Buscar:the blunt

Camelot, the legendary seat of King Arthur's court in Early Middle Ages Britain, was probably not a real place. A corruption of the name of a real Romano-Briton city, the word "Camelot" accumulated symbolic, mythic resonances over centuries, until achieving its present usage as a near-synonym of "utopia." In the mid-20th century alone, Camelot inspired an explosion of representations and appropriations, among them the violent, affectless Arthurian court of Robert Bresson's 1974 film Lancelot du Lac and the absurdist iteration of Monty Python's 1975 Holy Grail, both of which feature armored knights erupting into fountains of blood; the mystical Welsh world of novelist John Cowper Powys's profoundly weird 1951 novel Porius, with its Roman cults, wizards and witches, and wanton giants; and the nationalist nostalgia of President John F. Kennedy's White House. Unsurprisingly there are fewer Camelots in more recent memory. Camelot, Canadian songwriter Jennifer Castle's extraordinary, moving 2024 chronicle of the artist in early middle age, charts a realer, more rooted, and more metaphorical place than the fabled Camelot of the Early Middle Ages (or its myriad depictions), but it too is a space more psychic than physical. In Castle's Camelot, the fantastic interpenetrates the mundane, and the Grail, if there is one, distills everyday experience into art and art into faith, subliming terrestrial concerns into sublime celestial prayers to Mother Nature, and to the unfolding process of perfecting imperfection in one's own nature. Co-produced by Jennifer and longtime collaborator Jeff McMurrich, her seventh record is at once her most monumental and unguarded to date, demonstrating a mastery of rendering her verse and melodies alike with crisply poignant economy. For all their pointedly plainspoken lyrical detail and exhilarating full-band musical flourishes, these songs sound inevitable, eternal as morning devotions. "Back in Camelot," she sings on the lilting, vulnerable title track, "I really learned a lot / circles in the crops and / sky-high geometry." The album opens with a candid admission of sleeping "in the unfinished basement," an embarrassing joke that comes true. But the dreamer is redeemed by dreaming, setting sail in her airborne bed above "sirens and desert deities." If she questions her own agency_whether she is "wishing stones were standing" or just "pissing in the wind"_it does not diminish the ineffable existential jolt of such signs and wonders. This abiding tension between belief and doubt, magic and pragmatism, self and other, sacred and profane, and even, arguably, paganism and monotheism, suffuses these ten songs, which limn an interior landscape shot through with sunstriped shadows of "multi-felt dimensions" both mystical and quotidian. The epic scale and transport of "Camelot," with its swooning strings, gives way dramatically to "Some Friends," an acoustic-guitar-and-vocals meditation in miniature on Janus-faced friends and the lunar and solar temperatures of their promises_"bright and beaming verses" versus hot curses_which recalls her minimalist last album, 2020's achingly intimate Monarch Season. (In a symmetrical sequencing gesture, the penultimate track, the incantatory "Earthsong," bookends the central six with a similarly spare solo performance and coiled chord progression, this time an ambiguous appeal to _ a wounded lover? a wounded saint? our wounded planet?) Those whom "Trust" accuses of treacherous oaths spit through "gilded and golden tooth"_cynics, critics, hypocrites, gurus, scientists, doctors, lovers, government, the so-called entertainment industry_sow uncertainty that can infect the artist, as in "Louis": "What's that dance / and can it be done? What's that song / and can it be sung?" Answering affirmatively are "Lucky #8," an irrepressible ode to dancing as a bulwark against the "tidal pools of pain" and the "theory of collapse," and "Full Moon in Leo," which finds the narrator dancing around the house with a broom, wearing nothing but her underwear and "big hair." But the central question remains: who can we trust, and at what cost faith, in art or angels or otherwise? Castle's confidence in her collaborators is the cornerstone of Camelot. Carl Didur (piano and keys), Evan Cartwright (drums and percussion), and steadfast sideman Mike Smith (bass) comprise a rhythm section of exquisite delicacy and depth. This fundamental trio anchors the airiness of regular backing vocalists Victoria Cheong and Isla Craig and frames the guitars of Castle, McMurrich, and Paul Mortimer (and on "Lucky #8," special guest Cass McCombs). Reprising his decennial role on Castle's beloved 2014 Pink City, Owen Pallett arranged the strings for Estonia's FAMES Skopje Studio Orchestra. On the ravishing country-soul ballad "Blowing Kisses"_Pallett's crowning achievement here, which can be heard in its entirety in the penultimate episode of the third season of FX's The Bear_Jennifer contemplates time and presence, love and prayer_and how songwriting and poetry both manifest and limit all four dimensions: "No words to fumble with / I'm not a beggar to language any longer." Such rare moments of speechlessness_"I'm so fucking honoured," she bluntly proclaims_suggest a state "only a god could come up with." (If Camelot affirms Castle as one of the great song-poets of her generation, she is not immune to the despairing linguistic beggary that plagues all writers.) Camelot evinces a thoroughgoing faith not only in the natural world_including human bodies, which can, miraculously, dance and swim and bleed and embrace and birth_but also in our interpretations of and interventions in it: the "charts and diagrams" of "Lucky #8," a daydreamt billboard on Fairfax Ave. in LA in "Full Moon in Leo," the bloody invocations of the organ-stained "Mary Miracle," and all manner of water worship, rivers in particular. (Notably, Jennifer has worked as a farmer and a doula.) The album ends with "Fractal Canyon"'s repeated, exalted insistence that she's "not alone here." But where is here? The word "utopia" itself constitutes a pun, indicating in its ambiguous first syllable both the Greek "eutopia," or "good-place"_the facet most remembered today_and "outopia," or "no-place," a negative, impossible geography of the mind. Utopia, like its metonym Camelot, is imaginary. Or as fellow Canadian songwriter Neil Young once sang, "Everyone knows this is nowhere." "Can you see how I'd be tempted," Castle asks out of nowhere, held in the mystery, "to pretend I'm not alone and let the memory bend?"

. For Fans Of: The Weather Station, Weyes Blood, Adrianne Lenker, Phoebe Bridgers, Joan Shelley, Lana Del Rey, Cass McCombs, Angel Olsen & Neil Young. Camelot, the legendary seat of King Arthur’s court in Early Middle Ages Britain, was probably not a real place. A corruption of the name of a real Romano-Briton city, the word “Camelot” accumulated symbolic, mythic resonances over centuries, until achieving its present usage as a near-synonym of “utopia.” In the mid-20th century alone, Camelot inspired an explosion of representations and appropriations, among them the violent, affectless Arthurian court of Robert Bresson’s 1974 film Lancelot du Lac and the absurdist iteration of Monty Python’s 1975 Holy Grail, both of which feature armoured knights erupting into fountains of blood; the mystical Welsh world of novelist John Cowper Powys’s profoundly weird 1951 novel Porius, with its Roman cults, wizards and witches, and wanton giants; and the nationalist nostalgia of President John F. Kennedy’s White House. Unsurprisingly there are fewer Camelots in more recent memory. Camelot, Canadian songwriter Jennifer Castle’s extraordinary, moving 2024 chronicle of the artist in early middle age, charts a realer, more rooted, and more metaphorical place than the fabled Camelot of the Early Middle Ages (or its myriad depictions), but it too is a space more psychic than physical. In Castle’s Camelot, the fantastic interpenetrates the mundane, and the Grail, if there is one, distills everyday experience into art and art into faith, subliming terrestrial concerns into sublime celestial prayers to Mother Nature, and to the unfolding process of perfecting imperfection in one’s own nature. Co-produced by Jennifer and longtime collaborator Jeff McMurrich, her seventh record is at once her most monumental and unguarded to date, demonstrating a mastery of rendering her verse and melodies alike with crisply poignant economy. For all their pointedly plainspoken lyrical detail and exhilarating full-band musical flourishes, these songs sound inevitable, eternal as morning devotions. “Back in Camelot,” she sings on the lilting, vulnerable title track, “I really learned a lot / circles in the crops and / sky-high geometry.” The album opens with a candid admission of sleeping “in the unfinished basement,” an embarrassing joke that comes true. But the dreamer is redeemed by dreaming, setting sail in her airborne bed above “sirens and desert deities.” If she questions her own agency whether she is “wishing stones were standing” or just “pissing in the wind” it does not diminish the ineffable existential jolt of such signs and wonders. This abiding tension between belief and doubt, magic and pragmatism, self and other, sacred and profane, and even, arguably, paganism and monotheism, suffuses these ten songs, which limn an interior landscape shot through with sunstriped shadows of “multi-felt dimensions” both mystical and quotidian. The epic scale and transport of “Camelot,” with its swooning strings, gives way dramatically to “Some Friends,” an acoustic-guitar-and-vocals meditation in miniature on Janus-faced friends and the lunar and solar temperatures of their promises—“bright and beaming verses” versus hot curses which recalls her minimalist last album, 2020’s achingly intimate Monarch Season. (In a symmetrical sequencing gesture, the penultimate track, the incantatory “Earthsong,” bookends the central six with a similarly spare solo performance and coiled chord progression, this time an ambiguous appeal to … a wounded lover? a wounded saint? our wounded planet?). Those whom “Trust” accuses of treacherous oaths spit through “gilded and golden tooth” cynics, critics, hypocrites, gurus, scientists, doctors, lovers, government, the so-called entertainment industry sow uncertainty that can infect the artist, as in “Louis”: “What’s that dance / and can it be done? What’s that song / and can it be sung?” Answering affirmatively are “Lucky #8,” an irrepressible ode to dancing as a bulwark against the “tidal pools of pain” and the “theory of collapse,” and “Full Moon in Leo,” which finds the narrator dancing around the house with a broom, wearing nothing but her underwear and “big hair.” But the central question remains: who can we trust, and at what cost faith, in art or angels or otherwise? Castle’s confidence in her collaborators is the cornerstone of Camelot. Carl Didur (piano and keys), Evan Cartwright (drums and percussion), and steadfast sideman Mike Smith (bass) comprise a rhythm section of exquisite delicacy and depth. This fundamental trio anchors the airiness of regular backing vocalists Victoria Cheong and Isla Craig and frames the guitars of Castle, McMurrich, and Paul Mortimer (and on “Lucky #8,” special guest Cass McCombs). Reprising his decennial role on Castle’s beloved 2014 Pink City, Owen Pallett arranged the strings for Estonia’s FAMES Skopje Studio Orchestra. On the ravishing country-soul ballad “Blowing Kisses” Pallett’s crowning achievement here, which can be heard in its entirety in the penultimate episode of the third season of FX’s The Bear Jennifer contemplates time and presence, love and prayer and how songwriting and poetry both manifest and limit all four dimensions: “No words to fumble with / I’m not a beggar to language any longer.” Such rare moments of speechlessness “I’m so fucking honoured,” she bluntly proclaims suggest a state “only a god could come up with.” (If Camelot affirms Castle as one of the great song-poets of her generation, she is not immune to the despairing linguistic beggary that plagues all writers.) Camelot evinces a thoroughgoing faith not only in the natural world including human bodies, which can, miraculously, dance and swim and bleed and embrace and birth but also in our interpretations of and interventions in it: the “charts and diagrams” of “Lucky #8,” a daydreamt billboard on Fairfax Ave. in LA in “Full Moon in Leo,” the bloody invocations of the organ-stained “Mary Miracle,” and all manner of water worship, rivers in particular. (Notably, Jennifer has worked as a farmer and a doula.) The album ends with “Fractal Canyon”s repeated, exalted insistence that she’s “not alone here.” But where is here? The word “utopia” itself constitutes a pun, indicating in its ambiguous first syllable both the Greek “eutopia,” or “good-place” the facet most remembered today and “outopia,” or “no-place,” a negative, impossible geography of the mind. Utopia, like its metonym Camelot, is imaginary

2024 Reissue

The syndicate manifests its sonic potential in full glory. Giving rise to this collection of colossal heavyweights, Sentry demonstrates its spotless record of selecting certified heavyweights for the discography once again, twenty-fold. Stepping into the ring are some of the scene's most prolific artists alongside a plethora of promising, choice newcomers.

Boasting more than an hour of supercharged sound system pressure with names like Caspa, Truth, Bukez Finezt, Nomine and Youngsta himself on the controls - the subsequent inferno proves to be an authoritative display of quality bass music, that is sure to reach roaring stacks of speakers all around the globe for years to come."

"Vintage flavours transmute into fiery low-end excursions in 'Sun Ra' as Onhell reigns with fire and brimstone and makes way for what's to come. Rolling on, Taso lays waste with dimly lit half-time flows as we enter the smoke-filled mansion of Argo's meticulously crafted 'Since Then' - a prime cut of hip-hop infused breakbeats and bass.

Abstrakt Sonance & Substance set the heater into overdrive and blunts aflame as we proceed into the shelling of 207's 'Gypsy Dub' - then promptly being crunched to bits by 'Crocodile' - encapsulating Dayzero's cold-blooded dance floor armaments. Brace yourself for battle as we step to the drums of Caspa's tribal warfare, full-frontal assault engineered for the club.

Unrestrained power surges propelling us onwards in Coltcut & Ourman's decidedly high-grade collaboration as listeners march through Khiva's haunting sound system belter 'Teeth' and a zealous dosage of Dubstep as envisioned by Truth. Led through eerie alleys and pressure-ridden environments with LSN on the buttons, the onslaught proceeds with the relentlessly driving 'R U Broke' in Mr. K's signature style.

Opus merciless injects straight fury in an auditory form in the spiked 'Lime Pickle' - Bukez Finezt keeping pace with a murderous Cembalo-ridden thug anthem, lunacy! Minimal instrumentation to its fullest effect, Sukh Knight's 'Modulate' keeps it spicy - as does the claustrophobic sub-bass chiming by Leftlow. Thanom ignites what's left of the residual air in 'Tumble It' - dangerous goods.

The subsequent time bomb armed by A:Grade & Feonix, cast into the abyss that is Nomine's space-bending 'Judas' - big speaker business. The clock strikes its final hour - Youngsta & Cimm finish off the survivors with a no-holds-barred showdown, the 'Last Judgement' executing its massive verdict.

Repress!

With Robyn, South London's cktrl shares his most ambitious work yet, collaborating with the likes of Duval Timothy, Coby Sey (Micachu, Tirzah, Dean Blunt) and Purple Ferdinand to create a vital exploration of contemporary-classical from the black perspective; out via Errol and Alex Rita's Touching Bass. Spurred on by the overpowering feelings of heartbreak, Robyn impressively creates emotive and heartfelt clarinet and saxophone-led soundscapes about the all-consuming power of love. On the project, cktrl says: "'Robyn' at its core is heartbreak and is just really sentimental. It's a journey of losing a love but it ends with optimism as you find strength to love again." Born and bred in Lewisham, cktrl aka Bradley Miller is an integral part of London's pioneering musical underground. One of the only remaining original DJs on NTS, cktrl has previously worked with and played alongside the likes of Sampha, Sango, Kelela and Dean Blunt. Throughout his career to date, cktrl has also been recognised and heralded by fashion and film VIPs including Virgil Abloh, Bianca Saunders, Tremaine Emory, Nicholas Daley and Jenn Nkiru who recently secured him a cameo in Beyonce's heralded 'Black Is King'. With a shared ethos of elevating and amplifying leftfield black music, he partners with London based label, Touching Bass, themselves a key cog within the city's bubbling musical underbelly.

Since first bonding over Slowdive at a Texas karaoke bar six years ago, musicians Uriel Avila and Jonathan Perez have grown trauma ray into Fort Worth's foremost flag bearer of crushing shoegaze. A five-piece rounded out by bassist Darren Baun, drummer Nicholas Bobotas, and guitarist Coleman Pruitt, the band's debut album, Chameleon, captures their evolving sound at an apex of majestic devastation. A fusion of downer hooks, gauzy melancholia, and bulldozer riffs, the album heaves and crashes across 50 minutes of stacked amplifier alchemy. Lyrically the songs trace similarly lofty and brooding terrain; Avila says "The theme is death. And a chameleon, like death, can shape-shift in and out our lives in different forms." Chameleon opens with "Ember," dreamy and distant, alternately anthemic and apocalyptic, defeated and deafening. Lead single "Bishop" perfectly encapsulates trauma ray's depth and dimension, ripping out of the gate with "the biggest, baddest, saddest wall of sound." Lyrics about being burnt at the stake and "tossed in the flame" float above a stop-start assault of precision distortion, eventually expanding into a lush, heavy, sorrowful end coda. "Spectre" is a mysterious, introspective dirge, envisioned as a "mellow, slowcore, Duster-thing," all feeling and heavy fuzz chords (with no lead guitar). Avila wrote it, "to be a hymnal" from the perspective of someone who won't let go - a ghost, an ex, a shadow self. Although the album is rich with subtleties, graceful lulls, and "breaths of air," the band's three guitar attack is its defining force, a power flexed to its peak on "Bardo." Perez's intentions were blunt: "I wanted to write a riff that was hard as fuck." The result is alternately mean and eerie, veering between noisy one string bends and surging headbang, mapping a middle ground between Unwound and early-Deftones. One of trauma ray's greatest gifts is their ability to make doomy, sledgehammer heaviness sound like an earworm, without production tricks or gimmicks: "Riff, verse, chorus, three guitar parts - that's all you need." This quality is particularly apparent on the title track, a churning slab of amplifier worship, swirling chords, and heavenly, defeated vocals about not belonging, shape-shifting, and death ("A twisted face / Void of attention / An empty space / In your reflection"). "U.S.D.D.O.S" closes the album, swaying across seven minutes of grey skied guitar and haunted voice, subtly thickening as it deepens. Feedback and shrapnel gradually begin raining down, like a satellite disintegrating in the atmosphere. Titled as an acronym after a poem by Chilean writer Roberto Bolaño that loosely translates to "a dream within a dream," the melody softens, smears, and then disappears, slowly swallowed by the gravity of eternal descent. Chameleon is a masterpiece of craft, balance, melody, lyricism, and gravity, flexing a fresh vision of loud-quiet-loud architectures and the vertigo depths of blasted harmonics. From Slowdive to Nothing, to Hum and beyond, the band absorb and expand on their influences into a rare and dedicated alchemy. trauma ray's cinematic tempest is a gathering storm only just taking flight.

Since first bonding over Slowdive at a Texas karaoke bar six years ago, musicians Uriel Avila and Jonathan Perez have grown trauma ray into Fort Worth's foremost flag bearer of crushing shoegaze. A five-piece rounded out by bassist Darren Baun, drummer Nicholas Bobotas, and guitarist Coleman Pruitt, the band's debut album, Chameleon, captures their evolving sound at an apex of majestic devastation. A fusion of downer hooks, gauzy melancholia, and bulldozer riffs, the album heaves and crashes across 50 minutes of stacked amplifier alchemy. Lyrically the songs trace similarly lofty and brooding terrain; Avila says "The theme is death. And a chameleon, like death, can shape-shift in and out our lives in different forms." Chameleon opens with "Ember," dreamy and distant, alternately anthemic and apocalyptic, defeated and deafening. Lead single "Bishop" perfectly encapsulates trauma ray's depth and dimension, ripping out of the gate with "the biggest, baddest, saddest wall of sound." Lyrics about being burnt at the stake and "tossed in the flame" float above a stop-start assault of precision distortion, eventually expanding into a lush, heavy, sorrowful end coda. "Spectre" is a mysterious, introspective dirge, envisioned as a "mellow, slowcore, Duster-thing," all feeling and heavy fuzz chords (with no lead guitar). Avila wrote it, "to be a hymnal" from the perspective of someone who won't let go - a ghost, an ex, a shadow self. Although the album is rich with subtleties, graceful lulls, and "breaths of air," the band's three guitar attack is its defining force, a power flexed to its peak on "Bardo." Perez's intentions were blunt: "I wanted to write a riff that was hard as fuck." The result is alternately mean and eerie, veering between noisy one string bends and surging headbang, mapping a middle ground between Unwound and early-Deftones. One of trauma ray's greatest gifts is their ability to make doomy, sledgehammer heaviness sound like an earworm, without production tricks or gimmicks: "Riff, verse, chorus, three guitar parts - that's all you need." This quality is particularly apparent on the title track, a churning slab of amplifier worship, swirling chords, and heavenly, defeated vocals about not belonging, shape-shifting, and death ("A twisted face / Void of attention / An empty space / In your reflection"). "U.S.D.D.O.S" closes the album, swaying across seven minutes of grey skied guitar and haunted voice, subtly thickening as it deepens. Feedback and shrapnel gradually begin raining down, like a satellite disintegrating in the atmosphere. Titled as an acronym after a poem by Chilean writer Roberto Bolaño that loosely translates to "a dream within a dream," the melody softens, smears, and then disappears, slowly swallowed by the gravity of eternal descent. Chameleon is a masterpiece of craft, balance, melody, lyricism, and gravity, flexing a fresh vision of loud-quiet-loud architectures and the vertigo depths of blasted harmonics. From Slowdive to Nothing, to Hum and beyond, the band absorb and expand on their influences into a rare and dedicated alchemy. trauma ray's cinematic tempest is a gathering storm only just taking flight.

Elias Rønnenfelt is a musician and poet best known as the lead singer and lyricist of Iceage. Heavy Glory is his debut solo album. Out October 25th via Escho. Heavy Glory was recorded in Copenhagen in chapters and moments over the course of a year. Collaborators include Iceage's Dan Kjær Nielsen, Danish punk godfather Peter Peter, and singers Joanne Robertson (Elias and Joanne have collaborated before, on a number of recent Dean Blunt releases) and Fauzia. "I've done this so many times," Rønnenfelt explains, speaking of the process of crafting a long player, "but capturing and crystallising an album remains a singular ritual, just with different circumstances. We are capturing something that is hard to hold down." Heavy Glory is a record that examines all the things that lovers do, from the most desperate to the most pure. The lover haunts the record, reappearing and provoking Rønnenfelt, pulling him in and pushing him away. Songs like "Close" describe the line between jealousy and protectiveness. "Unarmed" is a song of surrender. "River of Madeleine" harnesses toughness in the name of preservation, staying up all night to protect his lover's dreams. "Stalker" is an epic third-person story song in the tradition of the murder ballad. The record closes with two covers. The first, Spacemen 3's "Sound of Confusion," is a mission statement of the life Rønnenfelt has found and inherited in music. "Here it comes," the song famously promises, and flares out into noise. It is a joyful noise, because this life, in all its grit, is the life he chose. The second, Townes Van Zandt's "No Place to Fall," is a sweet plea, Rønnenfelt's final invitation to join him on his journey. This journey - this story, this record - will repeat and continue. It never stops. Rønnenfelt's life as an artist results in a sound that wobbles and rocks but never loses its centre, both fragile and tough, and always moving forward. It is dreamy yet bombastic, held together by the passion of certainty. Co-produced by Rønnenfelt and Nis Bysted.

When the Beat Konducta and his trusty alter ego link up for the sequel, another southern California blunt cruise ensues. The Adventures Of Lord Quas consists of a slow ride through the deepest corners of the crate, leaving no genre unearthed until it claims space in the haze of one’s imagination. It’s business as unusual: Madlib funnels his most twisted impulses and comedic sensibilities into a sonic slacker flck complete with good dope, bottom-shelf liquor, and a penchant for gazing mouth agape into the great unknown. But he knows Lord Quas like a good needle on wax, and they casually strut through the loops, much ado about frontin’. (Not like fake shit ain’t a big deal, but it ain’t a big enough deal.) This record captures Madlib and his id at their most frantic, indulgent, and often confusing; they trade neatness for chaos, continuity for collage in a barrage of the finest sounds this side of the B-side. It’s hip-hop that takes every visible risk, often striking gold and proving how in control the Loop Digga truly is. Don’t hit it too hard, your other selves might pay you a visit.

Amsterdam's resident by choice, Torky Tork's Seed Tape Vol.1 is a reminiscences to his love for growing plants. Having created his own personal "music for plants" project, to keep flora and fauna entertained and triggering the blooming process.
Simultaneously to the album, Torky's own OK KUSH weed-strain will be introduced to the world. The lush & laid-back stimulating sounds and baselines are beneficial for the plants and the listeners cortex equally.
Torky's sound - even across various projects can be described with the broad spectrum of influences. The restless Berlin native has never stuck to one formula. His urge for ever new input is reflected by the constant change in the centre of his life - for some years now, he has been constantly traveling back and forth between his Berlin Bunker studio and Amsterdam, his home of choice. So the influence of weed has naturally been around him for a while, yet inspiring him to dive into the album TWO BE OK.
The illustrious line-up of musical guests on the album contains Germany’s most in-demand producers, the self-taught bedroom beatmaker FloFilz, Berlin’s bunker studio affiliate S. Fidelity, wine aficionado Dexter (also mastering engineer of the album), Wandl and more. This is the perfect soundtrack for watering your favourite plants while watching them grow.

Skinshape (aka Will Dorey) releases his ninth studio album titled Another Side Of Skinshape on 27th September via Lewis Recordings. As the album title suggests, Dorey’s latest body of work is somewhat unlike anything in his prior discography. However, there is always a consistent Skinshape thread which pulsates throughout all of his music - a kind of sonic dreamscape which echoes a mystical nostalgia for a sun dappled afternoon.

Taking inspiration from childhood memories, Ethiopian rhythms, and even calls to prayer, Another Side Of Skinshape gained access to the most esoteric corners of Dorey’s mind. Whilst ‘It’s About Time’ and ‘Ananda’ display a slightly more synthesised palette than we typically hear of a Skinshape tune, singles ‘Stornoway’ and ‘Lady Sun’ (which features the hazy soul vocals of West London’s Hollie Cook) replicate the same lifeblood heard on albums Nostalgia, or Craterellus Tubaeformis.

Speaking on the album, Dorey says “Some songs pay homage to the 90s whilst others the 60s and 70s. Yet you may not perceive all of these in the form that they are presented. In any case I hope that the album is enjoyable and will fit casually into the flow of your day.”

Whilst making this album, Dorey experimented with various keyboards and drum machines, which are at times layered over the excellent drumming of Thomas Blunt, who played live onto tape. Blunt is well versed in the Skinshape vernacular, also being part of Dorey’s live band. Indeed, Another Side Of Skinshape is due for release just before a run of UK and US live dates, which will be the first time the band has ever hit the open road.

Dorey is a former member of the band Palace, has played Glastonbury, BBC Maida Vale and Shepherd’s Bush Empire to name a few. Skinshape’s ‘I Didn’t Know’ has streamed over 50 million times. He is proudly from Swanage, Dorest.

Swiss intergalactic 3 piece experimentalists lean on a Dadaist theme for their late-night, jam-inspired, and smokey beat laden trip to the cosmos.

Distilling surf rock, jazz and ambience, energised and patched together with spoken word samples, wind instruments and, blunted hip hop beats, ali dada’s album SUM is their invitation to dadaversum’ - their eccentric universe of sound and emotion.

Featuring Orlando Ludens (guitar & ambient soundscapes), Rulla (beats & field recordings) and Max Licht (brass & trombone), experimentation is the trio’s constant and SUM is the result of jams and associative distillation’ always with a fluid sense of genre.

Whilst SUM clearly takes new and furtive steps, ali dada’s sound is wholly their own. Nothing feels rigid here and rules don’t apply. Improvisation lingers in the air, even after the last note fades. A series of sound sketches, dense in detail, stylistically rich, SUM gives licence to couch-melt, sungaze or for those used to wintry climes, add another log on the fire.

“The songs often emerge from imperfect elements or mistakes, like from a loop or glitch. or something I played that wasn’t quite clean and building on that becomes the challenge ” recalls Orlando. Rulla adds “I play a lot of instruments, very, very badly and in music production, I’m trained to craft something awesome out of wonky sounds. That’s how songs emerge from unusual sounds”.

As for who played the double bass, no one remembers. Who belongs to the band and who doesn’t is open to interpretation. Though a core group exists the spotlight remains on experimentation through jam sessions. ali dada is a construct, a dadaverse.

Highlights include the album’s opener 'abolish the police', a mix of guitars, weirded-out wind instruments and Häuserfrau’s ever chilled vocal presence. 'tone print' is the band’s first single from the album, which combines sliding guitar, the infamous psychedelic Tim as a narrator, some early CPU game sound-splats and a meteoric dope beat, providing the head nodding groove. 'ohnedi'’s ambient charm features some gorgeous manipulated choir moments and some fidgety electronic synths.

"Kal Marks have never made a record as personal as Wasteland Baby. Though Carl Shane, the band’s vocalist-guitarist, has made a career off of exploring blunt, uncomfortable truths through song, with Wasteland Baby, he steered Kal Marks toward something utterly new. Shane looked inward to stare down a fear that had long plagued him: What would it look like to have a child in a world that looks like this? “The album was driven by the fears I’m having about being a father,” says Shane. “The initial spark was this fear, and I thought that maybe if I could express it, I could overcome it.”

What started out with this simple premise slowly grew into a sprawling, borderline-concept record. It’s no surprise, then, that Kal Marks went deeper and darker than ever before when writing Wasteland Baby. Though, in order to reach that final product, it required the band—bassist-vocalist John Russell, drummer Adam Berkowitz, and guitarist-vocalist Christina Puerto, who is also Shane’s partner—to interrogate every decision they made with exacting detail. ”We were really all on the same page in that we wanted to make something really, really special and that was going to require us putting a lot of ego aside and just trying to serve the songs as best as possible.”

“In an ideal world, Kal Marks will go on forever. But it may be the end of a chapter for a while. I don’t want it to be the end, but there was an element running through the album that maybe could be the end,” says Shane. No matter what the future holds, Wasteland Baby is an emphatic reminder to brush off the things that keep you from truly living and venture into the unknown."

VDR Remixes: Beyond Music

The concept for this remix album evolved gradually through various encounters and exchanges. Despite its complexity, the project would not have come to fruition without the firm dedication of each artist involved.

Artists were given the freedom to select any track from my discography for their remix. With no directives, the LP's magic emerged from their unique styles and creative visions, resulting in a diverse palette of tones and rhythms.

The first record opens with Stephen Brown's electrifying remix of Blunt's "Later For It," originally released on Bright Sounds. Stephen's reinterpretation infuses the track with dark, captivating techno.

On the B-side, Markus Suckut presents his masterful adaptation of "Thrust It," a track marking my first release. Following this, Sawlin transforms "The Venue" from The Cruiser series, infusing it with his signature 'Made by Sawlin' style.

The second record continues with two compelling versions of "Moon, Sea and Waves" by Alek S. These reinterpretations—one dub techno and the other Detroit-oriented—offer a unique and immersive vision of the B+A+D tracks, originally released on Newmont.

On the flip side, Joe Metzenmacher delivers a daring electro remix of "1NON1" on D1, followed by Sicaa's bass music rendition of "Archensweet" on D2.

The third record is entirely dedicated to remixes of the Ashppe series, which I hold dear. Drexl provides a powerful breakbeat cut of "Flexit," a true bomb. Simon Ferdinand from Polycarp Records, with whom I had the pleasure of working, captures the punch and melancholy of "Fudge It". The LP concludes with two Dub 3.0 adaptations of "Let's do it" by Anthony Cacharron, using the aliases Alpha GPC and Redrop, ending on an exploratory high note.

A heartfelt thank you to all the remixers for their boundless creativity and commitment to this project

Paraphilia is an American death metal band hailing from the pacific northwest (Portland, Oregon). This cellar dwelling duo debuted their nasty brand of guttural destruction in the form of 2021's EP Primordium of Sinister Butchery. A frenzied titanic sized sixteen minute beatdown.

So here we are now 2023, brings us their 'super' debut full length "The Memory of Death Given Form". This record is already creating some major ruckus in death metals underground circle.

Comprised solely of SP (vocals/guitars/bass/programming) and KRP (vocals/lyrics), Paraphilia's brand of brutal & technical death metal is of the thick and chunky variety. Foot stomping groove mixed with gut punching brutality. This unmerciful bastard child snorts, snarls, growls, and lurks about waiting to hammer your bones into dust. The song structures are complex enough to impress, but also memorable and downright unforgiving in the headbanging department.

With a touch of the old school, some intricate guitar dissonance, masterfully written songs, and teeth loosening heaviness, "The Memory of Death Given Form" will delight and destroy even the hardened of death metal elites.

It contains 7 massive tracks (with a Bloodbath cover) chock-full of sophisticated dense riffs and relentless drum pummelling that's nothing short of being an aural sledgehammer, the album kicks off with a crushing track that takes no prisoners.

Technically proficient but insanely groovy "Memory of Death Given Form" is a thick beast of jarring tempos and vomit inducing guitar savagery. Harsh, drawn out gutturals over rhythmic guitar mayhem is enough to make anyone feel like they could run straight through a brick wall. Unadulterated death metal ferocity.

To put it bluntly, this is DAMN fucking GOOD, and you would be hard-pressed to find any better death metal this year.

Sure for fans of: Bloodbath, Hate Eternal, Suffocation, Devourment & similar.

Available on a delicious black and yellow super marble 180gr. vinyl, and solid yellow vinyl, and both are limited at 100 copies each.

Paraphilia is an American death metal band hailing from the pacific northwest (Portland, Oregon). This cellar dwelling duo debuted their nasty brand of guttural destruction in the form of 2021's EP Primordium of Sinister Butchery. A frenzied titanic sized sixteen minute beatdown.

So here we are now 2023, brings us their 'super' debut full length "The Memory of Death Given Form". This record is already creating some major ruckus in death metals underground circle.

Comprised solely of SP (vocals/guitars/bass/programming) and KRP (vocals/lyrics), Paraphilia's brand of brutal & technical death metal is of the thick and chunky variety. Foot stomping groove mixed with gut punching brutality. This unmerciful bastard child snorts, snarls, growls, and lurks about waiting to hammer your bones into dust. The song structures are complex enough to impress, but also memorable and downright unforgiving in the headbanging department.

With a touch of the old school, some intricate guitar dissonance, masterfully written songs, and teeth loosening heaviness, "The Memory of Death Given Form" will delight and destroy even the hardened of death metal elites.

It contains 7 massive tracks (with a Bloodbath cover) chock-full of sophisticated dense riffs and relentless drum pummelling that's nothing short of being an aural sledgehammer, the album kicks off with a crushing track that takes no prisoners.

Technically proficient but insanely groovy "Memory of Death Given Form" is a thick beast of jarring tempos and vomit inducing guitar savagery. Harsh, drawn out gutturals over rhythmic guitar mayhem is enough to make anyone feel like they could run straight through a brick wall. Unadulterated death metal ferocity.

To put it bluntly, this is DAMN fucking GOOD, and you would be hard-pressed to find any better death metal this year.

Sure for fans of: Bloodbath, Hate Eternal, Suffocation, Devourment & similar.

Available on a delicious black and yellow super marble 180gr. vinyl, and solid yellow vinyl, and both are limited at 100 copies each.

There are ghosts all across AVANTI, the debut album from Malice K. At points it's howling and unhinged, a grungy layer atop a lush foundation of melodic capital-s Songwriting, but in other moments it dissolves into a gentle, wistful haunting. Malice K's songs are blunt, uncomplicated and unflinching as he probes the interiority of memories, of mistakes - saturated with an innate intensity that sucks you into his gnarled and visceral world, so barbed it could draw blood. Malice K is helmed by visual artist and songwriter Alex Konschuh, New York-based but born and raised in Olympia, Washington. Following a stint living in Los Angeles, where he became a member of the artist collective Death Proof Inc., a trip to New York resulted in him simply never leaving the city. A period of chaos ensued, Malice K exhausted and unmoored and ultimately, unwell. The record is unpredictable across its 11 songs. The album opens with a jarring scream on "Halloween," Malice K's breathless vocals buried beneath a grungy, roving Nineties riff. The track emanates a manic energy, enveloping. It's a fitting entrypoint for the record, and for the vividness of Malice K. The snarling and obsessive "You're My Girl" has a swaggering paranoia: "I got so high I thought my hand touching my hand was your hand." But AVANTI exists in quieter moments too; "Radio," with its fluttering morose cello, moves at an almost glacial pace comparatively. The aching wistfulness of "The Old House" is an album stand-out, anchored in an acoustic guitar, an uneasy lullaby that never quite settles into itself: "I think to myself I got the things that I wanted, but I can't help think there's something else that I forgot to do." A recent press interview called Malice K a shapeshifter, but he's not amorphous in that way. He's decisive and intense, more concerned with carving his own path, and building his own world. Every part of Malice K is distinctly himself: from his sweaty high-octane shows to the high-flash high-contrast photos; from his gnarled and unsettling illustrations to the studio recordings that vacillate between grief and tenderness, there's an exceptional ferocity across everything Malice K touches. AVANTI feels lived in, like peering into an abandoned house through a window smeared with grimy fingerprints, relics of a life well-lived scattered inside - despite being a debut, there's the sense that Malice K arrived fully-realized, imperfections and all.

There are ghosts all across AVANTI, the debut album from Malice K. At points it's howling and unhinged, a grungy layer atop a lush foundation of melodic capital-s Songwriting, but in other moments it dissolves into a gentle, wistful haunting. Malice K's songs are blunt, uncomplicated and unflinching as he probes the interiority of memories, of mistakes - saturated with an innate intensity that sucks you into his gnarled and visceral world, so barbed it could draw blood. Malice K is helmed by visual artist and songwriter Alex Konschuh, New York-based but born and raised in Olympia, Washington. Following a stint living in Los Angeles, where he became a member of the artist collective Death Proof Inc., a trip to New York resulted in him simply never leaving the city. A period of chaos ensued, Malice K exhausted and unmoored and ultimately, unwell. The record is unpredictable across its 11 songs. The album opens with a jarring scream on "Halloween," Malice K's breathless vocals buried beneath a grungy, roving Nineties riff. The track emanates a manic energy, enveloping. It's a fitting entrypoint for the record, and for the vividness of Malice K. The snarling and obsessive "You're My Girl" has a swaggering paranoia: "I got so high I thought my hand touching my hand was your hand." But AVANTI exists in quieter moments too; "Radio," with its fluttering morose cello, moves at an almost glacial pace comparatively. The aching wistfulness of "The Old House" is an album stand-out, anchored in an acoustic guitar, an uneasy lullaby that never quite settles into itself: "I think to myself I got the things that I wanted, but I can't help think there's something else that I forgot to do." A recent press interview called Malice K a shapeshifter, but he's not amorphous in that way. He's decisive and intense, more concerned with carving his own path, and building his own world. Every part of Malice K is distinctly himself: from his sweaty high-octane shows to the high-flash high-contrast photos; from his gnarled and unsettling illustrations to the studio recordings that vacillate between grief and tenderness, there's an exceptional ferocity across everything Malice K touches. AVANTI feels lived in, like peering into an abandoned house through a window smeared with grimy fingerprints, relics of a life well-lived scattered inside - despite being a debut, there's the sense that Malice K arrived fully-realized, imperfections and all.

The Moon and the Melodies is a singular record within the Cocteau Twins" catalogue - unusually ethereal, even by their standards, and largely instrumental, guided by the free-form improvisations of Harold Budd, an ambient pioneer who had drifted into their orbit as if by divine intervention. Building on the atmospheric bliss of Victorialand, released earlier the same year, it signalled a possible future for the trio, yet it was a path they"d never take again. Now, almost forty years after it was fi rst released, it"s being reissued on vinyl for the first time - remastered, from the original tapes, by Robin Guthrie himself. Over the ensuing years, The Moon and the Melodies has attracted a passionate fan base. Its most atmospheric tracks routinely turn up in ambient DJ sets. "Sea, Swallow Me" is one of the Cocteau Twins" most streamed songs on Spotify, having found a new life on TikTok, where it serves as the soundtrack to innumerable expressions of hard-to-express melancholy. For such a low-key aff air, the album casts a long shadow - but Raymonde believes the record"s uniqueness stems directly from its humble, unpremeditated origins. "It captured a moment in time between friends that are enjoying making music together. Really, that"s the essence of it."

Lullaby for the Debris is the second album from Moses Brown of Institute’s solo project Peace de Résistance. Those of us who loved Peace de Résistance’s 2022 debut, Bits and Pieces, will be pleased to hear that much of what made that album so memorable—the glam-infused art rock sound, the gritty yet richly textured production, and Moses’s bluntly class-conscious lyrics—carries over into Lullaby for the Debris. Yet Lullaby for the Debris also sounds more refined, more timeless than its predecessor, with “40 Times the Rent,” “Coddle the Rich,” and “Ain’t What It Used to Be,” all built around chooglin’ Lou Reed-style riffs beamed in from the great rock and roll beyond. Elsewhere on the record, Moses’s arty side shines through, with “The Funny Man” and “Pay Us More” full of uncanny sounds that invite the listener to bathe in their rich sonic textures. “I Am” and “You Are Absurd” move into a new territory Brown calls “despondent funk,” their rubbery bass sounds and eerily progressive soundscapes evoking Station to Station-era Bowie, while the title track closes the album on a pensive note, landing somewhere between 70s minimalist composition and the mellower moments from Eno’s solo albums. The real strength of this record, though, is Brown’s ever-developing songwriting skills, which meld wry social observation and Crass-style confrontational politics to melodies you’ll sing along with for the rest of your life

Broken Keys, as you may know, is a multi-talented musician and producer based in Los Angeles. His cut 'Assorted Colors' has become a real underground house classic that now lands on wax for the first time as a special extended 12" remix that really locks you into the languid grooves. The legendary Galcher Lustwerk steps up to add his own distinctive take on the original and infuses it with a techy yet atmospheric groove. Then Broken Keys explores a different facet of his sound with three distinct cuts on the flip that range from blunted beats and sun-kissed Balearic to chilled-out future soul. They make for a diverse package that has something for many different situations.