Everything on this page is GONE. However, lots of rad distros & dudes carry NNF stuff from time to time, so feel free to explore some of these places, as there's a chance they've still got a stray copy or 2. if you'd like specific help, go ahead and write presents@notnotfun.com Revolver/Midheaven Forte (UK) Bis Auf's Messer (GERMANY) Tomentosa Volcanic Tongue (UK) DNT Records Time-Lag Forced Exposure Release the Bats (SWEDEN) Fusetron Sound Eclipse Apop Blackest Rainbow (UK) Gilgongo Morphius The Lotus Sound Staalplaat (GERMANY) Aquarius Family Conspiracy (BELGIUM) Reckless Insound |
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My Estrogeneration NNF150—LP First ever NNF vinyl compilation (more in the future hopefully?) finds the spotlight landing fairly on the fairer sex, and the glare is glorious. 11 diverse femme musical energies corralled across 12 inches of black vinyl, all exclusive contributions, and the breadth of zones and interzones traversed is a beautiful thing to hear. Carry on my wayward non-sons. LPs in jackets with artwork by Pocahaunted bassist/scholar Diva Dompe, plus a full-color double-sided insert. Edition of 500. This year's Estrogeneration includes: -Zola Jesus -Tickley Feather -Pocahaunted (vintage unused track from Gold Miner's Daughters sessions) -Inca Ore -Topaz Rags -HNY -Talk Normal -Islaja (featuring Samara Lubelski and Blevin Blectum) -LA Vampires -U.S. Girls -Valet |
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The Song Of Returning Light NNF149—CS Every other blue moon or so someone will inquire if we think there’s a unifying trait shared amongst the bands on NNF. The answer given is usually “maybe,” but when it’s “yes” it’s qualified by the opinion that we like hybrid forms of creativity (purity is wack), juxtaposed shit, intermarriages, collage art, etc. Enter Wisconsin’s Absinthe Minds, a great cryptic trio that drive our point home by dripping a uniquely cross-purposes sonic slime from their ragged amps that we’re tempted to term “industrial raga.” Their mode meshes the mechanistic with the mystical, to awesome effect. Negative machines grind beside bubbling cauldrons of steam-psych synth, crystal prism vocals reverberate in cold concrete chambers, naked primitives with closed eyes chant and dance on broken generators in an empty parking garage. Contrast is king and The Song Of Returning Light soundtracks the coronation. Ab Minds’ past tapes found them sprawling with more of an overtly bleak agenda, but here Dead Luke & Co (plus guest GF Zola Jesus on one track) have balanced the darkness with the light (albeit dead grey light) for a sick 6-song C56 of interzone angst and grim zen moods. Like metal dragged across a prayer mat. Namaste, wasteland. Pro-dubbed tapes with hand-painted labels in cases with full-color J-cards designed by Amanda. Edition of 100. |
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You God It NNF148—CS It’s not every day friends get together and decide to swim upstream, but sometimes a great notion deserves great emotion – and legitimate forward motion. Then: shit happens. And then later: Vibes. LA’s most recent sub-underground non-rock quartet are a confusing composite electric dream of DIY funk, stream-of-consciousness garage soul, and groping group groove. Their live shows to date have functioned like moveable parties; the audience is either just crashin’ the thing or looking for someone they know. Regardless, You God It is the band’s first recorded statement, a six song EP featuring the bulk of their live staples, from the dizzy jangle-anthem “Honeycomb” to the slinky pow-wow dance “Spirit Soul” through to the swaggering woodblocks ballad “Shake It Off.” Love is all around, take a look. Tracked live at Bored Fortress then mixed by Ged Gengras with boss organ overdubs by Cameron Stallones, Pro-dubbed tapes in hand-numbered J-cards with full-color collage art by Amanda. Edition of 100. |
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Sun Araw NNF147—LP Two loose electric crews grind the great ghost-pipe in the sky on this sweaty slab of black wax. East Coast triad Predator Vision hit all our pressure points last year with a pair of rank/dank self-titled tapes, both of which trailblazed a shaggy path through curtains of cavernous moss via slow-burn low-end/drums rumbling (Ben Daly and Etienne Duguay, respectively) and fucked up outer space shredding by big dog Matt Mondanile (aka Ducktails). Near-perfect new age psych rock but without the trappings of either genre-hole. This is PV’s vinyl debut, and their A side monster, “Real Aliens,” alternately levitates/bulldozes through four main movements: tripped, trashed, free, and feel-good. All zones worth wandering through! Share the Vision. On the flip is Sun Araw/Cameron Stallones, whose fertile crescent of Long Beach drugged out mantric world soul psych shows no signs of slowing down. Buoyed up by hairy low-lidded free trumpet courtesy of Phil French (of Magic Lantern/Super Minerals), the track explodes in a narcotic cyclone of digital drums, voices, and waves of wah, before slowly phoenix-ebbing into a floor-shaking rhythm machine. Shit is funked up. Black vinyl LPs, mastered by Casio Mon, in glossy pro-printed jackets with island/jungle art designed by Stallones. Edition of 475. |
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Skeleton NNF146—CS Shit is cliché, but ya can’t fight the fact that time changes EVERYTHING (or wait, maybe it's money?). Either way: we’re pretty old but not so old we’ve forgotten the cradle days of early Abe Vigoda shows when they only liked Smashing Pumpkins, short shorts, and boating shoes, and their sets were short spiky blasts of post-Unwound lo-fi outsider-punk (a la the Sky Route/Star Roof LP). That was a long time ago. But like all good bands the Vigodans have re-invented themselves a half dozen times over since then, and it’s been a totally rad ride to witness the evolution/transformation, especially since their journey’s culminated in the total sparkling tropic magic sunbath of Skeleton, the best AV record ever. Years of fiddling with delay pedal settings and intricate bass/drums equations somehow resulted in a weird, bright, upbeat island punk sound that’s as catchy and life-affirming as it is tripped-out and overwhelming. Who knew? Catch these die-hards at a show in yr neck of the woods any day now; they are now on PERMA-TOUR. Pro-dubbed cassettes in a “Columbia Records”-style super legit J-card. Edition of 200. This album is also available on CD and LP from our friends at Post Present Medium. |
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NNF145—2xLP All things must come to pass, if you love something set it free, it’s better to burn out than fade away, blah blah blah. No platitude can mask the permanent bummer of a favorite band breaking up in their prime, and such is the case with Iowa City’s most untamed civic treasure, feral-psych foursome Raccoo-oo-oon, who decided to dissolve this year after nearly half a decade of radical and galvanizing activity (tapes, tours, t-shirts, etc). Fortunately they’re generous sorts, so their parting gift to the fans/haters/planet is a vicious, thorny wilderness of endless, nameless songs heaved across four fried sides of black vinyl. Crawl a mile in their shoes. As far as R.I.P. band statements go, this self-titled monster is tough to beat, by far the most ambitious slabs of sounds the RAC pack has ever put together. Doomed, desperate prog-rock flailings decay into hollow purgatories of dimly pulsing ambience, only to re-erupt into pissed percussion firestorms and experimental electricity. There are a few moments of Behold Secret Kingdom-style focus, but for the most part the mood remains raw and acidic, four souls on edge, backs to the crowd, channeling everything they have left inside. It’s deconstruction time again. Nearly 80 minutes of music, mastered by Pete Swanson, housed in reinforced double LP jackets with “Andy/Daren in repose” photo artwork, plus a pro-printed 11x11 insert. Edition of 500. |
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Tarot Harem NNF144—7" Eagle Rock’s most reclusive comedown crew creep back into the blacklight for their vinyl debut with a pair of loosely more focused excursions into cold soul music and post-beatnik jazz shadowplay. Dress accordingly. Recorded in the weeks preceding the ritual void sessions that birthed the California Ash cassette, both tracks here tread the grey but groovy haunted interzone between bummed DIY ghost bop and outright goth lament. It’s a fine line, watch it closely. “Tarot Harem” is the A side, and it feigns a pure funeral mood before slowly stirring to life with erotic spectral voices, distant trumpet, and a swingingly narcoleptic rhythm section. The B is “Black Honey,” which tip-toes a similar path through 3 AM city streets while forlorn piano notes fall like light rain, the drums gently rev up, and vocals scat about “black tar black tar” and how “the beat goes on.” It does. This is the wrong side of town. Hang around if that’s yr thing. Black vinyl singles in hand-silkscreened, photocopied, and die-cut sleeves with topless nature nymph/burnout artwork. Edition of 250. First 78 copies come with a tarot card from the 1970’s Aleister Crowley edition illustrated by Lady Frieda Harris. |
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Deceiving Illusion NNF143—LP A thousand years ago, in 2006, Michigan moonlighters Odd Clouds drizzled down their LP opus, The Cavernous End. Within the sphere of open-eyed freeform organized psych-jazz sprawl, nothing compared. Years later that album still kills, but not much has followed in its wake (there have been some loose tapes but those roll in a cruder basement fuckaround vein). So we are personally xxtremely pleased to be able to finally offer up the band’s latest album-length affair, Deceiving Illusion. A six-song spelunk into the deranged group brain responsible for noise scene mainstays like Fag Tapes and Tasty Soil Records, Illusion rumbles through a hall of mirrors of zones/styles, from freaky garbage punk to robot throat games to motorik brass meditations to unhinged 70s German commune beardo psych-blazers. The journey is the destination and all that. Abuse yr Illusion. Black vinyl LPs in stunning 4-color pro-silkscreened jackets with artwork by Chris Pottinger and Jamie Easter, plus a double-sided photocopied insert. Edition of 400. |
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Mind Peril NNF142—CS So many steaming heaps of uniquely fried brains litter the “down under” underground landscape (Australia, NZ) you begin to worry for their greater wellbeing, health, sanity. But, at the same time, it’s hard to complain ‘cause those same forces have done wonders for the world’s weirdo CDR collections. Paeces, Lakes, all the Bros ‘o’ The Occult Sisterhood shit, Castings, Terracid, xNoBBQx (most of those Breakdance The Dawn bands, actually), Naked On The Vague, etc. – there’s a damn ARMY of Australasian gangs throwing up freaky signs and bizarre strains of audio consciousness, and we are all the richer for it. But our favorite such clan for the past year plus is Blank Realm, outta Brisbane. They’ve been emitting a steady smokestack of work-in-progress documents showcasing their pan-genre collective symbiosis the last couple years and each new cloud they puff out is a headier, heavier beast than the one before it – and Mind Peril shows they’ve yet to even fucking plateau. Self-released by the band early in ’08 in a micro-edition of a few dozen, we were fairly floored by it, and offered to spread the gospel a bit more. Listen up. Crouched hermetic energies arc upwards into unified spirals of electric heavens, animal clatter, basement trance, and zoner drums. 8-limbed songs grapple up from 4-track floors. Rituals retch into wrecked rock songs. Vertical motion for formless heights. This is Blank Realm at their blankest and best. NNF edition has a new track sequence, and is pro-dubbed on high-quality chrome cassettes, as befits this sprawling C54 classic. In oversized, hand-stamped, spray-painted cardstock sleeves with hand-ripped rainbow-tissue collage artwork. Edition of 100. |
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Me + Yoko NNF141—7" There’s no disputing the truth that certain formats befit certain artists. Think about it: where’s the logic in Tangerine Dream rocking a 3-way split 3” CDR? Those fools need room to roam. Conversely, why would Orthrelm drop a 4xLP? Who needs 160 minutes of 8-second spazz songs? The medium is a message, man. And for Megan Remy’s brief, brave re-imaginings of guitar/voice pop rapture done under the U.S. Girls flag, the 45 RPM 7 inch single is the absolute dream medium for transporting said sounds to the interested earhole. Short and sweet (and chemical) like a sugar rush, Me + Yoko is her latest reverb-gaze drug nugget in a string of strong singles (following releases on Hardscrabble Amateurs and Cherry Burger), and it’s another keeper. Whistling to life with a scrap of found sound/dialogue, the song then wings into a vague, hazed-out stone-toss between 2 tired notes (a dead ringer for that famous Les Rallizes Denudes bass riff), ebbing and flowing beneath smeary streaks of white-washed vocal blur. A Top 40 single for a universe of ghosts. The B, “Rise + Go,” might actually be the more aching of the two, a broke-down bedroom ballad, awash in sad seas of reverb, lapping at the shores of isolated islands, gently sailing into heartbreak. Sounds lo-fi but lush, like it was recorded high on a cloud on a cheap 80s boombox. Imagine that. Black vinyl 45 RPM singles, mastered by Pete Swanson, in photocopied sleeves with art by Remy. Edition of 380. |
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Beach Head NNF140—LP Sun, surf, and self-hypnosis: all the core particles for a perfect Pacific zone dream-day/daydream. And Beach Head is the soundtrack, in case you were wondering. Hot on the heels of May’s masterful coconut-dub Boat Trip EP comes Magic Lantern-bearer Cameron Stallones’ latest loner luau under the Sun Araw umbrella. Unlike his NNF debut, The Phynx, Beach Head drops the drones and cosmic distortion (for the most part) in favor of slippery banana peel smoke stacks, undulating tropical hallucinations, and crystal/coastal moods. Waves, rare birds, and swaying palms cameo in the background. Across the LP’s four snaky rhythm reveries Stallones maps a loose, stoned void of voice, island bass-lines, and sunset electricity, inviting all to drift in and float on. Fans of Ducktails, imaginary Jimmy Buffet demos, and long walks on the beach will sleep easy on this grass mat. Black vinyl LPs in matte jackets, plus a pro-printed 11x11 insert, with artwork by C. Stallones. Edition of 420. |
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Shadowrock Destroyer NNF139—CS You can live in LA/Southern Cali for 40 years and still not traverse all the fucked up fringe boroughs and forgotten neighborhoods sprawling outwards in every direction, no matter how hard you hit the highways. And as long as we’ve been rooted out here, we’ve only had reason to venture into the sun-dead desert no man’s land of Beaumont on one occasion, but the place speaks volumes about the weird water which hometown garbage-folk-chaos ensemble Wagon Tongues have clearly been drinkin’ their whole life. A creepy meeting ground of olde-tymey Wild West relics and trashy meth-dealing truckstop culture, it’s an ideal breeding ground for drifters, criminals, and creative youth with singular visions. Which is pretty much the name of the game on Shadowrock Destroyer, the Tongues’ most recent EP of deranged collective chemistry. The A, “Fire In The Hole,” is a raw free ritual of stomping drums, loops, teen screams, guitar noise, and pots and pans, conducted in a crappy basement with cavernous reverb and black mold on the walls. Confusion is king. The B rises up in a similar cloud of clatter but swings with a folkier gait, sunlight brain-fry chords, dusty horns, and possessed babble bubbling over into an ecstatic tumbleweed hayride into the sunset. Squint yr eyes, raise your hand, seek the shadows. Pro-dubbed yellow cassettes with hand-brushed tape labels in cases with hand-numbered full-color masked band photo cover artwork, and wrapped with a hand-cut patch of brown picnic cloth stickering. Edition of 100. |
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California Ash NNF138—CS People in the West blame weird moods on a string of things: the wind (those Santa Anas), the end (of the country), the moon (crescent is cursed), even the movies. But it doesn’t matter which is right/real, because the effect is the same, freaked souls in a trapped environment, lotuses floating on a lake littered with bodies. Topaz Rags is a new late night downer trio devoted to mapping these sour times and long goodbyes, and California Ash is their 2-sided elegy for the Golden State’s darkest ghosts, the rich hills full of fire, the day after the kool-aid. Back-alley bass lines plod under smoky piano shadows, drums stalk a straight line in a house with the power out, a trumpet mourns from a warped 78 spinning in the basement. Wasted, grey, DIY drug jazz lost somewhere between Bohren & Der Club Of Gore and some half-destroyed pre-digital Portishead demo. Gold-on-white pro-dubbed cassettes in spraypainted cases with doomed hippie chick portrait cover photo and bedecked with a hand-cut shred of neon palm tree fabric. Edition of 100. |
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High Beams NNF137—LP After far, far too long lost in the merch-less dark, the LBC’s most married band, Magic Lantern, finally beam down the blinding full-length psych-statement we always knew they had hidden inside. It only took the Southern California sector a single 5-song demo plus a handful of incense-dense komische live flights to fully fall under the spell of ML’s oncoming headlights, but now the rest of the globe can hop on the band’s wild wagon. Hold on. High Beams throws out the total 20-sided die of the their illuminative powers, from stomping, storming show staples like “Deathshead Hawkmoth” and “Vampires In Heat” through to Sun Araw-vibed chime trancers (“Feasting On Energy”) and even a good time acid-addled feedback boogie (“Cactus Raga”). These are all of the Lanterns’ classic long-form anthems, captured in glorious high-def thanks to Bobb Bruno’s attuned production/recording capabilities and a radiant mastering job courtesy of James Plotkin. The riffs rip, the drums destroy, and the organ burns a hole in the sun. Black vinyl LPs (with full color center labels) in glossy jackets with flag photography by Cameron & Erica Stallones, plus a fried-eyed, full-color 11x17 poster. Edition of 500. |
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Mute In The Dust NNF136—CS Dudes can dispute it, but the feminine mystique is real – especially in the realms of haunted interior-psych voice musique. A lotta our favorite ladies (Inca Ore, Grouper, U.S. Girls, etc) have the “private dreamer” communion ritual down to a science, whether due to talent, vision, chromosomes or some combo of the 3. We wanna add another siren to the squad: HNY. When not buried in work as the sax/bass-playing half of Social Junk, she’s found time to drop a couple stellar solo joints over the past year-ish (scope her Here You Can Touch The Sky for proof), but they may have gotten more lost in the shuffle than seems fair, so we’re jazzed to present Heather’s newest full-length collection of woozy diary drift, Mute In The Dust. Nine song-stories of naked keyboards, 3 AM spirit loops, and creaky attic narratives that blur the line between bedroom voodoo ceremony and otherworldly suicide note. Recorded entirely outdoors on a tiny side porch in West Oakland, Mute tip-toes the HNY mythos out of the shadows and off the deep end. Dive in. Pro-dubbed tapes in white cases with hallucinatory guitar-girl cover art (3 different color paper possibilities), and housed in hand-painted canvas pouches. Edition of 100. |
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Violent Narcissus NNF135—LP Secret Abuser Jeff Witscher is an enigma wrapped in a riddle rolled in cassette tape and plugged into a battered pair of towering PA speakers. He’s lived everywhere, met everyone, and inspired legions through his lifestyle, utopian fashions (“refugee chic”), and spellbindingly intense music. Up from Rainbow Blanket, through to Impregnable, and across the arid plains of Roman Torment and Deep Jew, Witscher’s maintained a singularity of vision and total commitment to execution that has wrecked us, personally, to the point of speechlessness at least a dozen times. But, despite his restlessly shapeshifting spirit, the past year plus has seen him settling slightly deeper into his Secret Abuse sinkhole style, and here’s hoping he lingers a while longer, cause it’s a fucking winner. Brutal, pensive, blown-out tones crossfade into tortured minor key guitar laments before being slowly subsumed in a droning ocean of choked vocals and sulking, selfish electronics. Repressed, burning, and emotional as only a young man pushing away everything can be, Violent Narcissus is as definitive a document as has thus far yet emerged from the SA canon (and lord knows there’s been a grip of gems). Look long and hard; the mirror is a bitter mistress. Black LPs, mastered by Bill Hutson, housed in jackets designed by Witscher. Edition of 445. |
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Beasts Will Have You NNF134—CS Old folks often spout off to kids about not gettin’ in the car with strangers, but that doesn’t mean you can’t release cassettes by them. Good thing, too, cause bands creep outta the woodwork all the time with hoods on their heads and a fine master in their hand, and who’re we to give ‘em some inquisition shit? Law Of The Rope is an alleged trio (Nadine, Legin, and Beatrix Oppression, in case yr wondering) from the “United States Minor Outlying Islands” (yeah right) who mine a very idiosyncratic vein of isolated bedroom black metal somewhere between the more downtempo miserablist symphonies of Xasthur, the deranged 8-track stream-of-consciousness grooves of Lurker of Chalice, and the harsh arctic blasts of Wold. We’re no experts on the subject, but Beasts Will Have You holds its own against all those touchstones, and even adds a nice non-metal dimension to a lotta the songs that free ‘em up from the genre’s restrictions/expectations. The tape’s 2 16-minute-ish sides stalk through the spectrum of foul moods, at turns caged and violent, other times awash in arch-gothic negative grandeur, fleshed out with somber strings and icy life-in-prison-style keyboards. Bleak is back. Pro-dubbed & imprinted cassettes in black-on-black devourer art cases with black-and-blood paper fangs glued to the plastic. Edition of 100. |
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Taste The Blood Of The Deceiver NNF133—LP We’ve only had the good/loud fortune to witness Matthew Bower perform live on ONE solitary occasion, but the infinite incineration he managed to detonate out of a single electric guitar and knee-high practice amp was convincing enough to last several lives. In the meantime, there’s the gallons of celestial skree he bombards the listening universe with via his cavalry of audio aliases (Skullflower, Total, Hototogisu, Sunroof!, Mirag), all of which radiate with Bower’s iconic, influential, two-decades-deep quest to fuse the bruised with the blissed in a single white-light fist held up high. And although his specific mission for each project seems to have crossfaded a bit in recent years, it’s still huge news to us to be able offer up Taste The Blood Of The Deceiver, the first full-length Skullflower album to be pressed on vinyl since forever (at least the early 90s). Taste The Blood... finds Bower in the more blackened, doom-damaged terrains like those stripmined on the recent Desire For A Holy War or Pure Imperial Reform: abrupt vertical baths of blinding distortion and harmonic override spiked with cavernous cultish riffs and deeply bleak ritual moods. The blood is fresh, but the body’s unrecognizable. Charred and forgotten, this is another stepping stone on the path to the upturned altar. Black vinyl LPs in fucked-up-and-photocopied matte jackets. Edition of 500. |
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Island Diamonds NNF132—CD There’s a working theory out there about Pocahaunted: either EVERY record they’ve released is a concept album, or NONE of them are. There’s good proof to support both camps. But truth, of course, probably lies somewhere between the two (if that’s possible – which it isn’t), but Island Diamonds makes a stronger case for the former. The ladies’ longstanding studio union with Eagle Rock guru Bobb Bruno has explored an array of terrains in the past, but their partnership on Diamonds transforms Pocahaunted into a way weirder, doper, and dancier creature than ever before, inspired in equal parts by Manda’s obsession with Max Romeo tropical soul and bad acid jazz and Bethany’s abiding love of mainstream rap and the Cocteau Twins (that sounds like it’d be a nightmare, right?). Naturally, the results don’t really resemble any of the influences they may have attempted to channel during these sessions, but so what? Low-lidded drum machine beats, sparse guitar chimes, and the occasional air raid siren cycle beneath a night sky of cooing, crying, and caterwauling in the classic PHAUNT mode/model. This CD digipak edition is a repress of the sold out LP on Arbor, with all new collage-portrait artwork by the band, plus two bonus tracks added on (one an outtake from the Diamonds sessions, one the unedited mix of their Bored Fortress 7” single) and a freaky digital music video for “Ashes Is White” created by part-time Pocahaunted bassist/best friend Luis Naranjo. Edition of 500. |
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Coveting NNF131—LP Misery wears many masks, but Tulare, California fatalist Jon Borges has etched his mark on most of them. For at least half a decade he’s pursued increasingly suicidal tendencies under his Pedestrian Deposit guise (which is currently on hiatus), splicing subdued loops of morbid beauty against savage canyons of harsh noise histrionics. Lately, though, he’s been straying more and more from this aggressive exercise in contrasts in favor of his Emaciator alias, which draws from the same dark wellspring of bitter memories and bipolar rage but, instead of unleashing it in grand frenzies, bottles everything up inside until it seeps out the pores. Early efforts/cassettes retained a strain of buzzing nausea reminiscent of his PD days, but the last 12 months have witnessed a complete abandonment of any ties to the past. Times are still bleak, sure, but the grey prisms of brooding ambience Borges now conjures and slowly collapses convey a depth of mood and subtlety far surpassing simple signifiers like Indifference, Resentment, Remorse. Coveting collects together five exquisite Emaciator compositions (including two particularly riveting songs that were debuted live at Echo Curio last winter) for a harrowing 40 minutes of troubled solace, crisscrossing suicide guitar lines, and entranced self-reflection. Meditation is a myth; desire does not sleep. Black vinyl LPs in shrinkwrapped jackets with photography and layout by Borges. Mastered by Pete Swanson, edition of 430. |
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Concussion Summer NNF130—LP The greater midwest 'hood is responsible for so much of the U.S.'s most living musics it seems like lately. Out here on the west we tend to get a bit blissed and burnt and, conversely, eastern seaboarders can fall into a self-consciousness that sometimes doesn't translate well to those outside their bubble. But in the middle country there's often a rawness that's honest and real and really clears the ears/mind, and for our tastes Ashland, Kentucky's Social Junk are champs at this direct, red-blooded approach. Somewhere between the Bible Belt brutality of Sword Heaven and Tusco Terror and the sticky southern electronics of Pax Titania or even recent Wet Hair, SJ navigate an interesting interzone, boiling together ominous loops, mangled sax, heavy riffs, various vocal moods (pissed, lost, aggro, angelic), militant tribal drumming, and a mess of electric atmospheres into something genuinely gripping and wholly their own. And right on the eve of both a behemoth bi-coastal tour (six weeks long!) and a brave re-location to CA's Bay Area, we are amped-as-shit to announce their vinyl debut after a million killer limited tapes and splits. Concussion Summer rumbles through noisy drum circles, hypnotic thrash, and even a couple creepy ballads, with Noah Anthony and Heather Young's co-dependent chemistry channeled into eight concise hybrid pieces of perfect/classic JUNK. High-time, and fully worth the wait. See them soon. Black vinyl LPs in jackets with artwork by Hair Police's Robert Beatty. Edition of 435. |
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NNF129—CS Two bleak teams pass the death pipe across this black lake of a tape, and the mood – at best – runs from dread to dead (or undead, same vibe). Robedoor's "Terminal Abomination" finds them grappling their recent song-form style with bass, drums, and slime, a heavy metal swamp-thing crawl that drips and riffs from the depths to deeper depths. A strident stalk across new weird wetlands. The B side is a suite of songs from southern lord Husere Grav, who operates from more of a bedroom black metal/death drone perspective, utilizing buzzing guitar, tomb tones, and the occasional drum machine plod to convey his message of relentless misery with strange elegance. Past self-released CDRs like The Great Empty and Stay Asleep have mapped similarly cursed terrains, but his five queasy pieces here are easily among his most cold and cutting ever laid to tape. On pro-dubbed cassettes. Edition of 150. |
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Sasqrotch NNF128—10" LA’s rep as a hometown to heaviness is backed up by a lotta props: Richter Scale-wrecking earthquakes, Vin Diesel racing an army camo hummer down Sunset Blvd on a daily basis, Buzz Osbourne loitering at pretty much every flea market within walking distance of a greasy spoon, etc. Oh, and the sick & twisted Sunn amp-manglings emanating from the respective lairs of Goliath Bird Eater and Sasqrotch. Duh. GBE is the half-decade-strong gauntlet through which Eagle Rock-based Teen Choice Award-winner Bobb Bruno gives voice to his solitary metal ruminations, and oftentimes riffs germinate in his brain/fingers for YEARS before being finally committed to 8-track tape. After a string of shaky drummers but SLAYING tapes/CDRs, he solidified shit enough to lock this timeless psych-crusher in the can. “Blood Silk Road” slow-rides a one-note rock monolith into the void before post office local (and Wilco wild card) Nels Cline steps in to wail an absurdly eyeball-shredding guitar solo that crescendos the song into a black light hurricane of repetitious death. Kill me now please. Highland Park’s Sasqrotch cruise in a scummier mindset, rolling together depraved sax attacks, freakish costumes, and even the occasional bouzouki curveball intro into their mythically hirsute spliff before torching it in a blaze of drums and drop-tuned oblivion. Their B offering, “Menstrual Cyclone,” is a fairly archetypal document of the road-tested freeform ripper they were jamming live for most of the latter half of ’07. Suck it down. Black vinyl 10 inches in printed jackets, plus a hand-numbered insert, with artwork by French electronic enigma Kikifruit. Edition of 400. |
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Storm Veil/Desert Champion NNF127—CS Ex-Auckland high artists Helga Fassonaki and Andrew Scott first began hammering their flux-core electronics into sustained tunnels of pale fire back in early 2006, when living down under in New Zealand's thriving hive of free music freemasons. Their early documents were obscure, open-mouthed starclusters of harsh Hototogisu-heatspells, FX-heavy improv, and isolated tinkering. Since relocating to the Hollywood grid, however, the Metal Rouge matrix has transformed significantly. Recent volumes of their excellent Ephemeroptera series, as well the Eulogy For Keeler disc (on Phantom Limb), have showcased MR's increasingly controlled avant noise architectures, but Storm Veil/Desert Champion strikes their best balance yet. Both sides unfold from keening, tense beams of drone light, layering levels of expressionist tones one after the other, slowly growing into futurist frenzy, a thousand interstitial atoms of tempest noise warring for amp space. A focused and furious 40 minutes at the forge/4-track. Pro-dubbed, shell-imprinted tapes in cardstock J-cards adorned with metallic fabric shreds plus gold flecks. Edition of 100. |
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Sings the Blues NNF126—CS PLI have been preaching the “Peace, Love, Invisibility” gospel for at least a few years at this point, radiating sub-radar FX resplendence across a grand handful of subtle CDRs and shows, but Sings The Blues stands strikingly apart from their crouch-core past and is all the better for it. Raw hybrid soul dirges of commune lament and hypnotic mourning resurrected from dirt drums, wicker guitar, and ancient electric melancholy. Intense ballads of transformation, chains giving way to God, hope turning to flight. Two women, two men, constant sorrow. This young Danish underground pedal family have never sounded so up on their feet, momentous, musical. Break on through. An impending LP should further plumb the dark Invocation behind the Pink Luminosity. Pro-dubbed grey tapes with metallic shell imprinting in freedom-fighter silkscreened cardstock sleeves tied with prayer bells. Edition of 100. |
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I Turn Into You NNF125—2xLP Most musical matters seem to cycle through rise/crash wave patterns of popularity and lately it seems that the duo formation is for some reason at the crest of its particular prevalence/relevance. Perhaps it's something to do with the faster psychic communion that births between a pair (vs a 5+ gang-style band). Or maybe it's just to save on gas $$. Either way: very few fringe duos of the 2000s have succeeded in so fully utilizing the witchy, wordless, and wondrous bond of the twosome formation as Scorces' twin figureheads Christina Carter (also of Charalambides, Bastard Wing, etc) and Heather Leigh Murray (Taurpis Tula, CEO of Volcanic Tongue, more). Their early incarnation as East Texas fried-folk loners instantly struck a chord in clued-in heads for both its bold formless experimental moods as well its instantly gripping emotional power. Their 2003 masterpiece on Eclipse, Vivre Avec La Bete, captured their magic craft perfectly, and in retrospect has definitely cast a heavy influence over a whole host of today's underground's voice-based lonesome drifters. So it is with amplified honor that we offer up this latest tome of spells unearthed from the Scorces' vaults: I Turn Into You. Nearly 70 minutes of pedal-steel guitar tendrils, basement dust, whispered melodies, enchanted strings thrummed against the quiet, and possibly the planet's single intensest dual free-crooning chemistry (as anyone who caught one of their Fall '07 opening sets on the solo Thurston Moore tour can attest) sprawled across four spectral sides of black vinyl. All tracks were recorded several years ago back at Charalambides HQ in Houston, TX by psych-guitar journeyman Tom Carter, and they've aged like oil paintings (cracking, majestic, immense). Housed in embossed, metallic ink jackets designed by Marcia Bassett (with a racy poem by the Scorces' ladies on the back), plus an 11x11 insert with info and a live shot. Edition of 500. |
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Perpendicular Rain NNF124—CS Berlin-based Bird of Delay Steven Warwick has been winging away from the BoD nest under his Heatsick moniker with increasing frequency the past couple years, and each new flight seems to soar into ever more varied airstreams of cyclonic electronics and emotional wind-riding. Perpendicular Rain is his most recent convection cell, and it pits two pendulum-tilting pieces against one another for a beatific blowout of barometric disorientation. “Suspended Horse, Carousel” rides an orchestral morning glory hallucination forklift into total mind white out, layers of radial confusion overlapping in a circus wheel of entrancing electricity. One of Warwick’s audio-life highlights to date. The B, “Perpendicular Rain,” opts to flatline into more of a classic Heatsick stasis vortex (a lot like his semi-recent Reverse Gardens CS), wiring every circuit into itself till the mainframe collapses under its own wall/cloud weight. Let it come down. Hand-cut tape-labeled pro-dubbed red tapes in full-color double-sided fold-out J-cards with art by Warwick, plus a slight metallic stencil. Edition of 100. |
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From Our Mouths A Perpetual Light NNF123—LP Since first bearing witness to Barn Owl’s mythically desolate amplifier alchemy last year, we’ve been rabid fans/fanatics. But like lots of badass bands, BO are a rolling stone, heavy on the transformation tip, and the BO of today is an altered beast from the one that folkily fingerpicked Bridge To The Clouds and their self-titled disc way back when. And in case we’re not being clear: this is a beautiful thing. From Our Mouths A Perpetual Light burns with the sun-dead majesty of a Death Valley burial ground, all wasted waterless expanse and cracked earth smoke blowing in the dry wind. Heavy western drone revelations bleed into forlorn guitar drift, downcast percussion plods across the plain, a skull on its side lies in the sands. Evan Caminiti and Jon Porras have somehow flawlessly evolved Barn Owl into a blazing new universe, and From Our Mouths… is the first mission statement from their new spectral/aesthetic outpost, a stunning and timeless eight-song suite of grim cinematic electricity. Tune in, drop dead, rot on. In swank matte jackets with four-armed demon warrior-yogi’ artwork by the band. Edition of 435 (275 on white wax, 160 on black). |
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Mythical Beast NNF122—12" This fair pairing has been in the wings for a few years now by our count, but tripped things come to those who wait, so better late-as-shit than never. Cloudland Canyon have been spanning geographies (Brooklyn, Germany, Memphis) and genres (krautrock, drone, psych-pop) since at least 2002, but only recently has their technological studio-sorcery began to gather steam and affect the more far-flung populations (powered in no small part by their partnership with Kranky Records). Anyone who's gotten lost in CC's latest, Lie In Light, knows this duo is currently at the pinnacle of their potency, and their offering here ("Harvest Hunt") is a fantastic mechanical motorik ascent into symphonic hypnosis. Comparisons to classic Teutonic psych outfits of yesteryear are warranted but inadequate: this is music of today, for tomorrow. On the flip, beloved Not Not Fun in-laws Mythical Beast return to the vinyl spotlight with two luminous soul meditations conjured during the past winter's grey maze of days. Both ballads burn with Corinne's voice-for-the-voiceless defiance, wind-draped and incensed by Jeremiah and Aaron's subtle electric string energies. Naked music for open spaces, empty skies, endless nights. High-audio 45 RPM LPs (NNF's first!) in matte-jackets with cloud-skull artwork by Blackblack beauty Diva Dompe. Edition of 415. |
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The Returner NNF121—CS It gets said a lot (and for good reason) but shit is the internet ever weird. We’ve had the good fortune to get outta the city/state/USA plenty of times but life’s short and the dollar’s weak so we haven’t trekked to most of the globe’s zones for firsthand audio-anthropology, and yet thanks to Firefox/Safari/whatever we are fairly well informed about the crucial psych emissions of Brisbane hypno-squad Blank Realm (thanks, online experience). So here we are. The Returner is BR’s most recent rusted grain silo mood piece cluster and though it might be their cleanest (fidelity-wise) crop of tracks to date, it also might be their trickiest one to pin down. Range-roving from overloaded bliss-noise collectivism to haunted barn bleak-folk death rattles, this C51 stakes out an endless outback of next-generation Musics Your Mind Will Love head-melt alternatives. Tape-labelled tapes in cases with full-color collage J-cards by Manda plus tied with black tassels. Edition of 100. |
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Loco Hills NNF114—LP A lot of beloved-by-us artists and artisans icepick out shapely creations from the marble slab of life on a steady schedule, but even within this rarefied realm it’s a real cause for jubilee when an individual/band fucks precedent and totally redefines themselves through a masterwork. And, in our book (check it out, it’s a good read), Loco Hills is one such touchstone. Distilling down every fried fuzz-groove, tape-loop ghost cloud, and mass-mind motorik psychosis Shepherds have ever let loose into four perfectly sculpted jam-journeys, the language of Loco is a rolling, roiling ride through twisted wordless tongues and hieroglyphic electricity, at once more focused and far-out than anything else in their canon. Mentioning that members moonlight in projects like Meneguar, Non-Horse, and Vanishing Voice is meaningless, this is the Rear House posse’s shining achievement to date and it stands alone. Black vinyl LPs in matte jackets with the same ‘gnashing viper’ artwork of the Release the Bats CD edition. First 115-ish direct mailorder copies come with a bonus CDR of unreleased live recordings. Edition of 500. |
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Yellow Swans NNF113—LP Two storied USA duo institutions share war stories across twelve miles of raw wax, and the rest of us are lucky enough to eavesdrop. Missoula, Montana’s Ex-Cocaine continue roping that weird rambling wind that seems to stir the soul and keep America mellow, and the pair of anthems they jam out here encapsulates the whole breadth of their sea-to-shining-sea cosmosis. Plainsong guitar lassoes around loose-limbed percussion flame-fanning, building and burning till a boss bonfire glows on the horizon, then they close out the side with a ragged and earnest Meat Puppets cover that’s become a live staple of late. Real and roamin’. On the B, Yellow Swans channel a supreme slice of psychedelic eulogy that cuts twice as deep with the knowledge that after many a summer (they birthed in 2002-ish) dies the Swan. Pete and Gabe’s DYS saga has spanned the decade and their impending non-existence will be lamented all over the world, so the more 11th hour record books they want to stencil with their electric synergies, the better for all of us. R.I.P.eace out. In a stunning “sexy legs” kaleidoscopic masterpiece art jacket by Religious Knife Maya Miller. Half on bleached olive vinyl, half on black. Edition of 600. |
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The Phynx NNF112—LP + CS All wild, natural organisms have roots, and some even say they’re a good thing to return to from time to time. For instance, right now. In the wake of the jazzed reactions garnered by his Beach Head album and split LP with Predator Vision, today seems as ripe a time as any to re-introduce yrself to chapter one of Cameron Stallones’ Sun Araw saga: The Phynx. Originally released on NNF as a micro-edition CDR in early ’08, this four-song scorcher blinded us the first time ‘round, but now, fully re-mastered by James Plotkin and spread across 12 inches of black vinyl, these raw electric stomping grounds sound positively holy. Our first-time descrip read: “Spanning Spacemen 3 garage cosmos, Starving Weirdos coastal séance, and a healthy stratosphere of pan-dimensional astral feedbackers, The Phynx is a fantastic four-track suite that floats freely from form to formlessness in the blink of a third eye. A cool journey into white light dirge and dead distortion blues.” All of this rambling was, and remains, true blue. Edition of 500, housed in matte jackets with new back artwork. As an extra audio high-five, this reissue is actually available one of two ways: 1) on its own, or 2) with a copy of a brand new Sun Araw bonus C20 called Leaves Like These. Please paypal accordingly. |
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The Phynx NNF112—CDR Long Beach psychonauts Magic Lantern get ranted about a lot by us for their mystic ability to overwhelm and transport, but in the meantime we’ve had the fortune to learn about ML guitarist Cameron Stallones’ solo universe as Sun Araw and, no surprise, the silver apple don’t fall too far from the tree (so to speak). Spanning Spacemen 3 garage cosmos, Starving Weirdos coastal séance, and a healthy stratosphere of pan-dimensional astral feedbackers, The Phynx is a four-track suite that floats freely from form to formlessness in the blink of a third eye. A cool journey into white light dirge and dead distortion blues. Stenciled CDRs in full-color mysterio-portrait foldover artwork by Stallones, and sanctified with a triad of kaleidoscope stickers. Edition of 155. |
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Bummer Daze NNF111—CS Florida jam gang NASA have been launching around the International Noise Conference scene/periphery (plus other places) for a little while now, and every so often a rare snapshot cassette of their warped riff firepower finds its way into our Cali-fried hands and we always cherish the moment. Prime drum/strings shred of the best and most unclassifiable sort. Groovy, deranged, burned-out moonrock shrapnel that glows as it hits the ozone layer. High on the highway. Bad trip color haze J-cards with dumb smiley stickers and full-color tape labels. Edition of 100. |
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Mystic Induction NNF110—LP In today’s NEW new age one of the roughest audio landscapes to rehydrate and re-vivify seems to be ye olde ‘rock/roll.’ Too much schooled skill turns it to wanky puke, too much braindead string-mangling ends shit up in a puddle of noise drool. That hallowed middle ground is tough to hammer a stake into. But Portland posse Eternal Tapestry chase worms in that kinda moist soil all day and foggy night, and the two sides of glowing garden shroom-harvest they present on Mystic Induction makes a strong case for their status as psych-rock resurrectionists of the first degree. The LP opener, “Emerald Forest of Peace,” weaves a languid path through ET’s bright life as a short-lived five-piece (they’re down to a trio again now), with mossy bass and blissed drums kissing the slow-motion wah fireworks exploding above in the rain-drenched air. It’s a slow glide that continually threatens to ignite before eventually slipping into electric silence. And on the B jam (“Transcendence”), they make good on the threat of the A, riding a vertical riff into a howling storm of light and Jed Bindeman drum frenzy that leaves the rest of their recorded discography in the dust. Also marks the best use of wordless vocals ever captured on an ET track during the band’s brief window with diva Janina Angel Bath on the mic. Planet rock is no longer a cold dead place. Black vinyl LPs in fabric-collage jackets with artwork by guitarist Dewey Mahood. Edition of 450. |
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Harakiri NNF108—CS Much has been made of Mr. Siratori’s unchecked outpouring of textured black silt, but the fact remains that quantity and quality don’t necessarily rage hand-in-hand. Whether an artist paints a painting a day or a decade matters nothing if the results RULE. And Harakiri is a formidable and dense subterranean canal/C50 of wrecked electric waste and toxic sludge flowing ceaselessly into a bottomless pit. A good hypnotic void to pour in yr ears for the better chunk of an hour, semi-reminiscent of Black Monk’s drumless jams. Word is Kenji labors a lot on his alternate career as a cyberpunk novelist, and that makes plenty of sense in light of this audio apocalypto. Black tapes in cases with tactile art paper J-cards and cases stuck with hand-cut black shape runes. Hand-numbered edition of 64. |
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Birthday Of Bless You NNF107—LP This one has been a dream since the start. Literally, as Eva Saelens wrote us one day out of the clearest blue saying she had a dream that she sent us her new album and that we loved it and released it. Well the dream’s become real, as her latest spirit quest in pursuit of the inmost voice dazzled us instantly and lingered like déjà vu. An 11-song slideshow of psychedelic secrecy, rippling whispers, and private ghost ballads, Birthday Of Bless You finds Inca Ore at her most lithe and longing, shifting focus from microscopic mood meditations to wide-lens surrealist romance fantasies in a heartbeat, then back again. A black-lit bedroom soon forgotten, a midnight garden of lucid sound, an LP to have and to hold. Mastered for wax by Pete Swanson. Black vinyl in jackets with collage-art by IO, plus a full-color 11x11 collage insert. Edition of 500. |
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The Thaw NNF106A—CS We spent weeks farming through three and a half years worth of Super Minerals' greatests recordings to birth The Thaw, the massive C120 collection we released in early '08. But as edition-of-100s are wont to do, the CS sold out fast and vanished into the yawning past. Which is cool, but we felt this classic deserved a 2nd go-round for the united global earhole, so we fashioned a new edition, and here it is. Exact same music ("murky sunlight string-jangle, jungle Om heatwaves, distant insect whirr, phantom flute whispers, deep drugged rainforests of vibrant harmonic hallucination"), on the exact same high quality pro-imprinted chrome cassettes, but this time each tape is housed in a unique hand-cut full-color wraparound piece of brain-hazed new age art, and tied with a piece of sea glass scavenged in Fort Bragg, CA. Edition of 100. |
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The Thaw NNF106—CS Tracing the veins of a band’s constituent parts can uncover strange and enlightening currents of influence, history, mystery, etc. And LBC riff kings Magic Lantern have as ripe and rich a creative periphery as any other crew in the NNF matrix: guitarist Cameron moonlights as Sun Araw, other guitarist William occasionally creeps out as Eureka, drummer Chip stars in Christian musicals (!!), and together William and vocalist/keyboarder Phil soundtrack acid vistas as Super Minerals. What’s perhaps even more unknown to most is that SM actually predates Magic Lantern by a solid few years, and have been gently unfurling fried and frayed zoner atmospheres in micro-edition CDRs since at least 2005. Due to humility or mellow marketing, however, virtually zero of these have slipped into the greater global earhole. So when Phil one day graced us with the Minerals’ entire collected works, we realized the time was now to right this wrong, and began compiling The Thaw, a gargantuan C120 selection of their most truly tripped and narcotic audio mirages, and we couldn’t be more thrilled with it. Murky sunlight string-jangle, jungle Om heatwaves, distant insect whirr, phantom flute whispers, deep drugged rainforests of vibrant harmonic hallucination – this land is yr land. Immense and imaginary. Pro-manufactured high-bias chrome tapes (with shell-imprinting) in faintly silkscreened oversized cases with double-sided full-color ‘solar ooze devouring owl’ artwork by the band. Edition of 100. |
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Beach Cop NNF105—CS ”Where are you going, what are you doing, you’re doing a bad job, you’re doing a bad job.” Lyrics like these – and song titles like “Look at Me” and “Don’t Look at Me” – are what elevate Pukers’ meta-thrash into an even wilder arena of high art internal debate. Beach cops aren’t the only law enforcers brought to task on this savage C32; bike cops and park cops get equally brutalized. Since semi-temporarily relocating to Culver City/LA, Pukers have ditched the dead dog worship for a more conceptual crowd-surf across the polluted waters of stream-of-songciousness. The results are sick and blazing. Especially seeing as how the A-side finds Britt sitting in on electric axe for a session while the B stars Manda’s intuitive six-string synergies. This is some supergroup shit. Cardstock fold-out J-card in a case stuck with weirdo foam shapes. Edition of 100. |
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Bridge to the Clouds NNF104—CDR A couple months ago this subtle San Fran three-piece rolled into the local CURIO for a low-key night and fucked everybody up. No one saw it coming. Their Digitalis debut was great – a warm wooden walkabout of six-string finger-dancing and acoustic themes – but it seemed a bit squarely/safely in post-Chasny territory, so no one freaked. Well apparently they’ve since relocated to a darker oaken throne, cause the LA show was a Sabbathy campfire of pentagram bass grooves, eloquent electric desolation, and stripped war drums. Music for dying in the desert to. Bridge to the Clouds was the tour CDR they were slinging on the trek, and though it’s not as purely psychedelic and forsaken as their live incarnation, it does serve as a powerful pathway to the present…hovering above Barn Owl’s earlier earth-bound Evan Miller mode with foreshadowing flashes of future shamanic doom alchemy. An NNF full-length is in the works, and we can’t wait. Stamped CDRs in silkscreened, spray-painted, gold leaf stamped arigato paks wrapped with rainbow ribbon. Edition of 147. |
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At the Mountains of Madness NNF103—CS Plenty of cacophony comes crawling outta the NNF mailbox/inbox on a daily basis, but it’s been a spell since an hourglass of holy din has caught us captive quite the way Magic Lantern’s tape has. This LBC guru posse formed last year but only began laying down live sets in the last four months, and the evolution is radical. The A side shockwave, “At the Mountains of Madness,” rides a roiling riff through forcefields of charged tones, percussion concussion, and collective overdrive before slowly ramping up and over drug-rock repetition into raw light cone rapture. A perfect cyclone of basement storm and interstellar Hawkwind, and a real contender for CS single of ’07 in our book. The live B piece shows a looser slice of psychic youth, all amplifier wash and blissed waves of Bardo comedown…like a teenage Taj Mahal Travellers bootleg. Illuminating. Keep yr eyes peeled for more ML signal flares on NNF in the future. Stenciled tape-labeled tapes with full-color fire-dancer J-cards in gold-flecked cases embellished with jewels. Edition of 100. |
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NNF102—CS Huff on, heavyweights. The late summer smog seeps like slime into the sockets and circuits and strings and sweatsongs burning out from the east LA scorched earth, and Heavy Sets is a blurry Polaroid of the steam rising (and forming a skull). Documenting a pair of punishing mid-August live Echo Park meltdowns, the wrecked sets on this bible-black CS showcase the more nocturnal, wasted wing of the Rock/Eagle macrocosm, when the heat turns to fumes and the fumes turn to black light. Pass out but don’t pass away. Robedoor climb into a cauldron of seer’s soup and drums, the Pocahaunted fatales war-whoop with buried beats in the wind, and Sasqrotch wrestle a riff over a cliff of boiling mud. Street fights with sweet plights. 48 minutes of breathless brawl-space. Tape-labeled tapes in paint-streaked/glitter-encrusted cases, with a hand-cut piece of voodoo cloth. Edition of 100. |
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Into Great Peace NNF101—CS Ex-Texan Roy Tatum has been holing up in un-air conditioned apartments mumbling out his bleak loner blues drift for the past couple years, but his most recent-ish outpourings have found him plumbing even foggier inner vistas (see Five Thousand Nights, On The Other Side Of You, etc), and Into Great Peace may be the ultimate Changeling surrendering to date. A pair of blurry, beautiful guitar meditations that tread water in the sky, rippling with murmurs and weird waves, cycling through a lost, narcoleptic wash of reverb atmospherics and mirage vibrations. A slow-motion migration from new age depths to ancient heights. Let go. Pro-manufactured aqua cassettes with seaweed-green shell art in a Tatum-designed J-card. Hand-numbered edition of 200. |
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