Search:tin fingers

'Balconies' is an urgent, physical record shaped by momentum and heat. The album takes its title from a recurring metaphor: a balcony as a place of exposure and distance. Elevated, visible, yet removed from the action below. Throughout the record, Tin Fingers explore feelings of observation, displacement and restlessness, moving through places without fully belonging.

Musically, 'Balconies' marks a clear shift for the Antwerp band. Where earlier releases leaned into intimacy and melancholy, this album is louder, more direct and built for movement. Sharp, energetic songs are balanced by the band's continued attention to atmosphere and imagery.

The album was written instinctively over three months by frontman Felix Machtelinckx before being brought to the band, with arrangements coming together quickly thanks to years of shared experience. Recording took place over four hot summer days at The Old Carpet Factory on Hydra, Greece. The warmth, the sea and the island's isolation shaped both sound and mood, while limited time encouraged live recordings that capture the album's raw energy and immediacy. 'Balconies' was mixed by D. James Goodwin (The National, Kevin Morby, Whitney).

Following the release, Tin Fingers will present 'Balconies' live, with shows at De Roma (Antwerp), Mezz (Breda) and Supersonic (Paris).

Tin Fingers takes on a darker, melancholic direction on their second full album. Felix Machtelinckx' weeping vocals, preaching, searching, and trying to understand God, form the leitmotif. With rich melodies, haunting piano sounds, improvisations, first takes and no overdubs, Tin Fingers is searching for pureness and keeping things human and simple. The band is playing together intuitively, without a computer, without ego, just for the sake of music

The creation of the album was very fluent and spontaneous. Singer Felix wrote the backbones of the songs and the lyrics on acoustic guitar and piano. He wanted to have songs ready in order to be able to record and write arrangements fast. With an eye for details but without overthinking, keeping the ideas fresh. 'I wanted to stay in love with the music.' he explains. 'It needed to go fast, very fast, in just two weeks the entire album was recorded and ready to be mixed.'

In the studio, the band especially focused on picking the right mood rather than playing the right notes.

They were fed up with working on a computer for many hours, overthinking production choices, and adding instruments on top of each other as if they were Lego blocks. This time they decided to work in a more traditional way, going for first takes, jams, and essentially working with analog gear. No computers, no screens, no distractions. Only four humans in a studio trying to make a sound together by keeping things spontaneous and raw. They said goodbye to perfection and worked towards an unfinished product, a snapshot.

Tin Fingers also didn't want to sound like any other artist on this record. They decided not to listen to music during the sessions, and to never express ideas by referencing other bands. Just before the studio session, however, bass player Simen Wouters broke the rules and shared Bonnie 'Prince' Billy's, I See Darkness. Its dark and searching sound ended up inspiring the band unmistakably.

Once the recording was finished, the band decided to keep the volatile rhythm going and asked reputable NYC-based mixer and producer D. James Goodwin to finish the job. Goodwin, known for his analog folk productions with a real American punchy sound but a tender touch, proved the right man for the job. He opened up the songs and kept things poetic, minimal but impressive.

Tin Fingers takes on a darker, melancholic direction on their second full album. Felix Machtelinckx' weeping vocals, preaching, searching, and trying to understand God, form the leitmotif. With rich melodies, haunting piano sounds, improvisations, first takes and no overdubs, Tin Fingers is searching for pureness and keeping things human and simple. The band is playing together intuitively, without a computer, without ego, just for the sake of music

The creation of the album was very fluent and spontaneous. Singer Felix wrote the backbones of the songs and the lyrics on acoustic guitar and piano. He wanted to have songs ready in order to be able to record and write arrangements fast. With an eye for details but without overthinking, keeping the ideas fresh. 'I wanted to stay in love with the music.' he explains. 'It needed to go fast, very fast, in just two weeks the entire album was recorded and ready to be mixed.'

In the studio, the band especially focused on picking the right mood rather than playing the right notes.

They were fed up with working on a computer for many hours, overthinking production choices, and adding instruments on top of each other as if they were Lego blocks. This time they decided to work in a more traditional way, going for first takes, jams, and essentially working with analog gear. No computers, no screens, no distractions. Only four humans in a studio trying to make a sound together by keeping things spontaneous and raw. They said goodbye to perfection and worked towards an unfinished product, a snapshot.

Tin Fingers also didn't want to sound like any other artist on this record. They decided not to listen to music during the sessions, and to never express ideas by referencing other bands. Just before the studio session, however, bass player Simen Wouters broke the rules and shared Bonnie 'Prince' Billy's, I See Darkness. Its dark and searching sound ended up inspiring the band unmistakably.

Once the recording was finished, the band decided to keep the volatile rhythm going and asked reputable NYC-based mixer and producer D. James Goodwin to finish the job. Goodwin, known for his analog folk productions with a real American punchy sound but a tender touch, proved the right man for the job. He opened up the songs and kept things poetic, minimal but impressive.

Repress!

One of the gems on the smash hit album 'Soulmatic', Purple Disco Machine & Boris D'Lugosch's, 'Love For Days' gets the remix treatment three ways.

First up the master Kenny Dope - crisping up that shuffling rhythm with some added percussion and synthesiser arps to turn what was already a peak time soulful anthem, into a close to 8 minute extended journey drawing you in more and more with each build up and breakdown. Next up the PDM offers up an extended mix of the original, a welcome sight for those DJs on the club scene who have been rinsing this since the album dropped last year.

Finally, Motez takes you into raunchy, r&b tinged, garage territory, really honing in on Karen Harding's incredible vocals whilst incorporating brooding pads and sweeping fx's to create a special twist on the original.


DJ Support:

Aeroplane (Aeropop / Eskimo Recordings), Klingande / Kungs / Michael Calfan c/o (Unity Group Promo Sorter), Autograf (Counter Records), Treasure Fingers (Psycho Disco! / Fool's Gold), Malente (Southern Fried Records), Satin Jackets c/o (Eskimo Recordings / N.E.W.S.), Eric Sharp (9G Records), Gregor Salto c/o (Spinnin' Records), DJ Blake Jarrell (Armada Music), Jerome Price (Throne Room Records), DJ Licious (Spinnin' Records), Travis Emmons (Weapons Music), Electronic Youth (KMS), Solidisco (Fool's Gold / Ultra) :: Mark Knight c/o (Toolroom Knights), Mike Mago (Boemklatsch), Muzzaik (Spinnin' / Toolroom), The Disco Boys (We Play Music), Trevor Mac (Jalapeno Sound System), Ferdinand Weber (Spinnin' Deep), LCAW (Ultra), Plastic Plates (Sweat it Out), Mark Lower (Nurvous), Don Diablo c/o (Axtone / Spinnin' Records), Eton Messy, Après (Love & Other Records), Spada (Ego Music / Hysterical), Eelke Kleijn (Spinnin' / Suara), Horsemeat Disco (Strut Records / K7! Records), Horsemeat Disco (Strut Records / K7! Records), Adriana Lucia (Get Physical), Broc Roc (Dj B-Roc of The Knocks), Chordashian (Mullet Records), Hector Romero (Saw Recordings), Just Kiddin (Nervous Records)

Idris Elba c/o (Connaisseur Records / 7Wallace), Klingande / Kungs / Michael Calfan c/o (Unity Group Promo Sorter), Shiba San c/o (Suara / CUFF), Malente (Southern Fried Records), Rudimental (Asylum / Big Beat), Sirus Hood (Under No Illusion / Dirtybird), Marc Spence (This Ain't Bristol / Skint), Martin Solveig c/o (Spinnin' Records), Horsemeat Disco (Strut Records / K7! Records), Riva Starr c/o (Hot Creations), Mike Mago (Boemklatsch), Kokiri (Love & Other), Fred Falke (Work It Baby Records), Claptone c/o (Exploited), Roger Sanchez (Stealth Records / Astrx), Don Diablo c/o (Axtone / Spinnin' Records), Icarus (FFRR / SubSoul), Pezzner (Dirtybird), Jourdan Bordes (Phonetic Recordings), Mahalo (Toolroom / Bunny Tiger), AC Slater (Night Bass), Chordashian / Felix Feygin (Mullet Records), Fei-Fei Wang, Kristina Sky (Ultra / Armada), Thee Cool Cats (Toolroom / Bunny Tiger), Solidisco (Fool's Gold / Ultra), Infected Mushroom c/o (HOMmega Productions), DJ Blake Jarrell (Armada Music),Travis Emmons (Weapons Music), Human Life (LIFEX / Exploited), Treasure Fingers (Psycho Disco! / Fool's Gold), Hector Romero (Saw Recordings), and Danny Howard (BBC Radio 1 / Nothing Else Matters)

Debut solo album from guitar player of Calicos. The result is a record that balances melancholy and raw intensity, where vulnerability is never far from power.Aäron Koch's voice cuts straight through, while the band builds a sound that feels both timeless and urgent, echoing The Veils, My Morning Jacket and Strand of Oaks.



For years, Aäron Koch was the guitarist in other people's bands. Writing intricate riffs and odd time signatures came naturally, but the thought of writing a simple song, a verse, a chorus, a melody that could stand on its own, felt out of reach. He tried and failed, discarded demos, and pushed himself through the humbling exercise of writing "bad songs" just to learn the craft.

'For Once', his debut album (out via Unday Records), is the unexpected outcome of that long struggle. What began as an exercise became a set of songs that refused to stay in the drawer. Months after recording rough sketches, Koch listened back and realized they weren't throwaways after all. With a small heart, he shared them with friends, musicians from bands like Calicos, Uma Chine and Tin Fingers, who immediately heard their potential and joined the project.



The result is a record that balances melancholy and raw intensity, where vulnerability is never far from power. Koch's voice cuts straight through, while the band builds a sound that feels both timeless and urgent, echoing The Veils, My Morning Jacket and Strand of Oaks.

"This music is about weaknesses and vulnerability," Koch says. "Autobiographical really, something I only realized once the album took shape."



That honesty struck a chord. In 2024, after only a handful of shows, Aäron Koch reached the finals of Humo's Rock Rally and was invited to open for Belle & Sebastian at a sold-out Ancienne Belgique. Now 'For Once' shows why: it's the sound of someone learning to write songs the hard way, and discovering in the process that he has something entirely his own to say.

NYOS are a Finland-based instrumental band comprised of guitarist Tom Brooke and drummer Tuomas Kainulainen. Known for their immersive and often physically demanding live shows, NYOS create massive sonic worlds using Brooke's labyrinthine loops and atmospheric layering alongside Kainulainen's kinetic drumming, in music that is rhythmic, raw, and eclectic. Since their formation in 2014, NYOS have carved out a distinctive place within Europe's experimental and post-rock scenes, characterized by their relentless energy, polyrhythmic complexity, and hypnotic layering. While still rooted in their signature loop-based approach, new album `Growl' is "more ambitious with song soundscapes and compositions", says guitarist Tom Brooke, naturally embracing a denser, more textured sound with greater attention to atmosphere and tension. "`Growl' feels like the best we've managed to harness the dynamics, and maybe the one thing we did focus a bit on is finding new ways to create those dynamics and making sure they aren't too predictable - it's our longest record to date, and when producing it, we were very conscious to make sure it is an album that holds the listener" (Brooke) As eclectic and exciting as ever, NYOS are a band in continuous motion, unafraid to challenge themselves and their listeners with ever-expanding sonic vocabularies. `Growl' is an album that is both coherent and seamless in its movement, walking a tightrope between meticulous structure and explosive energy. FOR FANS OF Battles, And So I Watch You From Afar, Don Caballero, The Mars Volta, Lightning Bolt, Tortoise, Hella, Tiny Fingers, Death Grips, Zach Hill, Russian Circles, Explosions in the Sky, Tera Melos

NYOS are a Finland-based instrumental band comprised of guitarist Tom Brooke and drummer Tuomas Kainulainen. Known for their immersive and often physically demanding live shows, NYOS create massive sonic worlds using Brooke's labyrinthine loops and atmospheric layering alongside Kainulainen's kinetic drumming, in music that is rhythmic, raw, and eclectic. Since their formation in 2014, NYOS have carved out a distinctive place within Europe's experimental and post-rock scenes, characterized by their relentless energy, polyrhythmic complexity, and hypnotic layering. While still rooted in their signature loop-based approach, new album `Growl' is "more ambitious with song soundscapes and compositions", says guitarist Tom Brooke, naturally embracing a denser, more textured sound with greater attention to atmosphere and tension. "`Growl' feels like the best we've managed to harness the dynamics, and maybe the one thing we did focus a bit on is finding new ways to create those dynamics and making sure they aren't too predictable - it's our longest record to date, and when producing it, we were very conscious to make sure it is an album that holds the listener" (Brooke) As eclectic and exciting as ever, NYOS are a band in continuous motion, unafraid to challenge themselves and their listeners with ever-expanding sonic vocabularies. `Growl' is an album that is both coherent and seamless in its movement, walking a tightrope between meticulous structure and explosive energy. FOR FANS OF Battles, And So I Watch You From Afar, Don Caballero, The Mars Volta, Lightning Bolt, Tortoise, Hella, Tiny Fingers, Death Grips, Zach Hill, Russian Circles, Explosions in the Sky, Tera Melos

Though Toronto rockers Hot Garbage’s signature tinge of moody, heavy psychedelia remains present on Precious Dream, their forthcoming sophomore album careens at high speeds into a darker world of searing post-punk riffs, grappling with themes of dread, loss, the resilience of the human spirit and the highs and lows of solitude. From the onset, elegant yet brutalist sonic architectures provide the scenery for an escape route, while cryptic poetic spurts act as surreal signage. By the end of the journey, we are left with a strangely pleasant void, but also with an uncontrollable urge to backtrack into the outfit’s beautiful 36-minute musical trap. True to form, prolific producer Graham Walsh (Holy Fuck, No Joy, !!!, etc.) – with whom, Hot Garbage recorded their critically-acclaimed debut full-length, RIDE – does right by the band, masterfully harnessing the four-piece’s unique brand of rock & roll, setting in motion a parallel universe where phones are not what they seem, lobotomy has its merits, lower is actually better, and tunnels stretch the very fabric of spacetime. Fans of Sonic Youth, Frankie and the Witch Fingers or Joy Division should welcome a confused stroll down this romantic if dystopian opus, for a cathartic and tender sense of resolution awaits.

Black Vinyl LP. The world has changed, we shouldn't try and pretend otherwise. While we were shut away in isolation our routines shifted, social patterns evolved, and our hopes and dreams were twisted into cobwebs we're still trying to wipe from our fingers. Ziúr tentatively approached this on her last album Antifate, an ambitious and complex hybrid pop fever dream that looked back to a Medieval escapist fantasy as the scent of revolution seemed to hum in the air. But when restrictions were eased, she found herself staring down a discombobulated society that had trapped itself in a spiral of microwaved nostalgia and detached, narcotic repetition. Eyeroll then is Ziúr's musical panacea, a tincture to wake us from our creative slumber and prompt external connection and reflection. It's a polyphonous hex that demands human interaction, and Ziúr's hand-picked alliance of collaborators - Elvin Brandhi, Abdullah Miniawy, Iceboy Violet, Juliana Huxtable, Ledef, and James Ginzburg - each provide distinct voices that together herald a bewildering sonic epoch. Ziúr's palette had to evolve to match the scope of the project, but it was pure necessity that informed the album's defining tone. Recording mostly at night, Ziúr was conscious of the noise she was making so developed a unique way to record organic percussion. Using a set of rototoms - low profile tunable drums - she scratched, scraped and gently tapped the skins to build up the undulating and unstable rhythmic backdrop for each track. It's the first sound we hear on the opener 'Eyeroll', rattling like lost marbles against Elvin Brandhi's primal croaks and screams. And when Brandhi's twisted articulations form words, Ziúr matches the energy with chaotic thuds and serrated blasts of saturated electronics. "I roll the shittiest cigarette," she squeals like she's about to start a mosh pit at Paris's GRM Studios. Without pause, Abdullah Miniawy takes over on 'Malikan', building on the promise of material with Simo Cell, Carl Gari and HVAD with corrosive trumpet blasts and charged, politically incendiary Arabic vocals. Inspired by pre-Islamic poetry and the Qu'ranic chanters he heard growing up in Saudi Arabia and Egypt, he spins labyrinthine stories that cross between the worlds, breaking down physical and spiritual borders simultaneously. Miniawy's scope is expanded even further on his second collaboration, 'If The City Burns I Will Not Run'. "If it rains and the city drowns," he utters over gaseous electronics, "I will not run away, but I will be anxious for the heart of one close to me." After a supple vocal turn from Manchester's Iceboy Violet on 'Move On' and a surreal interlude from poet- DJ-artist-theorist Juliana Huxtable on '99 Favor Taste', Brandhi returns with two more hyperactive collaborations: ,'Nontrivial Differential' and 'Cut Cut Quote'. On the former she slices into Ziúr's skeletal jazz eruptions, screaming and crooning interchangeably, fluxing between the rap battle and the cabaret. The latter is completely different meanwhile, with Brandhi settling into her role as front-woman and groaning dizzying improvised passages that sound like grunge crossed with psychedelic no-wave. Brandhi's spiky musical history has prepared her well for this collaboration; she's a prolific producer and has been using her voice spontaneously since debuting with father-daughter improv duo Yeah You in the mid 2020s. She's found an ideal foil in Ziúr, a producer who matches her restless energy and willingness to bend formality, and leaves an indelible mark on Eyeroll. But the album's most tender moments are from Ziúr herself, who winds the album down on 'Hasty Revisionism', growling over collapsible beats and cascading strings, and comes to an unexpected conclusion with country coda 'Lacrymaturity'. Its feverish amalgamation of country music and euphoric, experimental electronics might seem incongruous at first, but in context with the rest of the album is the only possible conclusion. With Eyeroll Ziúr is making a firm statement about togetherness, humanity, and the renewal of hope when all seems lost. By bringing together such a wide but philosophically harmonic team of collaborators, she's conducted a body of work that speaks to the creative fringe in no uncertain terms. Now's the time to throw away what you think you know, and build bridges you didn't think you need. Now's the time for action. She may have spent her entire career avoiding the solipsistic trappings of "queer art", but by assembling a communal statement that questions so many normative assumptions about music, politics, and beyond, Ziúr has chanced upon her queerest album yet. Cringe? Eyeroll.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Kneading dough is tricky – you should know how it’s supposed to feel. If you try too hard you could make it worse. It’s a beautiful practice – creation with a gentle touch, to work at something so it can be left alone. “If it’s too drawn out it’s awful. It’s easy to give too much.” Dance in the mirror. Contemplate your veiny hands. Who do they remind you of?

You begin by mixing flour and water. “What happens when your people die? Why’d they move the rock to the other side of Ulster Park?” Eliza Niemi asks two seemingly unrelated questions in a rising melody with guitar accompaniment, like fingers playing spider up to the nape of your neck. Gentle pressure. Strands of gluten form to bind the mix. A new question lingers in the binding. When she admits “but I don’t know how to tell if I’m feeling it or not,” that question surfaces through the text. It is reiterated throughout the album. When I’m working with dough I think the same thing to myself.

On Progress Bakery, her second album as a solo artist, Eliza knows to leave some questions alone – to let juxtaposition and tension be the proof. It doesn’t have to be hard. The feelings and revelations they provoke rise in the heat. The smell is sweet. Crispy on the outside and soft all the way through. She playfully slip-slides through words and sounds and images, delighting in surprise, skimming ideas like stones cast across clear water, touching down briefly with uncommon grace.

The question provoked between those opening lines resurfaces in the strands between songs – “Do U FM” is fully formed and beautifully layered, while “Novelist Sad Face” is a short, acapella rendering of gentle curiosity. What is holding these ideas together? Some songs demand more, seem to carry a whole load – eventually the skipping stone will halt to sink and resume its idle duty – while others drift in and out of focus, the way thoughts and dreams become interwoven before the mind is sunk into true sleep.

Music and words don’t always have to interact. Where she decides to keep them apart gives a new contour to where and how she puts them together. The kind of thing you’re supposed to take for granted with songs and their singers comes alive in Eliza’s hands – the little miracle of mixing, kneading, stretching, and stopping.

So often on Progress Bakery, Eliza teases out truth and meaning by asking questions. “Do I wanna be crying?” “Do you want me good or do you want me bad?” “Do I need an eye test?” “I’m writing songs in my head while you’re going over stuff with me — is that cruel??” In “Pocky” Eliza ends with a question that feels to me like the actual biography, succinct and revealing:

I don’t wanna be made to see
I just wanna ask “what’s that?”

Grace that ought to be rare, but in its care and precision is offered humbly, with great generosity, and without announcing itself. Eliza’s simple, miraculous music is given further form and shape by a group of collaborators – invaluable guest musicians Jeremy Ray, Evan Cartwright, Steven McPhail, Kenny Boothby, Ed Squires, Carolina Chauffe, Dorothea Paas, Louie Short, and Avalon Tassonyi. Together with Louie Short, who recorded, mixed, and produced the album along with Jeremy Ray and Lukas Cheung, Eliza has cultivated a richness in sound and texture that prods and provokes the ticklish ear. Barely audible guitar tinkering, a brief lo-fi field recording of trumpets, the harmonic clicking of a looped synthesizer, a flourish of reeds, a child’s conversation, each uncanny sound perfectly placed, rippling out under a soft breeze.

Lay in bed alone at night and ask aloud to the stillness,

“What were you doing at the Albuquerque Airport?
What were you doing there??”

And hear your question answered by a dream of swelling, undulating cellos. Try to grasp at the melody and structure. It’s not an answer (if there could be one), but it moves deeper, closer to the weird layer of fleeting moments and disconnected images, barely perceptible at its core. Wait for the dream reel to click into place.

Eliza took me for a ride in Nicole (her beloved Dodge Grand Caravan) and told me she’d been thinking of the album as an embodiment of transition – and I think every transition, known or unknown, carries the weight of new meaning, skittering off the surface tension of life as you know it, creating ripples, sometimes bouncing off and sometimes breaking through. There is a trick you can use to tell if a dough is glutinous enough. You’re supposed to stretch it out as thin as you can without breaking it and hold it up to the light. If you can see through, even if it renders the world murky and uncertain, you should leave it alone. I love this trick. It’s one that Eliza seems to know intuitively: work gently and ask questions and don’t always expect answers, and when you can, take a glimpse at something new, and then leave.

Well-versed in vintage vernaculars, Oakland-based producer/musician Mike Walti is about to return with his sophomore offering under the Organi moniker – as new album “Babylonia” follows 2020’s “Parlez-vous Français?,” a landmark in vibe acquisition ever since.

Wyldwood Studios is a portal. It’s a secret gateway to analog spheres. Cross the threshold and you’ll feel the difference: you can pick any ol’ time, any place, any tongue or vibe, in fact. Hit the dancefloor in 1967, feel that plushy loveseat in the early 70s. It’s a welcoming place where better, saner vibes are still within reach. Fueled, at least in part, by those long-classic 12”s on the walls – just imagine the sepia-tinted countenance of Melody Nelson alongside actual Birkin sans wig, right next to Shadow’s immortal crate diggers, forever blurred –, and channeled through ancient time travel devices such as the MCI 416B only to arrive on classic 2-inch tape (MM1000 aka Ol’ Bessy), it’s a haven for all things organic, for all things imbued with that warm élan. Built and run by Oakland’s own Mike Walti, countless artists from many different genres have felt that flair, creating sonic spheres and moving back and forth along the malleable axis that is space-time. Capturing magic.

Emerging from this unique portal back in 2020, Walti’s aka Organi’s first studio album was a stunning answer to its titular question – “Parlez-vous Français?” It was a soothing, somewhat psychedelic trip so magnétique and alluring that it immediately brought back those bits of Franglais you never knew you remembered. Whereas the debut LP indeed felt like a spontané voyage to the French Riviera ca. 1968, its follow-up “Babylonia” is so much more than linguistic confusion and ancient Akkadian Rhythms. Using that hidden portal near Alameda’s finest port to access all kinds of remote regions and sonic spheres, it’s super tight and feels, well, decent, even though, just like the ol’ Babylon, it’s full of surprising tongues and dreams, schemes and melodies.

“Where do we go from here?,” someone asks in opening “Organii-“ – all majestically cinematic boom bap, buoyant bass, sick strings. A fittingly massive opener that feels like cracking open a cold one after long weeks at work (that ecstatic “ahhhh”), it perfectly sets the tone for another half hour of pure time traveling, globe-spanning bliss. Whereas that certain prédilection pour all things French makes “La Rockette” so tempting and tantalizing (think MalMalNonBien), the sophomore album’s Berlin-based guest singer Nana Lacrima soon takes us elsewhere: title track “Babylonia” spins ever so softly, like a magic lantern, with images of dreamier Stones Throw funksters or Savath y Savalas looming over the steady flow of an arrangement that washes you clean like an ancient, unpolluted River Euphrates or Brazil’s actual Amazon. A sexy Portuguese-flavored anthem, occasional guest singer Alix Koliha also enters the scene to add yet another layer of French chic to this Brazilian landscape. Next, we’re back at the Riviera, but the “Italiano” version of it, splendido sunsets and bell towers in the distance, the ragazze laughing and shaking it up, perhaps even some Portofino Gin so you can really feel that “me ne batto il belin,” as your fingers align form some half-serious “ma che vuoi?”

Tim Maia-penned “Padre Cicero” (1970) deals with the stunning transformation of the titular hero – “De reverendo a lutador,” and what a soaring, sensual hook –, and Organi’s take on Elephant Memory’s “Old Man Willow” (now an “Old Man Waltz”) perfectly underlines what Walti’s Wyldwood endeavor is all about: Easy-Going Experimental Dream Pop, fueled by Gainsbourg, Broadcast, Stereolab, etc.

Later on, even though something seems to be tres complique in “Remembering Anna,” it all sounds carefree like a spontaneous Friday afternoon with a bottle of fine wine. Right before the outro, key album guest Yea-Ming Chen (of Yea-Ming & The Rumors) returns to the mic, adding her dark and dusky trademark timbre to melancholy anthem “Pictures Of Your Face”. Reminiscent of Nico and Trish (rip & rip), it’s a track that’s both dark and strangely propelling, hypnotic and hip-shaking.

A third generation Bay Area native, Mike Walti aka Organi has been running Wyldwood Studios in Oakland CA for some 15+ years (recording artists like Tommy Guerrero, Spelling, Why?, Latyrx, Del, Dan The Automator, and Big Freedia, to name but a few). A multi-instrumentalist who’s obviously in love with the 60s/70s, he loves to work with analog equipment (“We just love us some analog!” “Just listen to those relays purr…”). Recorded and mixed by Mike Walti at Wyldwood, “Babylonia” will be released on vinyl/digital by Alien Transistor.

On alene et, Michaela Turcerová, a Copenhagen-based, Slovakia born musician, takes minutiae — the tiniest scrapes and breathiest hums — and distorts them into sprawling, collaged webs that barely resemble the instrument in its natural state. Each shard, when pieced together, makes a rhythmic, undulating sound born from the subtlest motions.

Alene et marks Turcerová’s debut as a soloist, putting a spotlight on the exploratory approach she has developed on her own and across a variety of collaborations. She has long studied the quiet excavation of her instrument, pulling it apart to find a new vocabulary. To develop this language, she unearths shards of sound from the instrument, muting it or bringing out its scratchiness and grittiness. Primarily working with open-ended scores and improvisation, she is inspired by various percussive music, looking to deep sonic awareness to guide her. As a soloist, her music harkens to the abstracted electronics present across the Editions Mego catalog or the distorted ruminations of Nyege Nyege tapes. And no matter where she goes, she is constantly in the pursuit of the unknown — the hidden elements of music that come to life through experimentation and listening.

With alene et, Turcerová presents her singular language on the saxophone to the fullest. To make this music, she placed many microphones close to her instrument, zeroing in to each sound and examining it from multiple different angles. She emphasizes the percussive possibilities of her instrument, puzzle-piecing each note into pulsating webs. Each track highlights a different side of the saxophone — the bristling distortion and amplification of a column of air as it blows through her saxophone’s body, the trickling tapping of the keys as she places her fingers onto them.

At its core, alene et presents Turcerová’s curiosity. The saxophone lives many different lives within her hands, shapeshifting through the uncovering of its possibilities. She shows us how the instrument is an ever-changing entity, a distorted and blown out drone with a thousand shards poking out from inside of it. But more than just a showcase of an individual instrument, alene et feels like a statement of the act of exploration. Turcerová is an excavator, always looking for new worlds hidden within her saxophone, and leaving room for more to come alive with each listen.

Factor City kicks off its third decade in full swing, led by Undo solo and accompanied by its usual partners Casiowaves and Vicknoise.

It all began in 2003 when Undo & Vicknoise laid the foundation for the label with "Noctámbula," and over the years, they continued to collaborate closely, managing the label and producing "hits" such as "Orca" or "Happy Monday." From 2011 onward, following an amicable parting, Undo began to run the label solo while maintaining the same spirit and distinctive sound of the Barcelona-based label, always at the forefront of dance music produced in Spain.

Now, in 2024, in a "digital” world where fewer and fewer things can be touched with our fingers and where 100,000 songs are uploaded to Spotify every day, Factor City is charting a different course and starts a new decade on the dance floors by returning to vinyl releases and persisting in their low key and relaxed approach, releasing few and carefully curated records from their artists each year.

“Ciudad Futura” opens with "Good Times," a track by Undo that radiates joy and positivity. An euphoric ride through landscapes of analog synthesizers and drum machines. The second track on side A is signed by Undo & Vicknoise, who hadn't produced together in 15 years. And we hope they won't take as long to get back in the studio together after hearing the fantastic track "Electric Rainbow." A delightful slice of electro-disco. The B side is signed by the recent combo of Undo and Casiowaves. The first track, "Secret Worlds," follows in the wake of their recent releases on Factor City and Melodize with that winning combination of retro 80s and 90s synths with vocoders and a more contemporary production. Closing out the record is "Astralia," a vibrant "power synth pop" anthem adorned with FM synths and acid-tinged melodies. Thanks for listening!

Carpet is a band from Germany with huge influences by prog rock, psychedelic music, stoner rock and jazz. It's like putting Motorpsycho, Jaga Jazzist, the Notwist and the Beatles in a studio to create new material together. After their debut "Elysian Pleasures" in 2013, which was highly appreciated by listeners and the press (e.g. album of the month, eclipsed magazine), they widened their musical spectrum on the following two albums "Secret Box" (2017) and "About Rooms and Elephants" (2018) - all released on the Colour Haze Label Elektrohasch. The path to the new album began with a songwriting weekend in a tiny, remote cottage in the Italian Alps and continued in the band's own studio and in the studio of their mixing engineer Maximilian Wörle in their hometown Augsburg. With "Collision", Carpet recorded a strong and powerful album: "Some songs and parts were created in one go, almost from the gut, and are bursting with energy. Others were worked out down to the last detail and developed into sophisticated song structures." It is certainly this perfectly dosed, precise mixture of a heavy rock attitude with sophisticated songwriting and finely balanced arrangements that in a way marks the band's DNA.

Felix Machtelinckx is a singer, composer, producer and lyricist from Belgium. Featuring an array of film scores, dance soundtracks, pop, folk and electronic music, Felix's music resonates with a familiar, almost nostalgic patina, applied with a distinctly crooked touch. Through artistic collaboration, coaching and production, Felix has cut a dash in the pop and indie cult scenes of Belgium, especially with his band Tin Fingers, who are feted as one of the most promising indie acts of the moment. Night Scenes, Felix’s solo debut is, in contrast to his other work, more humble and less traditional, roughly hewn from a series of ambient soundscapes, earthy textures and playful structures. Felix’s voice, normally the flagship of his music, becomes more of a distant memory, an indistinct emotion feathered throughout the music. Many lyrics are improvised, sometimes unintelligible, conjuring haunted, uncertain undertones. Similarly, the album is innately peripatetic to the core, being created, written and recorded in Lithuania, Belgium, France, mastered in the US, and finally released in the UK. In the first instance, some of the tracks were created for the contemporary dance piece Doggy Rugburn by Brandon Lagaert of Kaiho and Peeping Tom; others were created enigmatically for a film that never surfaced; while the remainder are the product of more personal work and research. As Felix began to collect and review these disparate parts, the concept of a unified album began to evolve. With 'night' featuring as a suitably dark leitmotif, or backdrop to a series of emotionally fraught 'scenes', each track depicts a form of trauma, locked within the confines of the mind. Felix observes: "Imagine yourself in a dusty old room unable to sleep. Emotions, fears and other demons haunt your mind. This in-between state makes your mind reach for other worlds. This is Night Scenes." For the most part, Night Scenes was created using a variety of old, and rare, analogue equipment. With almost no digital editing, the record was primarily mixed through a vintage cassette desk, giving it a nostalgic character with a noisy undertone. Felix fully embraced the synergy of his emotional themes and retrograde gear, enthusing: "A lot of textures were created on an old Soviet synthesizer that causes a blackout when you hit the lowest note on the keyboard. The dysfunctionality of the synths was often used to create rhythm and texture." This unnerving ability Night Scenes has to comfort and confound the listener is summed up by Jordan Hudson, House Of Media producer, and music podcaster, when he concludes: "Some songs on the album have this sort of fleeting comfort and tonality, which dissolves into a subtle rhythmic/structural or modulated disarray the moment I settle into them - this really fits with my experience of the night .. This record is a winner, and will be something I'll listen to a lot from here on

From out of nowhere - if nowhere is the febrile, warped and twilit imagination of Julia McFarlane - comes Whoopee, the second album by J.McFarlane’s Reality Guest. Whoopee is an esoteric, kaleidoscopic movie in music form directed by Julia McFarlane and co-conspirator Thomas Kernot. Full of life, breakbeats and smokey vignettes on the fragile nature of interpersonal relationships, Whoopee is a stylistic evolution from everything McFarlane has done before. Surreal, beautiful in parts and replete with the aching wisdom McFarlane’s songwriting has always promised, this Reality Guest pulls back the curtain on a whole scene of naked truth. Recorded in Melbourne in bursts since the release of 2019’s Ta Da, Whoopee features a new sound palette and band member in Kernot. The duo dive deep into electronic pop tropes, mining digital synths, samples, breakbeats and deep bass grooves, largely dispensing with live instrumentation. If Ta Da took twists and turns with your expectations, offering a Dada-ist, monochromatic take on pop music, Whoopee is McFarlane’s subterranean love-sick pinks, reds, greens, purples and blues. Becoming something of a tradition, the album starts with an instrumental intro pilfered from a 90s’ spy film or cinema intro music, puffing up the listener for the heart-squeezing bathos of Full Stops. Over a bleary backdrop of walking bass lines, jazz- inflected keys and smoked-out atmosphere, McFarlane’s poetry narrates the fragile state of a relationship: “You put a full stop where I thought there’d be a comma, I want the story to continue even with all the drama.” Over a palpable pain, the narrator is revelling in the drama of a relationship, addicted to tumult and heightened emotion. On Sensory, a space age bachelor lounge pad ballad, the converse state of the previous song is explored, here the narrator is battling the numbness of being out of the drama, stuck in a sensory-deprivation tank, anaesthesized and battling to emerge from the fog. Wrong Planet explores an otherworldly pop music, hewing a bright hook out of a sense of confusion. A bona-fide, sing-along chorus bursts out of the narrator musing on the absurdity of existing in this reality. It speaks of one of Julia McFarlane’s main talents, her knack of inspecting human relationships and states with a clear perspective, like an alien visiting Earth and realising everything we are is really, really strange. Whoopee is both more accessible than previous Reality Guest work and somehow more obfuscated. Where the production on Ta Da was dry, sharp and strange, this Reality Guest is blurred, almost smeared with the effluvium of 90s+00s culture and existence. Through it all, it’s hard to deny the undeniable pull of the songs. Precious Boy carries on the lounge theme with a whole sampler of cut up sounds fading in and out of the haze as McFarlane’s voice is right up to the speaker cooing and free- associating, maybe in love or maybe in confusion... maybe they’re the same thing? Sometimes the listener is invited to just bathe in the tone of the vocal, as on Apocalypse, where the texture and timbre of the vocal is luxurious, bathing in piano tinkles and double bass throb. On lead single Slinky, a cut up beat reminiscent of Washingtonian Go-Go drum patterns leads, the song slipping through your fingers, elusive and presenting sound as pure pleasure. Closer Caviar jumps back into the broken breakbeats of a surreal funk, fuelled by the sensory pleasure of the music, a hedonistic whirl in rapture, the narrator now living life to the fullest in all its giddy heights and deep troughs. This is the album’s main character fully-actualised and in the terrible, beautiful moment.

In 1972, a foursome of design students set out to make a record. This was, in many ways, a strictly creative endeavor. The quartet — composed of Dave Pescod, Alan Lewis, Phil Rawle, and Ted Rockley — were all trained, not as musicians, but as creatives. Art school heavyweights, the four were well-versed in the methodology of intentional experimentation, in the delicate balance of pushing the limits without completely unmooring oneself from a guiding creative intention. Emboldened by a high-brow familiarity with thoughtful experimentation and all the non-conviction of non-musicians, Bowes Road Band’s stint in the world of popular music yielded a record that is as much mind-melting as it is a direct product of its time. Their sprawling LP “Back in the HCA” embodies the exigence “art for art’s sake,” but it is for art’s sake that this record, however off the deep end it seems to travel (hear: “Doctor, Doctor”), remains a unified, and stunning, body of work. The LP’s do-ityourself garage rock noisemaking meets highfalutin creative processes. “Back in the HCA” is warbling psychedelic freakout (“Two Fingers,” “Doctor, Doctor”), Donovan-esque English countryside folk stylings (“Inside My Head,” “Goodbye to Rosie”), and avant-garde jazz improvisions (“Grass is Grass,” “Tomorrow’s Truth”) in one luminous release.

Originally an 9-track LP, Jakarta, Uno Loop, and Bowes Road Band decided to mine the six most cohesive tracks for the reissue, though the extras may be released somewhere down the line. Cohesion efforts aside, “Back in the HCA” stands alone in its singular conception of a genre-bending continuum — it evades definition. That said, the LP can easily be situated in the sonic environment in which it was conceived. By the end of the 60s, England was crawling with blues-based rock outfits that were starting to venture into prog rock territory. You can hear this popular dint cast over the folkier side of the LP. But Bowes Road Band was armed with their non-musicianship: they existed completely liberated from the motivating yet ultimately paralyzing lust for stardom. Enjoying this liberation, Bowes Road Band was utterly free to make noise. This freedom meant drawn out sax interludes amidst sweetly folk stylings (“Grass is Grass”) and Shaggs-like fuzzed-out freakouts that spiral into a void (Doctor, Doctor). This freedom also meant straight-forward tuneful cuts like “Goodbye Rosie” that conspicuously introduce heavily distorted auto-organ accompaniment mid-track amidst poignant lyricism. Bowes Road Band crafts a unified sound and then cracks it open.

With a completely off-the-radar status, Bowes Road Band could only press 50 copies of the record — 10 for each of them and 10 for the school. The band’s lifespan was to end there, or so they thought. “Back in the HCA” was the accidental fruit of a Berlin flea market treasure hunt by Jannis Stürtz, DJ and co-founder of Habibi Funk and Jakarta Records. After finding and sharing the LP with a few colleagues, Stürtz managed to get in touch with the band, get ahold of the master tapes collecting dust in Ted Rockley’s attic, and start the reissuing process. The record is still adorned with its original cover art designed by Alan Pescod, both reminiscent of bygone school days and the Zoom calls of yesterday — in short, reunion. Its re-discovery was happenstance and ought to be listened to as such. That is, “Back in the HCA” was not made to be listened to on a broad scale, or, at least, was not made with this goal in mind; it is neither in its time nor of its time. Of course, the group explicitly cites the folk tunes of the English countryside, the distorted rock groups that reigned during the record’s conception, and the fringes of psychedelic music that only the uber-underground might recognize (e.g., “Dreaming of Alice”). Yet still with these obvious influences, “Back in the HCA” always existed beyond the domain of both traditional musicianship and conventional commodification. Bowes Road Band’s DIY musicality beams through in technicolor across “Back in the HCA.” The vinyl includes an 8-page booklet detailing the albums creation and interviews with the band.

Lead single “Grass is Grass,” out July 14 along with album pre-order, encapsulates the record’s range: the track unfurls into a sprawling sax-driven trip following a sundrenched, Donovan-esque intro w/ lyrics “naively about parks and gardens, not marijuana!” The keyed-down folk cut “Goodbye to Rosie” is single 2 and elevates stripped-down acoustics with golden tinges, out August 4th. Focus track “Tomorrow’s Truth” constructs the fuzzed-out underbelly of acid folk. Listen for echoes of late Beatles, Mark Fry, and Donovan (if they were armed by an unshakabele willful naiveté). Like Sgt. Pepper’s on a shoestring budget—take a trip to the underground with LP “Back in the HCA,” available everywhere physically and digitally on September 1st via Jakarta Records and Uno Loop.

Besides online promotion from label profiles, the album will be further promoted by external agencies within the UK and US.

Joel Paterson has been a mainstay of the Chicago roots music scene for
over twenty years, playing with many bands and showcasing his unique
blend jazz, blues, rockabilly, country and western swing
'Wheelhouse Rag' is a 14- track collection of original rags and country blues on
solo, finger picking acoustic guitar.
The all- acoustic, 1920's- tinged 'Wheelhouse Rag' may at first seem like a
departure in genre for the guitarist - he is predominantly known for his
instrumental multitracked recordings reminiscent of Les Paul and Chet Atkins -
Joel learned to play guitar by ear from the records of acoustic legends such as
Blind Blake, Robert Johnson, Reverend Gary Davis, and Big Bill Broonzy. He later
expanded his repertoire to include techniques of the thumb-picking giants Merle
Travis and Chet Atkins. These influences can be heard throughout the album,
mixed in with many more twists and turns from the mind of the artist, to bring
you, 'Wheelhouse Rag:' the original fingerstyle guitar instrumentals of Joel
Paterson.
Original fingerstyle guitar rag and country blues instrumentals by in-demand
Chicago roots guitarist Joel Paterson, who has played with Cactus Blossoms, JD
McPherson, Kelley Hogan, and more, bringing his unique blend of jazz, blues,
rockabilly, and country & western style to the mix.
RIYL: Les Paul, Chet Atkins, Reverend Gary Davis, Cactus Blossoms, Pokey
LaFarge, Merle Travis
"Guitarist Paterson's free-ranging music defies easy categorization. He addresses
classic country, blues and Tin Pan Alley tunes as timeless works that reward
repeated listening." - Howard Reich, Chicago Tribune"Of all the "vintage" artists
injecting new life into bygone styles with originality and a sense of humor, Joel
Paterson just might top the list." - Dan Forte, Vintage Guitar Magazine