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Brooklyn-based techno experimentalist and filmmaker Michelle Roginsky (aka mother) joins Delusional Records with her first-ever musical offering, a cinematic concept EP that weaves medical anxieties into a thematic tapestry of arresting club sonics.

In A Simple Procedure, Roginsky evokes the bleak and euphoric duality of femme embodiment; the soundtrack to an unreleased body horror film narrated by ethereal ambience and driving dancefloor grooves. The title track begins with sweeping, densely-textured synths disintegrating into a foreboding bassline, humming steadily alongside tidal waves of ominous arpeggios and plodding drums reminiscent of 90s trip-hop. In Sublingual, body-shaking club drums become a vessel for distorted vocals and granulated textures as they pass through thick membranes of saliva-drenched bass. Metamorpher follows with a hypnotic 4x4 trip that metabolizes deep anxious grooves into a rave-ready wiggler, while Angel Gossip keeps the blood flowing with a pounding peak-time techno roller guaranteed to keep the floor locked. Finally, There Are Two Rooms sends us off with a pensive meditation of wailing synths and dark, Lynchian atmosphere... the final scene of a dream half-remembered upon waking from anaesthesia.

NYC's Laenz delivers the epilogue with a shaking, subterranean remix of A Simple Procedure, injecting the opening track's textures into the fissures of deep and trembling grooves.

With its darkly seductive moods and high-concept execution, A Simple Procedure is a perfect addition to Delusional's genre-ambiguous catalog of queer and femme-forward sonic offerings.

For our ninth offering we have ventured out of our small but fertile swamp in search of another source of magick. Meandering across boggy pastures new, we crossed paths with Steevio, who sat hovering serenely in the fern covered shade of a nearby valley. Instantly recognising the singular vision of this fabled artist, we hastily gathered our nets and cast them under Steevio’s branches, capturing four beautiful offerings as they wriggled towards us. Upon the return to our mulch, it became clear that we could not contain Steevio’s creations, so willful was their vitality. It was therefore all we could do to release them back to the universal dance from whence they came.

The dance germinates with the writhing polyrhythmic ‘Apricity’. Hearing the crunch of frost laden grass beneath our webbed toes, we look above us to search for the sun. Angular beams of light escape over the horizon, as the warmth of Steevio’s machines coalesce. A glistening hi hat breaks through the membrane to bind his creation and anchor its ever shifting arms.

‘Octopus’ glides gracefully through a sun-dappled kelp forest. Sub frequencies rumble up from the shadowy darkness below, rippling along the fronds as they ascend. As the ocean begins to churn, a wriggling melodic tentacle parts the foliage, gleaming with primordial energy. Its joyful visit to the surface realm leaves us with a brief yet powerful reminder of the mystery beneath.

The glow of the midwinter sun warms our bones on ‘Apricity (Sunrise Mix)’. Percussive elements bubble out of the depths, forming intricate cascading patterns as they grow over the perfectly formed kicks. The moog filter tames the brew with Steevio’s intuitive restraint , until he releases its mighty power upon the gleeful forest dwellers, to their rapturous gratitude.

With ‘Adref’ we return home. The sedate tempo provides oceanic space for a melody which inhales and exhales over a familiar landscape of perfectly tuned percussion. With each breath the melody seems to increase its reach, until it’s buried deep within our bones, its memory resonating on long after it’s gone.

Steevio’s music reflects the universal moments where seemingly chaotic and disparate elements are suddenly revealed to be perfectly harmonious. Of course examples of this are always universally present in nature, and have been eternally, but we have to be reminded to appreciate them. In the same way that a wave deposits a perfect line of shells on a beach, dew freezes on grass, or individual strands of mycelial hyphae bind together to form incredible patterns, Steevio’s music is likewise; effortlessly considered. For us, it has more in common with the unrelenting flow of a river than it does with dance music. It is psychedelic music in the same sense that nature is intuitively psychedelic; without ever leaning into any tried tropes of what is culturally considered ‘psychedelic’ music.

Steve Hauschildt returns after 6 years with a new album titled Aeropsia. After a transcontinental relocation from the US to Tbilisi, Georgia, the electronic composer emerges from a personal and global transformation to explore themes of perceptual distortion, disconnection, and renewal.

Aeropsia (which roughly translates as “seeing the air”) refers to a visual phenomenon in which objects appear to float or shimmer, often due to changes in pressure, perception, atmospheric shifts or neurological disturbance. This becomes a metaphor for the liminality that informs the record: blurry visions, dreamlike displacements, and the fragile membrane separating what is seen from what is felt.

In the years since his last solo release, Hauschildt’s world has been marked by relocation and a growing sense of global turbulence. These experiences became the raw material for a work that navigates institutional haze and uncertainty itself. The result is music that employs decay as method, structure as entropy, and mutation as expression.

While Aeropsia remains subjective in its vision, Hauschildt invited two previous collaborators to expand the album’s gravitational pull. Cellist Lia Kohl, who previously performed on Nonlin, returns and brings a tactile warmth to select tracks, while guitarist Michael Vallera threads spectral harmonics into the mix. The album’s electronic foundation and its tactile elements meet in a state of luminous suspension to navigate the shifting in physical and psychological terrain.

"I Became Birds feels like emo once again flipping the switch on its eternal energy source." - PITCHFORK // "One of the most arresting and interesting rock albums in recent memory." - SPIN // "Composed of self-deprecating wails, crashing guitar riffs, and a flicker of lyrical hope that almost feels naive _ in other words, the perfect foundation for classic emo catharsis." - STEREOGUM //// With I Became Birds, Florida's Home Is Where push their unique blend of whirlwind hardcore aggression and warm, open-hearted folksy melancholy to even further heights. Frontperson Brandon MacDonald's Dylan-esque eccentricities are on full display here, from the occasional blast of harmonica (like on early standout "Long Distance Conjoined Twins" or the disaffected, despondency-soaked closer "The Old Country") to their knack for abstractly evocative neurosis-as-poetry. But far from being a copycat act, Home Is Where's wearily raw-throated aesthetic and dynamically vivid compositions feel idiosyncratic and vital. The bittersweet folk melodies seep deeply into the band's DNA, adding an element of accessibility and immediate nostalgia to otherwise churning and angular song structures and sonic assaults. Vocals range from an intimate, gentle, and disarming croon to a full-bodied expectoration of the soul, oftentimes in the same song (like "Sewn Together from the Membrane of the Great Sea Cucumber," which splits the difference between mournful, gothic post-punk and staccato-heeled screamo with aplomb). A devastating rhythm section and nimble, versatile, yet powerful guitar work assist with the record's genre-bending, which ranges from maniacal chemical mixtures to gymnastic flips, twists, and turns. And yet, even amid the din, Home Is Where find ample time for hooks-- the oddball effervescence of lead single "Scientific Classification of Stingrays" and the shimmering, propulsive, delightfully off-kilter late-album stunner "Assisted Harakiri" are more than proof of that. Ultimately, I Became Birds shows Home Is Where hitting an early high-water mark. A brisk record-- six songs in roughly 17 minutes-- it never takes a dip in enthusiasm and inventiveness. Home Is Where's inexhaustible creativity and restless energy is bound to serve them well, and I Became Birds is all the proof anyone needs.

Scottish experimental/electronic musician Drew McDowall's lifelong interest in an elegiac solo bagpipe style called pibroch (ceòl mòr in Gaelic) has been an inspiration for much of his previous work (including Coil's legendary Time Machines). This form, often traditionally used for laments and for tributes to the dead, fuses modal drones with flickering dissonance and plaintive melody evoking an ancient, solemn mood. His latest work, A Thread, Silvered and Trembling, both incorporates and transforms these elements via exploratory electronic processing, weaving an electro-acoustic tapestry of strings, shudders, voids, and voices, alternately disembodied and displaced. Co-produced with engineer Randall Dunn at Circular Ruin Studios in Brooklyn, the collection's four pieces capture McDowall at his most elevated and elusive, in thrall to "the ineffable - that which refuses to be spoken." McDowall's palette here is unusually eclectic, sourced from a dynamic orchestral ensemble arranged by Brent Arnold and comprised of cello, viola, violin, harp (Marilu Donovan of LEYA), and french horn. Ebbing between shrouded electronics and enigmatic, sometimes spectralist orchestration, the album moves with a seething, simmering energy, surging into elegant, uneasy crescendos. The first two pieces are inspired by a liberatory hijacking and inversion of a grim biblical story (and by a cryptic and strange UK simple syrup branding). Opener "Out of Strength Comes Sweetness" shivers with short echo and resonant pads, before shifting into the album's centerpiece: the 14-minute saga "And Lions Will Sing with Joy." A murmuring electrical storm of keening strings and disorienting drones gradually grows darker and denser, until suddenly there's a crack in the clouds, revealing mutated choral voices and sparkling harp. McDowall describes the track as "an incantation to help usher in a break, and a new beginning." The record's latter half evokes a deep untamed animism shot through with spiraling radiance. "In Wound and Water" sways with harp, plucked strings and eerie cello undertows while lush layers of disorientated electronics hang in the dusk. There is no resolution, only a faint gradient of fragile dissipation, leading into the album's harrowing and climactic closer, "A Dream of a Cartographic Membrane Dissolves." Processed voices (credited on the liner notes to "The Ghosts Who Refuse to Rest") contort, whisper, and gather as the rest of the ensemble sharpens, poising to strike. Then it does - grand, tragic stabs of strings and horns lashing the sky, storming heaven by force. The fallout is poetic and inevitable, raining embers into a dark sea. But the journey and catharsis of A Thread linger long after it goes silent. Like so much of McDowall's multifaceted catalog, this is music of immanence and alchemy, attuned equally to the sacred and the profane, to the tile and the mosaic.

Up the mountains, deep in the forest, I found these plants that live on sound and water. They don’t need light and therefore are unlike any other plants on this planet. Their peek of activity is during the night, when they are covered with a thin, black layer of nocturnal light. Night lies on these plants like a thin membrane. Their roots absorb drops, waves of sound and its vibrational intonation. When humans eat this plant they fall asleep and start dreaming instantly.

In this dream they become these plants, who are unnamed, and are able to feel the pulsation of their — now own — roots. Many years ago, when language was more sounds than codes, these plants were everywhere to be found in the planetary landscape. Nobody knows yet why these plants are only to be found in the high mountain in its deep forest. It is said that once you enter this forest it will not be easy to find your way out. Like in a dream, you need to be guided by a strong wave of consciousness to find your way out and back to the ground.

Still on and about after years of the most intense crate digging, gem mining, desperate head-scratching and avid schooling, thirsty as ever for the next musical thrill to wrap our ears and brains around, here comes the fruit of our life-long love story with Japanese electronics, Denshi Ongaku No Bigaku Vol. 1 and Vol.2. From the soul-fulfilling first crush felt upon hearing the iconic soundtrack of ‘Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence’ by Ryuichi Sakamoto onto our release of Inner Science ‘Cosmo Tracks’, through the life-affirming sets of Laurent Garnier at Dijon’s seminal club, l’An-fer, which have at all times nurtured and expanded our taste for Easternmost delicacies, the influence of Japanese music on our vision and endeavours was paramount to the development of our catalogue, whether directly or indirectly.

This first volume gets the ball rolling with a fine assortment of mostly ambient, electronica and deep house-focussed joints. Draped in organic membranes and ASMR-like synth tapestries, K. Inoue’s nu-agey opener ‘Em Paz’ takes us on a ride across the most serene dreamscapes. Jazzing up these lush and oneiric coastal vibes, Gabby & Lopez ‘Drive form the Miracle’ merges a sense of Californian psychedelia with a straight out hard-bop swing. No stranger to our catalogue, Inner Science returns to serve up a crystalline slice of laid-back house on a mystique-imbued tip he holds the secret to. Flip it over and here comes Aquarium with the splendidly immersive ‘Rainy Night in Shibuya’, which very much feels like wandering amidst its neon-upholstered streets and swarming hallways in a bubble of your own.

Naohito Uchiyama treats us to a synth-drenched nocturnal ballad with the ‘80s-inflected vibes of ’Shugetsu’, whereas Keta Ra cuts a path of ethereal sublimation via the mischievously fun and bouncy balearic lounge of ‘equals’. Masterly crafted by Yuu Udagawa, ‘Infinite Possibility’ eases us in a realm where weightless pop and low-slung abstract hip-hop combine to further exhilarating effect. All in harp-driven brittleness and velveteen sub-bass stealth, Noah ‘Gemini - Mysterious Lot’ has us drifting to a lavishly orchestrated headspace, laying down an impressive work on textures and arrangements. All in on the sedated drip-tease flex, Sauce81 ’Sign of Secret Love’ is a blast of freaky hedonism, just as ready to cast its hypnotic spell down the sweatbox as it was upon its original release ten years ago.

Languid jacking house tune ’Tai+Dai’ from Keita Sano blows the winds of discoid luvin’ across the room with its impeccable balance of sharp, glimmering synthwork and driving bass onslaughts from the depths. An odd slice of reshuffled folk music, Waltz ‘Folkesta’ makes for some eerie invitation of sorts, enchanting and spookily haunting in equal measure. Back to a fevered, hip-swaying mindset, Kuniyuki hi-NRG jazz number ‘Free’ is an absolute wonder of piano and drums-driven boogie, cut from the same cloth as some of Blue Note’s finest Cuban jazz classics. Rounding off the package, Japanese legend Ken Ishii’s version of Larry Heard’s house Hall-of-Famer ‘Can You Feel It’ is pure bliss in a can, tailored to turn any crowd into a shapeless cloud of balmy euphoria and universal love, whatever the place or time.

Still on and about after years of the most intense crate digging, gem mining, desperate head-scratching and avid schooling, thirsty as ever for the next musical thrill to wrap our ears and brains around, here comes the fruit of our life-long love story with Japanese electronics, Denshi Ongaku No Bigaku Vol. 1 and Vol.2. From the soul-fulfilling first crush felt upon hearing the iconic soundtrack of ‘Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence’ by Ryuichi Sakamoto onto our release of Inner Science ‘Cosmo Tracks’, through the life-affirming sets of Laurent Garnier at Dijon’s seminal club, l’An-fer, which have at all times nurtured and expanded our taste for Easternmost delicacies, the influence of Japanese music on our vision and endeavours was paramount to the development of our catalogue, whether directly or indirectly.

This first volume gets the ball rolling with a fine assortment of mostly ambient, electronica and deep house-focussed joints. Draped in organic membranes and ASMR-like synth tapestries, K. Inoue’s nu-agey opener ‘Em Paz’ takes us on a ride across the most serene dreamscapes. Jazzing up these lush and oneiric coastal vibes, Gabby & Lopez ‘Drive form the Miracle’ merges a sense of Californian psychedelia with a straight out hard-bop swing. No stranger to our catalogue, Inner Science returns to serve up a crystalline slice of laid-back house on a mystique-imbued tip he holds the secret to. Flip it over and here comes Aquarium with the splendidly immersive ‘Rainy Night in Shibuya’, which very much feels like wandering amidst its neon-upholstered streets and swarming hallways in a bubble of your own.

Naohito Uchiyama treats us to a synth-drenched nocturnal ballad with the ‘80s-inflected vibes of ’Shugetsu’, whereas Keta Ra cuts a path of ethereal sublimation via the mischievously fun and bouncy balearic lounge of ‘equals’. Masterly crafted by Yuu Udagawa, ‘Infinite Possibility’ eases us in a realm where weightless pop and low-slung abstract hip-hop combine to further exhilarating effect. All in harp-driven brittleness and velveteen sub-bass stealth, Noah ‘Gemini - Mysterious Lot’ has us drifting to a lavishly orchestrated headspace, laying down an impressive work on textures and arrangements. All in on the sedated drip-tease flex, Sauce81 ’Sign of Secret Love’ is a blast of freaky hedonism, just as ready to cast its hypnotic spell down the sweatbox as it was upon its original release ten years ago.

Languid jacking house tune ’Tai+Dai’ from Keita Sano blows the winds of discoid luvin’ across the room with its impeccable balance of sharp, glimmering synthwork and driving bass onslaughts from the depths. An odd slice of reshuffled folk music, Waltz ‘Folkesta’ makes for some eerie invitation of sorts, enchanting and spookily haunting in equal measure. Back to a fevered, hip-swaying mindset, Kuniyuki hi-NRG jazz number ‘Free’ is an absolute wonder of piano and drums-driven boogie, cut from the same cloth as some of Blue Note’s finest Cuban jazz classics. Rounding off the package, Japanese legend Ken Ishii’s version of Larry Heard’s house Hall-of-Famer ‘Can You Feel It’ is pure bliss in a can, tailored to turn any crowd into a shapeless cloud of balmy euphoria and universal love, whatever the place or time.

Pauline Marx, formerly of the fantastic duo La Fureur de Vouivre, seems like a being from another time and place; namely, an escaped marauder lurking in the forests of a Bruegel painting and integrating the surreal flora and fauna of a Boschian creation into the scenery and lore of deep Brittany. Her invented mythology is loaded with murky rituals and contorted mantras, backed by the surprising sounds and textures of terrains so earthly and so unreal.

The Devil at the Crossroads

Where do you think you come from? Where do you think you're going? Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate: you, with the noodle to the four winds, who pass the threshold of this disc, you better leave all hope there, and glide in the poisonous footstep of the devil your guide.

Where do you think you come from? The mountain is no longer just the mountain; after your passage, it will no longer even be a mountain. Like the whole landscape, it will have been eaten, sauced by invisible leeches. Your nostalgia for the ground and your thirst to find the source will have only discovered a forest of vain words and foul water. Where do you think you're going? At the crossroads, the world is consumed in the previous future. Only the devil will know how to make you overcome the disgust of traditions, and only the love for the devil will give you enough vim to reach your goal: a village, perhaps, but which belongs to no one, a haven to your excessiveness .

The dark tradition to which this game of ternary trampling belongs, like the rhythm of a heart in tune with the inverted world, has no country and no assigned time. Rather a topology of Eve awakened after a thousand-year sleep, an idiosyncratic and possessed reading of our common humus, made up of stories composted in the limbo of the past, of songs captured in extremis vitae and rebus in the privatized antechambers of death.

What does she tell us about? Of our automobile and in love roamings, of the porosity of the membranes that separate beings and things, of the constant inversion of signs. The seventeen stages of this short journey, where intertwine the throbbing of objects, blown horns and rubbed horsehair, form the map of a country never to be found, ours, where only the voice of an old child and the disgusting devil's poisonous charm can guide us.