quête:julek ploski

Julek ploski’s ‘Give up Channel’ is on mappa. It’s the follow-up to the Poland-based FL Studio demon’s ‘Hotel *’, released via Orange Milk in 2023.

It’s an album that wrestles against a shadow self. It’s about shelter from the hailstorm of unwanted memories and guilt pangs and serrated blades of thought. It’s about clinging on to some semblance of hope, knuckles taut and teeth gritted.

The fragmented drift of opener ‘Naysayer’ flows forward like an anxious daydream, pad eddies and piano plinks anchored by Trapaholics drops and bursts of guaracha drums. It’s a mess of mind: the bleakness of ‘Truth’ is punctuated by gun cocking and bullet spray and sudden jester-like blasts of unhinged, schizo-whimsical melody. An internal war without a clear winner.

Shame snakes through this music like venom through an emaciated body. Blue screenlight in a dark bedroom, pulsating temples, lockjaw. ‘Titanic’ hits like the thrashing resistance of a being built for love grappling against the scalding vengefulness it’s forced to contend with, the song’s abstracted rave synths giving way to warped voices and spiralling derangement. ‘Hollywood’ is a scarred battleground, the martial bludgeoning of a tightly wound hardstyle stomp blistering and shredding a delicate piano-and-string arrangement.

This music is about deep solitude, a meditation on simmering, slow-marinating hatred. But it’s ultimately about prevailing. It doesn’t revel in negativity, it roils and twists and writhes against it. Dots of light in oppressive darkness. Clarity and purpose against chaos and filth. It’s a struggle worth waging.










h I Was #AllAlone Movements V - VIII
[i] Economy [Movements I - IV]

Bolka is known as the man with the cap. His cap has lived through a lot: his glitchy and microtonal experiments, studies at Institute of Sonology in The Hague or through countless performative works. A few years ago, Bolka’s cap fell apart. By that time he was already a fixture on the slovak experimental scene, but only releasing his debut album, “smutné stropy.” He started wearing new caps from then: somehow reminiscent of the old one, but much more varied — same as “smutné stropy,” bubbling with motifs, charming humour and pop sensitivity layered over detailed soundscapes popping with surprises.

On schwarzkopf, Bolka returns wishing for a thick black hair. With his charming love songs, that are positioned somewhere between a tightly run freak folk orchestra, deconstructed ballads and colorful ecstatic melancholy, he creates an album that thrives on juxtapositions that are completely unique, yet strangely familiar. Bolka’s songwriting is at once tender and irreverent — lovestruck whispering suddenly tripping over absurdist jokes and surreal images that fizz like soda. His songs move in that strange space between vulnerability and mischief, where intimate confessions collide with radical playfulness and the poetic rubs shoulders with the delightfully ridiculous.

On schwarzkopf, Bolka expands his world with a wide circle of collaborators and an even richer sonic palette. The album is meticulously detailed yet carefree: delicate moments sit next to sudden explosions, drifting from gentle pop to bursts of noise. Toward the end, the album even slips into a footwork-infused remix by Kodiki, passes through Julek ploski’s signature neon-baroque string perspective, and briefly wanders into Lénok’s cinematic sonic world. Bolka sings that he wants to dissolve into a healing ointment, to be ground in a mortar with calendula — and he invites us into this musical spa with him: a place that stings a little but ultimately soothes, a gorgeous soundscape that is both painful and joyful at the same time.