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With Umwelt, room, An’archives releases the first vinyl LP by Japanese singer, songwriter and guitarist, Kotonashiso. An elegant collection of seven slow-moving, free-ranging song forms, Umwelt, room is reflective, pensive, and yet has a great, expansive sense of movement, each song’s parameters feeling almost infinitely flexible.

Born in Tokyo in 1984, Kotonashiso began playing music in 2000. After taking a long break from making music between the years 2005 to 2016, he returned with renewed focus, and over the past eight years, he’s toured Japan and Europe, performing in venues, street performances and open mic events. Currently, Kotonashiso plays either solo, on in three separate duos, with Sou Mori, 泥, and Hideya Kyooka, respectively. He’s not released much music, as yet – a single, “in the cavern”, with Sou Mori, in 2021, and a soundtrack to Hiroki Nakajima’s solo exhibition, Ray, the following year.

All of this gives Umwelt, Room the feeling of a major statement, a debut shot across the void. The seven songs collected here were recorded in 2024, with a guiding principle, for Kotonashiso, being his desire to “imagine the time when people started recording blues and folk songs on analog records,” creating a ghost-like presence in the listener’s room. When talking about the songs on Umwelt, Room, Kotonashiso focuses on a number of concepts, such as prayer, tragedy, ‘the cycle of life’, and the disappearance of the gulf between fantasy and reality.

They’re songs with deep, rich resonance, performed without guile. You might be able to hear, at times, the fragility of fellow Japanese singer-songwriter Hisato Higuchi, or the bluesy touch of Loren Connors in the guitar. However, Kotonashiso’s aesthetic remit is wide, identifying with artists like Bill Callahan, Scout Niblett, Inukaze, and Tomoko Shimazaki, and sharing sympathies with “the psychedelic rock, avant-garde and ambient communities.” Ultimately, though, the pellucid, dream-like songs of Kotonashiso, somewhere between folk, pop and blues, sit, disarmed and lovely, within their own universe.

DEATH LENS relentlessly seeks a place in your consciousness, a persistent presence whispering in your ear. Concealing ferocity beneath a stylish veneer, their live shows unleash energy and chaos, leaving spectators disarmed and forever transformed. After successful tours with Militarie Gun and Together Pangea and hometown support, DEATH LENS is poised to release their latest album, Cold World, on May 3rd, through Epitaph Records. In recordings, DEATH LENS forges unyielding rock, blending West Coast surf punk with Britrock"s tight, bouncy rhythms. Despite their deceptive chill and vibe-focused portrayal, live performances brim with hardcore intensity. Rooted in slick guitar sonics and sugary backing vocal harmonies, reminiscent of indie punk and shoegaze, DEATH LENS channels the energy of bands like Turnstile and Militarie Gun on stage, creating soundtracks for indelible memories of high-energy, sweat-soaked singalongs. Hailing from La Puente, the self-described "five Brown boys" transition from showcasing explosive energy in recordings to embodying a refined representation of hard work and early influences gaining traction in their scene. Growing up as minorities east of Los Angeles amidst police harassment and gang violence, DEATH LENS faced risk factors that could have led them astray. Evolving from a party garage punk band, they now serve as a platform addressing life in heavily policed and immigrant-dominant areas, advocating for immigration reforms, and utilizing resources to support their community. Their experiences form a powerful narrative within their music.

Selected Songs 1997-2003 compiles some of the finest moments in the recording history of Hydroplane, the Melbourne-based indie-pop three-piece that operated alongside The Cat’s Miaow through the second half of the nineties. It’s the third release in what feels, now, like a loosely planned series by World Of Echo, documenting the music made by this group of friends in Melbourne sharehouses (The Cat’s Miaow’s Songs ’94-’98, 2022), or in the case of The Shapiros (Gone By Fall, 2023), while traversing the International Pop Underground.

Hydroplane would be familiar to anyone already following these breadcrumb trails – Andrew Withycombe, Bart Cummings and Kerrie Bolton were the group’s core, all members of The Cat’s Miaow. With Cat’s Miaow drummer Cameron Smith itinerant, having moved to London, the trio used this opportunity to expand their music. It’s a subtle, but important shift. If The Cat’s Miaow was about the perfect, minimalist, two-minute pop song, Hydroplane’s music was far more open-ended, embracing the loops and drones, sampled house-y shuffle beats, the burbling of a Roland Jupiter-4 synth, all of which the trio joined, effortlessly, to their endless capacity for moving, elegant melodicism.

They may have only planned to release one seven-inch single, but the sound Hydroplane created was so bewitching, so compelling, that the project’s lifespan ran for around half a decade, and they ended up releasing three albums, including a self-titled debut recently reissued by Efficient Space, and seven singles. There are all kinds of compelling things happening in the music compiled here – the hazy repetition of the gentler side of Krautrock is in here, somewhere, which also suggests Stereolab at their most intimate and disarmed; the gently drifting guitars, gauzy and oneiric, set the songs adrift and floating, each one lost in its own imagined, distracted world. Songs like “The Love You Bring” set indistinct tonal floats across dance rhythms, in a way not quite heard since My Bloody Valentine’s “Instrumental” – but with the added gift of Bolton’s gorgeous voice.

This loose coalition with dance music, and the quiet experimentalism at the heart of Hydroplane, also gestures towards peers like Hood, Acetate Zero and Other People’s Children, and releases on renegade labels like Wurlitzer Jukebox and Enraptured. Like those groups and labels, The Cat’s Miaow were reconciling independent pop music’s past – sweet melody and melancholy, chiming and droning guitars – with the futures promised by DIY electronics and nascent digitalia, the interface of indie and IDM that led to some of the underground’s most blissful, texturally swoonsome music. All that is here, but also, the poise of the melodies is pure Cat’s Miaow, though, with Bolton’s voice sailing, pacifically, over some of the most pared-down, gorgeous music made during their decade.

It was a time, too, when such music could make waves – “We Crossed The Atlantic”, one of their early singles, was picked up by John Peel, who played it repeatedly on his legendary radio show, the song reaching #13 on his 1997 Festive 50. That the song itself was a cover of a tune by 1960s Australian beatnik-pop-poet Pip Proud felt even more perfect – a group of outsiders paying tribute to another outsider, played on the radio one of the few broadcasters brave and human enough to take a chance on this music. But it was a time where everything was up for grabs, and genres were flowing into each other: folk songs went drone; indie re-discovered noise; ambient pop floated, again, out onto the dancefloor. And while they may have been sequestered away in Melbourne, Australia, Hydroplane felt core to that scene, a quietly driving force.

Compiling material from across their brief but mercurial career, this double album perfectly captures the magic and mystery of Hydroplane’s dreamlike, perfect pop songs.

After the heaviest of years, it should be time to take a little weight off with the playful sounds of The Person. Mapping its own Bermuda Triangle between dub-pop, sugary synthwave and Balearic boogie, ‘Tide Life’ transports Compass Point to Soggy Bottom, providing maximum fun, sun and bitmap escapism.

The eagle-eared may recognise The Person from the aspirational Italo-rockers Steaming Jeans, whose chalet-ready romp on Bordello A Parigi scored a Winter Olympic gold back in early 2020. Now left to her own devices, Minna Wight swaps the slopes for a jet ski and takes a Wave Race from Summer Bay to Monkey Island across 11 cuts of vintage oddball pop.

Whether she’s borrowing Brenda’s Beach Balls for the dubby daydream of ‘Snail Cafe’ and ‘The Place’, serving lost library cues to SNES club scenes on ‘Barry R Reef’ and ‘Elastic Shoes’ or spinning high school slow jams into synth soul ballads like ‘Nice Feeling’, Minna disguises serious musicianship behind a naive aesthetic. Disarmed by charm, we’re powerless to resist her tidal pull.
Patrick Ryder