. Schritt links. Schritt rechts.
Unser Geist hat sich völlig losgelöst, und unsere Gedanken rasen mit einer ungeheuren Geschwindigkeit. Sie rufen die verschiedensten Momente herauf. Momente aus unserem Leben. Momente, die uns geprägt haben, aus denen wir geworden sind, wer wir sind. Oder versuchen wir vielleicht einfach nur zu verstehen, wer wir sind und wie wir hierhergekommen sind?
Es ist schon seltsam, dass das Erreichen des Gipfels und der Blick nach unten uns glauben lassen könnten, dass wir endlich eine überragende, triumphale Position erreicht haben oder anstreben würden. Dabei geht es doch eigentlich nur um den Blick auf den Weg, den wir zwangsläufig beschreiten müssen. Eindrücke mit etwas Abstand zu verarbeiten. Erlebtes noch einmal Revue passieren zu lassen, ohne den Blick nach vorne zu verlieren.
Unser Blick wendet sich wieder dem Gipfel zu. Gibt es ein Ziel? Einen Aufstieg? Einen Gipfel? Einen Abstieg? Die Rückkehr? Oder geht es nur um die Erkenntnisse, die uns unterwegs begegnen?
‘Unfindable Ring', out October 23 on Bayonet Records, is an adventurer’s epic. The arc of the journey, like any good Spirited Away or Neverending Story, lands its wide-traveled protagonist right back at home before bedtime. Grumpy, like many great hero tricksters before him, has always been a project of juxtaposition: upbeat radio-ready hits whose buoyant, goofy hooks belie the dark thoughts they describe. Much of this, Schmitt acknowledges, owes its due to the matter-of-fact morbidity of the trans experience in America. It’s from these experiences—personal, romantic, political, and existential—that the tale of ‘Unfindable Ring’ unfolds.
Ambition and play have always defined the Grumpy sound. Late last year, the Fader praised their “demented, hooky” EP, “Piebald,” whose innovative fuzz-pop confections earned them coverage in NPR and the New York Times. Stereogum heralded them as “wonderfully weird,” and Paste designated them “the best of what’s next.”” Through boisterous collaborations with the likes of Sidney Gish and Claire Rousay, they’ve effortlessly ingratiated themselves with the titans of DIY, and, more recently, Schmitt has become an unlikely favored collaborator of chart-topping country giant Zach Bryan, who named his new record––which prominently features Schmitt’s harmonies–– conspicuously, ‘With Heaven On Top.’
In Grumpy, Heaven Schmitt is joined by Anya Good, Ellie Long (Kid Lake), Austin Arnold, Diego Clare (D.A. Crimson), and Lane Rodgers, who each contribute to every step of the process—engineering and recording, mixing, drafting artwork, producing, and making music videos. A kind of interdisciplinary thieves’ guild, the project, while once Schmitt’s solo eponym, is a labor of communal love.
“We are living these happy lives, and there are people we come across who don’t know us at all who want us to die,” Schmitt, explains. Often the visibility of the joy itself is what prompts the vitriol––“I’m so happy I could die,” Schmitt belts over and over on the chorus (a familiar figure of speech, sure, but one which, upon any scrutiny, shows Schmitt’s hand in the macabre.) A middle finger to fate, Good started asking, “What are you going to do with your One Beautiful Life?” Grumpy is going to keep playing, touring, searching, finding.
Nine-time GRAMMY® winner Anderson .Paak and GRAMMY®-nominated rapper Cordae have been operating on the same wavelength for years. What started as pure chemical reaction on 2019’s “RNP” slowly turned into one of hip-hop’s most natural, low-ego partnerships, fueled by back-and-forth gems like “Two Tens” and “Summer Drop” and a series of dynamic TV performances that felt more like two best friends hanging out than a polished routine. On their debut collaborative album, Heavy Is The Crown, that organic bond gets the full-length treatment it’s always deserved.
At its core, the project is a tightrope walk between serious real-life stakes and uncompromising fun. The title isn't just bravado—it speaks directly to the shared weight both artists carry as the primary providers and anchors for their families. But instead of letting that pressure crush the vibe, .Paak and Cordae lean into each other. Meeting as total equals, .Paak’s elastic, soul-drenched musicality anchors Cordae’s razor-sharp lyricism, allowing both to unpack the heavy reality of success and family responsibility without ever losing their spark.
That balance is what makes the album tick. To drive the point home, the album art pays homage to the cult comedy Step Brothers—a nod to the silly, irreverent friendship that birthed the music in the first place. Heavy Is The Crown doesn't feel like a forced corporate crossover or a calculated career move. It’s a record about brotherhood, family, and what happens when two masters of their craft step into the studio simply because nobody makes them laugh, rap, or create quite like the other.
Nine-time GRAMMY® winner Anderson .Paak and GRAMMY®-nominated rapper Cordae have been operating on the same wavelength for years. What started as pure chemical reaction on 2019’s “RNP” slowly turned into one of hip-hop’s most natural, low-ego partnerships, fueled by back-and-forth gems like “Two Tens” and “Summer Drop” and a series of dynamic TV performances that felt more like two best friends hanging out than a polished routine. On their debut collaborative album, Heavy Is The Crown, that organic bond gets the full-length treatment it’s always deserved.
At its core, the project is a tightrope walk between serious real-life stakes and uncompromising fun. The title isn't just bravado—it speaks directly to the shared weight both artists carry as the primary providers and anchors for their families. But instead of letting that pressure crush the vibe, .Paak and Cordae lean into each other. Meeting as total equals, .Paak’s elastic, soul-drenched musicality anchors Cordae’s razor-sharp lyricism, allowing both to unpack the heavy reality of success and family responsibility without ever losing their spark.
That balance is what makes the album tick. To drive the point home, the album art pays homage to the cult comedy Step Brothers—a nod to the silly, irreverent friendship that birthed the music in the first place. Heavy Is The Crown doesn't feel like a forced corporate crossover or a calculated career move. It’s a record about brotherhood, family, and what happens when two masters of their craft step into the studio simply because nobody makes them laugh, rap, or create quite like the other.
“Negative Music / The Poorest! If they still know silence at all, then only as holes in the continuum of noise…” — Günther Anders, 1965
Editions Mego presents GETGETGET, a new release by Thomas Brinkmann which serves as an inquiry into silence, code, and the limits of perception.
The title GETGETGET references the trilogy of ‘Get’ lp’s made by Rehberg under his PITA moniker; Get Out, Get In and Get On. The music is based on material by Rehberg and Brinkmann morphing these two identities into a third colour, a disappearing color.
Emerging from a live performance at the label’s 30th anniversary in Berlin, the work unfolds as both sonic artifact and conceptual system: a study in what remains when sound is reduced, extracted, and reconstituted.
Taking inspiration from Günther Anders’ notion of “negative music”—composition through absence—Brinkmann’s approach aligns with Heinrich Böll’s idea of “collected silence”: silence not as void, but as a material framed against the constant pressure of noise. In GETGETGET, pauses are not gaps but structural elements, cut from a continuum and reinserted as signals.
The two side long tracks weave a dark abstract and ‘twisted’ presence where the ghosts of the machines and their operators fuse into a fantastical whole. One can hear traces of both Brinkmann and Rehberg logic which seems to fuse in a hallucinatory manner.
Brinkmann’s work reflects a broader condition: the translation of material processes into informational ones. As images detach from bodies and code separates from matter, sound too loses its fixed resonance. What remains is circulation—of signals, of data, of meaning—within systems that increasingly define perception itself.
GETGETGET is an album where absence is equal to presence, a metaphor with suggestive tones of the influence Rehberg had and continues to have in the world of the radical experimental electronic avant garde. The “zero” is not empty; it is what makes everything else work.
The songs of Jules de Corte are condensed, folky gems with an almost effortless charm. Poised between the intimate and the universal, between lightness and darkness, they touch on religion, love, loss, and the small dramas of everyday life. Yet they resist easy translation. Packed with wordplay, de Corte’s signature alliterations, humor, and local cultural references, the songs inevitably lose something in another language. Still, when a Belgian quartet of improvisers takes them on, joined by American songwriter Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy, the songs are reborn rather than merely transposed: literal fidelity gives way to interpretation, and what is lost in words is often gained in spirit.
Even without tracing every change, their overall effect is fascinating. Songs are slowed down, often doubled in length, and filled with unexpected musical intrusions. They gain fuller arrangements and are placed in an entirely new context. Replacing de Corte’s piano with guitar can create a radically different vibe, as in “Mariska.” An added solo can heighten the contrast between childlike perspective and the almost matter- of-fact brutality of “Little Anita.” In “The Stranger,” another use of contrast unsettles the everyday harmony, transforming it with a subtle, disorienting twist.
Ultimately, these performances show that interpretation is not successful simply because it is literal. With the groundwork laid by Linus, Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy further liberated the songs from their original versions. Lyrics and melodies become malleable, shaped by his recognizable cadences, timbre, and personal quirks. Like his collaborators, he allows himself the freedom to bend the material to his own approach. There is no radical break between this performance and his other records. Listeners familiar with the originals may be puzzled at first; for those new to de Corte, it is a wholly different experience.
Does it really matter that the original “Little Jesus, Mighty God” is a 100-second nugget combining playful naivete with biblical fervor? In the hands of these five explorers, the song becomes an intriguing contemplation, with subtle musical shades and a recitation in which every syllable carries a maturity that offers a new perspective. Then there is “The Outsider,” which feels as genuine as any original American folk song. The musicians’ process is more than reinterpretation—it is reimagination, bringing new musical compatibility and emotional depth. Whether that depth was there from the start, waiting to be uncovered, or created in the process is beside the point. What matters is that Linus and Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy have made the essence of these songs their own, paying homage yet dancing to their own tune.
Linus is the Belgian duo of guitarist and banjo player Ruben Machtelinckx and reedist and synthesiser player Thomas Jillings. Across five previous albums — Onland (2014), Linus + Skarbø / Leroux (2015), Felt Like Old language at the crossroads of folk, jazz, minimalism, chamber music and free improvisation. Their music is adventurous, shaped by a particular sensitivity to texture, timbre and the subtle interaction between musicians.
What began as a duo gradually grew into a flexible musical world, bringing Linus together with musicians such as Nils Økland, Ingar Zach, Niels Van Heertum, Øyvind Skarbø and Frederik Leroux. Yet each new constellation has remained recognisably Linus: music in which carefully considered forms leave space for intuition, interaction and the unexpected.
For their sixth album, Linus takes a new step by moving into the world of song and text. Inspired by a shared love for the late Dutch songwriter Jules De Corte, the album is a reimagining of De Corte’s unique repertoire. More than simply interpreting De Corte’s songs, they absorb and reshape them, bringing them into dialogue with their own musical language. In keeping with this open approach, they are joined by celebrated vocalist Bonnie “Prince” Billy. With albums such as 1999’s I See a Darkness appearing on several greatest album lists, Bonnie “Prince” Billy is a cult figure in the alternative folk scene, and his highly intuitive way of singing seamlessly matches the subtle interplay Linus has developed over more than a decade.
Melissa Weikart and her piano have proceeded through life in step, from her early classical
training to the experimental practice that defines her work today, a blending of sounds and forms that has never been so clear—and so fully realized—as on her new album, Contact. Across twelve shifting and evocative tracks that examine the connective tissue binding us to ourselves and others, the Franco-American musician’s voice and piano navigate personal and emotional terrain with clarity and nuance, forging a rich dialogue between artist and instrument, artist and self, and artist and listener.
Winner of the 2022 Nancy Jazz Pulsations emerging artist award and the instrumentalist prize at the 2023 La Défense National Jazz Competition, Weikart has released two EPs and an album as a solo artist, and one EP and an album—Surprise and Secret—with her electronic duo Beatrice Melissa. A student of jazz and ’70s folk-pop, and a keen lover of improvisation since her time at the New England Conservatory in Boston, Weikart has always conjured the confessional candor of the singer- songwriter in her music, even as she dispenses her lyrics across rich, shifting, dreamlike tableaux.
On Contact, written and arranged entirely by Weikart (aside from “New angles”), she pushes her sound further than ever before. The album is animated by a pressing need for connection, observing what brings us together and what drives us apart, and the life-saving revelations that emerge along the way. The album’s opener, “Crash,” is a dreamy telephone-hour ode, a message in a bottle, to connections new and old. On the wistful “Mesurer le vent,” Weikart conjures Debussy or Ravel, layering contrasting sounds like an Impressionist painting. The title track begins as a showcase of Weikart’s frank lyricism, a splice-reel of missed connections and wasted time, then glides into a hazy, euphoric galaxy of pleas, circling around her thesis—“I wanted to make contact”—that ushers us into “The Intersection,” a song that recalls her the beginning of her career, when it was just Weikart and her keys. “Appétit.e” is built around a sample of her down-the-hall neighbor’s drumming—another subtle, affecting gesture toward proximity and connection—while pulsating synths reminiscent of Air lend the track an unsteady atmosphere. On the Carpenters-inspired “Expectations,” Weikart muses on the relationship patterns, universal and specific, that have always been a hallmark of her songwriting.
The psychedelic “L’amour de construit” is a slow-motion fall down the rabbit hole, as Weikart
considers the way her own emotions are captured and commodified by the confining ways we think about love. The interlude—“L’amour pt. 2”—finds her near the end of that trip, shouting into the void as a last-ditch effort to rescue herself from the fall. The drums near the end of the interlude warn us that there may be no cushion for, until she is saved, again, by the power of revelation, on the confident, resilient “Not Right”—on which a show-stopping, frenetic conversation between singer and piano is gracefully interrupted by a rush of transcendent strings, lifting her back up.
On solid ground anew, “New angles,” featuring Manu Delta, creates a percussion-less groove that relies on experimental synth sounds. The 11-o’clock stunner “Catching up”—composed in a church—meets the singer in a state of ecstatic confession, bringing her to the formative memory that propels “Bicycle,” the album’s closer. Younger, more wide-eyed, she reflects on her move from Boston to Strasbourg, those early days, when Weikart had no other companion than that loyal hunk of scrap metal that took her to the shores of her own soul. She seems to suggest, on “Bicycle,” that a backward-glance is not always troublesome, not always anxiety-producing, but can be grounding: a reminder of where we come from, so that we can keep moving forward.
