Search:disconnected head

Last summer, after living across the country from each other for several years, the four members of Anamanaguchi decided to try something new. Their label Polyvinyl had rescued the famed American Football house from potential destruction, so the band took the opportunity to move in and write together. Over the course of a month, Anamanaguchi – pioneers of hyper-melodic 8-bit rock, whose extraordinary ascent has led them to topping charts with virtual pop star Hatsune Miku and scoring Scott Pilgrim vs. the World: The Game and Netflix’s Scott Pilgrim Takes Off – flipped their typically meticulous digital process on its head. Anyway, the result, is the most personal record of their career. And it's a rock record for the ages.

Recorded straight to tape by Grammy-winning rock producer Dave Fridmann (The Flaming Lips, MGMT, Sleater-Kinney), Anyway united the members around live instruments and lyrics sung by everybody in the band. As Anamanaguchi has always been an instrumental band, the decision to sing suddenly confronted them with the question of what the band’s voice would ultimately be. They explore this newfound power in every song, making it their most emotionally resonant work yet.

Anyway captures a band creatively and personally energized by the experience of four best friends reviving their connection in a disconnected world. On “Rage (Kitchen Sink),” the band confront loneliness and boredom, two epidemics of the digital age that seem to be humanity’s only common bond. The power-pop ballad “Darcie” finds inspiration in small gestures from a local unsung hero, who brightens their lives and allows unforeseen amounts of fun to happen. Taut and dynamic, “Buckwild” is a rock sing-along that serves as the album’s genesis story: a band making an effort to do something new, while accepting the risks that may bring.

USA, Anamanaguchi’s critically-acclaimed second album and debut for Polyvinyl, anticipated a crucial cultural shift in moving from escapist, nostalgic fantasy to a more introspective exploration of digital identity. Described by Pitchfork as the band’s “most emotionally grounded record,” USA laid the foundation for the openness and honesty that defines Anyway. Where USA made sense of life online, their third album Anywayventures into the world outside the front door.

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.

The prolific, virtuosic original Bjarki Sigurðarson returns to the concept album format, with ‘A Guide To Hellthier Lifestyle’. It’s the first LP to be released on Differance.

‘A Guide To Hellthier Lifestyle’ explores the psychological landscape of contemporary social issues, offering a sideways rumination on lifestyle dilemmas and wellness obsessions, presenting itself as a response to the modern condition. It combines storytelling with innovative sound textures – encouraging listeners to pause and contemplate the absurdities of contemporary life. Neither a critique nor an endorsement, it represents an honest exploration of our world through Bjarki’s sonic lens, gleaming a heart of darkness, but eventually finding light.

The album utilises hyper-stereo techniques, soothing melodies, complex audio structures, AIgenerated voices and sampled vocals – influenced by Coil, Genesis P- Orridge, and Paul Lansky. Bjarki investigates how specific frequencies can impact consciousness, awareness, mood, and mental state, thereby influencing our perception of reality. His vaporous sound design provides a listening experience that bridges the physical and imaginative realms; sometimes placing the listener in contemplative sanctuary, and at others making them lost – somewhere strange, uneasy, disconnected.

Bjarki on his Guide To Hellthier Lifestyle

“This new album has been two years in the works. It’s sort of my take on all the social weirdness and wellness obsessions happening right now. It kicked off with a track I started in California – the story of a soul that got born into the wrong womb. During that time, I was noticing more and more of this whole ‘wellness religion’ everywhere – people trying to sell you ‘good vibes’ and random people offering you life coaching sessions on Instagram who maybe have less life experience than a houseplant. All these apps that track our every move; it’s like they’re repackaging control and calling it ‘self care’. Capitalism in yoga pants. Thats when I started putting ‘A Guide To Hellthier Lifestyle’ concept together. A never ending, self improvement rabbit hole. We are all being sold this idea that we are not quite enough and we need to buy our way out to being better.

At one point, I took a break from the album and started working on another album full of satirical speeches, AI generated voices, where I create my own voices and type in some ideas of speeches, taking the piss out of wellness gurus and life coaches. I messed a lot with these AI voice generators, creating these deep, faux serious monologues. Proper weird stuff, but it cracked me up. Reminded me of the early days, when I was 13, making tracks on Fruity Loops, mucking around with text-to- speech generators. After the break I came back to finish ‘The Guide’ on a much deeper level.

I moved part of my studio to Latvia and continued in the countryside for few months. I realised that I just wanted something beautiful. So, yeah, this album is all of that. It’s spiritual, bits and pieces from the past, all these weird cultural moments, and whatever strange places my head goes. It’s a reflection, a rebellion, a bit of a piss take. But mostly, it’s just me, doing what I do.” - Duncan Clark

The album will be released only in its entirety, December 13th digi, with no advance singles.

Aesthetically, Ed Schrader’s Music Beat hates to tread water. At the same time, the Baltimore-based two-piece of vocalist Ed Schrader and bassist Devlin Rice won’t force their songs to fit a preconceived style. “The next album’s always gotta be different from the last one. We’re different people from record to record. So, writing authentically to ourselves will always bring our work to a place that we haven’t been to yet,” Rice said. Schrader added, “We’re terrified of turning into AC/DC. We never want to be married to one scene or time or sound. We want to be the Boba Fett of bands! Constantly altering the way in which we make records has been pretty key in that process.”
For Orchestra Hits, the band’s latest, that alteration was welcoming longtime musical comrade Dylan Going into the fold as a co-writer and co-producer. A songwriter in his own right, a guitar sideman for ESMB on their last two tours, and a collaborator with Rice in the noise riffage band Mandate, Going had both a unique vision and an intimate familiarity with the ESMB vibe.
“Dylan came to every show we’ve ever played in New York—no matter how weird it was,” Schrader said. “He’d be standing there ready to move an amp or feed us barbecued cactus after the gig and toss on some Golden Girls so we could decompress. It felt like family as soon as we began working, but I honestly had no idea how damn good he was at tossing out these hooks.”
According to Schrader, the songs “just poured out of us” over the course of a highly caffeinated three-day weekend in a tiny room in Devlin’s house while his cat, Sandy Goose, screamed continually. “It was like three kids hiding from the world to get into some lovely mischief,” they said. The lack of external pressure in the process gives Orchestra Hits an almost paradoxical vibe. For all of the album’s layers, that mix live and sequenced instruments, it never loses the raw energy of a small handful of friends in the same room plugging in, cranking up, and playing until they pass out.
Lyrically, the album finds Schrader, now 45, meditating on experiences in their youth to make sense of the present moment. “We are not into the garden,” Schrader wails on the relentless “Roman Candle,” a song about the sad debacle of Woodstock ’99, and a direct response to Joni Mitchell’s “Woodstock,” a utopian ode to hippie idealism. A 19-year-old Schrader, having snuck into Woodstock ’99 through a hole in the fence, was there the night members of the crowd used candles intended for a vigil for victims of the Columbine High School massacre to set fires all over the grounds. Even before the fires, Schrader remembered feeling disconnected from the music, the nostalgic cash grab, and the meatheads in the crowd. After watching a press tower collapse, they boarded a random shuttle bus and were dropped off near a Denny’s. “It was a far cry from the Garden of Eden,” Schrader said. “That experience defined what I didn’t want to be a part of, and yet America is more like Woodstock ’99 than ever.”
With percolating synthesizer arpeggios, and climbing bass grooves, “IDKS” is the album’s dance-floor slapper. “’IDKS’ is a funny one,” Schrader said. “We already had a pretty satisfying suite of songs when Dylan was packing up to head back to New York, but he missed the train because of a freak snowstorm. Realizing he’d be stuck in town another day, he says to me, ‘Here’s this other weird thing I have.’ It was ‘IDKS.’ The hooks were so good I felt like Homer Simpson at a free donut convention. I just dove right in, and we cranked that baby out in like 20 minutes.”
Lyrically, “IDKS” is a letter from the true self to public-facing self. “It’s an angry song,” Schrader said. “Because the public-facing self is always looking for an easy escape, but it forces the true self into a cage. I honestly thought my lyrics were corny and was about to change them, but Dylan was digging it just the way it was. So that’s what you hear.”
With the soaring “Daylight Commander,” the band went against all of their musty-basement-bred instincts. “I went full High School Musical with the vocals,” Schrader said. “At first it felt almost embarrassing, but I remember reading somewhere that Bowie recommended always floating a little bit above your comfort zone, and that’s what we did here.” The song is part exercise in absurdity and part pop Trojan horse. “If ever we had a ‘Shiny Happy People’ moment, I guess this is it,” Schrader said.

Sechstes Album der norwegischen Prog-Rock-Meister um Multiinstrumentalist und Sänger Bjorn Riis.
Jeder Track zeigt die charakteristische Verschmelzung sanfter Selbstbeobachtung und dynamischer Energie, von den hypnotisierenden Tiefen von 'Dysphoria' bis zum eindringlichen Crescendo von 'Tyrants And Kings'. Die fünf Tracks bestechen durch unwiderstehliche Gesangseinlagen und virtuose Leadgitarrenarbeit, die zum Synonym für den Airbag-Sound geworden ist. Während sich das Album entfaltet, wird der Zuhörer auf eine Reise durch Selbstbeobachtung und Intensität mitgenommen, von der introspektiven Ballade 'Awakening' bis zu den erhabenen Tiefen der Single 'Erase'. Dieser Song weckt Anklänge an ihre gefeierte Arbeit auf dem Album 'Disconnected' und entwickelt sich von einer hypnotischen Basslinie zu einem Kraftpaket aus schweren Refrains, die den Grundstein für den epischen 15-minütigen Abschluss von 'Tear it Down' legen. Doch 'The Century of the Self' ist mehr als nur eine Klang-Odyssee - es ist ein Spiegelbild unseres modernen Zeitgeists. Das Album befasst sich mit Themen der Abbruchkultur sowie dem Umschreiben persönlicher Geschichten, und bietet einen ergreifenden Kommentar zu einer Welt voller Angst und Verurteilung.

Sechstes Album der norwegischen Prog-Rock-Meister um Multiinstrumentalist und Sänger Bjorn Riis.
Jeder Track zeigt die charakteristische Verschmelzung sanfter Selbstbeobachtung und dynamischer Energie, von den hypnotisierenden Tiefen von 'Dysphoria' bis zum eindringlichen Crescendo von 'Tyrants And Kings'. Die fünf Tracks bestechen durch unwiderstehliche Gesangseinlagen und virtuose Leadgitarrenarbeit, die zum Synonym für den Airbag-Sound geworden ist. Während sich das Album entfaltet, wird der Zuhörer auf eine Reise durch Selbstbeobachtung und Intensität mitgenommen, von der introspektiven Ballade 'Awakening' bis zu den erhabenen Tiefen der Single 'Erase'. Dieser Song weckt Anklänge an ihre gefeierte Arbeit auf dem Album 'Disconnected' und entwickelt sich von einer hypnotischen Basslinie zu einem Kraftpaket aus schweren Refrains, die den Grundstein für den epischen 15-minütigen Abschluss von 'Tear it Down' legen. Doch 'The Century of the Self' ist mehr als nur eine Klang-Odyssee - es ist ein Spiegelbild unseres modernen Zeitgeists. Das Album befasst sich mit Themen der Abbruchkultur sowie dem Umschreiben persönlicher Geschichten, und bietet einen ergreifenden Kommentar zu einer Welt voller Angst und Verurteilung.

Sechstes Album der norwegischen Prog-Rock-Meister um Multiinstrumentalist und Sänger Bjorn Riis.
Jeder Track zeigt die charakteristische Verschmelzung sanfter Selbstbeobachtung und dynamischer Energie, von den hypnotisierenden Tiefen von 'Dysphoria' bis zum eindringlichen Crescendo von 'Tyrants And Kings'. Die fünf Tracks bestechen durch unwiderstehliche Gesangseinlagen und virtuose Leadgitarrenarbeit, die zum Synonym für den Airbag-Sound geworden ist. Während sich das Album entfaltet, wird der Zuhörer auf eine Reise durch Selbstbeobachtung und Intensität mitgenommen, von der introspektiven Ballade 'Awakening' bis zu den erhabenen Tiefen der Single 'Erase'. Dieser Song weckt Anklänge an ihre gefeierte Arbeit auf dem Album 'Disconnected' und entwickelt sich von einer hypnotischen Basslinie zu einem Kraftpaket aus schweren Refrains, die den Grundstein für den epischen 15-minütigen Abschluss von 'Tear it Down' legen. Doch 'The Century of the Self' ist mehr als nur eine Klang-Odyssee - es ist ein Spiegelbild unseres modernen Zeitgeists. Das Album befasst sich mit Themen der Abbruchkultur sowie dem Umschreiben persönlicher Geschichten, und bietet einen ergreifenden Kommentar zu einer Welt voller Angst und Verurteilung.

Issued by Leo Fegin's visionary record label in 1993, this refreshed and revised reissue collection of Hungarian composer Tibor Szemző's chamber pieces with spoken text – composed at 1980s for the legendary GROUP 180 – is unlike anything else of its kind.

No one has survived life. Everyone has died from it so far. Man must realize that He is responsible for His own life and fate and must insist upon this responsibility beyond all limits. And since Man has dissociated Himself from the sphere of irrationality, He has no way of getting in touch with death, or of establishing control over it. How we achieve the final result is merely of secondary importance. If the vision is clear to everyone, there is no need at all to look back. In a time of complete mental disturbance, only one chance remains to us: crystal-clear thinking. This leads us back to total mental disturbance, which everyone has died from so far. (Pavel Havliček – Miklós Erdély – Tibor Hajas)

Text and Music | Language and Speech | Sound and Music

The common basis of the three works by Tibor Szemző heard on this album is the inalienable relationship to text – as an a priori principle. Text and music: the formal attributes of significance, intentions, and levels of meaning inherent in verbal communication as it is transformed into audible code. Language and speech: the structural level of communication, where it becomes purposeful expression, acoustic statements of variable modality. Vocalization as sublimation. Sound and music: By becoming an auditory signal, communication is deprived of its sense and reduced to musical articulation and abstraction.

Skullbase Fracture: Shards of reality – senseless, disconnected fragments of recorded “living speech” – simultaneously disintegrate and merge to create meaning through the musical process, while it is degraded and stylized to represent a single layer of the ambient noise one would hear in a hospitality setting.

Optimistic Lecture: The theses – like a practical, everyday user’s manual to cognitive tendencies and aims as they apply to the entirety of existence – convey their meaning through simplified rhythmic speech, galvanized into commands. As a counterpoint to recited prayers, they comprise a uniform soundscape.

The Sex Appeal of Death: The head-on simplicity of communication creates such extremely reductive musical interrelations that they cannibalize themselves in a necessary and inevitable fashion. And, in this manner, the text as well

On 14 October 2022, wildly creative free-form songwriter Rachael Dadd is to release her brand new studio album 'Kaleidoscope' via Memphis Industries and follows 2019's 'Flux', which was released to much acclaim and which she was touring when the pandemic struck. Like so many people disconnected from their communities and struggling through the lockdowns, Rachael Dadd turned inwards, seeking escape through music and connection through song writing, and her hope is that when people listen to 'Kaleidoscope' "they will feel held and find space to breathe, grieve and celebrate." "This album is a lot more honest and personal than 'Flux'" she shares, "but I feel the songs are universal as they are largely rooted in truth and love. If I had to pick a favourite album it would be this one because of the magical rekindling of human connection when me and my band got back in a room together again. All that magic went into these songs." Co-produced "intuitively, boldly, and playfully" by Rachael and Rob Pemberton (The Staves, Emily Barker, Maja Lena), 'Kaleidoscope' includes musical collaborators such as Maja Lena (Low Chimes), long-time collaborator Emma Gatrill (Willy Mason), Alex Heane (bass), Charlotte West (synths), Alex Garden (strings) and 'Flux' producer Marcus Hamblett (Villagers, James Holden, The Staves), giving the record "just the right colour combination, just the right pattern of shapes, plenty of space where needed and finally landing in a sound world that feels fresh and open and true" reflects Rachael.

On 14 October 2022, wildly creative free-form songwriter Rachael Dadd is to release her brand new studio album 'Kaleidoscope' via Memphis Industries and follows 2019's 'Flux', which was released to much acclaim and which she was touring when the pandemic struck. Like so many people disconnected from their communities and struggling through the lockdowns, Rachael Dadd turned inwards, seeking escape through music and connection through song writing, and her hope is that when people listen to 'Kaleidoscope' "they will feel held and find space to breathe, grieve and celebrate." "This album is a lot more honest and personal than 'Flux'" she shares, "but I feel the songs are universal as they are largely rooted in truth and love. If I had to pick a favourite album it would be this one because of the magical rekindling of human connection when me and my band got back in a room together again. All that magic went into these songs." Co-produced "intuitively, boldly, and playfully" by Rachael and Rob Pemberton (The Staves, Emily Barker, Maja Lena), 'Kaleidoscope' includes musical collaborators such as Maja Lena (Low Chimes), long-time collaborator Emma Gatrill (Willy Mason), Alex Heane (bass), Charlotte West (synths), Alex Garden (strings) and 'Flux' producer Marcus Hamblett (Villagers, James Holden, The Staves), giving the record "just the right colour combination, just the right pattern of shapes, plenty of space where needed and finally landing in a sound world that feels fresh and open and true" reflects Rachael.

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.

Is it really a musical?! The 33rd Guided By Voices album, Earth
Man Blues, is a magical cinematic rock album, full of dramatic
and surreal twists and turns. Lyrics and liner notes trace the
growth of young Harold Admore Harold through a coming of age
and a reckoning with darkness. Vivid scenes appear: snapshots
of youth, fantastical nightmares, unknown worlds.
The music hasn’t softened a bit. One will hear the impossibly
perfect melodies and word play that you expect from Robert
Pollard, with the band playing at peak-heavy. “Trust Them Now”
rocks like an instant classic, “The Batman Sees The Ball” is lean,
mean rock muscle. Opener “Made Man” tears and slashes at the
ears and heart. Sweeping, colossal tracks like “Lights Out (In
Memphis, Egypt)” and “Dirty Kid School” stretch far beyond
the ordinary vocabulary of rock.
Doug Gillard’s brilliant guitar playing explodes out of
the speakers. The rhythm section of Kevin March and Mark
Shue, always strong and reliable, has grown into a breathing
composite organism. Along with Bobby Bare, Jr on rhythm
guitar, they drive the songs and make one’s head shake. Producer
Travis Harrison ties the talents of the band together, once again
recorded remotely and individually, pandemic-style. This group
brings to life the sounds in Pollard’s technicolor imagination.

British artist Robin Rimbaud (Scanner) traverses the experimental terrain between sound and space connecting a bewilderingly diverse array of genres. Since 1991 he has been intensely active in sonic art, producing concerts, installations and recordings, the albums Mass Observation (1994), Delivery (1997), and The Garden is Full of Metal (1998) hailed by critics innovative and inspirational works of contemporary electronic music. Committed to working with cutting edge practitioners he has collaborated with Bryan Ferry, Wayne McGregor, Mike Kelley, Carsten Nicolai, Michael Nyman, Steve McQueen, Laurie Anderson and Hussein Chalayan, amongst many others.

Rimbaud first met Belgian artist Hans Op de Beeck at Le Fresnoy Studio national des Arts Contemporains when they were both Visiting Professors in 2012. Op de Beeck lives and works in Brussels, Belgium and creates sculpture, installations, video, photography, animated films, drawing, painting, and writing. His various works show the viewer non-existent, but identifiable places, moments and characters that appear to have been taken from everyday life.

The artists found an immediate creative connection, and a year after meeting Staging Silence (2) was completed. In 2019, they returned to the theme and created Staging Silence (3).

Each of the films is realised through the same principles, as two pairs of anonymous hands construct and deconstruct fictional interiors and landscapes on a mini film set of just three-square metres in size. The films take the viewer on a visual journey through depopulated, enigmatic and often melancholic, but nonetheless playful, small-scaled places, which are built up and taken down before the eye of the camera.

Ranging from hyper-realistic fictional land and cityscapes to absurd, almost surreal, dreamscapes, the various locations are connected by the sense of mystery and melancholy that pervades them. And at every moment Rimbaud's score is amplifying and illustrating these moments, from tragedy to nostalgia, witty to optimistic.

Introspective and lyrical, Staging Silence offers us a world of mystery and intrigue, held together by nature and time. This is a very humane works experienced at a time when many of us feel disconnected from the world around us. The peculiar silence that permeates this hauntingly beautiful work is very much an illustration of our times, anticipating a future in the past. Staging Silence is an exquisite study in dreamlike abstract ambience, a kaleidoscope of sounds and tones that engage the head and the heart.

Paella Hair Sex is the beginning of a new chapter in Alexis Raphael’s musical story. The first two EPs will be from the label boss himself, kicking off with ‘Digital Music Almost Killed Me EP’. Then attention turns to new artists joining the PHS family - please email demos to paellahairsex

Alexis came to prominence in 2011 with his seminal track ‘Spaceship’ and followed with a series of lush, sexy and warm house records that gained universal praise and put Alexis’ sound all around the world with fans from Australia to Peru. As the music and scene evolved, so too did Alexis’ sound becoming somewhat harder whilst still retaining some of his signature elements; references to acid house, hardcore and jungle, deep pads and sweet vocals.

However, by 2016, Alexis had become somewhat disconnected with the path of the music and scene he was involved in. It took a long time to put together what was wrong, but what followed was a three year path to this point now of launching PHS.

A return to and playing vinyl at the end of 2016 was the first step to finding his love again and feeling good about the music. This was followed by a halt to gigs where the music expected from him was different from what he wanted to play and a feeling of disconnect from the crowd. Then came the gradual move away from constant social media output.

The final and most important part of this transition was going back to making music simply without any thought of where it can fit or who can play it, or what label it will go into. In essence this is a return to how Alexis started - making music solely from the feeling inside.

And so PHS returns to some of that more sexy, emotive house music that Alexis was originally known for, but with a fresh sound for the new decade.

Paella Hair Sex is set to be a representation of the music Alexis loves, both his own and other artists.

The first EP: PHS001 – Digital Music Nearly Killed Me kicks off with the main room groover ‘Respect & Belief’ . A jazz-infused bass line underpins chunky rolling beats, punctuated with vocal samples calling for unity and love and laden with floating classical pianos and warm pads. A definite party banger !
.
The second A side track “Sex Appeal” references back to Alexis’ original signature House sound. An emotive and sexy track bound to get temperatures rising on the dance floor .

Flip to the B-side and find the after party brother of Respect & Belief - ‘Liberty’. A seminal minute long speech paves the way to the single breakdown moment of the track when lush Jupiter-8 chords make way for an epic moment as the beats drop back in. A unique piece of minimalistic House music for the after hours .

The bonus track, House of Chorge. ends the EP with a bang. An upbeat cheeky groove that stays in your head long after the turntable stops spinning. But who is Chorge.?

Life is all about rhythms. We don't know what we're dancing to until we're in so deep we can no longer control ourselves. The rhythm controls us.

Right now both Guti and the Martinez Brothers are dancing to the conga rhythm. Guti's third album, they've been dancing to it since the summer, teasing us with a whole slew of percussive new... And they'll continue throughout 2019. Chance are you will, too. Eventually the rhythm will control all of us. It's too infectious not to.

Here's the 411: 'The Year Of The Conga' is Guti's third and most rooted album to date. It came about through a personal request from brothers Chris & Steve Martinez. Both unapologetic Guti fans they wanted the very first album on their Cuttin' Headz label to be his. The result is a total reconnection back to his Argentinian foundations, his club roots and everything that first lured him to the dancefloor...

'I'm back to my roots and found my Latino groove again,' says Guti who wrote the album throughout 2018, starting it whilst bulleting through Japan by train, the majority crafted in the jungle of Dominican Republic, having collected and sampled native percussion instruments, and then finally mixing down on his return to Europe. 'Every song is full of rhythm and created to make you dance...'

He's not messing around; from the writhing snakelike percussion and rousing calls and cries of opener 'Aee' right through to the final mesmerising waves and farewell struts of finale 'Voladora' this an album is born both for and from the dancefloor. No overthinking, no purism, no exclusion; just unabashed physical hypnosis, fuelled for the floor, guided with gut instinct and years of groovecraft. It's the sound of an artist who's disconnected, explored and reconnected. He's older, he's wider and more in tune with his own pace and palette. One of the most diverse and explorative artists to come from Loco Dice's Desolat stable, this is Guti simplifying his passions down to an essence of everything that's magic about his roots and our shared dancefloor culture.

The highlights are in abundance; those hazy-but-persistent New Jersey organs on 'Telling The Truth', that wobbly sub on 'Red Eye', that shimmering sinewy acid line on 'Se Baila', the spicy pianos and wet horns of 'La Orchestra Fantasma', the list goes on. Each cut designed for deep mix pleasure, each cut rolling with a strong organic flavour and alluring percussive dynamics, each cut showing Guti at his most inspired, warmest, playful and ready to wrap you up so deep in a conga you'll soon lose yourself.

Cuttin Headz, cuttin straight to the chase but never cutting it fine... Let us be the first to wish you happy new year with the first ever album on the currently unstoppable label. We'll wish you a happy new conga, too. 2019's going to be a vintage and Guti and the Martinez Brothers are leading the charge.