PRE-ORDERS

Holy Tongue are a trio composed of Valentina Magaletti, Susumu Mukai, and Al Wootton. Accomplished musicians in their own right, they create expansive rhythmic music that moves freely through dub, trance, post-punk, free improvisation and cinematic psychedelia. Such a dynamic energy and force is mapped across a trilogy of critically acclaimed EPs, their debut album Deliverance and Spiritual Warfare and their collaborative album with dub-pioneer Shackleton. The trio recorded a series of improvisations in the Swiss Alps and London. Built on the foundation of vintage drum machines and instinctive interplay they created compositions where no stylistic borders apply. The record melts and the musicians’ instruments synergise, with a rawness added with featured vocals from collaborator and experimental vocalist Dali de Saint Paul on two tracks. The record is out via AD 93 on the 9th October. Dub techniques meet ritual percussion, hypnotic pulse and vast Popol Vuh-esque landscapes. Drawing equally from popular music, experimental traditions and spontaneous interaction, the trio treats playing, recording, editing and transformation as part of the same creative act. Sounds emerge, dissolve and reappear in new forms, creating a music that is both deeply physical and endlessly open. With no fixed boundaries and no allegiance to genre, their work embraces movement, texture and collective energy. The result is immersive, transportive music that shifts between meditation and propulsion, intimacy and scale, always evolving in the moment.

Dance Party Album is an extremely early document of dance‑music history, created in 1984 by Z‑Factor, the project of Jesse Saunders and Vince Lawrence, capturing the atmosphere of Chicago house just before its emergence.

“Origen: Una Exploración por el Jazz Modal de los Trópicos” is a celebration of the human bonds that transcend cultural differences to create a shared language beneath the same sky. Asia, the Middle East, Africa, Europe, and the Americas are the protagonists of this sonic diaspora, where Modal Jazz, Spiritual Jazz, Egyptian Jazz, Ethiopian Jazz, Cape Verdean Kriolu, Brazilian Jazz, Latin Jazz, Caribbean Rhythms, and Flamenco Jazz come together, among many other influences, to shape a journey toward healing and a reconnection with our shared origin.

Making a bold change of direction as he toasts 45 years working in electronic music, Steve Rachmad dials up the symphonic dimension of his musical practice for Light and Time — a widescreen trip to techno's outer reaches. As one of the true originators of Dutch dance music, Rachmad brings a wealth of experience to his first album for Dekmantel even as he adopts new production methods to create his most ambient body of work to date. A strong melodic sensibility runs through all of Rachmad's work. His 1995 album The Secret Life Of Machines under his Sterac alias remains a landmark of lush, emotionally charged, deep-diving techno, while classic workouts like 'Helix' and 'Gnosis' (as Parallel 9) foregrounded powerful synth lines. Up until the upheaval of COVID, Rachmad's studio practice had been squarely focused on synths and drum machines, but when (along with the rest of the world) he was stuck at home reevaluating his situation, he found himself exploring the world of film scoring. Experimenting with Native Instruments' sampling software Kontakt, Rachmad taught himself how to arrange and layer orchestral instrumentation. Having rarely used sampling in his music before, the distinct fluctuations of recorded orchestral players opened up a new dimension that has become the foundation of Light and Time, the first of many albums Rachmad has ready to go in a more downtempo, home-listening vein. Throughout Light and Time, harmonious passages take centre stage as Rachmad audibly stretches out. At times the orchestral samples arrive in a pure, organic form, while elsewhere they merge and mutate into synthesised elements. His techno legacy manifests throughout, in abstract form. In lieu of strident beats, we're offered fractal, scratchy rhythms guiding uniquely shaped noise and natural sounding percussion with a human lilt. These fluctuations are no accident — they're a result of Rachmad playing much more of the album by hand after years in thrall to the precise machine pulse of arpeggios and sequences. The album never feels restricted by one dogmatic approach. At times, Rachmad's embrace of moody soundtrack composition fills the whole picture, as on haunting string piece 'The Field Of Reality'. Elsewhere he dips into low-slung electro soul for 'Invisible Warriors Of Light' while 'Cosmic Memories' revels in alien synthesis with a dramatic bite. 'Encrypted Instructions' tweaks and processes string samples through angular prisms to close the album out with an experimental flourish. Rachmad's long and winding history in electronic music naturally folds into these new modes of expression, and the end result is a sumptuous, many-sided album that showcases the hidden depths of a techno legend's musicality.

"When we say feral we mean killable and ungrievable; an animal for whom violent deaths are a possible outcome; that can be culled by slow poison, trapped and left to knaw its own leg off; that is worthless unless domesticated. When we say feral we point to an ideology of extermination and control. When we say feral we mean resisting When we say feral we mean unapologetic."

Alexander Holm presents Dial / Head Stroll, a pair of minimalist sound works built from repetition, movement and subtle shifts in perspective. Loops circle slowly in and out of focus, with fragments of sound appearing and disappearing like half-remembered scenes. Blurring the line between composition and sonic collage, Holm creates an abstract listening experience where small details gradually take on new meaning. Patient, playful and subtly uncanny, Dial / Head Stroll rewards close listening with each repeated pass.

The Melting Hours is a live project by Wata Igarashi and Kuniyuki. WataIgarashi continues to make his mark on the history of techno, whilst Kuniyuki has long been revered as one of Sapporo’s greatest treasures. The two artists, who have long held mutual respect for one another, met whilst performing at the Draaimolen Festival 2025, and this encounter gave rise to The Melting Hours. This is the latest release from Rainbow Disco Club’s label imprint, Beyond Space And Time. ‘Blue Sun’ is imbued with a freshness reminiscent of the ambient jazz masterpieces released by prestigious labels such as ECM and Windham Hill. ‘Liquid Dunes’ sees the organic tones of the flute and percussion melt into over ten minutes of abstract sound textures, whilst the breathtaking ‘Cloud Touch’ awakens amidst a swirling vortex of pulsating downbeats and arpeggios. It is said that ‘Blue Sun’ was created by reconstructing studio rehearsal recordings, whilst ‘Liquid Dunes’ and ‘Cloud Touch’ were crafted from live recordings at Draaimolen 2025. The essence of these works—and indeed of the project The Melting Hours itself—lies at the heart of their improvisational nature. It brings to mind the Rainbow Disco Club event back in 2026, where they wove their sounds amidst fresh greenery and surrounded by listeners under a clear blue sky. It felt as though the pulsating energy was spreading across the dance floor, guided by a session from The Melting Hours that seemed almost like a living creature. The organic breath one senses in this work not only evokes precisely that scene but also allows us to feel the unique, ephemeral nature inherent in this project—and, consequently, the boundless possibilities that stem from it.

Recorded in 1997, upon The Shadow Ring’s return from their final US tour, Lighthouse captures the group at their most stripped-down and visionary. Graham Lambkin’s fractured texts conjure Folkestone’s haunted coastline—Vikings, the Morgawr, a fading Britain, the pull of the sea—under the sway of Alternative TV’s Vibing Up the Senile Man (Part One), the mechanical vernaculars of Robert Ashley and Mark Perry, and the deflated humor of Dad’s Army and It Ain’t Half Hot Mum. Originally issued in 1999 on Scott Foust’s Swill Radio, this lost masterpiece—a stark, lo-fi world of home recording and concrète capture—is once again available on vinyl. For fans of Alan Titchmarsh, David Croft, Harry Pussy, and Idea Fire Company.

Frogs, condensed milk, the patter of rain. HUG is the new collaborative project from the celebrated guitarists and songwriters Gyan Riley, Devendra Banhart, and Noah Georgeson. Three eternal friends becoming children.

1 TOTAL 2 Composer and multi-instrumentalist Koen Holtkamp has spent more than two decades shaping a body of work at the intersection of ambient, experimental, and electroacoustic music. Known for his role in the influential duo Mountains, as well as a solo catalog defined by texture and spatial awareness, Holtkamp has long explored how sound interacts with environment and perception. With Nightlife, he enters a new phase of that inquiry, one shaped as much by physical relocation as artistic evolution.After leaving Brooklyn for the relatively rural setting of New York’s Hudson Valley, Holtkamp found himself immersed in nature and embracing a slower way of life, a shift that directly informed the album’s creation. Rather than rushing into a new project, he allowed the space itself to guide him, focusing on experimentation and play instead of a fixed outcome. Over time, a new instrument emerged from his modular system, built around physical modeling techniques that emulate plucked string sounds. Drawing on a deep affinity for acoustic traditions, from guitar soli to the kora and other chordophones, he began translating those influences into an electronic language, creating music that feels tangible, effusive, and even intimate, despite its synthetic nature.As the pieces took shape, Holtkamp expanded the project into a kind of imagined ensemble. Composed with specific collaborators in mind, the album features extensive contributions from drummer Greg Fox and saxophonist and flutist Matt Bauder, whose performances subtly reshape the material and draw it toward more fluid, song-like forms, alongside a guest appearance from Ben Vida on synth bass. Yet even as Nightlife occasionally resembles a band in motion, its construction resists traditional cohesion. Acoustic and electronic sources coexist to create a hyper-dimensional sense of space, with each element deliberately placed in its own distinct environment, yielding a complex yet inviting setting that feels both otherworldly and completely natural. Much of the album was created during late-night sessions, which became a kind of personal ritual and ultimately inspired its title. Nightlife unfolds as a series of finely detailed environments, where stillness, texture, and subtle interplay take precedence over momentum. Each piece invites close listening while remaining open and unforced, reflecting both a change in pace and a deepening of focus. The result extends Holtkamp’s ongoing interest in how sound can shape, and be shaped by, the spaces we inhabit.

Isik Kural’s Motorcycles and Cherry Wind is a sonic travelogue of stories waiting and wanting to be told, of seekers passing through a loop of time as they become witnesses to the glories of the ancient ruins. The album holds sounds of timeless quality—like inherited folklore, draped with secondhand nostalgia—taking the shape of whoever is eager enough to claim it as their own. Rich and full of character like the dusty mystery of an archeological site, Kural whispers to the living and the long gone alike in the poetic embrace of Motorcycles and Cherry Wind.

Liminal space – We all know it, a familiar friend. The haze we slip into on our way to sleep. That warmth on your eyelids you feel when you turn your face to the sun and drift out of time for a few minutes. Those moments of stillness that belong to you in the sacred minutes before the alarm goes off, before you are fully able to acknowledge the outside world that waits on you like some hungry panther, eyeing you from strange trees. Inhabiting this zone is a luxury, but the best sort of liminality lives in a very specific dream space, one we spend the rest of our lives chasing: The deep sleep that most children know. Somewhere between familiar household sounds and being carried to your own bed, there’s the quiet that only belongs to you and some dream self – someone that you haven’t met yet, but that you make future plans for and secret promises to. June McDoom’s debut full-length, Follow the Light, feels exactly like exploring this space and pushing forward, slipping out of time and waking up someplace new, a place that’s barely familiar enough to feel like home but somehow already wholly personal and meant for you alone. June grew up in a Jamaican household in South Florida, an existence built of strong extended family, communal care, bass and harmonics. Her father, a carpenter and student of sound all his own, built his own speakers and maintained no less than three sound systems across as many rooms. The bass from his solitary DJ sets would sneak its way through her bedroom floor, making itself at home like some wayward cat as she listened to folk records, finding harmonies that were new and special to her. On the edge of the Florida Everglades, two musics in one room, meshing into something indescribable. Lushness as past and premonition. The low end of where she comes from, and the high, gentle harmony of what she would eventually seek out, sharing the same humid air. She would find folk music on her own, somewhere between the cast recording of The Sound of Music and Simon and Garfunkel’s contributions to The Graduate, all the while nobody around her listening to it and her parents referring to it as “that sleepy music.” She did not mind being the only one; the solitude afforded her the opportunity to fall in love with harmony first, before words, before anything else. Harmony is the thing that reaches her, and now it is the thing she effortlessly reaches for. You will hear it all over this album, with chords opening up to greet you before you have any idea what she’s singing about. Yet and still, an elder also traveled a similar path: Her grandfather, Colin Smith, was a distinguished mento man who played banjo and guitar, built his own rumba boxes and worked hard to keep Jamaica’s oldest form of rural acoustic folk music and storytelling alive. Mento is the genre at the root of all of it – we have the form to thank for ska, rock steady, reggae, dub and everything that came after, and he is the one who put a guitar in her hands. An inheritance, a gift and a map. Even her name is part of it, though she will tell you she landed on it more by feel than reason. She records as June McDoom, born Alyssa, June being a nickname one of her grandmothers, Joan, went by, a name she thought was cool to carry and simply liked the sound of. An etheric channel that reverberates all the same. A dub all its own. For years, this was just the sound of her family, a comfort and constant companion that did not yet feel as if it also belonged to her. It took going out into the world, living, loving, learning and coming back home, to find that she had earnestly built a full life of her own – and that there was a sound to meet it. She put on an Alton Ellis record one day and realized the soundshe had been seeking had been there her whole life, a steady groove meant to hold anyone with ears and heart enough to listen. She set out to create and ended up making music that held space for all of the sounds and feelings that she loved. Not a reggae or dub record, not a folk record, but the harmony of one laid over the rhythm of the other. Sonic liminality, echoed out into the cosmos in some places. She and her longtime partner, Evan Wright, created the songs slowly, by hand. Songcraft for the pair meant stacking parts over time, chasing texture, exercising restraint in their explorations, keeping things minimal on purpose. Nearly every one began as just her voice and a guitar before the two of them fleshed it out, Evan playing most of the instruments while June layered in the vocal harmonies she so loves to arrange. They opened the record by cutting live drums with Victor Axelrod, the producer who records as Ticklah, down in his Sunset Park basement, then carried the songs home and built the rest themselves across long days in the studio they keep at home, tracking to tape and digital both, even hauling out to a friend’s house for the harp. Dub and Wall of Sound influencing the low end, with echoes of Dionne Warwick, Minnie Riperton, Pentangle and the washy, stellar guitars of Cocteau Twins’ Victorialand haunting the outer edges of what her sound would shapeshift into. Angelic heroics, and nothing less. It was not easy, by any stretch. A casual listener won’t know that she spent twelve hours a day mixing because she wanted perfection, or that she started the process over when, on a Christmas visit, her parents told her that they couldn’t hear enough of her vocals. “Without You,” the album’s lead single, carries the fingerprints of that patience: it began with live drums running straight through and slowly became something else entirely, the deeper she steeped it in Cocteau Twins, until a dub bassline and a shoegaze shimmer met in the middle, in the last place you would think to look for either one. That was the standard she wanted to meet and surpass – but you, listener, will only hear a record that could have gone overboard but didn’t. Generous in its way, it invites you in as an active participant on the path, leaving room for you instead of telling you how to feel. At the heart, the core of all of this, is June’s grandmother Aggie. She formed the center, both in family and in this recording – a guide for June in moments of stillness, in moments of uncertainty, and at the edges that she wants to keep close. Indeed, the song “Memory” was written with her in mind. That is the light making its way through the pinhole in this camera of the mind, the guide that helps June to focus, to see and to step forward confidently. People who love you showing the way, their energy still present and shining even when their form has moved on. There’s a harder, quieter undercurrent that moves through this album – one that June explores in “Outside the Window.” There are so many different iterations of a self, all belonging to so many different sets of people and realities. What obligation do you have to them, and can you meet all of the promises that you made to yourself in those sleepy, hazy moments when you pretended you weren’t a kid anymore? What is authenticity? Who defines that? Who do you owe it to? What do you owe yourself? These are questions that prowl around the corners of the overthinking artist’s mind when creating an album this intimate, this exacting, this personal. You’re learning how to be a person in public while keeping a degree of interiority all of your own, trying to make sure that you don’t let your life pass you by as you’re trying to meet your own standards. Future You is an ancestor that your current self gets to meet. As June layers these songs, she is figuring out who she is in real time. The album holds that answer, and offers it to you, the listener, as well. It knows that none of us are just one person, but a multitude of people we’ve had to let go of, kill off, commit to meeting at a future date and time. A continuum: There’s an entire lineage of selves that we all carry with us each day, and others that we will eventually meet. We are reaching back to those people and waving hello to them at the same time, along with the lineages of people who helped to shape us and get us here. A collection of people and things that don’t seem to go together, but we let them in anyway. Dark. Light. Equals. Opposites. All there in sound, in spirit, in daily action. We turn into the light when things feel dark. We get used to feeling around for it if we can’t see it. We let the warmth of it hit our faces and slowly open eyes to see.

Liminal space – We all know it, a familiar friend. The haze we slip into on our way to sleep. That warmth on your eyelids you feel when you turn your face to the sun and drift out of time for a few minutes. Those moments of stillness that belong to you in the sacred minutes before the alarm goes off, before you are fully able to acknowledge the outside world that waits on you like some hungry panther, eyeing you from strange trees. Inhabiting this zone is a luxury, but the best sort of liminality lives in a very specific dream space, one we spend the rest of our lives chasing: The deep sleep that most children know. Somewhere between familiar household sounds and being carried to your own bed, there’s the quiet that only belongs to you and some dream self – someone that you haven’t met yet, but that you make future plans for and secret promises to. June McDoom’s debut full-length, Follow the Light, feels exactly like exploring this space and pushing forward, slipping out of time and waking up someplace new, a place that’s barely familiar enough to feel like home but somehow already wholly personal and meant for you alone. June grew up in a Jamaican household in South Florida, an existence built of strong extended family, communal care, bass and harmonics. Her father, a carpenter and student of sound all his own, built his own speakers and maintained no less than three sound systems across as many rooms. The bass from his solitary DJ sets would sneak its way through her bedroom floor, making itself at home like some wayward cat as she listened to folk records, finding harmonies that were new and special to her. On the edge of the Florida Everglades, two musics in one room, meshing into something indescribable. Lushness as past and premonition. The low end of where she comes from, and the high, gentle harmony of what she would eventually seek out, sharing the same humid air. She would find folk music on her own, somewhere between the cast recording of The Sound of Music and Simon and Garfunkel’s contributions to The Graduate, all the while nobody around her listening to it and her parents referring to it as “that sleepy music.” She did not mind being the only one; the solitude afforded her the opportunity to fall in love with harmony first, before words, before anything else. Harmony is the thing that reaches her, and now it is the thing she effortlessly reaches for. You will hear it all over this album, with chords opening up to greet you before you have any idea what she’s singing about. Yet and still, an elder also traveled a similar path: Her grandfather, Colin Smith, was a distinguished mento man who played banjo and guitar, built his own rumba boxes and worked hard to keep Jamaica’s oldest form of rural acoustic folk music and storytelling alive. Mento is the genre at the root of all of it – we have the form to thank for ska, rock steady, reggae, dub and everything that came after, and he is the one who put a guitar in her hands. An inheritance, a gift and a map. Even her name is part of it, though she will tell you she landed on it more by feel than reason. She records as June McDoom, born Alyssa, June being a nickname one of her grandmothers, Joan, went by, a name she thought was cool to carry and simply liked the sound of. An etheric channel that reverberates all the same. A dub all its own. For years, this was just the sound of her family, a comfort and constant companion that did not yet feel as if it also belonged to her. It took going out into the world, living, loving, learning and coming back home, to find that she had earnestly built a full life of her own – and that there was a sound to meet it. She put on an Alton Ellis record one day and realized the soundshe had been seeking had been there her whole life, a steady groove meant to hold anyone with ears and heart enough to listen. She set out to create and ended up making music that held space for all of the sounds and feelings that she loved. Not a reggae or dub record, not a folk record, but the harmony of one laid over the rhythm of the other. Sonic liminality, echoed out into the cosmos in some places. She and her longtime partner, Evan Wright, created the songs slowly, by hand. Songcraft for the pair meant stacking parts over time, chasing texture, exercising restraint in their explorations, keeping things minimal on purpose. Nearly every one began as just her voice and a guitar before the two of them fleshed it out, Evan playing most of the instruments while June layered in the vocal harmonies she so loves to arrange. They opened the record by cutting live drums with Victor Axelrod, the producer who records as Ticklah, down in his Sunset Park basement, then carried the songs home and built the rest themselves across long days in the studio they keep at home, tracking to tape and digital both, even hauling out to a friend’s house for the harp. Dub and Wall of Sound influencing the low end, with echoes of Dionne Warwick, Minnie Riperton, Pentangle and the washy, stellar guitars of Cocteau Twins’ Victorialand haunting the outer edges of what her sound would shapeshift into. Angelic heroics, and nothing less. It was not easy, by any stretch. A casual listener won’t know that she spent twelve hours a day mixing because she wanted perfection, or that she started the process over when, on a Christmas visit, her parents told her that they couldn’t hear enough of her vocals. “Without You,” the album’s lead single, carries the fingerprints of that patience: it began with live drums running straight through and slowly became something else entirely, the deeper she steeped it in Cocteau Twins, until a dub bassline and a shoegaze shimmer met in the middle, in the last place you would think to look for either one. That was the standard she wanted to meet and surpass – but you, listener, will only hear a record that could have gone overboard but didn’t. Generous in its way, it invites you in as an active participant on the path, leaving room for you instead of telling you how to feel. At the heart, the core of all of this, is June’s grandmother Aggie. She formed the center, both in family and in this recording – a guide for June in moments of stillness, in moments of uncertainty, and at the edges that she wants to keep close. Indeed, the song “Memory” was written with her in mind. That is the light making its way through the pinhole in this camera of the mind, the guide that helps June to focus, to see and to step forward confidently. People who love you showing the way, their energy still present and shining even when their form has moved on. There’s a harder, quieter undercurrent that moves through this album – one that June explores in “Outside the Window.” There are so many different iterations of a self, all belonging to so many different sets of people and realities. What obligation do you have to them, and can you meet all of the promises that you made to yourself in those sleepy, hazy moments when you pretended you weren’t a kid anymore? What is authenticity? Who defines that? Who do you owe it to? What do you owe yourself? These are questions that prowl around the corners of the overthinking artist’s mind when creating an album this intimate, this exacting, this personal. You’re learning how to be a person in public while keeping a degree of interiority all of your own, trying to make sure that you don’t let your life pass you by as you’re trying to meet your own standards. Future You is an ancestor that your current self gets to meet. As June layers these songs, she is figuring out who she is in real time. The album holds that answer, and offers it to you, the listener, as well. It knows that none of us are just one person, but a multitude of people we’ve had to let go of, kill off, commit to meeting at a future date and time. A continuum: There’s an entire lineage of selves that we all carry with us each day, and others that we will eventually meet. We are reaching back to those people and waving hello to them at the same time, along with the lineages of people who helped to shape us and get us here. A collection of people and things that don’t seem to go together, but we let them in anyway. Dark. Light. Equals. Opposites. All there in sound, in spirit, in daily action. We turn into the light when things feel dark. We get used to feeling around for it if we can’t see it. We let the warmth of it hit our faces and slowly open eyes to see.

Dublin-born, thirty years an immigrant. That's the spine of henry o henry's debut, Apocrypha, not as a concept but as a condition. "Ireland is the DNA of the thing," he says, "the thing before every other thing." He's spent three decades in the United States working in the trades, absorbing the country's mythologies, imagining Whitman's American spirit, and building what he calls "an idiosyncratic American language" out of it all. He is, by his own account, "formally and informally not a musician." A childhood nylon-string guitar, a few chords learned, and not much else until 2019, when his brother handed him a $6 charity-shop guitar with a repaired headstock and low strings that distorted unpredictably. All but two of the songs on Apocrypha were written on it. It doesn't appear on the record. The songs came with a kind of finality. "I wrote them for myself," he says, "and was certain every song was the last one." It was filmmaker Rick Alverson, a longtime friend who produced the sessions, who convinced him they could stand together as something. They do. The musicians Eamon O'Leary and Ned Steves, father and son, play most of the album, recording together for the first time, without rehearsal. Their instinct is at once precise and open, parts that feel discovered rather than placed, deepening the harmonic language without disturbing the clarity of the songs. The sessions were engineered by Peter Townsend, the longtime Will Oldham collaborator who drummed on Bonnie "Prince" Billy's I See a Darkness. Erik Hall mixed and contributed overdubs; Emilie Rex of Lean Year lends luminous harmonies to three songs; poet Callie Garnett appears on another. The arrangements grew in the room, the lyrics and melodies arriving intact, the music unfolding around them. Throughout, Alverson guided the tonal atmosphere and arrangements, shaping the space the songs inhabit as much as the performances themselves. The title does what o henry likes: it's slippery. Apocrypha suggests disputed texts, hidden books, stories that may or may not be true. "It suggests I might not be telling the truth," he says, "but also, some say, the Apocrypha were kept out of the Bible because they were too good." Across nine songs, with a sensibility that sits alongside John Cale, Nick Drake, and Leonard Cohen, o henry moves through time and place with a writer's quiet authority. "Spanish Girl" revisits his early-90s East Village years, an "operetta of agonies and enchantments." "Parade" is what it feels like when a place won't release you; "Driveway" is when the place is all that's left. Album standout "There" captures something harder to name: how powerful feelings drive you to the page, and how the thing you make can outlast the feelings that made it. "It feels like a triumph over something," he says, "even if you're a bit embarrassed by some of the sentiment." Apocrypha arrives as a debut but carries the patience of a life lived in full, shaped by Tarkovsky and Bolaño, by Frank O'Hara and a $6 guitar, by the specific weight of being somewhere for a long time without quite being from there.

Vieri Mura grew up under Sardinia’s intense sun. For many years, he has traveled to the north of the island to visit the renowned singer Maria Teresa Pirrigheddu (b. 1942). What began as a musical interest evolved into a profound familial bond. Rundinas (“Swallows” in Sardinian), captured by Vieri on portable devices, documents this relationship, along with the sound of the island, and the rhythm of Maria Teresa’s daily life. Maria Teresa sings orally transmitted cantos a chiterra over Vieri’s minimal compositions for guitar (Side A, in her garden) and organ (Side B, in the church, steps from her home). Swallows drift throughout, symbols of passing seasons and fleeting youth. Maria Teresa, now 84, her voice at once agile and veiled with age, imparts new layers of meaning to these ancient chants.One of the most profoundly moving and transporting pieces of music we’ve heard, recorded in the present yet stretching back hundreds of years, a musical dialogue between two artists of different generations and the land that nourished them. A source of hope and beauty in a diminished world.

Arca, a musician, producer, vocalist, and visual artist from Venezuela, has become an indispensable figure in the contemporary music scene. Following his 2020 album *KiCk i*—which earned him two Grammy nominations—he has released the five-part *KICK* series (*Kick II* (2021), *Kick III* (2021), *Kick IIII* (2021), and *kiCK iiiii* (2021)), he is making his long-awaited comeback with the full-length album *XXXXX*.

Karen y Los Remedios’ new album Bestiaria expands the introspective world they established earlier, drawing on Mexican mythology, folk traditions, and feminine symbolism to shape a dense, narrative-driven form of electronic music.

Another late night oooooze from short span, this time from NYC’s Eden Aurelius doing that sticky, hazed thing you’ll love if you’ve a feel for False Aralia, 3XL, Emer… "A beautifully poised collection for Short Span. A gorgeous showcase of her singular talent within a sparkling scene. Recorded in Brooklyn, NY, this is an innovative, and graceful body of music that feels truly contemporary. This album felt important for us to have out in time for summer. Emerging out of the heat, a feeling brought alive with the sun. Music that evolves throughout seasons and carries a spectrum of emotional range. Entre Nous is tight, but expansive. Its depth and complexity is languid but has gravitational pull. Like much of her work, this record feels so refreshing because its tracks are both sensory and illusory tones built in gossamer and transitory layers of satin. They have a remarkable sense of presence and pressure - floating rhythmically without sharp edges. There is guidance and gentle control that lead throughout the record. The B side opens with “Ion” featuring Pontiac Streator. The song is formed out of a textural haze. A glistening, iridescent light appears, broken through fabric, projecting a blurred image onto the surface nearby. A hypnotic and evocative collaboration. The shared connection between the two artists’ command of rhythm and ambient language. Mastered and cut by Mike Grinser at Manmade.

Naya Beat’s second installment in the acclaimed series, Select Remixes and Reworks 2, digs into South Asian rare groove, disco, and new wave, reimagining them for contemporary dance‑music culture.

Originally released on Mark Ernestus and Moritz von Oswald's Chain Reaction label in 1999, Hallucinator's Landlocked is compiled onto a 2LP for the first time. Created by London trio Anna Piva, Edward George and Trevor Mathison, the album became a quietly influential early dub techno release, built from deep bass, echo, fractured rhythms and carefully sculpted space. Across twelve tracks, sounds fade in and out with hypnotic precision, creating an atmosphere that values silence as much as texture. Beneath its abstract surface sits a dedication to the memory of Stephen Lawrence, lending the music a lasting emotional resonance. More than 25 years on, Landlocked remains a distinctive work of immersive, minimalist electronic music.

In Arc, Yorkshire-born artist Kirk Barley explores alternative tunings and off-grid sequencing to shape fluid rhythmic and melodic systems that unfold into rich harmonic forms. Kirk’s fourth album under his own name and debut for Marionette continues his exploration of just intonation through a sparse but finely detailed palette of organic atmospheres, metallic shimmer and off-kilter rhythms. Across the record, glassy pads, gamelan metallophones, clarinet and guitar dissolve into fluid, dreamlike forms, suggesting vast coastal landscapes, charged air and the stillness that follows turbulence. Drawing on the feel of sample-based hip-hop, the minimalism of Terry Riley and Jon Hassell, as well as dub techno and post-rock, Kirk brings together a range of influences in a sound that feels both intimate and expansive. After first hearing Terry Riley’s Shri Camel as a teenager, he became captivated by just intonation and microtuning, inspirations that have shaped his work ever since, from his earliest Bambooman releases to the present solo works and as Church Andrews & Matt Davies. Arc is his first record to be fully rooted in alternative tunings from start to finish. Longtime friend and collaborator Matt Davies appears on Ion, Sundry, Ecstatic and Fret (Haar), where his finely detailed, ASMR-like muted percussion deepens the dialogue between tactile acoustic sound and Kirk’s luminous electronic palette.

The only break-up record you'll ever need to own. With its lofted harmonies, pick-pocket rhythms, and wailing-in-the-2AM-distance ambulance guitar solos, Ida's 1996 sophomore album leaked out of Brooklyn via detachable car stereo CD players and mixtapes from long-distance lovers. Originally issued on the stalwart Simple Machines label, this 30th anniversary deluxe Numero edition of I Know About You adds half a dozen extras, a wealth of photographic evidence - tissues not included.

The only break-up record you'll ever need to own. With its lofted harmonies, pick-pocket rhythms, and wailing-in-the-2AM-distance ambulance guitar solos, Ida's 1996 sophomore album leaked out of Brooklyn via detachable car stereo CD players and mixtapes from long-distance lovers. Originally issued on the stalwart Simple Machines label, this 30th anniversary deluxe Numero edition of I Know About You adds half a dozen extras, a wealth of photographic evidence - tissues not included.

Celebrating half a century since its legendary debut, Guruh Gipsy returns in a definitive 2026 official reissue—honoring one of the most visionary works in Indonesian music history. Widely regarded as one of the greatest Indonesian albums of all time, this landmark release is an experimental collaboration between Guruh Soekarnoputra and the progressive rock collective Gipsy. Its bold fusion of Balinese traditional music, orchestral composition, and progressive rock spirit resulted in a work far ahead of its time—a sonic artifact that remains deeply relevant and inspiring today.