Cerca:luna shadows

Opening a window into her memories, Luna’s sophomore LP promises all the polish of her previous work while demonstrating a deliberate and intimate lyricism. A collection of songs exploring love, loss, grief,
realization, recovery, and remembering, these guitar-driven ilhouettes mark the start of a new era for Shadows. Shapeshifting for us, she trades sparkling electro pop for emotive indie rock. Limited
Transparent Ruby Red Vinyl

»Reise der Schatten« (»Journey of Shadows«) is the soundtrack to the eponymous debut feature-length animation film by Swiss artist Yves Netzhammer. Composed by Anthony Pateras and released as a stand- alone album through Hallow Ground, the 29 pieces are based on »weird folk melodies ornamented with electro-acoustics to give the film a more fantastical, fairy-tale feeling,« as the composer puts it. His extensive international recording sessions with a slew of guest musicians results in a record imbued with a sense of mystical surrealism, otherworldly and haunting.

»Reise der Schatten« tells the abstracted story of a genderless being coming to terms with its identity and place in a world full of conflicts and systems of control. »The film was made with old animation software that only works on Mac OS 9. So already, we are in a very hermetic, unique space,« says Pateras. Having tried (and failed) to compose something »typically experimental,« he went for long walks in the Australian bushlands and came home with something else: the idea to create a soundtrack that would create »a kind of distance, or perceptual shift, but also a narrative drive and emotional context which is not always clear.«

While recording the album, the tētēma co-founder did not use digitally generated sound, instead workingwith live instrumentation whose sound palette was enriched by the use of feedback, tape delay, analogue synthesizers, and samples from vinyl records. Wanting to work primarily with acoustic instruments suchas the clarinet made Pateras embark on a complicated journey of his own. The initial recording sessions took place in Basel on metallophones that were designed by Domenico Melchiorre’s Lunason company and laid the foundation for everything that came after.

Pateras recorded with musicians such as guitarist Alexander Garsden, viola player Erkki Veltheim, clarinetist Aviva Endean, multi-instrumentalist Justin Marshall and Lizzy Welsh on the viola d’amore among other instruments. He recorded percussion and recorders with Rohan Rebeiro and Natasha Anderson in his hometown of Castlemaine, double bass with Benjamin Ward in Sydney, bass and flutes with Jon Heilbron and Rebecca Lane in Berlin, and electronics in Zürich with Netzhammer. »Reise der Schatten« was thus a literal journey, made with a »big, international electro-acoustic ensemble.«

As a stand-alone album, »Reise der Schatten« opens up a space of its own. Its stylistic diversity makes it atmospherically and emotionally multi-faceted. As its composer notes, »music for screen can be very virtuosic, sophisticated, and variegated!« His own work is a testament to that claim.

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Lénok’s 'Langue of Tongue' is a descent. An unhinged pinballing down a realm of incomprehension and lunacy, a darkly psychedelic ego-death-spiral into a world of pure, deranged disquiet. It is, and this cannot be emphasised enough, a truly fucked up place. It comes complete with clearly marked borders delineated by its opening and closing tracks '(Entrance' and 'Exit)’. The message is clear: this is less album than zone.

There's no comfort to be found here. It’s like the inner monologue of some insectile, cyborgian abomination, something unfeeling and hostile, something that could only thrive in a mirror world that perverts light and sullies warmth. It's a netherworld: tracks jut out and stab like cold, craggy wastelandscapes, tangled meshworks of alienic transmissions bleed out into deformed knots of gurgling white noise, lacerations of sound roil and heave and claw as if imprisoned within oppressive waveforms.

‘Tongue’ is marked by a kind of wackiness, a demented slapstick that renders its darkness all the more sinister. Voices wail and taunt like schizophrenic spirits trapped between torment and cackling ecstasy. Tracks giggle and skitter as if populated by grinning, snaggletoothed shadows.

‘Langue of Tongue’ is recommended for the curious and advanced listener. This is music for whatever the opposite of escapism is — it’s REAL twisted. But sometimes morbid fascination takes hold. Sometimes you lift the rock, because you can’t help it, and you observe the squirming mess of life it plays host to. What you experience may not be pleasant, but you might just struggle to tear yourself away.

Sixth album by Christoph Heemann and Timo van Luijk. Four years after we got Lost in Spice we reached the point of Arrival. An altar on the surface of the water is burning with flames. Behind it you can see a half of the Earth's globe, and on it there’s a bright throne. A pale, translucent ruler wearing a crown sits in the throne. The globe is surrounded by a ball of shadows on which sits a larger dark ruler on a dark throne. Behind the globe are mountain peaks, and all of it is reflected in the water. Above the mountains are clouds which merge into rivers and end in a curved horizon on which forests stand, and the sun rises between them. Above this horizon is another sky with lunar crescents and comets. Above this sky are rows of angels bent over, above which the stars shine. The sun shines in the top left corner and the crescent moon in the right.

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

In Flames gehören zu den Urvätern des Götheborg Melodic Death Metals. Mit Alben wie Lunar Strain oder Colony hat sich die Band in den Metal Geschichtsbüchern verewigt. Aber auch die späteren Alben, auf dem In Flames einen deutlich größeren Groove Metal Einflusse an den Tag legen, sind Werke, die man im Regal stehen haben sollte. Ingesamt erscheinen 4 In Flames Alben im Juli 2024 als farbige LP Neuauflagen: Lunar Strain (1994), Colony (1999), Soundtrack to Your Escape (2004) und Siren Charms (2006)

Robert Wienes Stummfilmklassiker von 1920 in neuem Klanggewand, komponiert von ex-Kraftwerk-Musiker Karl Bartos. Die Filmzeitschrift Licht-Bild-Bühne hatte damals nicht mit Superlativen gegeizt: "Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari" sei nichts Geringeres als "der modernste, aktuellste, gewagteste Film, den die Welt je gesehen hat", schrieb das Magazin 1920 und damit kurz nach der Premiere über den ersten Psychothriller der Filmgeschichte. Einer, der sich besonders intensiv mit diesem Meilenstein der Geschichte des expressionistischen Films auseinandergesetzt hat, ist der Komponist und Musiker Karl Bartos - vielen gut bekannt als langjähriges Bandmitglied und Co-Komponist von Kraftwerk, jenen Pionieren der Elektronischen Musik, die in ihrem Bereich mindestens ebenso "modern, aktuell, gewagt" waren. Seit fast 20 Jahren hegt der ursprünglich klassisch ausgebildete Musiker eine Leidenschaft für diesen wohl einflussreichsten deutschen Stummfilm aller Zeiten und arbeitet daran, dem experimentellen Film ein ebenso experimentelles Klanggewand zu schneidern. Mit kristallklaren Bildern, die von der Friedrich-Wilhelm-Murnau-Stiftung digital restauriert wurden, ist der Film nun in der besten Qualität zu sehen, die es je gab, und mit Bartos" Soundtrack gibt es nun auch einen beeindruckenden Sound zu der eindringlichen Vision.

Tysher is back with another massive 3 track EP on his own imprint. Inspired by all the gigs and events in 2022 he put all his ideas and creativity into this release. Shadows EP is named after the contrast between light and dark and generally dualism itself. All 3 tracks have walked through the process of profound sound design, programming groovy and progressive beats and enthusiastic arrangement styles. Stagnation is regression and that’s the reason for Tysher moving forward in developing his own signature sound.

Comes as super limited clear, black & green splattered Collecters Edition.

Moscow's leading deep and underground house label Deepology presents a series of releases, Four Seasons. Four releases, vinyl only, each corresponding to a specific season of the year.

The first record, EP 1, includes four tracks by residents and friends of the label - an international team of the artists from Russia, Ukraine, Germany and Finland.

Limited edition of 300 copies. Spread the analogue love!


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Mark Farina, Sascha Dive, Luna City Express, Martin Landsky, Jimpster, DJ Linus, Charles Spencer, Nick Holder, Terry Francis, Jay West, Igor Marijuan (Ibiza Sonica FM), Glenn Underground, Jesus Gonsev, Robert Owens, Patrick Lindsey, Lars Behrenroth, Carlo Gambino, Mucho Soul, Finest Wear, Fer Ferrari, Sumsuch and more.