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Electric guitarist and composer David Torn announces "now i imagine a place not the same," an expansive new double LP out May 29 via Kou Records. Produced by Randall Dunn (Sunn O))), Thurston Moore), the album revisits the raw electricity of Torn’s early processing language while carrying it forward with the perspective of decades of exploration. Visceral yet weightless, it deepens his long-standing dialogue between alternate tunings, looping systems, and touch-sensitive electronics. Melody, noise, and atmosphere move through one another in a continuously shifting field of tone. A pioneering figure in electric guitar processing, Torn has exerted a quiet but far-reaching influence on both film scoring and contemporary electro-acoustic music. In addition to his own scores, he has made formative creative contributions to works by Carter Burwell, Ryuichi Sakamoto, Cliff Martinez, Howard Shore, and Mark Isham. Across these collaborations, his guitar language helped shape a cinematic vocabulary that feels atmospheric, psychological, and texturally alive. Beyond film, Torn’s presence spans an unusually broad range of artists, including David Bowie, Madonna, John Legend, Tori Amos, k.d. lang, Don Cherry, Bill Bruford, Tony Levin, and David Sylvian. His recordings for ECM Records further defined an immersive, spatial approach to processed guitar that continues to resonate across generations. Tracked in close collaboration with Dunn, the sessions privilege immediacy and physical presence. Each piece unfolds as composition-minded improvisation, with Torn treating everything within reach as musical material: strings, pickups, amplifiers, external electronics, voice, resonant surfaces, and the surrounding space itself. As Torn writes: “My approach to these peri-composerly improvisations was pretty basic: everything in my view, grasp, and reach became an instrument for tone and feeling. Strings, pickups, electronics, the amplifiers, even a stone or two — anything could enter the music. Sometimes a sound would appear suddenly; sometimes an accident or interruption would open the door. The important thing was trusting that shape and feeling would emerge, and following it until the music revealed itself whole.” Rather than composing toward fixed outcomes, Torn allows form to emerge through feedback and repetition, absorbing intended and unintended sounds into a living structure. Foundational tools from his formative processing years — alternate tunings, looping logic, tube saturation — return not as nostalgia but as active materials. Intimate yet expansive, "now i imagine a place not the same" captures an artist fully inhabiting his singular language: melodic, exploratory, and grounded in touch and electricity. It is not a retrospective glance backward, but a declaration in the present tense. The physical edition of the record is accompanied by a series of original paintings by legendary fantasy artist Arik Roper, whose work appears across the front cover, gatefold interior, and a commissioned portrait of Torn. The record also includes a concrete poem written by Stephen O’Malley (Sunn O))), Khanate, Burning Witch) in honor of Torn, alongside liner notes by Randall Dunn reflecting on the sessions that shaped the recording.
Japanese edition with Obi. The third part in Jon Hassell’s Pentimento trilogy captures the much-missed artist performing as part of a trio with Rick Cox and John von Seggern in London in 2015, in what would turn out to be his final ever concert. Carefully edited and mixed by Jeff Rona into something much more than a traditional ‘live album’; themes, motifs and riffs from his critically adored albums Listening To Pictures and Seeing Through Sound occur throughout these unique, semi-improvised mutations, making this a fitting final volume in the late career renaissance of the Pentimento series.
LP and CD edition contains a liner note essay by Jon Hassell that inspired the title, whilst the cover utilises Leh C’est Beau, a classic painting by Jon’s close friend Mati Klarwein, familiar to music fans through his striking 1970s album sleeves for the likes of Miles Davis and Santana.
‘Pentimento’ is defined as “the appearance in a painting of earlier images, forms, or strokes that have been changed and painted over”, a methodology that Jon applied in a musical sense throughout his career, refining and developing his approach over time. Alongside the release of Music Is Invisible, Ndeya have also put together a triple disc anthology of all three albums in the series.
Fog is Marija Rasa’s debut album on Short Span as emer, and her first cut to wax. It follows a single featuring Ugnė Uma for Stroom and a wonderful debut tape for the now cult (I hope!) incubator label Lilerne Tape Club. It’s for dreamers. Very dub. Soul. Ambient too. A bit of Detroit-like post industrial imagining. You can read it is as a new and different version of a very classic dub technique from the producer in many ways - Marija at the mixing console and effects desk, conjuring a new versioned music through radical restructuring and an instinctive reshaping of space + melody + lyric in studio experimentation. Tracks are pinned down by thick and enveloping bass while other elements float in and out, fleeting narcotic or hypnagogic notes of fantasy and song form bob in and out of focus. Scant colours and disorienting voice and melody sit suspended, occasionally coalescing and breaking out into moments of radiant beauty and slowly burning manifestations of warmth and presence shooting through the heart and gut.
Mothers of All is Mark Gomes' second album as Blue Chemise for Students of Decay, following 2018’s acclaimed Daughters of Time. Though built from very different materials, it shares its predecessor's economy, sense of proportion, and fascination with the ways domestic life can open onto larger and less easily defined realms. Where Daughters of Time evoked tender, if alien, nursery songs, Mothers of All takes the form of spectral salon music heard at a temporal and geographic remove. These pieces feel fundamentally receptive, with Gomes allowing his chosen fragments to retain their own histories - both personal and aesthetic - while revealing unexpected tonal relationships through their idiosyncratic arrangement. The resulting music is at once deeply personal and strangely unmoored, a space where the intimate and the distant occupy the same plane. What lingers about this project as a whole is the paradox that the most private experiences can also be the least singular: that family, memory, and devotion become most legible at the point where they cease belonging to any one life.
“Kataomoi” is the 1962 debut song by Okinawan folk singer Misako Oshiro, who passed away in 2021.
Written and composed by her mentor, Teihan China (father of Sadao China), this song became Oshiro’s signature piece. Oshiro, who remained an active singer until the very end, continued to cherish and perform this song, nurturing it over the years.
This album features her disciple, Kanako Horiuchi, carrying on the legacy by performing the song.
Originally released in June 2009, The Ecstatic stands as a defining artistic statement from Mos Def (now known as yasiin bey) — a richly textured return to form that reaffirmed his status as one of hip-hop’s most adventurous and intellectually engaged voices. Arriving a decade after his celebrated debut Black on Both Sides, the album was widely regarded as his strongest work in years, earning near-universal praise for its lyrical breadth, eclectic production, and thematic ambition. Musically, The Ecstatic weaves a global sonic tapestry shaped by an array of forward-thinking producers including Madlib, J Dilla, Oh No, Preservation, Mr. Flash, Chad Hugo (of The Neptunes), and Georgia Anne Muldrow. The resulting soundscape is both rooted in hip-hop tradition and unbound by genre, integrating elements of jazz, soul, Middle-Eastern inflection, and experimental sample work. Tracks like “Supermagic” and “Twilite Speedball” establish a vibrant, restless energy that mirrors the album’s expansive creative scope. Lyrically, yasiin bey traverses personal, political, and philosophical terrain with characteristic incisiveness, confronting social inequality, Western imperialism, and questions of cultural identity with poetic urgency. Embracing risk and complexity rather than nostalgia, The Ecstatic remains a mature, deeply felt body of work whose ambition, depth, and enduring resonance have solidified its place as a standout entry in Mos Def’s catalog and in modern hip-hop history.
Yaphet is the new album from rapper Curly Castro- also known as one half of the dynamic duo Shrapknel- out September 18, 2026, on Backwoodz Studioz. On Yaphet, Castro draws inspiration from the Blaxploitation film genre of the 1970’s; using that era’s black heroes and antiheroes as a launching pad for his cinematic lyricism. Flows switch as effortlessly as camera angles; verses are saturated with references and entendres; it’s an endlessly rewind-worthy rap masterclass. But Yaphet is also Castro’s first solo album since 2021’s Little Robert Hutton, and beneath the fireworks, this album reflects the depth of his experiences in those intervening years. “I didn’t set out to be so honest about my life, but that’s what came out and the album is better for it,” Castro explains, “from facing the death of my infant daughter, to my father’s death, to facing my own impending mortality, these are my most vulnerable blades, on my deepest cuts.” Like Castro, this record marches to the beat of its drum, and make no mistake, there are drums a-plenty for the veteran MC to spar with, as only he can. Produced entirely by Milwaukee beat maker Locust, Yaphet is a bouncy, eclectic listen that nods to its influences, without ever looking backward. Castro is joined by a whirlwind of the genre’s finest: billy woods, PremRock, Fatboi Sharif, Brian Ennals, SKECH185, Blueprint, AJ Suede, shemar, ALASKA, Sunmundi, blackchai, & Margel the Sophant.
Yaphet is the new album from rapper Curly Castro- also known as one half of the dynamic duo Shrapknel- out September 18, 2026, on Backwoodz Studioz. On Yaphet, Castro draws inspiration from the Blaxploitation film genre of the 1970’s; using that era’s black heroes and antiheroes as a launching pad for his cinematic lyricism. Flows switch as effortlessly as camera angles; verses are saturated with references and entendres; it’s an endlessly rewind-worthy rap masterclass. But Yaphet is also Castro’s first solo album since 2021’s Little Robert Hutton, and beneath the fireworks, this album reflects the depth of his experiences in those intervening years. “I didn’t set out to be so honest about my life, but that’s what came out and the album is better for it,” Castro explains, “from facing the death of my infant daughter, to my father’s death, to facing my own impending mortality, these are my most vulnerable blades, on my deepest cuts.” Like Castro, this record marches to the beat of its drum, and make no mistake, there are drums a-plenty for the veteran MC to spar with, as only he can. Produced entirely by Milwaukee beat maker Locust, Yaphet is a bouncy, eclectic listen that nods to its influences, without ever looking backward. Castro is joined by a whirlwind of the genre’s finest: billy woods, PremRock, Fatboi Sharif, Brian Ennals, SKECH185, Blueprint, AJ Suede, shemar, ALASKA, Sunmundi, blackchai, & Margel the Sophant.
Maria W Horn takes inspiration from W.G. Sebald's The Rings of Saturn on Melting Pillars of Snow, a new collection of compositions for contrabass recorder, shō, percussion, electric guitar, voice and electronics. Performed with Anna Petrini, Mattias Hållsten, Magdalena Meitzner and Mats Erlandsson, the album explores shifting landscapes, deep time and fleeting moments through intricate chamber arrangements and electronic processing. Horn also contributes narration, while Michael Gira of SWANS guests on the opening single, 'Scythe of Saturn'.
Maria W Horn takes inspiration from W.G. Sebald's The Rings of Saturn on Melting Pillars of Snow, a new collection of compositions for contrabass recorder, shō, percussion, electric guitar, voice and electronics. Performed with Anna Petrini, Mattias Hållsten, Magdalena Meitzner and Mats Erlandsson, the album explores shifting landscapes, deep time and fleeting moments through intricate chamber arrangements and electronic processing. Horn also contributes narration, while Michael Gira of SWANS guests on the opening single, 'Scythe of Saturn'.
Anthology of all three albums in the Pentimento series, a remarkable late career renaissance by Jon Hassell, the pioneer of 'fourth world' music. Contains Listening To Pictures (2018), Seeing Through Sound (2020), and Music Is Invisible (2026), the latter a recording of his final ever live concert performance.
maya ongaku has always been searching for what exists just beyond the edge of perception. Since forming in the seaside towns surrounding Enoshima, the trio has followed a path guided less by intention than intuition, allowing songs, ideas, and experiences to emerge through a process they describe as 自然発生 (shizen hassei), spontaneous occurrence. Nothing Space Music is the deepest expression of that philosophy to date. Written in the aftermath of several years of international touring, the album emerged from a growing desire to reconnect with silence. As stages became larger and the world around them moved faster, the band found themselves drawn toward the quieter spaces beneath it all. What began as a reflection on stillness & silence eventually expanded into the idea of "Nothing Space". To realise the album, maya ongaku created an entirely new environment for themselves. Near a seaside shrine in their hometown, the trio transformed a large soundproof building into Nothing Space Studio, a space built specifically around the needs of this record. Nothing Space Music: a meditation on presence, perception, and the possibility of rediscovering the world through attentive listening.
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."
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.
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.