White vinyl in a run of 250 copies with a sticker designed by Fritz Welch.
Split open your skull and squirt a spritzer into the froggy mess!
Eff-to-the-ArrTee-to-the-Arr are an exciting vibration, a mind-fondle and a floating forefinger pointing to WHAT’S HOT RIGHT NOW!
The muscular men here rattle them pots and pans, slap-the-cheek slurps and stick sharp elbows into a web of goof-off electronics. It’s all as pungent as double-strength nag champa oil y’hear?
You’re not surprised to hear Fritz Welch all over this with his egg whisk and luxurious throat cavity. And you’d expect Guido Henneboehl’s home-made ‘special sauce’ stirred into the mix marbling sonics like peanut butter versus jelly.
But what keeps you awake in the wee small hours is the deeply knitted message of freedom hidden in these intense black grooves. I said freedom yeah. Freedom and liberty!
Red vinyl in a run of 250 copies with insert by MV Carbon.
- The Sun Will Turn On You
- Waitin' Here All Night
- Heavy Curtains
- The Railroad
- 'Til I Get It Straight
- All You Have
- The Mystic
- The Last Elk
MV Carbon slips greasy tunes between perished rubber mats and smears it on the parquet.
This mixture of ultra-brilliant-synth-darkness and Rumplestiltskin slow-rap makes me think of Steel Pulse raised on home-dubbed noise tapes rather than heavy Handsworth pressure.
Fluent and fluttering ‘whaps’ coil Uzumaki-style under sheets of neon-blue keyboard. It’s fair addictive! It’s fair intoxicating.
Lightening shudders in freeze-frame, a zoetrope in sound. But the one constant is the voice...the voice and the song.
For where would we be without the song eh? The human voice all tra-la-la adding an essential blood-warmth to your regular lute or sackbut etc. And it’s the song that gets you here on ‘The Sun Will Turn on You’. MV Carbon's simple song, half-remembered by any parent or nurse; familiar as mumps yet distant as those splendid ivory toothpicks.
Split label digipak CD release in a run of 200 copies.
- Langue de Bois
- Snout Leather Is Softest
- The Adoration of Captain Shit
- Grief and Copper Balls
- The Whalebone in the Corset
- The Essential Forms of Temperance
- Sadly Not Teeth, Trees Or Demons Piled on a Step
- Poppies, Cocks and Clipper Ships
- Wand Erection
- Perillos of Athens
- Hackney Whiskers
- Figged Fist
- Peanut Butter Will Not Get Stuck in Birds' Throats
- Spangled Rag Or The Butcher's Apron
Double-quick Dictaphone-heavy duo scraping at a clay pot long regarded as sacrilegious for mortal men. Jon Marshall and Joe Murray poke a sensitive sonic scab before ripping open a new wound filled with densely manipulated voice jaxx, swooping holler and tape fingering with tight n’ shiny production values like these bulls just strolled outta Houston, Texas. Fire escape music for risky fritters.
Jon Marshall runs the world-renowned Singing Knives label from his Sheffield UK base and plays in respected freak-units: Roman Nose, Akke Phallus Duo and Rotten Tables Golden Meat. Joe Murray plays often as Posset in any number of Northern UK pick-up groups.
Cassette tape in a run of 50 copies.
- Untitled (side A track repeated)
Twin-headed hydra shaking a scaly fist at God! Prepared and excitable strings connect to rubbery electronics creating very English tabletop improvisation with a US-style caffeine buzz. Static roars and lighting fidgets; pregnant notes hang lazily in the mist. The mid-section creates a space for Adam Denton’s Submarine Dub and the healing power of Sean Cotterill’s harmonic fuss. The closing moments? A complex re-birthing as serpent swallows its own tail.
Adam Denton is a Sound Artist working primarily with the slithery tones that live within improvisation. Sean Cotterill’s work straddles the ocean of skronk guitar to live programming ‘ones’ and ‘zeros’.
Cassette tape in a run of 50 copies.
- Mining Institute
- MK Gallery
Living bric-a-brac pulls itself together clicking like raw peas. Cadets Sindre Bjerga and Claus Poulsen jointly tweak various close-miked micro-sounds to flood into your gracious ear ‘oles and master the erotic squeal of leather rubbed with a moistened finger. At one moment the intense pressure waves promise to painfully stretch those ear drums tight; in another a junk-yard gamelan made of tin cans and string ‘poing’ and ‘ping’ with off-camera heavy breathing. The art of meta-sound-collage-improvisation presented with heavily perfumed panache.
Sindre Bjerga (Norway) has released over 100 records of his deeply personal take on that drone chestnut across our world. Claus Poulsen’s (Denmark) Sci-Fi electronics grace the great Small Things on Sundays and an increasingly weighty slew of solo and small-group interventions.
Cassette tape in a run of 50 copies.
- Number Poem 452
- My Eh Laugh Eh
- Hotspur Jam (Praise Jah!)
- Golden Whisper
- Forty Four
- Dictaphone Solo 66/Nervously Behind Him
- Nixon's Pretty Face
- I Hear Wales
- Tiny Vocal Monument
- Number Poem 452 Reprise
In a sly tribute to the late, great Shimmy Disc label of New York City Posset rescues similar rare-breeds of bacon to join his Dictaphone melange. Secretly recorded bus chatter, posh Number Poetry skits and a hobo coven meets Ian (legalise it) Fleming with vocal nu-scat to tread giant piano keys like Tom Hanks in BIG. Fans of order, sense and precision need not apply.
Posset doggedly pursues a tape-based future.
Frosted clear vinyl in a run of 250 copies with insert by Pascal.
- 01 Nihilist Chakai House – 10 Nihilist Chakai House
Blow ‘Love Sweet Love’ out yr ass. What the world needs now is more solo drumming albums!
Pascal here is happy to oblige with Nihilist Chakai House; two sides of one-man drumming action that swings like a goofy magnetic pendulum.
History lesson: Pascal Nichols is a fully fledged ceramist, beard-wearer and drummist in ozone-scraping duo PART WILD HORSES MANE ON BOTH SIDES along with non-beard Kelly Jayne Jones. For this disc he’s all alone and riffling the pack to better feel the texture.
Nihilist Chakai House Side One: It’s crystal clear like an ECM joint yet huffed with a sweaty Javanese energy. The bronze pots get thunked bad and vibrate, shifting units of time, Bene Gesserit style. A massive station clock weeps small brass cogs until the stutter of fudge-footed mice scramble all smeary, dazzling with dry-snare. Between times you hear the most amazing sonorous cowbell work this side of a Trouble Funk block-jam tailing off into resinous wooden bumps.
Nihilist Chakai House Side Two: Opens up all hot, with frittering and hummingbird-quick trap work. Ed Blackwell loans Pascal his sticks (made from hollow heron’s legs) adding that extra venerable edge to the membranous drones and crisp celery crunch. At one point hard hands, rough as sandpaper, jigger and jolley moans out the drum skins creating a Tie-Fighter dogfight. This segues into a resonant metallic chitter; all chipped chrome and dangerous ricochet. Pascal chooses to close this beautiful record in a dignified manner...amplified wool being wound round a Djembe in freezing fog. The taut fibres crush the breath out the goblet bowl, the drum speaks!
File alongside those Chris Corsano bootleg CD-Rs, Eli Keszler’s Endgrove tape and Paul Hession’s Giant Soft Drum Set.
Coloured white vinyl in a run of 250 copies with inserts by each artist.
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
A new pairing of minds and techniques on a steel-grey voyage across the treacherous Ifingr river.
Kiyoharu Kuwayama, master of resonant spaces and junk objects holds the reins over three chapters of spiralling horror and madness. Sounds are coaxed out ashamed and blushing: the syphilitic cough, the cracked shin bone and the greasy sheen of night sweats wired up to a 9 volt battery.
Wataru Kasahara plays the mysterious masked man adding stewed tape manipulation to the mix. The brush strokes hint at a moody Goya and his bleak Pinturas negras.
Ludo Mich is a ghost, a spectre that adds an ass-hiss, a stain, a pursed lip smacking to the junkyard rumble.
Overall the listening effect is startling. Like grasping for a banister when drunk, there is a slo-mo quality, a brief moment of calm before the crash of brittle chin vs concrete steps. It sets up a déjà-vu meme with the recurring metallic ‘ssschhshh’ sound that could come from throat or stoat. Overlaid are saw-tooth waves, sourced from MP3s buried in the garden over a harsh winter. When the ducks loosen phlegm they shit silver dollars. Presently contact mics are attached to submarine hulls somewhere in an undersea canyon and closing the eyes opens up new patterns of pressure-roses blooming red, orange, red. You’ve not heard a more focused record this year.
Kiyoharu Kuwayama has been making music since the 1980’s He also records as Lethe and collaborates with cats as chunky as: Kapotte Muziek and Campbell Kneale (Birchville Cat Motel).
Wataru Kasahara is an experimental musician and visual artist and has recorded widely in Japan and Europe.
Ludo Mich has played the field since the swinging sixties and has therefore played with everyone of consequence. Currently the godfather of the Northern European heek-a-feak underground.
Coloured vinyl in a run of 250 copies with insert and liner notes by Seymour Glass.
- The Dog Lady Dreams With Pebbles Underfoot (for Mike Collino).
- The Grand Secret Wheel & The Communal Crock.
- The Lips Of The Bulb-toed (For Seymour Glass).
- Four Ways To Pronounce Idiot
Nyoukis! The name trumps hot on the carved brass horn. Gongs crash shrill and slaves shriek aloud. You Sir! Expecting pure vocal gravy like on ‘Carrion Hut’ or ‘Hora’? Madam, perhaps the holy minimal strings like that Golem grey Penderecki served us on ‘Owl Tapes’? No. Nein. Nyet. Not the fucking case pal. Four measured tracks. Two dedicated to the cats that’s been making heads turn for a while now (Banana Seymour & that Dogfella exactly) but all washing up a new kind of psychedelic moss. Fresh thin tendrils, easy to snap, but determined to grow among loose grey matter late on into the next day, and the next and the next. Dry coughs and outta-wack piano chords play into Boy Scout bike repairs, ‘test the bell, spin the wheel!’ Hot air leaks from a perished rubber hose. With knuckles like hazelnuts, these sounds shine like delicately laid cobblestones, laid end-to-end without no fuss or haste, they are tram tracks. Late night thumps, ‘boof, baff’ and a lousy Soft Machine organ solo talks a Brighton raver down from gritted jaw oblivion.
Euro voices abound in tangled syntax. Verbs sounds & nouns renamed. Sure, there’s blubber and chunder...’you, you, you and me’ that’s slam-up-bang to babby titter chat for starters. Then the downs come in re-directed by taut tape loops making the ecstatic, grooving on the surface of a micron-thin bubble. The proclamation, ‘I’m right here’ leaves us in no doubt who you are sharing your damp bedsit with tonight, slurping up the old wine as red as pooled blood.
Another take on the stretched ritual. A parrot squawks underwater struggling for fresh O2. Furious eraser scurrying action is met with the stony silence of a 14 year old girl while apples crunch between strong white teeth. Our old friends, words, are worried and fretted in a dark experiment; turned over looking for new seams and valves to shuck and prise open like ripe clams until mucus-like muscle slips free and falls to the flagstones below.
This is a living séance with The Acrylic Widow. Wisdom from the Old Ones, the thin Venn diagram slice between frantic scuttling & sweet Miskatonic stoned.