MUSIC

The songs on Touch, the first new Tortoise music in nine years, are dramas without words. They’re elaborately appointed and carefully mixed to enhance a familiar feeling — a distinctly cinematic uneasiness. Close your eyes and you might see cars swerving around unlit rural roads, or cityscapes at night with bells clanging in the distance, or some abandoned warehouse where spies chase each other between towering stacks of boxes.

The making of Touch is an entirely different kind of film — a heartwarming story of musicians adapting to life circumstances.

Tortoise operates as a collective; the five multi-instrumentalists make records by committee, seeking input on creative decisions large and small. All ideas are considered, and for most of the band’s influential three-decade run, the process has been straightforward: Each musician brings in songs or sketches, and as the group absorbs them, the players exchange ideas about the structure, instrumentation, different grooves or (more frequently, because they’re Tortoise) odd metric divisions that might stretch the initial conception of the song.

These discussions have always happened in real time, face to face. Until Touch. As guitarist and keyboardist Jeff Parker explains, over the last decade, the members of Tortoise scattered geographically, making the pre-production rehearsal sessions if not impossible, at least more complicated.

“It’s the first record we’ve done where everything wasn’t based in Chicago,” says Parker. “Two of us are in Chicago. Two of us are here in Los Angeles and John [McEntire] is in Portland, OR. We recorded in several different places. But the strange thing is, in a way it’s kind of the most cohesive session that we’ve done.”

McEntire, who plays drums, percussion, and keyboards and serves as mixing engineer, had little doubt that the actual recording would be fine. His apprehension was about those more open-ended development sessions leading up to the recording, which, he says, have been known to yield moments of peak Tortoise inspiration. “We don't work remotely, unfortunately. We kind of all have to be in the room together. For me the trial-and-error stage is very important. I didn’t want to lose that.”

The percussionist and multi-instrumentalist John Herndon explains one reason why: The path to a “final” version of a Tortoise tune is not a straight line. “It becomes writing and arranging and editing and orchestrating and sort of getting things into a sonic space that feels good, all at the same time.”

There was consensus about that; each of the musicians has a story about songs being transformed by the collaborative dynamic. Percussionist and keyboardist Dan Bitney recalls a session when they were working on one of his tunes. He wasn’t happy with it and promised to come up with a countermelody. “Right away somebody just asked “Does it need a melody? Like, why does this need a melody? And I’m like, “Yeah!” That’s the kind of thinking that can open your eyes.”

In the initial planning for the new record, the band arrived at what seemed like a reasonable geographic compromise: They’d set up shop at studios in three different areas — Los Angeles, Portland, and Chicago. They scheduled sessions with sometimes months in between, so that everyone could sit with the material and refine it further. The plan: To shift some of the wild idea-chasing of those development sessions from group work to individual work, building on Tortoise’s deep and iconoclastic lexicon of sounds — and on the trust between musicians that’s accrued over decades of music-making.

“It’s like, humans adapt,” Herndon says flatly. In order to keep making music as a group, he explains, everyone needed to be flexible then and remain so now. “If you’re used to doing something one way, and then it flips, well, you have to adapt to another way of working. I think that that's what we all were aspiring to do with this, endeavoring to kick in our adaptation skills.”

Still, it wasn’t smooth sailing. “I’m going to be honest, I think that we had some doubts” after the first set of sessions, McEntire recalls. Noting that four years elapsed from the beginning of Touch to its completion, he adds that “it took a long, long time for the music to coalesce. There was some ‘what are we doing?’ questioning going on along the way.”

Douglas McCombs, who plays guitar, bass, and the deep-voiced bass VI guitar that adds a noir luster to “Night Gang” and other Touch songs, believes that questioning would have happened regardless of the geographical challenges. “In the best circumstance, there’s a flow when we’re working on a tune. Everyone’s sparking ideas and inspired. It’s not work.” He adds, “In the worst moments, when we just absolutely don’t know what to do with something, it’s torturous.”

Herdon points to the early versions of “Vexations,” which became the new album’s opening track, as one such slow-torture situation. “We were confounded as to figuring out an arrangement, and things were just stuck,” he recalls. During one of the long lulls between the studio sessions, Herndon says, he got an idea for the tune. “I asked John if I could have the stems [the individual track files] for the song, and then I kind of did a reworking in the garage. Re-did the drums completely and made a breakdown section in the middle. I sent it and was like, ‘I don't know if this is anything, but here.’ And those guys seemed really excited about it.”

Herndon quickly adds that every Tortoise record has benefitted from similar experimentation. In fact, it’s the key thing, a defining characteristic: “Sometimes doing an edit will leave a space open for something else, and we’re all into that idea of, ‘What happens next?’ It’s this attitude of ‘Let’s make some music together and see what happens.’ We're all comfortable with the not knowing, with letting an idea go through many permutations.”

Along with that is the knowledge that this open-ended exploring can be time-consuming. And might possibly end in futility. McCombs says that though the band’s approach changed with Touch, the players still needed the mindset they’d used in those brainstorming rehearsals. “When I get frustrated or when we seem like we're stalling out a little bit, I just have to remember that patience is one of the things that makes this band work.”

Asked to recall a moment that required patience, McCombs doesn’t hesitate. “It seems to happen a lot with the drummers,” McCombs says. “Somebody will be like, ‘Hey John [McEntire] why don’t you play this?’ And he’ll be like, ‘I don’t wanna play it cause I hear Herndon here.’ It’s like McEntire hears Herdon and Herndon hears Bitney… That happens a lot, and then they’ll come to a consensus. Sometimes half the song will be one drummer and half the song will be another drummer. That’s kind of the way it works.”

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It must be said: When things click into place, Tortoise is a rare force. Whether cranking out a foursquare rock backbeat or chopping time into polyrhythmic shards that defy counting (and logic), the band challenges accepted notions of what rock music can be, what moods it can evoke — that’s part of the reason the band is revered so widely, among musicians working in many genres.

Tortoise’s indescribable sonic arrays have grown more intense — and more influential — over time. Early works — the 1993 debut and the 1996 Millions Now Living Will Never Die, which opens with a twenty-one-minute suite — contrast the thick harmonic schemes of Krautrock with the similarly impenetrable densities of musique concrete, adding jarring spears of electric guitar as spice accents. The commercial breakthroughs that followed, TNT (1998) and Standards (2001) found Tortoise further expanding its toolkit: Rather than orient each piece around declarative single-line melodies, the musicians let the vast, lush, inviting scenes become a hypnotic wordless narrative, built from overlapping layers and interlocking rhythms.

Each step in the discography underscores a truth about Tortoise: The questions about arrangement and orchestration are foundational, defining the scope of the canvas and the density of the band’s exactingly precise soundscapes. There can, as McCombs notes, be multiple drummers on a track, and their beats can be supported by acoustic percussion or random electronic blippage. Likewise, on any given track, there can be multiple mallet parts, sometimes sustaining gorgeous washes of color, at other times pounding out intricate Steve Reich-style interlocked grids of harmony. There can be multiple guitars, each with its own earthshaking effects profile. (Parker laughs when he says “I’m kind of like the straight man with the guitar sounds.”) There can be multiple synthesizers — darting squiggles of lead lines crashing into asymmetrical arpeggios, or bliss-toned drones hovering in the upper-middle register like a cloud in a landscape painting.

And there can be noise, all kinds of it: While the working method of Touch meant Tortoise sacrificed some spontaneous sparks, it encouraged the musicians to explore the thickening textural possibilities of different flavors of noise (white, pink, etc). The band recently issued a set of remixes for the single “Oganesson.” The more austere, stripped-down interpretations offer telling insights about the deployment of noise as well as the track-by-track assembly process, the ways Tortoise uses open space, textural layers, and dissonances to create drama.

McEntire believes those little devices are essential to the sound. “Because we don't have a singer, we have to have a different vocabulary for creating interest. So we use all the little things, like dynamics, texture, orchestration.”

Given the intricacy of the music, McEntire explains, every little sound starts as a decision in the recording studio, and then, subsequently, becomes a logistical decision for live performance — after all, the many parts have to be executed by the five players.

Seefeel is a pioneering, experimental electronic band. Formed in London in the early 1990s, they emerged as one of the most innovative bands bridging shoegaze and electronic music, known for their textured soundscapes, minimalist rhythms and ambient sensibilities. This new, expanded version of Pure, Impure brings together Seefeel’s three classic EPs; More Like Space, Plainsong, and Time to Find Me, and includes Aphex Twin mixes and a previously unreleased demo of “Moodswing”. Remastered by Geoff Pesche at Abbey Road Studios, this 11-track collection also features newly reimagined artwork.

Originally released on Tiger Style in 2003, Two Conversations stands as The Appleseed Cast’s crowning achievement. Arriving during the second-wave emo backlash, the Lawrence, Kansas band sidestepped genre clichés in favour of widescreen indie rock shot through with atmosphere and emotional depth.

Dreamy keys and synths drift over intricate steel-string guitars, carrying lyrics that explore love, loss, and the spaces in between. It’s an album that favours reflection over angst, unfolding with a cinematic sense of space and texture.

Hailed by Pitchfork as sounding “trapped on Polyvinyl Records circa 1996,” Two Conversations remains a landmark — a soul-baring, beautifully constructed record that has only grown in stature with time.

Emerging in the aftermath of the Louisville–via–Chicago late-90s post-rock wave, The Mercury Program carved their own path with a vibraphone-led sound that blurred genre lines. Their 2000 album From The Vapors of Gasoline, released on Tiger Style, was no sophomore slump — its ten intricate, atmospheric tracks fused cerebral post-rock with unexpected flashes of dissonance and melodic warmth.

Rather than conform to the era’s prevailing styles, the group explored what might happen if new age shimmer and post-hardcore intensity shared the same space. The result was a record that felt both expansive and intimate, drawing in listeners with its textured arrangements and restless creativity.

This 25th anniversary remaster brings new clarity and depth to an overlooked triumph, illuminating the full scope of its inventive musicianship for a new generation of heads.

Rumah Sakit were a four-piece rock band based in San Francisco, CA. The group began to take shape in 1998 after guitarist John Baez, bassist Kenseth Thibideau and drummer, Jeff Shannon, all moved from Redlands to San Francisco. Fully formed once guitarist Mitch Cheney quickly joined, the band settled on the name Rumah Sakit – a literal Indonesian translation of “sick room” (aka hospital) – and a sound that fused the frenetic energy of Red-era King Crimson with a meditative melodicism that starkly contrasted the vast majority of so-called “math-rock” bands of the era. Soon thereafter, Rumah Sakit entered the studio for the first time to record what would become their eponymous debut album.Rumah Sakit was recorded in 1999 at The Music Annex – a hallowed megaplex that counts diverse icons such as Erik Satie, The Tubes, Michael Hedges, Montrose, and American Music Club amongst its many historical clients – in two somewhat clandestine overnight sessions with good friends and studio interns, Jay & Ian Pellicci. The album was made with a “no tricks” philosophy that would come to define the band’s approach to performing and documenting their music. Recorded entirely live with no overdubs in very few takes, the band embraced the art of using the natural presence of the room and strategic gear placement to capture the purest and most accurate representation of those songs in those moments. In an era that was quickly being transformed by the burgeoning popularity of ProTools and meticulously manicured, maximalist mixes, the world inside of Rumah Sakit was a refreshing respite.A year later, in the fall of 2000, Rumah Sakit flew renowned Chicago recording engineer and Shellac bassist, Bob Weston, out to San Francisco to spend two brief days recording an EP at John Vanderslice’s Tiny Telephone Recording. This EP would be released as part of Temporary Residence’s subscription-based CD series, Travels In Constants (alongside Mogwai, Low, Explosions In The Sky, Eluvium, and MONO). Aside from the original pressing of 1,000 CDs reserved for subscribers, the studio recordings on Travels In Constants were never available again on any format or platform.Reuniting with Bob Weston to meticulously remaster the original master tapes, Rumah Sakit 25 collects the band’s debut album and their long out-of-print Travels In Constants EP into one exceptional package. Featuring new cover art from old friends and collaborators, Jeremiah Maddock and Marty Anderson, the expansive gatefold 2xLP includes full-color printed inner sleeves featuring hundreds of previously unpublished photos documenting this inspired early era in the band’s history, as well as a massive full-size 24-page art book of previously unpublished artwork by Maddock. It’s an exquisite opus that masterfully captures a special band at a special time.

Chicago Underground Duo is the long-running collaborative project of composer/trumpeter/electronicist Rob Mazurek (Exploding Star Orchestra, Isotope 217, New Future City Radio with Damon Locks) and composer/drummer/mbiraist Chad Taylor (jaimie branch’s Fly or Die, Marshall Allen’s Ghost Horizons, Luke Stewart’s Silt Trio). Hyperglyph is their first album in 11 years, and 8th in the absolute cabinet of wonders that is the Chicago Underground Duo.

The pair have played music together in a multitude of formations over nearly three decades, including their ongoing partnership in Mazurek’s large-format-skyward-expressionism vehicle Exploding Star Orchestra, in the expanded Chicago Underground Trio & Quartet (with guitarist Jeff Parker), and in a plethora of other assemblages. The early albums by the Duo have proven to be embryonic blueprints for the avant-jazz / electronic / indie rock hybridizations of the time, making them majorly important moments in the articulation of the “jazz” dimensionality of the then-burgeoning "post rock" sound. That sound, of course, was being transmitted far and wide due to the success of these groups as well as Mazurek’s Isotope 217 project with Jeff Parker, and the Chicago Underground’s frequent collaborators in Tortoise.

But the sounds being created by this extended family are and were far from static. Just as most of the still-working artists born of that Chicago era have evolved, reconfigured, and grown, Chicago Underground Duo has undergone a number of musical moltings, with the project always in the background of disparate individual aural investigations — always an option, always an outlet. As the project drops off and picks back up, the concurrent personal evolutions of Mazurek and Taylor make the Duo a true reflection of their own lives and friendship.

“Rob is my longest collaborator and also one of my best friends,” says Taylor, who first performed with Mazurek at a club in Chicago in 1988, aged 15.

“When it feels right we do it,” says Mazurek of the gaps in duo activity. “We have worked together and have been friends for a long time. This creates a kind of continuity not only in the music, but in our lives.”

Musically, there are certainly internalized nods here to AACM composers like Wadada Leo Smith, or albums like Don Cherry & Ed Blackwell’s “Mu” and El Corazon, but the songs of Hyperglyph exemplify Mazurek and Taylor’s individualities while also addressing another longtime influence on the Chicago Underground Duo sound — the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost of extreme studio editing in jazz-adjacent music, Miles Davis and Teo Macero’s Bitches Brew, In A Silent Way, and Get Up With It.

“Post production has always been a big part of our process,” says Taylor.

“Sometimes it just flows and we one-take a thing,” Mazurek elaborates. “Other things take time to ferment. We hit those hard in the post production.”

International Anthem engineer Dave Vettraino was indispensable as part of this process, recording and mixing the entire album at IARC HQ in Chicago. “We are very open and free in the studio,” says Mazurek. “Working with Dave is a joy because he is so intuitive and open with his approach as well. We can try anything with him. In this way it is more like a trio than a duo.”

Couple this trio’s take on the now classic cut-and-recut production techniques of Davis/Macero with Mazurek and Taylor’s longtime interest in deep electronic sounds (think Bernard Parmegiani, Morton Subotnick, Xenakis, Eliane Radigue, Plux Quba), transformative processing (think Autechre, King Tubby, Mouse On Mars, Carl Craig) and we can finally get close to understanding just where the duo lands in this lineage — this ongoing narrative each individual finds themselves in whether they see it or not. The Chicago Underground Duo, it seems, sees it.

While the musical language of Mazurek and Taylor can certainly be clocked in the slew of projects that they participate in together, the sound of a Chicago Underground Duo album is singular among them. Hyperglyph is no exception and could even be considered a distillation of that intuitive yet complex sound. A key can be found in the title of the album itself: highly complex geometric structures which can seem overly complex at first but, when thousands are arrayed in 3D space and with user training and adaptation, can significantly enhance perception and information assimilation and lead to new knowledge and insights.

The album opener “Click Song” kicks off with a blown-out horn chant from Mazurek, doubled by tuned bells and nestled into a muscular and symmetrical stereo-overdubbed polyrhythm from Taylor. Synthesized bass pulls our ears along cyclically, dropping in and out to almost severe dynamic effect while Mazurek and the subtle-yet-persistent bells elaborate upon the melody before ultimately departing from their repetitive psalm in favor of improvisation. It’s all held together by the steady, deep, chest-thump boom of Taylor’s kick drum pattern.

“There has always been a lot of African influence in the rhythms we play,” says Taylor. “With this record, specifically, we utilize rhythms from Nigeria, Mali, Zimbabwe, and Ghana.” Taken as a whole, spiritually, this introductory three-minute stomper lives somewhere between a Tuareg wedding and the most hypnotic moments of the click songs of Northern Africa.

Title track “Hyperglyph” follows, and begins with a chromatic moving harmony played by Mazurek on the RMI electric piano, an instrument famously utilized on Miles Davis’ groundbreaking Filles de Kilimanjaro. The vibe here, though, is one of unyielding, trancelike repetition. The trumpet introduces the time, with Taylor's chunky smacking rhythm hitting hard from the get go. Eventually, the tune undergoes a transformation, with the back and forth of melody and rhythm hitting a fever pitch. A pitch-shifted trumpet becomes a New Orleans march baritone. Dennis Bovell-style dub sounds enter (or, maybe, reveal themselves) at the start of the song’s final movement, followed by wordless incantations. Swelling and saturated, the track sounds as if it’s about to tear itself apart. Static pulsing merges and overtakes the recorded percussion to present a new rhythm of hissing electronics — the harnessed wailing of the unleashed ghost in the machine. A spiritual awakening from the bowels of the earth.

“Hemiunu”, a Chad Taylor composition, is a waltz based around a simple piano figure repeated throughout. A folk melody from anywhere, the kind that’s been in the air for as long as anyone can remember. One might imagine the melody played clawhammer on an Appalachian afternoon, bowed somberly on the Chinese erhu, or hummed nonchalantly on the factory line. From the jump, Taylor’s percussion threads itself into the sound of a well-worn upright piano as the high register is haunted in wide stereo by that roiling RMI electric piano in octaves, alternately dubby and harplike. Enter Mazurek with another folk-like melodic phrase. Pause. Again. Pause. Leaving room for the now densely waltzing bouquet to bloom before diving deep into laser-sharp Lee Morganesque territory with a wildly vibrating high trumpet cry, but with a tone Mazurek owns completely.

The deeper reference for Mazurek’s most untethered emotional playing is his late friend and mentor Bill Dixon, an extraction most apparent in the three-part "Egyptian Suite.” At the start of part one (“The Architect”) a cyclical pattern from Taylor becomes a bed for Mazurek’s repeating, descending, synthetic-Egyptian scaled theme. This call to action dissolves into the second movement, “Triangulation of Light,” where Taylor’s bowed cymbals set the stage for an exploration of microtonal color with and against the occasional joining and un-joining of tones that stretch the frequencies to their limits from Mazurek's open and half muted trumpet. Like a tornado siren in the distance, breaking through the membrane of storm clouds on the horizon, in search of another siren.

The third and final movement, “Architectonics of Time,” announces itself with free rolling swaths of percussion from Taylor à la Robert Frank Pozar’s mind-bending percussion on The Bill Dixon Orchestra’s classic Intents and Purposes. Here, though, the lineup is limited to two, with no overdubs or post-production. Taylor's singular style and Mazurek's tonal painting coalesce into a maelstrom of intervallic tone and beat before the final repeat of the lead melody from the suite’s first movement. It truly feels like reaching the summit. It’s pure and free duo interaction, the symbiosis of 30 years.

“Succulent Amber,” the final track on Hyperglyph, could fit just as easily on side two of Autobahn. After a brief modular synth-induced pan-harmonic melody shift, a steady kalimba is joined by the gentle intermittent raindrop-melodicism of the RMI electric piano in this understated final duo performance, unadorned by further studio arrangement. It’s a full-on comedown moment after the intensity of “Egyptian Suite,” though rather than winding down or petering out, here the Chicago Underground Duo still manage to point toward some kind of incoming mystery with four sudden-yet-patient ascending chords on the low-register of the RMI electric piano just before the curtains close. The piano notes end on a leading tone, leaving the resolution to the listener.

Once we’ve climbed the mountain, they remind us, we have to deal with what’s on the other side.

Nearly twenty-five years after disbanding, Gastr del Sol have unpacked their archive, stringing together an alternative view to their genre-melting 1993-1998 run. This assembly of previously uncollected studio recordings and beautifully captured unreleased live performances forms a spacious ode to the flux that was their métier; a further set of reinventions that continue to alter the manner in which we hear music, and literally everything else!

Upgrade & Afterlife stands as a pivotal and singular recording in the catalog of Gastr del Sol, the duo of David Grubbs and Jim O’Rourke. Originally released in 1996, this album is frequently cited as a landmark of post-rock and experimental music, praised for its blend of avant-garde abstraction, folk minimalism, and a restless, exploratory spirit. The album opens with “Our Exquisite Replica of ‘Eternity’,” a piece that has become emblematic for many listeners: a slow-building, cinematic soundscape that combines mangled drones, brassy orchestral samples (from Hans J. Salter’s The Incredible Shrinking Man soundtrack), and electronic textures to create a sense of alien strangeness and emotional depth. The track’s title, inspired by a sign on a Japanese perfume vending machine, hints at the band’s playful conceptual approach.

Throughout Upgrade & Afterlife, Gastr del Sol continually subverts expectations: “Rebecca Sylvester” begins as a sparse guitar ballad before dissolving into ambient abstraction, while “Hello Spiral” and “The Relay” explore fractured electronics, shifting grooves, and prismatic vocal layers. The closing track, a cover of John Fahey’s “Dry Bones in the Valley (I Saw the Light Come Shining ‘Round and ‘Round),” features a guest appearance by Tony Conrad on violin, bridging American folk traditions with the avant-garde and providing a fittingly monumental conclusion.

Critics have described the album as “stark and minimalist at times, jazzy and far-ranging at others,” with a unique ability to make “background music that quietly asserts itself into the foreground”. Pitchfork noted its way of letting “folk and avant-garde abstract each other into something warm, minimal, and slanted”. The album’s cover, Wasserstiefel (Water Boots) by Roman Signer, further underscores its enigmatic and conceptual nature.

Upgrade & Afterlife remains a touchstone for listeners seeking music that is as immediate as it is strange, as spiky as it is immersive-a record that continues to reveal new layers with every listen, and a high point in the collaboration between Grubbs and O’Rourke

Second volume of unreleased solo material by Tim Barnes, Noumena explores the thresholds of perception with long-form compositions built from minimal gestures, field recordings, and ambient textures. A durational and meditative counterpart to Lost Words.

Big Tip! Released shortly after its companion Lost Words, Noumena is the second chapter in a stunning return to solo work by Tim Barnes - percussionist, composer, and sound artist whose influence across avant-garde and improvised music is immeasurable. A study in durational drift and perception, Noumena eschews conventional structure in favor of immersive textures, soft frictions, and the subtle emergence of acoustic detail.

Recorded between 2016 and 2019, the album presents three long-form pieces (Note, Difference, Noumenon) that unfold slowly, often hovering at the threshold of silence. Through field recordings, incidental sounds, and sparse percussive interventions, Barnes offers a deeply immersive sound: field recordings, found objects, analog manipulations, and barely-processed percussion dissolve into each other, creating three long-form pieces—Note, Difference, and Noumenon—that meditate on the porous edge between perception and abstraction. In 2021, Tim was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s at the age of 54, and he and his family went public with this immediately. The response from Tim’s network of friends and musical peers was overwhelming, but the lingering shutdown meant only remote and long-distance interactions were possible. Beginning in late 2021, a large body of recordings coordinated and assembled by Tim’s longtime friend Ken (Bundy) Brown, with whom Tim had worked in the past as a member of the group Pullman, early pioneers of the new Americana movement in the indie scene of the late 90s.

Rather than a showcase of virtuosity, Noumena reveals Barnes's acute sensitivity to space and resonance - his ability to draw musicality from what might otherwise remain unnoticed. Presented on LP in a limited edition via Quakebasket, and distributed by Drag City, this is a vital document from one of experimental music’s most quietly important figures.

Writing a consideration of any portion of Pajo's voluminous catalog is quite the challenge. With the glaring exception of one rainbow colored cutout circa '03, it's been one love affair after the next for me and just about every record he's graced. Yet I find myself returning to make late night headphone excursions into the depths of Live From A Shark Cage on a regular basis, reliving my favorite moments like a ripe, juicy eructation of chili cheese fries in the middle of the night, or reveling as I have in the deja vu-like discovery of some clever plot twist unearthed for the Criterion edition of Brazil. The temptation is here to call it his Zoso, or even Who's Next, but that's unfair to all parties involved, and I'll leave such profane comparisons to the recently graduated music directors of college radio stations polluting the various interweb channels that pass for music journalism in this digital age we inhabit. Rather, Shark Cage deserves to be exalted in the same breath as Maggot Brain, The Payback, Stormcock or Miles' Pangea: modern masterpieces of minima built on subliminally insinuating rondos and vamps that echo not just Dave's own biorhythms, but a microcosmic take on the ur-pulse of the universe. In an era where the referential Lexicon shifts so rapidly that notions of classics and beau ideals scarcely linger as long as the sulfurous flatulence of your cubicle-mate, Shark Cage resounds as the beacon of fortitude in a sea of aural effluvia. If you are uninitiated, avail yourself. If you've been to the fountain, quench yourself again. - Bundy K. Brown 

Unearthed from the neolithic tar that eventually swathes all history, Aerial M’s early-98 Peel Session is once again among us. Compared to the studio takes, played strictly and singly by Aerial/Papa M-astermind David Pajo, these versions swing from the necks of road-burned players, breathing more bestially than their canonical cousins, glinting ‘pon the dark metallic roots that fed all of Pajo’s best guitar lines, winding thru time immemorial.

Black Truffle is thrilled to begin 2025 with a rare solo release from Konrad Sprenger, alias of elusive Berlin composer-producer-instrument builder Jörg Hiller. A prolific collaborator, Sprenger has worked extensively with icons of American minimalism such as Ellen Fullman (with whom her recorded the gloriously eccentric song album Ort) and Arnold Dreyblatt (as a core member of the Orchestra of Excited Strings since 2009), as well as releasing their music on his impeccably curated label, Choose. As an instrument builder and installation artist, he has overseen the creation of a computer-controlled multi-channel electric guitar and, with Phillip Sollmann, a modular pipe organ system designed to be reconfigured from space to space. In much of Hiller’s work, a scientific approach to acoustic phenomena co-exists with a pop sensibility and a sly sense of humour. Nowhere is this unique combination more in evidence than in his slim body of solo work, beginning with the startling diversity of instrumentation and compositional approaches heard on the short pieces of Miniaturen (2006) and Versprochen (2009), followed by the more single-minded exploration of the computer-controlled electric guitar on Stack Music (2017). Set brings together these various strands of Sprenger’s work into a wildly infectious, playful epic, performed by the composer and the mysterious Ensemble Risonanze Moderne. On the LP’s second side, we are also treated to a guest appearance from longtime collaborator Oren Ambarchi, on whose recent solo releases Simian Angel and Shebang Sprenger has made key production contributions. Ambarchi’s signature stuttering, swirling harmonics weave through a sparkling assemblage of electric guitars, acoustic instruments, percussion and electronics—though, given the deft use that much of Sprenger’s recent production work makes of midi-controlled sampled instrumentation, it’s anyone’s guess where the acoustic ends and the digital begins here. As soon as the needle drops on the first side, we are inside a musical world that Set will inhabit for its 33 minutes: sparkling guitar harmonics and palm-muted notes, tuned percussion, crisp electronic drum hits, flashes of horns, and untraceable bursts of synthetic sound are arranged into a skittering polyrhythmic framework calling up the detail-rich percussive constructions of contemporary techno filtered through the pointillism of the post-serialist European avant-garde. Behind this shifting mist of particulate sound, winds and strings sound out held chords, reminiscent of Arthur Russell’s Tower of Meaning in their epic yet seemingly aimless drift. The relationship between elements is mysterious, appearing both carefully considered and almost random. Though never straying too far from where it begins, as the piece moves along, it spotlights increasingly bizarre instrument choices (shakuhachi and steel drums, anyone?) as well as momentary liftoffs into motorik propulsion. Set is a fascinating, mercurial thing: at once propulsive and fragmented, essentially static in form yet ever-changing in detail, unabashedly egghead in its construction yet sure to get the feet tapping.

Suntub’ is the second full length album from ML Buch, a double record of 15 pieces by the Danish composer and producer, entering further into the realm of electric guitars and layered vocals along with exploring new instrumental expressions. With an offset in open tunings on a 7-string Stratocaster, slide and fretless tablet guitars and deep-sampled virtual guitars, the album draws up narratives and locations in a distant time. Props like puddles, well buckets, bone barrels and flesh rags live in these scenes, suspended in air, drifting about, climbing stairs and ladders, all given life through guitar sensibilities and visceral vocals.

Suntub’ is the second full length album from ML Buch, a double record of 15 pieces by the Danish composer and producer, entering further into the realm of electric guitars and layered vocals along with exploring new instrumental expressions. With an offset in open tunings on a 7-string Stratocaster, slide and fretless tablet guitars and deep-sampled virtual guitars, the album draws up narratives and locations in a distant time. Props like puddles, well buckets, bone barrels and flesh rags live in these scenes, suspended in air, drifting about, climbing stairs and ladders, all given life through guitar sensibilities and visceral vocals.

Suntub’ is the second full length album from ML Buch, a double record of 15 pieces by the Danish composer and producer, entering further into the realm of electric guitars and layered vocals along with exploring new instrumental expressions. With an offset in open tunings on a 7-string Stratocaster, slide and fretless tablet guitars and deep-sampled virtual guitars, the album draws up narratives and locations in a distant time. Props like puddles, well buckets, bone barrels and flesh rags live in these scenes, suspended in air, drifting about, climbing stairs and ladders, all given life through guitar sensibilities and visceral vocals.

David Grubbs and Jim O'Rourke's last proper Gastr Del Sol album, 'Camofleur' was originally released in 1998 and sounds fresher than ever, countering the conservative post-rock narrative with innovative fusions of folk, avant jazz and free improv, featuring pals John McEntire, Stephen Prina, Darin Gray, Rob Mazurek, Jeb Bishop, Edith Frost and Markus Popp of Oval fame, finally back in print...

Nearly twenty-five years after disbanding, Gastr del Sol have unpacked their archive, stringing together an alternative view to their genre-melting 1993-1998 run. This assembly of previously uncollected studio recordings and beautifully captured unreleased live performances forms a spacious ode to the flux that was their métier; a further set of reinventions that continue to alter the manner in which we hear music, and literally everything else!

Godspeed You! Black Emperor (GYBE) returns with its first single LP-length release since the group's earliest days in 1997-99. 'Asunder, Sweet And Other Distress' clocks in at a succinct 40:23 and is arguably the most focused and best-sounding recording of the band's career. Following Godspeed's return from a long hiatus at the end of 2010 to begin playing live shows again, and with the hugely acclaimed 'Allelujah! Don't Bend! Ascend!' release in 2012 marking their first new release in a decade, the group slowly and steadily put the new album together through late 2013 and 2014. This mighty slab of superlative sonics is shot through with all the band's inimitable signposts and touchstones: huge unison riffage, savage noise/drone, oscillating overtones, guitar vs. string counterpoint, inexorable crescendos and scorched-earth transitions. 'Asunder, Sweet And Other Distress' finds Godspeed in top form; a sterling celebration of the band's awesome dialectic, where composition, emotion and 'note-choice' is inextricable from an exacting focus on tone, timbre, resonance and the sheer materiality of sound.

Gilla Band Ireland’s favourite Avant-punk quartet has re-issued The Early Years EP, a collection of out of print 7” singles and covers originally released on Any Other City Records and The Quarter Inch Collective and then on Rough Trade Records in 2015. The re-issue features new artwork based on the original colour blocks plus The Cha Cha Cha has now been remastered alongside the rest of the tracks and is ready for the dancefloor once again.

Fan fave (and live setlist staple) featured on the collection is an eight-minute cover of post-dubstep mastermind Blawan’s absurdist banger and demented earworm “Why They Hide Their Bodies Under My Garage” that, simply put, is unlike anything you’ve ever heard before or since.

Gastr Del Sol emerged from the remains of Bastro in 1992 with the brooding, mostly drumless album, ‘The Serpentine Similar’. This represented an unlikely evolution from the fury of Bastro, but evolution was only getting started - and ‘unlikely’ was one of the ongoing principles in Gastr Del Sol’s approach. Before the sessions for the second album, Bundy Brown left the group and David Grubbs asked Jim O’Rourke to come play. 1994’s ‘Crookt, Crackt Or Fly’ tangled the clean lines of the original band in the writing, playing and editing of the music. This was all very fascinating, but it wasn’t until the five songs of ‘Mirror Repair’ that the compelling space of Gastr Del Sol could be fully perceived. ‘Mirror Repair’ was rife with guitar interplay, but Gastr coloured the palette with piano, drums and a sudden and rattling variety of woodwinds, all evoking the obsessive pull of a deep-seeded conviction, an insistent image that one cannot forget in a dense atmosphere with riffs patterning over each other and fading into landscape. The quieting of Gastr Del Sol had been dialling down since the start; here the silences were as essential a part of the sound as the sound was. In a fast five song mini album, length and depth were impossibly extended as part of the many moods of Gastr Del Sol. Albert Oehlen’s cover art provided a perfect counterpart to the sounds within, providing also a shout out to The Red Krayola, where David and Albert met during their mutual involvement with Mayo Thompson. The best in this vein was yet to come - but with ‘Mirror Repair’, Gastr had made something definitive. Now, the bold sounds of nearly twenty years ago are back in the groove, freshly cut for 21st ears to hear. You need ‘Mirror Repair’.

O’Rourke’s process – sourcing resonant sounds to enmesh together into a music that supersedes their resident parts – makes a fitting soundtrack for Kyle Armstrong’s “prairie gothic” tale of down-on-the-farm horror way up north in Canada. His minimalist score inhabits the wide open, big sky landscape, flowing into suddenly-deep (and opaque) emotional waters, then panning out to a chilly omniscient remove.

Originally released in 1993, Quique (pronounced “keek”) was the first album by UK band Seefeel. A landmark album, it’s unique blend of shoegaze fuzz, abstract electronic sounds and sparse minimalism made it a must have for any collector of ambient techno. Released by too pure, the album was reissued in expanded form as Quique Redux on cd in 2007. About it, Pitchfork wrote that “Quique showed how the oceanic end of shoegaze could be found in a purely electronic world” and called the album “timeless”.

"Quique was very much a product of its time in terms of who we were as people, the social world we inhabited and the technology available to us. I think the album was very much restricted by the relatively primitive technology we were using by today's standards, but that very restriction is I think partly what gives it its flavour."– MARK CLIFFORD

We are excited to make Quique and Quique Redux available again, newly remastered by Geoff Pesche at Abbey Road.

QUIQUE REDUX will be available on vinyl for the first time via a limited edition 4XLP set through the Beggars Arkive webstore and bandcamp only. The release is housed in a slipcase with new artwork. The cd version is not limited and will be available everywhere. Quique Redux is comprised of Quique plus 9 bonus tracks of alternate versions and material that wasn’t included on the original album.

QUIQUE will be available everywhere on double LP, remastered.

Funded by Capitol, tracked in 14 studios, issued by Tiger Style, and lost in the Y2K shuffle, Ida’s fourth album captures a band caught between Brooklyn and Woodstock, temping and adulting, burying a parent and birthing a child. A tireless compendium and ode to sleep, sex, all-night talking, and other bed-ridden activities, Will You Find Me‘s 14-songs are pillowed with 34 outtakes, alternate mixes, 4-track demos, and covers from the band’s extensive vault, unfolding thematically across four LPs. The accompanying 24-page booklet documents Ida’s major label album that never was in both stunning photographs and Douglas Wolk’s blow-by-blow essay. Who were you then?

With Leaving It All to Chance, Roomer don’t quite leave everything up to fate. The Berlin outfit’s debut album hums with guitar-driven heartbreak, pairing mind-splitting noise with seductive melodies. Capturing the gritty yet emotive energy of their live performances, the album welcomes in the occasional ear-candy, staying true to the raw physicality of a hazy club show all while sharpening its edges—crafted in true DIY spirit and released by Munich's Squama Recordings.

Roomer is the meeting point of four distinct creative forces in the European music scene, united through long-standing friendships and years of collaboration across projects ranging from avant-garde free improv to ethereal folk and ambient electronica. Inevitably—if surprisingly late—the question arose: why not start a band? In their hands, the rock band format became a canvas for their many musical worlds to collide.

Ronja Schößler, a fixture in Berlin’s experimental singer-songwriter scene, pens compositions of crystalline vulnerability that cut through the band’s guitar architectures with diaristic directness. Ludwig Wandinger, polymath producer and visual artist—recently featured on Caterina Barbieri’s light-years label—injects his drumming with an energy grounded in sharp sound-design instincts. A wizard of the 8-string guitar, Arne Braun lays down layered foundations that evoke the presence of multiple players at once, while minimalist composer and synthesist Luka Aron contributes electro-acoustic textures that shimmer with the weight of distant memories.

With Arne Braun stepping away from the band to focus on other projects—including Make-Up, the DIY recording studio where much of Leaving It All to Chance was brought to life—Roomer now continues as a trio for their upcoming live shows. Expect the occasional special guest or multidisciplinary collaboration, though, as Roomer moves through the gamut of Berlin’s artists, performers, and poets.

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Leaving It All to Chance opens with '2003', where overlapping planes of distorted flute and shimmering guitar create a temporal fold through which memory keeps seeping. Ronja’s confessional voice recounts a moment of disclarity: “I accidentally stepped into 2003,” she admits, reflecting on holding on too long and the realisation that starting over might be futile.

'Nothing Makes Me Feel' performs a decoy, opening with acoustic guitar patterns that suggest singer-songwriter fare before high-pitched distortion tears through the fabric of the song. The chorus arrives like a scene from some imaginary American teen drama finale, yet its pull is complicated by layers of wailing harmonics that hint at something darker.

Perhaps the album’s centrepiece, 'Windows' combines minimal music’s interlacing patterns with sudden eruptions of power chord catharsis. The track’s opaque lyrics (“you ask for purity / I have this melody”) float above guitar work that draws as much from Steve Reich’s phasing techniques as it does from My Bloody Valentine’s tremolo manipulations.

The album’s eponymous single 'Chance', accompanied by a gloomy video steeped in veiled imagery and opaque symbolism, sees Ronja holding light and shadow in her hands. Flame shards flicker through a prismatic lens as the song gradually shifts from straightforwardness into spectral webs of saturated echoes.

Reappearing from Roomer’s previous EP, Skice, albeit in a slower, moodier form, 'Much Too Loud' commences with acoustic guitar and a looming drone that set the stage for the slightly irked vocal delivery, lamenting undertones of power and control, softened by an almost disarming tenderness. Then, without warning, the chorus alters one’s sense of gravity with breathy vocals, countrified plucks, and angelic harmonics that render its central command (“put your head low and shut your mouth please”) both intimate and threatening.

'Stolen Kisses', the album’s penultimate track, reinterprets Psychic TV’s 1982 original—a sly nod to Roomer’s blend of experimental depth and pop immediacy. The British industrial post-punk pioneers blurred the lines between avant-garde provocation and melodic allure, and Roomer channels that spirit, turning the track into an anthem of their own. Distorted guitar downstrokes merge with swirling, feedback-laden slides, all underscored by the band’s undeniable knack for hooks.

Closing the album, 'Your Arms Are My Home' shifts into more pastoral territory. Wide-open, flanged acoustic guitars trace a thin line between comfort and doubt, offering a fragile sense of refuge. Each pause in the music weighs a tension, as if caught between holding on and letting go, its hushed conclusion lingering like a half-remembered promise.