Cerca:sativa club

Jonic coast soundboys collective Butu Yard debut on the label with Good Ova Evil, an ode to positivity tuned on notes of freedom, cadenced on a halftime rhythm. A 150 bpm dubstep tune spreading echoes of hope from southern steppas, with Sativa Club maintaining the late-night pressure on the flip.

'New limited 12” from XCPT posse coming under label headz new alias: Sativa Club. Three tracks exploring a wide spectrum of jungle inspired club music.

Phonato Riddim spreads instantly a bulging bag of breaks merged harmonically with heavyweight drum patterns, room quaking subs, and synapse bending vocal samples emerging forcefully from hazy soundscapes. Sound of Silence opens the flip side in a beatless smoky environment where blurry hypnotic frequencies quickly get squashed in a rolling drum break. Finally, the 176 bpm full-throttle payoff of Amen Drake: slabs of processed amens, paradroid percussions, gently layered synth lines and fucked up wet-dream vocals.

Hypnotic dubwise galore on both sides.'

After releasing its first compilations since 2022, Nowadays is now coming back with a fourth compilation. The label is back in full force and will bring its audience to an even more diverse sonic journey, with never-seen-before collaborations, and new parties. Once more, Nowadays is giving us its definition of club music.

Locked in a 486 glow, lightblink machines nightlight, being enters lighttime limelight. The long nineties already distending, the Major midbloats, crowds throng superclubs- strobelit honeys on a podium in Ibiza already blasted a stratosphere away from mildewed badflats, emphysemic parlours, the fug of week old washing drying slowly on the rad. Ach we’ll hang it out in the morning fire another joint of badhash and turn that tape over. We are being Here. beings disconnected, shut ins, psychick worriers, long walks to and from clubs, mostly dark, always raining, or mizzling anyway, lug bigbrick machines into cabs and Venue, setup and playing live and right now from the lounge lobby at Sativa, down the stairs from the caustic, twitching thrashpit being sits, being works. Dole sludge, shirking class zeroes, scoff pizza rolls w salad cream, that headchef gaffer never reckoned you’d graft at the potwash, a slick fur of rotfood dish slop residue right to the elbow, absolutely bowfin. Rumours of other places, people, scenes, tapes sent and emissaries return, invites to get trains, overnightbus south to London. being brought water to the ‘wells in South London and monthly emissions snaked out into the world, into badflats elsewhere where gowched couch tatties sprawl and the being burrowed deep into memories.. Tea is toast and sandwich spread and endless crisps as the binbags pile high in the backyard, the being blinks, it’s a twilit morning and it’s time to go to bed.