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Your weekend soundtrack
New tunes this weekend for you from Medicine, Cloud Management & Vivien Goldman, Honey Dijon feat. Greentea Peng, Anne Waldman, Thurston Moore, and James Ilgenfritz reinterpreting William S. Burroughs, Sander De Keere, Cold Light, Ghost Dubs, Surya Botofasina, Carl Stone, The NRG, The Narrator, and Radio Selena (Andrew Chalk), plus some music from the vaults by Steve (Suzanne Ciani) and Mansour Shuaibu.
Rainbow Lorikeet photo by Tim in Perth.
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Despite being a fairly devout Bill Orcutt fan for the last decade or so, I never followed his Fake Estates imprint too closely until recently, as it seemed to exclusively be a destination for his most mischievous, obtuse, and unapologetically indulgent ideas. Over the last few years, however, the imprint has blossomed into the home for an increasingly audacious and endearingly demented series of software experiments and batshit crazy conceptual releases that bear almost zero resemblance to his more celebrated guitar releases yet feel every bit as essential.
Fake Estates
While A Mechanical Joey remains my clear favorite among his Fake Estates forays, The Four Louies (2024) stands as an equally bananas example of Orcutt's cracked vision, as he gleefully mashed up two very different primitive, iconic, and polarizing pieces of music: the Kingsmen’s slurred and incomprehensible frat party anthem “Louie Louie” and the punishingly repetitive chord deconstruction of Steve Reich’s “Four Organs.” Admittedly, I could not get into the relentless plunderphonic repetition of The Four Louies at the time of its release much, but Orcutt has ingeniously managed to breathe new life into the piece with this raucous performance from last March, as his star-studded live band improbably transformed the simplest riff of all time into raw, roaring, and ecstatic drone freak-out.
This second installment of Kevin Martin’s Ladybug series pairs the Brussels-based producer with Tokyo-based torch singer Masumi Yamamoto. While this single was my first exposure to her work, Martin has been a fan of her Friday Night Plans project since at least 2023, as he proclaimed her Visitors to be his favorite album of the year in Boomkat’s annual artist list extravaganza. Given that Martin himself is again the driving force behind the music and the production, Ladybug 2 understandably shares a lot of stylistic similarities with the previous Dis Fig installment (haunted vocals, spartan instrumentation, long ghost trails of hissing decay, and big post-industrial vibes), but the trip-hoppier aspects land closer to Portishead than Massive Attack this time around. Or, as the album description more colorfully puts it, “a dream journey from Twin Peaks to Kingston, Jamaica, via Bristol.”
The single this time around is entitled “Miss U” and it roughly sounds like a stripped-down Portishead performing in a cavernous industrial space. Aside from the fact that Portishead are one of Bristol’s many iconic trip-hop pioneers, however, the resemblance mostly comes down to just the sound of Masumi’s voice and a pervasive vibe of ghostly slow-motion heartache. Pressure’s perceived Twin Peaks element likely comes from Masumi as well, as her solo work can sometimes resemble a bleary and nocturnal Julee Cruise-style chanteuse time-stretched and blurred into ambient dub. With Martin at the controls, however, the musical palette is reduced to just a slow-motion kick drum stomp, a clap, a high hat, deep sub-bass, and a pair of frayed and stormy dub chords. In theory, the existence of those chords makes Ladybug 2 a bit more musically expansive than its predecessor, but in practice it feels similarly stark because the bass line is much less central.
This amusingly titled new series of maxi-singles is devoted to collaborations between heavyweight dub auteur Kevin Martin and a resolving cast of like-minded female artists. Naturally, the first installment is devoted to Martin’s recurring collaborator Dis Fig (Felicia Chen), as the two previously worked together on 2020’s excellent In Blue album (Hyperdub) as well as the 2025 single “Silent.” Self-described as a “hallucinatory heat haze,” this “tale of post-break-up trauma” is very different from any of the duo’s previous pairings, as Dis Fig’s dark and spectral twist on soulful pop songcraft becomes the canvas for a series of bass-heavy, blown-out, and static-ravaged dirge-dub mutations.
In some ways, the actual single (“Vanishing”) is more of a conventional pop song than anything on In Blue, as it is just over three minutes long and features both a sensuous bass throb and a melodic chorus hook. In most other ways, however, it heads very much in the opposite direction, as it is quite a cold and minimal piece and one of its most prominent traits is that the crawling groove seems to be dragging a squall of moaning, hissing, and echoing nightmares in its wake. In fact, it arguably resembles an undead Massive Attack performing in a haunted underground parking garage, which is an aesthetic that I would generally prefer over hearing an actual Massive Attack song these days. In characteristic The Bug fashion, it is also pared to the fucking bone, as the actual music is essentially just a cool bass line, Dis Fig’s voice, a high hat, a kickdrum, and a snare, but it becomes even more spartan than that in the four variations that follow. The throbbing bass and the static-gnawed ghost trail of delay, however, remain very much the stars of the show.
This quietly mesmerizing and unconventional Australian artist has had quite a unique trajectory, as she first began releasing music as Honey Stretton in London back in 2016 and her debut single ("The Thrill of Loneliness") was a massive hit by indie standards. She followed that success with an EP (Wail) later that same year but soon vanished from public life and moved back to rural Australia to tend the animals on her late grandmother’s farm. While she was alone on the farm, however, she recorded a host of new songs on a nylon string guitar and some borrowed gear while enduring one of the most catastrophic bushfire seasons in Australian history and the rampaging COVID outbreak. Eventually, one of her friends persuaded her to release those new songs and they ultimately became 2023’s Soon album, which resulted in an opening slot on a Mount Eerie tour, international critical acclaim, and a reissue on Phil Elverum’s P.W. Elverum & Sun label. This follow up dissolves her lovely and intimate songs much deeper into ambient abstraction, as it feels like a series of hypnagogic tropical mirages and beachside field recordings mingled with flickering and elusive glimpses of beautifully hymn-like songs.
P.W. Elverum & Sun/Brierfield Flood Press/Lima Limo
Tiarn (which means “landholder) was similarly self-recorded in isolation, as Stretton relocated to the small coastal village of Tabourie Lake, where she reconnected to her community by joining a regional choir, observed the migration of whales, and went for regular “blue hour” swims in the South Pacific. All of those elements proved to be significant inspirations, as did a trove of family home movies filmed in Tokyo back in the early ‘90s before Hana’s birth. In particular, Stretton was fascinated by a clip that depicted “distant mountains, and Stretton’s young family looking over the valley in the soft static of one Japanese summer evening” and “a simpler, more connected time.” Armed with a few acoustic instruments and a previously unused synth that her family had purchased during their Tokyo years, Stretton “began recording music directly to that footage - letting the images dictate the melody” and weaving in “voices, insects, weather, movement, and the ambient sounds of the valley.” In essence, this album is a lovingly crafted and impressionistic soundtrack to a hazy and dreamlike VHS dispatch from the blissful time just before her own conception.
This is the first major release by this Belgian composer under his given name, as Jolan normally records as ‘t Geruis. He did previously self-release a digital album (#7) as himself back in 2024, but that was followed by another 't Geruis release. Consequently, I am not sure if this counts as a name change or if Jolan has some kind of personal stylistic delineation that determines which name feels right for which albums, but Sublime Lenteur (“The Amazing Slowness”) still sounds a hell of a lot like ‘t Geruis to me. While that is a perfectly welcome state of affairs, this album does have its own distinctive character which may possibly be related to its inclusion in Lost Tribe Sound’s seasonal mood-driven "Moss & Melee" series. Then again, maybe not. Mystery abounds. In any case, this is an impressively strong album, as Jolan’s usual bleary and smudged ambient vision is beautifully enhanced with hypnotically looping melodies on degraded tapes that place his work a bit closer to minimalist auteurs like Celer and William Basinski than usual. The shadowy and dreamlike moods, however, are still distinctly Jolan’s own.
According to Jolan, this album first began to take shape in October 2024 during “long and solitary walks in the woods” through fog, snow, and rain. Frequently, he would return from those walks feeling inspired and he soon noticed that his music began to feel like a “direct translation” of the thoughts and impressions that emerged while immersing himself in nature, seasonal transformation, and solitude. To be fair, he could have plausibly said that exact same thing about any of his previous albums, yet Sublime Lenteur does feel like an improved and enhanced distillation of the simplicity and meditative, quiet beauty of earlier ‘t Geruis albums. In fact, the opening “Ressac I” probably represents my Platonic ideal for great ambient music, as it is essentially just a sensuously looping chord swell that eternally dissolves into a reverberating fragment of melody. While that may sound quite simple on its face, Jolan’s artistry lies in the way the entire piece feels flickering, frayed, and unstable, which makes the loop feel mesmerizingly cyclic yet eternally changing. Instead of sounding like a mere well-crafted loop, “Ressac I” instead feels like a precarious and ephemeral bit of heaven that I wish would extend into infinity.
This latest opus from INA GRM director François Bonnet’s Kassel Jaeger alias is a characteristically enigmatic and conceptual affair, as its Latin title means “under the thing, under the substance, under the matter.” However, it apparently also doubles as a reference to a chapter in Victor Hugo’s 1866 novel Toilers of the Sea which recounts a man’s struggle for survival in the aftermath of a shipwreck. While the deeper significance of the latter association admittedly eludes me, it was clearly an inspiration for Bonnet, as the album’s arc gradually evolves from more cavernous, subterranean sounds towards the ambiance of a deserted island. Unsurprisingly, the journey between those two points is a beguiling and hallucinatory rabbit hole of shadowy mystery, as Bonnet’s talent for conjuring vivid, immersive, and otherworldly soundscapes has few peers in the realm of production and sound design and his visions are always unique and imaginative.
I have been a fairly devoted fan of Kassel Jaeger’s eerie and abstract dreamscapes for a while now, but it took me a bit longer than usual to warm to this one, as its early moments have the feel of a noise-gnawed dark ambient album recorded in the Paris Catacombs. Thankfully, Bonnet soon transcends those gloomy beginnings, but they are certainly a thematically appropriate place to start, as he describes his vision for this album as “the concrete beneath the concrete...the immanence of sounds…their becoming…a driving force, like a tide.”
With a debut EP and four albums released since their inception 15 years ago, Chicago supergroup Anatomy of Habit have not stopped evolving and mutating, and Paired Sentinels demonstrates this continued evolution in occasionally drastic ways. Fronted by Mark Solotroff (Bloodyminded, Intrinsic Action, The Fortieth Day) on vocals and synths, the five-piece band’s meshing of almost all forms of "heavy" music continues to take a turn to almost conventional music forms, but never at the cost of their intensity.
That word, "intensity" has been an appropriate descriptor for AoH's work since their debut LP in 2011. Given the noise/power electronics/hardcore adjacent personnel, that comes as no surprise. Besides Solotroff, the band features Isidro Reyes (a member of all three of the aforementioned Solotroff projects) on metal percussion, guitarist Alex Latus (Still), Sam Wagster (Mute Duo) on bass guitar and lap steel, and drummer Skyler Rowe (Mute Duo, Still). For all the pummeling heaviness, a greater amount of subtly and nuance started to creep in on 2021’s Even if it Takes a Lifetime and 2023’s Black Openings, which becomes even more notable here.
First issued back in 2009 as the inaugural release from Berlin’s short-lived Humming Conch label, Capri is one of the more polarizing highlights from the project’s early years, as it is a bit of a stylistic outlier. While released the same year as Danielle Baquet-Long’s untimely passing, these pieces feel like a ghostly and gently psychotropic transmission from a much happier time, as Will and Dani recorded this album in a single room over a series of summer nights during a residency on the Mediterranean island of Capri. Assembled using a modest yet eclectic palette of organetto, piano, strings, horns, acoustic guitar, and Dani’s field recordings from the island, the album is billed as a concept album/”idyllic imagining” collaged from “fragmented vignettes, brief moments, and suspended shimmers” and it certainly delivers on that promise, as it primarily resembles a series of brief and hallucinatory mirages. Given that, Capri feels very much like a languorous and impressionistic haze of shifting moods and scenes rather than a batch of substantial compositions, but these pieces cumulatively cast quite a mesmerizing and unique spell.
This expanded edition of Capri is its first physical reissue since its initial release, but I believe most of the added pieces previously surfaced digitally back in 2012 after Stephan Mathieu remastered the album for an intended triple LP release that was reluctantly abandoned due to high production costs. After a decade-plus delay, however, those triple LP dreams have finally been realized (along with a double CD format) and this new incarnation includes seven pieces that had to be cut from the original CD due to time restrictions.
This wonderfully spacey new guitar duo is an offshoot of prolific New London, CT psych-rock collective Slyne and The Family Stoned (not to be confused with the UK’s Sly and The Family Drone, of course). Appropriately, that ensemble is centered around pun-loving guitarist Michael Slyne, but Bent Light finds him in a much more ambient/drone mood than usual. Slyne’s co-conspirator in this project is occasional Family Stoned member and pedal steel guitarist Russell Linder, who was amusingly immortalized in the title of The Family Stoned’s Russ Never Sleeps album. Aside from their usual instruments, the two artists employ an array of tape loops, pedals, and shortwave radio transmissions to conjure the sort of twinkling and gently psychotropic reverie that is absolutely begging to be played in a planetarium (though the album description’s helpfully notes that a deserted drive-in movie theater during a snowstorm would be an appropriate setting as well).
The album is divided into two side-long pieces that were apparently recorded in a cold and damp basement last spring during a bout of severe allergy symptoms (“nose dripping, mouth breathing, eyes itching, blurred vision”), which goes to show that sublime beauty can blossom in the most unlikely and unexpected places. In the opening “Gain,” Linder’s languorous and meditative pedal steel casts a spell of dreamlike tropical exotica over a subtly trippy backdrop of warped and murmuring tapes and snatches of distorted voices plucked from radio waves. Slyne’s guitar is similarly understated, as he enhances the “moonlit lagoon” vibe of Linder’s pedal steel with a host of quietly melodic improvisations and echoing scrapes and string noises. While that may not sound like radical new psychedelic territory on paper, the magic lies in the duo’s perfect balance of elements, as the piece has the feel of a floating, sensuous, and undulating sound collage with a wonderfully hallucinatory and unpredictable undercurrent of mysterious submerged voices, tape hiss, and animal-like howls that beautifully fray, smear, and quaver in the piece’s final minutes.
This newest album from French Alps-based composer Andy Cartwright is billed as “Seabuckthorn's most rhythmic effort to date,” as he inventively transforms simple hand percussion and kitchen pans into hallucinatory and ritualistic rhythms with a host of time-stretching, pitch-shifting, and fragmenting production techniques. The album’s title is, of course, a reference to the timeless adage “no one ever steps in the same river twice, for they are not the same person, and it is not the same river," as Cartright found himself noticing how the landscape of his daily mountain walk subtly changed from day to day. It is certainly an apt title, as the obvious parallel here is that this iteration of the Seabuckthorn’s vision still features all of the same wonderfully haunted rustic folk dreamscapes as other recent Seabuckthorn albums, but they now feel very different due to their unusual percussion elements. The same could be said of the percussion itself, as Cartwright’s modest array of toms, woodblocks, and chimes are psychotropically reshaped into something akin to the “sci-fi tribal” aesthetic of Rapoon and Zoviet France.
In hindsight, last year’s A Path Within A Path album offered a teasing glimpse into this project’s imminent evolution, as the slow-motion, ritualistic percussion of the Dean McPhee-featuring highlight “Shadow of the Land” would feel right at home on Never the Same River. In keeping with that theme, this album’s big guest (William Ryan Fritch) lends his talents to a similarly great piece, as “Things We Cannot See” blossoms into a ghostly, slow-motion waltz with a languorously sad and sensuous violin/viola melody.
This ambitious and aptly titled new album from upstate NY synth wizard M. Geddes Gengras is something akin to a wild and eccentric game of the surrealist parlor game Exquisite Corpse, as Gengras handed off his raw synth recordings to a wide and varied array of collaborators and offered them “creative carte blanche” for their additions (albeit with minimal instructions). The idea is a playful and somewhat ingenious expansion upon how Gengras’ beloved modular synthesizers work, as “each new element added to the chain affects the whole, which can produce unexpected results.” As evidenced by this album, the same is definitely true of collaborators as well, yet Gengras also took inspiration from other chance-based composition strategies such as John Cage’s I-Ching experiments or Autechre’s complex algorithmic mutations. As far as I know, however, no indeterminacy-inspired composers ever recorded an album quite like this one, as Guest List is a charmingly playful and freewheeling fun house of wild and audacious aesthetic collisions and juxtapositions.
In a way, Guest List seems like an album that Gengras was always destined to make, as his entire career has been eclectic, freewheeling, and collaboration-filled, as I first encountered him through his seemingly ubiquitous presence on every good Not Not Fun project in the early 2000s and he has since blown me away at least once with both his outsider techno alias (Personable) and his collected Moog works. He has also taken quite a deep dive into Jamaican dub production techniques with Sun Araw’s Cameron Stallones, as the two launched the dancehall imprint Duppy Gun after collaborating with The Congos in 2011. In short, Gengras is a guy who has seemingly tried his hand at damn near every possible strain of arty underground music at this point.
