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26—08—08
Chewing Glass Collective’s sound system roots finally break into recorded form: a 140bpm collision between grime’s low-end weight and black metal’s distorted churn, with Ecko Bazz and Franco Franco adding vocal presence that anchors the chaos. The title track genuinely unsettles by yoking steppa rhythms to tremolo guitar, which shouldn’t work but does because neither side gives ground. Nolan and Karkossyn’s remixes push it further into the red, though the dub-techno side feels more convincing than the jungle retread. This is what happens when the room’s physical force becomes the actual composition.
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Chewing Glass Collective make an explosive debut on Avon Terror Corps with a hard-hitting EP of dreadweight bass music, in a departure from their previous extreme metal offerings that may surprise those who weren't already aware of the collective's sound system branch - the towering CGC rig being used for punishing industrial and techno at their Distortion Gospel nights as well as shelling out roots and steppa across the South West.
Collusion opens up the EP with an industrial grime heater featuring ATC's own Franco Franco, as well as welcoming Ecko Bazz into the fold. 140bpm goodness built to rattle any system brave enough to try it.
Following on from this the EP's title track Ode To Terra stirs together black metal and steppas into an unholy matrimony of distorted chug and driving dub kicks built to challenge genre-puritans of all flavours and make them beg for forgiveness for their lack of faith.
The B side of the EP features 2 remixes from Andrew Nolan and Karkossyn, twisting the originals out of recognition and sending forth even darker offerings in their place - crushing slow-mo jungle from Andrew Nolan and ice-cold downtempo techno from Karkossyn.
On top of this, ATC have snuck in 2 digi-only remixes of Collusion from Monika Badly and Noise Hz, offering some xxxtra destructive versions for your listening displeasure.
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26—08—08
A decade of Texas-to-France tape salvage, where folk instruments get mangled through enough tape decay and intentional detuning that melody becomes texture. Ak’chamel operates somewhere between burnt-out Appalachian field recording and hermetic ritual music—the kind of thing that sounds like it was already deteriorating when captured. Worth it for anyone who thinks Alvin Lucier had a point but also needs a guitar.
After many requests to reissue the seldom heard cassette EPs and VHS releases, Akuphone compiled this archival release which illuminates the group’s early development from 2008 as enigmatic practitioners of post-apocalyptic folk and ritual psychedelia.
These recordings capture Ak’chamel’s signature sound in its most primal form: thoroughly f*cked lo-fi production, warped tape hiss, detuned instruments, and melancholic hysteria captured on cassette.
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26—08—08
Victory Over Death works in the space where laptop ambient meets the degraded transmissions of VHS dreams—think less celestial drift, more the sound of waking at 3am to a channel that isn’t quite there. Sleepwalk lands somewhere between early Oneohtrix Point Never and the particular melancholy of late-90s internet culture rendered in warm, compressed tape simulation. It’s the score to a memory you didn’t have.
🌑 the night has come 🌑
🌒 the fire is fading 🌒
🌓 forest is silent 🌓
🌕 but you hear the call 🌕
🌗 time to get up 🌗
🌘 to walk the old path 🌘
🌑 to the heart of your dreams 🌑
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26—08—08
Mbale’s DJ Jeff the Lastborn takes the ngoma-derived percussion syntax of Kadodi—traditionally bound to circumcision rites in the Mount Elgon region—and runs it through club-ready synthesis, keeping the rhythmic skeleton intact while swapping cultural ceremony for sweaty dancefloor utility. It’s not world-music tourism or avant-garde ethnography; it’s what happens when a producer who grew up with a sound decides it belongs in a different room entirely. The results sit somewhere between Kampala’s broader club experimentation and the specific percussive logic that makes Kadodi distinctly itself—busy, propulsive, and utterly unbothered by genre lines.
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The Bamasaba peoples have lived in the foothills of Mount Elgon, an extinct volcano that straddles the border of Uganda and Kenya, for generations, farming the fertile land and developing an idiosyncratic culture that's become iconic in the surrounding area. And ever since one of their distant ancestors married into the nearby Maasai group, they have celebrated Imbalu, a public circumcision ritual at the lush Mutoto cultural site that marks the transition from boyhood into adulthood. These community events are iconic in East Africa during high summer, popular thanks to the food, songs and potent home-brewed drinks, but at the heart of the ceremony is Kadodi, fast and percussive music played on ngoma, single-headed cowhide drums, and accompanied by lively interactive dances. In the 2000s, young producers from the area began to recreate this music using synthesizers, samplers and drum machines and since then it's evolved significantly, moving through the streets of Mbale into clubs and bedrooms throughout East Africa.
Kadodi tradition and this newer wave of innovation was documented on Nyege's 2018 album 'Kadodi', a set that balanced recordings of the Domadana Kadodi Performers with breathless contemporary interpretations from local beatmaker Sun C and the inimitable Bamba Pana, and 'Kadodi Season' examines a sound that's continued to progress, focusing on young Mbale-born producer and selector DJ Djeff the Last Born. Djeff has been sharpening his skills since 2014, but his breakthrough came in 2017 when onlookers began to notice his knack for bending familiar Kadodi rhythms and the gigs began to roll in. And on 'Kadodi Season' he presents a set of his most kinetic dancefloor experiments, tracks that use traditional sounds - whistles, buzzing hand drums and resonant rhythmelodic percussive knocks - and reconfigures them within a contemporary club context, retaining the framework while reconsidering the aesthetic.
On 'Kadodi Season 2', for example, Djeff shuffles around a central 4/4 pulse, using syncopated cracks and metallic clangs to enhance the trance-inducing atmosphere and amapiano-inspired FM synths to shuttle the sound into bold new territory. It's the rhythms that remain most central to Djeff's productions though: on 'Kadodi Season 3', it's the dry, textured polyrhythms that incite every bodily twitch and the mind-altering 'Kadodi Season 5' almost reshapes everything we know about electro, mapping Mbale's ancestral rhythms to Roland's classic sound banks. This isn't fusion, it's adaptation that embeds the history of Kadodi and the Bamasaba in each shake and call to the dancefloor.
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26—08—08
Baby Dee’s career reads like a series of completely disconnected lives that somehow belong to the same person: organ work, busking, freak show, surgery. This album sits in that same gap between gospel sincerity and performance art, between whispered voice and full instrumental arrangement. If you’ve heard her work with Will Oldham or on various one-off collaborations, you know she can shift register from deadpan to devastated in a single line. Worth hearing if you’re comfortable with sacred music that doesn’t quite believe in itself, or believe too hard.
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If I hear the phrase “I contain multitudes” smugly delivered by an Instagram-addicted arts professional one more time, then I’m gonna sing my own body electric with a cold bath and a plug-in heater. However, Baby Dee is the one person that I have met on Earth who does contain multitudes. Baby Dee has had more lives than the Dalai Lama. She was a tree surgeon, a freak show performer, a bumble bee-themed street musician and a church organist who believed she was possessed by the ghost of Palestrina. She’s also the composer of some of the greatest songs I’ve ever heard and can count artists as storied as Marc Almond, Bonnie “Prince” Billy, David Tibet and Annie Lennox amongst her most voluble champions.
Alex Neilson 2026
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26—08—08
Four-track home recordings that work best as accompaniment—Feynman trades his earlier rhythmic density for sustained organ tones and patient loops that color a room rather than demand listening. The minimal sketches here recall early Riley and Francis Bebey’s methodical explorations, but the real appeal is how little they’re trying: melodies that feel like they arrived fully formed rather than engineered, the kind of thing you’d half-notice while doing something else. Not quite ambient, not quite bedroom pop, more like someone following a single curious thought for twenty minutes and hitting record.
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Slow, unfussy, and largely instrumental, Orphans finds Art Feynman turning inward. Conceived as "music to do other things by," the album is designed to live alongside daily activity, coloring the atmosphere without demanding focused attention. It moves through a space like wind chimes, less something to follow than something to feel. These are intimate, solitary explorations, sketches that feel less composed than discovered, yet they carry a quiet emotional clarity. Where Feynman's past work often leaned on intricate grooves and dense interplay, a gentler impulse has always run underneath it, surfacing in stray moments across the catalog. Orphans gives that impulse the whole record, disarmingly still, patient, and comforting.
As the album begins, you can almost picture Feynman hunched over a 4-track, tracing melodies on a small Casio, following instinct wherever it leads. Opening track "Soft Reminder" unfolds with a gentle organ line that's equal parts melancholy and curiosity, its tones lingering in the air rather than pushing forward, settling into the room as easily as it invites quiet reflection.
Elsewhere, "Soup Song" channels a kind of homespun minimalism, its insistent organ pattern recalling the early, exploratory spirit of Terry Riley's A Rainbow in Curved Air. "Always In Need of Something" nods toward the playful, searching qualities of Francis Bebey, its cyclical phrasing suggesting a relentless, human restlessness beneath the surface. Throughout, tones and textures gently accumulate, shaping an atmosphere as much as a set of discrete compositions, subtly shifting the emotional temperature of whatever space they inhabit.
Late-album centerpiece "Ice Bath," one of the few vocal moments, offers a subtle thesis: "It slowed me down / That's what I needed / For a new beginning." The song feels like a turning point, an acceptance of stillness as a necessary condition for change. It dissolves seamlessly into "The Condition of New Things," a gorgeously skeletal electric guitar piece that lingers in open space, each note placed with careful intention, recalling some of Jeff Parker's solo work.
Closing track "Plastic Flowers" drifts in on vocoder-softened vocals and a fragile bed of guitar and synth. "To trick the eye but still touch the heart," Feynman sings, a line that quietly frames the album's ethos. Like light shifting across a wall over the course of a day, these recordings may be modest, even illusion-like in their simplicity, but their emotional resonance is undeniable.
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26—08—08
A found-object conceit that actually delivers: 47 untitled pieces supposedly extracted from a mystery disc, all drift and murmur across a 15-year span. What you’re hearing is slow-motion dissolution—not the glossy mall-ambient of vapour’s golden age, but something closer to corrupted archival footage, field recordings of rooms no one visits anymore. Each track is a fragment left to dissolve into the next. Melancholy without sentimentality, which is harder than it sounds.
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破損した日本語の書籍の裏表紙から、ラベルのないCDが発見された。
盤面には「啓示資料 2」と記されており、1978年から1993年までの日付を持つ47個の音声ファイルが収録されていた。
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それは昇らない。
[It does not ascend.]
始まりのない通路を、ただ漂っている。
[It simply drifts through a passage with no beginning.]
周囲には無数の画面が円環を描く。
[Countless screens form a circle around it.]
そこには、人生の断片が映し出されている。
[Fragments of life are displayed upon them.]
離れていく手。
[A hand pulling away.]
窓を打つ雨。
[Rain against a window.]
誰もいない部屋。
[An empty room.]
消えかけた顔。
[A face beginning to fade.]
それらは歴史に残るほど大きな瞬間ではない。
[These moments are not significant enough to remain in history.]
けれど重なり合うことで、記憶より深いものになる。
[Yet when they overlap, they become something deeper than memory.]
感情の隠された記録。
[A hidden record of emotion.]
円環は、死と消失のあいだに現れる。
[The circle appears between death and disappearance.]
過去そのものを映すのではない。
[It does not show the past itself.]
その奥に残されたものを暴いていく。
[It reveals what was left beneath it.]
憧れは温度となり、
[Longing becomes warmth,]
後悔は輪郭となり、
[regret takes shape,]
喜びは淡い残像として残る。
[and joy remains as a pale afterimage.]
それは何も語らず、ただ見つめている。
[It says nothing and only watches.]
深く進むほど、映像は溶け合っていく。
[The deeper it travels, the more the images begin to merge.]
誰かの幼い記憶が、見知らぬ誰かの悲しみになる。
[One person’s childhood memory becomes the grief of a stranger.]
愛した者の顔が、遠い風景へと変わる。
[The face of someone loved becomes a distant landscape.]
最後の呼吸は、眠りと見分けがつかなくなる。
[A final breath becomes indistinguishable from sleep.]
中心には、最後の画面はない。
[At the center, there is no final screen.]
あるのは、消えたすべての映像の光を湛えた、暗い水だけ。
[There is only dark water holding the light of every vanished image.]
それが覗き込んでも、姿は映らない。
[When it looks down, no reflection appears.]
代わりに、どこかで今も続いている無数の瞬間が現れる。
[Instead, countless moments still unfolding somewhere come into view.]
誰かが目を覚ます。
[Someone wakes.]
誰かが立ち去る。
[Someone leaves.]
誰かが最後にもう一度、誰かの顔に触れる。
[Someone touches another person’s face one last time.]
円環に始まりはない。
[The circle has no beginning.]
生が絶えず流れ込んでいるから。
[Because life is always flowing into it.]
円環に終わりはない。
[The circle has no end.]
映像が消えた後も、感情は残るから。
[Because emotion remains even after the image disappears.]
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『啓示の円環』は、記憶が大気となり、感情が光となる場所。
[𝓒𝓲𝓻𝓬𝓵𝓮 𝓞𝓯 𝓡𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓪𝓵 is a place where memory becomes atmosphere and emotion becomes light.]
隠されていたすべての想いは、一瞬だけその姿を現し、再び静寂の中へ還っていく。
[Every hidden feeling reveals itself for a single moment, then returns once more into silence.]
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26—08—08
identity crisis builds Terminal Sleep from the kind of late-night computer aesthetic that’s become almost standard in underground ambient, but finds something genuinely dislocating in the spaces between signal noise and drowsy melodic fragments. This isn’t vaporwave’s shopping mall reverie or pure signalwave submission—it’s more like watching a screen flicker in an empty office at 4am, where every ambient pad feels slightly corrupted, slightly too aware of its own artificiality. The project lands in that specific pocket where the machinery almost sounds conscious.
LIGHT-108
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Peloponnesian folk melodies from the 78 rpm era, captured in 1945 by two Greek immigrant musicians—a cymbalom player and lauto accompanist—whose lives traced the familiar arc from early-century recording artists to working-class obscurity. The music itself sits between old-country dance traditions and the realities of American urban life: clear-toned, unhurried, recorded without studio embellishment, a document of what Greek-American communities actually played when nobody was looking back. Rassias and Asimakopoulos were prolific session men who had already faded from the record industry by the time these sides were cut; this feels less like revival than residue, which is precisely what makes it worth hearing.
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We know that the cymbalom player on these recordings was Louis (Elias) Rassias who was born in May 1884 and arrived from Sparta, Greece to New York City in August 1900. He was married in Detroit in 1917 to his wife Stella (aka Stavroula, b. 1896; d. 1968). In the early 1920s, he recorded prolifically as an accompanist to the folk singers Koula Antonopoulou and Stotirios Stasinopoulos, and between November 1928 and October 1931, he cut 13 instrumental performances released under his own name, issued as 12" discs by Okeh and Columbia. (One of those tunes, "Angelos," he re-recorded on these sessions.) He died in Manhattan April 27, 1958, age 72.
Our best guess is that the lauto player is Epamenondas Asikmakopoulos whose life took a similar path to Rassias. He was born May 10, 1883 in (or around) Nemea, about 100km north of Sparta, and arrived October 1903 through Ellis Island. He married his wife Athena (who was born in Springfield, Missouri) in Youngstown, Ohio in 1918. He recorded three discs for the small, independent Greek Record Company and Olympus labels in Chicago in the early ‘20s. When he filed his Declaration of Intent to become a U.S. citizen in 1924, he had Americanized his first name to Peter and gave his occupation as musician, but by 1930, he was living in a boarding house in West Philadelphia and working at a laundry. He died in San Francisco January 30, 1960, age 76.
We know nothing at this time about the clarinet player whose name is given on the discs’ labels simply as “Stratos.”
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A Kubrick-inspired compilation that takes the hotel seriously: not as horror-movie shorthand but as an architectural entity that warps time and memory. The Italian underground here trades jump scares for the more unsettling work of sustained drone, field recordings, and compositional drift—think Rapoon’s industrial patience meeting ambient’s slower dissolves. Overlook becomes a conceptual framework rather than a gimmick, which means it either works as sustained listening or not at all, depending on your tolerance for an hour of corridors that don’t quite lead anywhere.
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Overlook is a music compilation inspired by The Shining, the 1980 film directed by Stanley Kubrick, widely regarded as one of the most influential works in the history of cinema. Adapted from Stephen King’s novel and reshaped through Kubrick’s distinctive vision, The Shining stands as a key reference within modern cinematic language. Its impact emerges through atmosphere, spatial tension, psychological fragmentation, and a precise use of sound, architecture, and rhythm. The film follows the Torrance family during their winter isolation in the remote Overlook Hotel, where Jack Torrance takes a position as caretaker while pursuing his work as a writer. As the hotel becomes cut off from the outside world, the enclosed environment intensifies psychological pressure and reveals latent and spectral forces connected to the building’s past. Within the film, the Overlook functions as an active presence. The building assumes the role of an autonomous entity shaped by repetition, memory, and temporal distortion. Corridors, rooms, the hedge maze, and the bar operate as structural elements through which the film explores isolation, obsession, and the erosion of identity.
This compilation translates these spatial and psychological dimensions into sound. Architectural structures turn into sonic metaphors, while time unfolds through sustained textures and gradual transformations. The artists involved explore a wide spectrum that spans ambient music (Llyn Y Cwen, Joel Gilardini, Oubys), experimental electronic composition (Rapoon, Mario Lino Stancati, Browning Mummary)), Berlin school (Mark Hjorthoy), hauntology (400 Lonely Things) and works situated between drone music and contemporary classical practices (Stefan Klaverdal, Henrik Meierkord, Michael Bonaventure, David Kovacs), sharing a common sensitivity toward atmosphere and sonic detail.
This is an independent project inspired by the film The Shining. It is not affiliated with or endorsed by the original creators or rights holders. All trademarks and copyrights belong to their respective owners.
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