Posts Tagged ‘Experimental’

Futura Resistenza  – 24th Match 2026

Christopher Nosnibor

Well, it is Good Friday, so it seems an appropriate time to settle down with a large whisky and some candles to engage with an album of funeral procession music from Ryfylke, Norway. And as the title suggests, this is actually what this collaborative album contains:

Rooted in the bygone custom of ‘Liksong’ (literally ‘corpse song’) that was once sung by small groups of singers who guided rural funeral processions, Janvin and Joh tap into its uncanny, unbearably slow intervallic structures, reanimating the practice as a kind of ancient electronic microtonal devotional music. Voices and vocal effects, synths and melodic percussion seep into the cracks between major and minor, and the whole thing carries the creaking weight of ceremony, yet glows with an otherworldly modernity, as if a forgotten liturgy had been retuned for a dimly humming chapel of circuits.

The duo, with Janvin on vocals and electronics and Joh on synths, tape machines, and percussion, also enlisted Lucy Railton (cello) and Jules Reidy (electric guitar).

The nine tracks present a remarkably structured, linear funeral journey – and while the premise of the album is already most uncommonly literal, so is the linear structure, which begins with ‘Leaving Home’ and concludes with ‘Postlude’, which it arrives at via ‘Pasing neighbours’, ‘Before the burial site’, ‘By the grave’, ‘Lowering the coffing’, and ‘Processing grief’, among other almost instructional titles.

The pieces them selves are quite minimal in their arrangements: drones, hums and haunting, folk-inspired vocals, bathed in reverb and surrounded by echo come together to create soundscapes which are haunting, and, at times, other-wordly. ‘Pasing Neighbours’ is a slice of detached, rippling electronica, which on the surface couldn’t be further removed from ancient Nordic rituals… and yet Janvin and John succeed in subtly manipulating the sounds to conjure something which reaches deep into the psyche with its rippling dissonance.

There’s a gravity to this album which underlies the twisting, processed electronic experimentalism which is befitting of the subject and the context, and while ‘Passing neighbours’ does amalgamate shoegaze with robotix 80s electro, it doesn’t feel disrespectful to the source.

‘Rest – Bordvers’ which features Jules Reidy) is a sliver of ghostly folk which sounds like spirits ascending over an early Silver Jews outtake, and ‘Before the burial site – Jeg Raader Eder Alle’ is a heavily processed, almost space-age reindentation of a folk incantation – but it’s the haunting, eight-minute ‘By the grave – Akk, Mon Jeg Staar I Naade’ which really grips the attention with its ghostly wails and insistent pulsations and expansive, arcing drones. The dronerous ‘Lowering the coffin’ features vintage spacemuzak ripples and reverberating ululations contrasts sharply with ‘Processing grief’, which begins hymn-like, before swiftly transitioning to shuffling, fractal synthiness reminiscent of Tangerine Dream.

One suspects that in this modernisation, in this translation, something has been lost. But at the same time, this interpretation serves to keep an ancient heritage alive. And this is the sound of dark woodland, of glaciers, of spartan spaces – ice-dusted woodland. Often, it’;s trult beautiful, and this is nbowhere more clear on ‘Acceptance – Kom, Menneske, At Skue Mig!’, another piece which is more than seven minutes in duration.

The final track, ‘Postlude’ is gentle, and even alludes to a brighter future on the horizon. For mem it feels a little soon, although there s no use of timescale by which to orientate oneself available in the immediate entrance of the accommodation.

Having spent the last three years processing – and documenting – grief following the loss of my wife, Or Gare: Funeral Procession Music from Ryfylke, Norway is a difficult album to approach on a personal level. But there are times in this expansive, exploratory work, that death, in all its suffering, has been muted and spun into niceness – if not a palatable, packageable sound.

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6th March 2026

Christopher Nosnibor

Matt Wand is best known for his work as a founder member of experimental samplists Stock, Hausen & Walkman between 1989 and 2001, although his body of work in collaboration with other artists, and under numerous pseudonyms, and as a solo artist is extensive. His latest project came to my attention via a friend, and a tape, and suddenly it felt like the 90s again, when word of mouthy was the most likely source of introduction to new music – alongside the weekly inkies and John Peel. Not that I’m about to harp on about the good old days, particularly as I have the good fortune to be fed a constant stream of music that never fails to amaze and confound, but it does highlight and remind just how limiting the force of the algorithm is, the endless conveyor belt of ‘if you like this…’ and services simply lining up the next track in an eternal playlist which subscribers tend to passively permit to pass into their ears, and how the cultural relationship has changed over time. And yes, something has been lost: endless streaming music on tap isn’t the boon it’s often hailed as. Spotify and the like delivers sonic wallpaper. How many of its users will listen to an album end-to-end and multiple times in sequence over the course of a week and a month, really engaging and excavating every last detail while it beds in?

I’ve begun with a digression, but the joy of music – for me, at least – is the way in which it inspires trajectories of thought, often in the most unexpected directions. It’s as if it has the capacity to unlock doors to forgotten recesses within the mind. Anyway, to shift focus specifically to the album at hand, while credited to Small Rocks, the album’s cover (the artwork of which is almost as disturbing as that of the first Toe Fat album) appends this with the words ‘in dub’, and this very much gives a clue to the contents – that is, fourteen instrumental compositions centred around dense, strolling basslines and sparse, echo-soaked beats.

A number of the tracks on here – ‘A Lung Full Of Woofer Gas’, ‘Give Me Back Me Bucket’, and ‘Blind Mute Specialist’ – date back to 2002’s three-way split album Dub TribunL, which featured Small Rocks alongside Atom™ and The Rip-Off Artist. This is an album which has been a long time in its gestation.

Leisurely grooves and rippling reverberations abound, with puns and wordplay making for an added bonus – ‘Curlew Curfew in Corfu’, anyone? On ‘Bassically Unsettled’, the thick, rubbery bass bounced its way through subtle and mildly disorientating tempo changes, while ‘Mirror Sigil Manoeuvre’ is sparse and spacey, the beats landing like drips from stalactites in an immense cavern. And yes, as minimal as it is, the sounds are mentally and visually evocative.

Landing in the middle of the album – or the end of side one on the cassette – ‘The Moss Veil’ is less dubby and more a work of dark ambience with hints of Dr Who amidst the dank swampiness and sporadic whirrs and bleeps. It calls to mind the weirdy sci-fi sounds of soundtracks of the late 70s and early 80s and the BBC Radiophonic Workshop.

The title track, which raises the curtain on side two, is more uptempo and verges on being some mutant drum ‘n’ bass, before the multi-00layered ‘Keep Quiet & ROT (mit bADbLOOD JA Kötting) ‘, which takes a swerve into more industrial territory, while hinting at the cut-up tape experiments of William S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin, conducted in the later ‘60s and early ‘70s, while at the same time coming on like a reggae Butthole Surfers. It really is all going on here on The Future in a Rearview Thumbnail. ‘a Lung-full of Woofer GAS’ is a hybrid of dub with minimal techno, and ‘Give fe me back Me BUCKET’ brings an industrial-strength percussive clatter that owes as much to Test Dept as any other act, while ‘The Custodian’ closes the set with a warping, glitchy tension that’s again infused with a more retro vibe, although the distant snare which lurks in the background is swamped in reverb and vocal fragments float around in a dubby fashion.

The Future in a Rearview Thumbnail is a rare expression of experimentalism, an album which dares to venture in different directions, and celebrates its strangeness.

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Deeply rooted in industrial experimentation and the rawness of black metal, French avant-garde collective Non Serviam have forged a singular style that blurs the boundaries between extreme genres while preserving their intensity through a radical and uncompromising artistic approach.

The collective now announces their third full-length album, La Lune Dont Mon Âme Est Pleine, set to be released on June 12 through a new alliance between Non Serviam and Lay Bare Recordings. Alongside the announcement, the band unveil the video for the new track ‘Abject Sacrifice’.

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Five years after Le Cœur Bat (2021), and more than a decade after Un Petit peu d’amour Pour la Haine, this new album stands as a major step forward in the band’s evolution. After a prolific run of EPs, splits, and mini-albums, Non Serviam return with a full-length work that pushes further the sonic and aesthetic direction unveiled on Le Cœur Bat, now refined through experimentation and artistic evolution.

La Lune Dont Mon Âme Est Pleine is a symbolist concept album centered on the myth of Diana and Actaeon, exploring themes of the desire for the absolute, the violence it engenders, and the melancholy that follows. These ideas permeate the album’s compositions, shaping both the music and the lyrical narratives. Beyond the metamorphosed and tormented figure of Actaeon, the album also draws on historical and mythological figures such as Émile Henry, the late-19th-century French anarchist, and the apocalyptic goddess Kali, invoked through a powerful vocal appearance by Mirai Kawashima (Sigh).

With La Lune Dont Mon Âme Est Pleine, Non Serviam continue their artistic trajectory, delivering a work that is ambitious, confrontational, and emotionally intense, further pushing the boundaries between extreme music, experimental composition, and avant-garde art.

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The exploratory electronic duo of Craig Dunsmuir and Sandro Perri returns 20 years after its self-titled debut. G70 2: Bones Of Dundasa is out  on 1st May 2026.

Hear the skittish industrial stutter of ‘Aquatint’ and fractured beats of ‘Pad Tide’ here:

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20 years after its self-titled debut, Glissandro 70’s follow-up straddles the Album and Archive: a decade’s worth of recordings that were abandoned, lost in a hard drive mishap, recovered in the form of rough stereo mixes, reappraised with the balm of time, and restored/augmented/enhanced to forge a captivating new LP.

Glissandro 70 is the collaboration between Toronto musicians Craig Dunsmuir and Sandro Perri, first formed in 2003 as a mostly studio-based project of longform loop-based guitar and rhythm-driven experimentation. An eponymous (and up to this point singular) album appeared on Constellation in 2006, blending Dunsmuir’s afrobeat and Perri’s tropicalia influences through their shared reverence for Arthur Russell and dub techno.

While continuing to collaborate musically and foster a close friendship, Dunsmuir and Perri largely went on to helm their own projects thereafter. Perri transitioned from his ambient electronic sobriquet Polmo Polpo to a string of acclaimed singer-songwriter albums under his own name starting in 2007, with a side quest as ringmaster for the inscrutably leftfield electronic collaborations of Off World. Meanwhile Dunsmuir continued deploying lo-fi loops and broken beat iconoclasm as Guitarkestra and Kanada 70 (whose early tracks provided the original birthplace of Glissandro 70) and intermittent live concert Hi-life extravaganzas at the head of Toronto’s Dun-Dun Band (recently captured on wax for the first time by Ansible Editions).

G70 2: Bones of Dundasa arrives 20 years after the Glissandro 70 debut as an archival celebration, revisiting unfinished paths and re-assembling rediscovered recordings originally made between 2005 and 2015. The new album includes a cover of Arthur Russell’s ‘Lucky Cloud’ (augmented by Peter Zummo’s trombone newly recorded in 2025) and a previously unreleased Dan Bodan remix of the debut record’s ‘Bolan Muppets’, alongside 10 tracks of sample- and beat-based vignettes brimming with skittish guile.

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Photo by Colin Medley

Today, experimental Hip-Hop legends dälek release their latest full-length album, Brilliance of a Falling Moon.

Conceived, composed, and produced by Will Brooks (aka MC dälek) and Mike Mare, Brilliance of a Falling Moon is a sprawling, uncompromising record that speaks to the political timbre of the day. Taking its name from a section of Erik Larson’s 2011 novel In The Garden of Beasts, the album paints a fiery portrait of life and resistance in fascist America.

Recorded in the group’s Deadverse Studios over the course of 2024 and 2025, Brilliance of a Falling Moon’s beats are propelled by brutal, dust-caked drum breaks and cloaked in an ominous, otherworldly atmosphere. Taking aim at everything from The State’s suppression of information to colonialism and Trump’s demonization of immigrants, Brooks’ rhymes are practically burning with outrage at the current state of the world.

“When you listen to this, I hope you walk away with hope because we’re still fighting, building, and pushing.”

Check out the new video for ‘Normalized Tragedy’ below:

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Not only has dälek always presented an undiluted political stance in their music, the band is part of the continuum of bold, revolutionary hip-hop pioneered by Public Enemy and The Bomb Squad. dälek has spent decades carving out a unique niche fusing hardcore Hip Hop, noise and a radical approach to sound.

Founded by Will Brooks (aka MC dälek) and Alap Momin (aka Oktopus), dälek debuted in 1998 with Negro Necro Nekros, a sonic tour de force built upon thunderous drums, blissful ambient sections, and gritty, insightful lyrics. On watershed albums like 2002’s From Filthy Tongue of Gods and Griots (2002), Absence (2005), Abandoned Language (2007), and 2009’s Gutter Tactics (2009), dälek laid a template that added completely new textural and structural dimensions to rap music.

With this kind of musical and political pedigree, it makes sense that dälek would return with such a timely record that reflects all of our frustrations.

Once again the band has teamed up with artists Paul Romano and Mikel Elam for the striking package artwork.

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Photo credit: Jonny-Scala

Swedish experimental noise-rock outfit The Family Men return on May 8 with their second full-length album Co/de/termination, set for release via Welfare Sounds & Records.
To mark the occasion, the band have unveiled a brand new video for the track ‘Luxury’.

‘Luxury’ channels the band’s sonic identity into a single, tightly focused piece. As Echoes & Dust put it: “Built upon looping, intertwining rhythms and heavily processed instruments and samples, ‘Luxury’ distils the band’s unmistakable sonic identity into one focused strike. It’s a precise yet overwhelming construction – mechanical, hypnotic, and abrasive – and a perfect example of what we’ve come to expect from the proprietors of the ‘total harmful sound.’”

The band themselves add: “‘Luxury’ is heavily inspired by William Gibson’s writing. It also feels like it encapsulates every part of the new album in some way, so it fits really well as a final single before the release. The video was a collaborative effort between Gustav and this really talented guy from Stockholm named Henke Luhr, and we feel it reflects the music in a very fitting manner.”

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Following their debut album No Sound Forever, The Family Men have spent the past years performing extensively across Sweden and internationally, building a reputation as one of the most intense and uncompromising live acts around. That relentless momentum feeds directly into Co/de/termination, a natural yet sharpened continuation of the band’s sonic evolution.
Pushing both intensity and precision to new extremes, the album refines their sound into something tighter, heavier, and more deliberate than ever before. Urgent yet controlled, abrasive yet purposeful, Co/de/termination stands as a focused and uncompromising statement.

Operating across a wide sonic spectrum, The Family Men resist easy categorization. Samplers, broken electronics, tape loops, and heavily distorted guitars collide into a sound that is both confrontational and immersive.

Their live shows, often accompanied by feverish VHS projections, towering waves of feedback, and vocalist Gustav Danielsbacka performing directly within the crowd, have become legendary for dissolving the boundary between band and audience.

With Co/de/termination, The Family Men further cement their position as one of the most uncompromising voices in contemporary experimental rock.

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Bearsuit Records – 20th March 2026

Christopher Nosnibor

Anyone who’s been following this site for any time will have likely encountered the work of Eamon the Destroyer, and Edinburgh-based label Bearsuit Records, and in doing so, will have learned that the label specialises in weird shit, and that Eamon is an artist who conjures a uniquely strange musical hybrid, which is entirely free of the mores of genre-specificity. Idiosyncratic is the word.

And what better way to shed new light on all of this than through a remix album? I’ve written extensively in the past with a critical view on remixes – about how they eke out material on and on, or pad out singles into EPs and albums, and also about how they can be really fucking boring, with back to back versions of the same song over and over but with different drums, more disco drums, more aggressive drums, more industrial drums, while the vocals are dubbed out and mostly what you get is some ravey shit.

This is very much not the case with the remixes of We’ll Be Piranhas, the original version of which was released in 2023 and has already been subject to a follow -up / satellite release in the form of Alternative Piranhas EP (2024), which, as the title suggests, features alternative takes of some of the songs on the album. Since then, Eamon the Destroyer has released another album of new material, but this evidences that there’s more mileage in Piranhas yet. These reworkings are subtle and sensitive and, in the main, preserve the essence of the original tracks. That is to say, it’s a chaotic assemblage of twangy Western stuff which clashed and melts into Eastern vibes, all melted together with a filmic overlay, and none of it makes sense, but at the same time it makes perfect sense – if that makes sense. And if it does, well, good, because little else about all this does.

The sequencing of the tracks is different from the original album, and it works, taking into account the transformative reinterpretations of the songs, starting with a laid back but grooved-up take on ‘A Pewter Wolf’ by Senji Niban.

The Elkeyes remix of ‘Rope’ is particularly brain-bending, with its warped jazz elements which are vaguely reminiscent of later Foetus. At the same time, it brings a weight, a long shadow of gloom, with organ-like drones. It’s a lot to process all at once. And while remixes often add length to tracks, the reworked title track is cut to half the length of the original, although with the weirdness and distortion turned up a long, long, way. Similarly, the No Mates Ensemble cut ‘My Stars’ from nine-and-three-quarter minutes to three and a half, and reframe it as a slowly evolving avant-jazz meandering. Elsewhere, ‘Société Cantine transform the low-key space-synth strum of ‘Underscoring the Blues’ into a seven-minute hybrid of quasi-operatic drama and drum ‘n’ bass.

It’s different alright, and that’s the point of a remix album, of course. But the success of the We’ll Be Piranhas remixes is that it doesn’t fall into the trap of regular remix mode. Here, the songs aren’t obliterated, but simply respun. It’s a winning formula, and this is anything but a predictable rehash exercise.

(Click image to listen.)

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10th October 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

This one’s been out for a while now, but some releases simply have a slow diffusion. And Fini Tribe’s career was one of slow diffusion and… and what, really? Certain corners of the press dug them. Me, I was a bit too young at the time to appreciate them, and never felt compelled to delve into them retrospectively… until now. Chris Connelley, of course, went on to find fame and (mis)fortune with The Revolting Cocks, and also stepping up to the ranks of Ministry. His autobiography, Concrete, Bulletproof, Invisible & Fried: My Life as a Revolting Cock (2008) might not be the best-written book ever and might have benefitted from some finer editing, but it’s a wild ride, and it’s a fair analogue for his recorded output, too. A bit variable, but when it’s good, it’s off the scale. That they would change their approach in the mid-late 80s means that this compilation spans their initial phase

Whatever happened to Revolting Cocks in the later years, where they became a touring tribute act is a topic for another time, but the fact Connelley’s legacy includes Murder Inc. and contributions to KMFDM and one-off single projects like PTP and Acid Horse (a collaboration between Ministry and Cabaret Voltaire) is worthy of reverence.

But before he jetted off to the USA for that pivotal meeting with Big Al, there was Fini Tribe, and they produced a veritable shedload of material in five-year spell.

As the accompanying notes detail, ‘Fini Tribe was born into the cash-poor but culturally-wealthy environs of post-punk Edinburgh in the very early 80s – 1980 to be precise. A tiny three-piece with no drummer would soon swell into a muscular six-piece with inherited or cheaply-purchased instruments. Band members Chris Connelly, Simon McGlynn, Andy McGregor, Davie Miller, Philip Pinsky, and John Vick haunted the cold, damp warrens of the Niddry Street and Blair Street rehearsal rooms, just off the high street in Old Town Edinburgh. Drawing on the influences of everything from Throbbing Gristle, Wire, Can, Captain Beefheart, and numerous angular funk bands that were spewing out of the John Peel Show at the time, they also drew from the seemingly bottomless well of modern film, writing, and art that was abundant in the festival city.’

The result? Everything including the kitchen sink. And here we have a forty-seven track document of that career, with singles, Peel Sessions, live cuts, remasters, remixes, you name it. It’s all there, from the earliest works, like the tracks from the scratchy post-punk debut 12” Curling And Stretching (1984) are present in remastered form, and they sound stark and magnificently angular and challenging.

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There must have been something in the water – or maybe it was the Irn Bru or Buckfast – in Scotland around this time, since it yielded The Jesus and Mary Chain, Primal Scream, Altered Images, and laid the foundations of the JAMMS / KLF – although at this time Bill Drummond was doing mental shit plotting rabbit-shaped tours for Echo and the Bunnymen.

The first EP is spikey and angular and vaguely jazzy, and brings in elements of post-punk and what would become aligned with mathy post-rock in years to come. It’s aged well, for sure, and the same is true of the second EP, Let The Tribe Grow, released in October 1986. Combining warped synths and jittery guitars to conjure an air of tense paranoia, this is tense listening. ‘All Fours’ deploys thunderous percussion that’s pure Test Dept, and ‘Detestimony’, too, is dominated by relentless crashing beats. The EP’s last track, ‘Monomil.’ is murky, doom-laden ambient and fairly disturbing

Their cover of Can’s ‘I Want More’ saw the band move to Wax Trax! and perhaps not entirely coincidentally cement a more pumping dance style – that is to say, an industrial dance party style that was very much the sound of WT circa ’87 and shares considerable common ground with early RevCo – but at the same time, they still sound unmistakably Scottish, and not solely on account of Connelley’s vocals. ‘Idiot Strength’ (the B-side of ‘I Want More’) could be an outtake from Big Sexy Land. The same is true of the drum—dominated ‘Make it Internal’, which now sounds like a rehearsal for ‘Beers, Steers, and Queers’. In some ways, it probably was.

After the early EPs and Peel Sessions, there’s a host of material hauled from the dark depths of the back catalogue, much of which is of a rare quality.

On ‘An Evening with Clavichords’ and ‘Goode Duplicates’ they sound more like a frantic 80s pop band wrestling with jazz elements and slap bass, and there’s a whole lot happening on ‘Bye Bye to the October Sky’, which straddles goth, electro, industrial, and all kinds of post-punk experimentalism. ‘Throttlehearts’ lands like a Scottish Scott Walker, and is pretty mad but also compelling.

The live material – four tracks from ’87 and five from ’83 – both from sets performed in Edinburgh, are illustrative of a band unyielding in their desire to challenge. The later recording is reminiscent not only of RevCo, particularly in the grinding bass grooves and messy confrontational stylings, but the live albums of Foetus on their Thaw tours of ’88 and ’89. The set from ’83 is rougher rawer, in terms of performance and sound quality, but the contrast is telling in that the later recording is more attacking and abrasive. This was not a band that mellowed as they evolved: instead, they grew in ferocity during this time.

The collection winds up with some experimental offcuts, which aren’t the most listenable of pieces, but do provide an insight into their evolutionary workings. The Sheer Action of the Fini Tribe 1982-1987 is a fascinating document, not necessarily a band ahead of its time, but a part of a revolutionary zeitgeist. And while bands like Depeche Mode and Yazoo and The Human League were bringing synths into the mainstream with pop tunes created using emerging technologies, the underground was throwing out bands like this, bands like DAF, bands like Foetus, Meat Beat Manifesto, Test Department. A lot has changed since then – culturally, and musically – change worthy of not simply acknowledgement but an entire thesis. It’s a thesis not for me to write, but The Sheer Action of the Fini Tribe 1982-1987 is a document which needs to be referenced in it.

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26th March 2026

Christopher Nosnibor

Having slipped out ‘This and That’ as a forewarning of the imminent arrival of his ‘difficult third album’, the time is almost upon us for its unveiling. Just as it was six years between his debut, Grievous Bodily Charm and second album Touch & Go, so another eight years have elapsed since then, although he’s maintained his profile through touring – something which for him comes with the added challenge beyond the usual logistical matters with a wild stage act and even wilder and largely impractical-looking outfits. But then, Mr Vast is more than music. The creation of Henry Sargent of Wevie Stonder – perhaps the sole exponents of the cack-pop genre – Mr Vast is more than a musical project. It’s an entire world, where the Vast persona is all encompassing, bringing together music and performance art, and there are no half-measures here, Vast fully embracing the strange, the wonky, the incongruous and the improbable.

He’s at pains to stress that this isn’t art, though, and explicitly states ‘Mr Vast is not art. He’s something that happens to you. So let him.’ I rather feel that there’s no choice in this matter, really. The idiom goes that one should ‘expect the unexpected’, and this could well be a mantra for approaching Mr Vast – although it’s perhaps more appropriate to suggest that it’s all expected when it comes to his work. ‘Accept the expectable, yeah?’ he says on ‘Ants’, before blabbering on about ‘swan crisps’ and reflecting on deep water: the wrongness and the delivery remind me of Nathan Barley – perhaps one of the most underrated and uncomfortable sitcoms of the early 00s. ‘Failure is its own reward’, he croons moments later, spinning another classic postmodern dichotomy within a cocoon of New Age hipster jargonisms.

And so it was – and still is – that ‘This and That’ confounded expectation by being remarkably not-weird, a surprisingly danceable cut that could be legitimately referred to as a ‘bangin’ choon’. How serious or how ironic or parodic it is, remains unclear. Before we get to it on the album however, there’s ‘What’s Difficult About Being Stupid?’, which at twenty-nine seconds in length is more of a sliver of facetious frippery with a toy keyboard, and ‘Scatterbrain’, a sub-two-minute flourish of medieval folk absurdity that comes on like a collision between Horrible Histories and Steeleye Span. Or something. In this context, the pumping hyperactive acid beats of ‘This and That’ seems like a moment of sanity, despite its OTT KLF-style ‘stadium house’ / ambient / soul breakdown in the middle before going full-on happy hardcore. ‘Oh, listen to the sound effects… that’s fantastic’, he comments amidst a stream of conscious lyrics, before drum ‘n’ bass breaks drop.

Upping the Ante is appropriately titled: it’s peak Vast. ‘The Bench’ is almost – almost – a spoken-word vignette within a soft, mellifluous ambient composition, and it’s almost – almost – not weird or off-kilter. But then, as we learn a few tracks later in what seems like a confession of sorts, Vast tells us, ‘I Can’t Help It’. This track is another Hi-NRG work which incorporates drum ‘n’ bass and samples but breaks out into derangement worthy of a Brett Easton Ellis character – but there’s some observational content in the mix, too.

‘Neural Preening’ takes the form of jerky, quirky early eighties electronica, a bit Devo, a bit Thomas Dolby, a lot hyperactive. Keeping up with the sheer range of what’s going on is mind-bending, and while the gentle acoustic ‘Guess Who’ does offer some breathing space, it does so while offering something a bit trippy, a bit Syd Barrett era Pink Floyd. Then he goes and spins things into a different orbit with the murky groove of ‘Crumpet Man’, which could be a ‘Born Slippy’ meets Tubular Bells for 2026 if he wasn’t talking about animals, muffins, and pancakes.

It would be easy enough to simply bracket this as ‘experimental’ – and also ‘barking’ and ‘batshit’, which I’ve probably done myself before – but this fails to give due credit. Sure, there’s a certain sense that Mr Vast’s main purpose is to explore the furthest fringes with no regard for musical or social norms, instead seeing what new novelty oddness he can create, but equally, one gets the impression that this isn’t forced gimmickry, but simply how his head works – this is the work of someone who is wired differently. He doesn’t so much think outside the box, but exists outside the box, while performing origami on said box, which is, of course full not only of frogs, but newts and Natterjack Toads, all of which may or may not exist when the box is closed or folded in a certain way.

Some might think that with his evident ability, Sargent could make music that’s far more commercially viable, but as a writer who thought it would be a doddle to knock out a genre novel and actually get paid for this, only to find that the literary Tourette’s kicks in after a few paragraphs or pages. In other words, he really can’t help it. And this is a good thing. There’s too much bland shit out there. There’s too much manufactured shit out there. There’s too much shit out there, full stop. But there’s a real fear amongst musicians that they need to confirm to have any chance of success – whatever that is – and reach an audience and survive. Mr Vast exists not only outside of this, but in his own world, one almost devoid of reference points, comparisons, and peers. And this is what we need more of in the creative community. Arguably, such freedom to disregard pretty much all influence and all trends is a luxury, but to submit to conformity is to surrender the foundations of what it is to create.

Upping the Ante is warped, weird, and dances to its own tune and no other. It deserves applause – and your listening ears.

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blankrecords – 13th February 2026

Christopher Nosnibor

For context, a definition: Spökenkieker: soothsayer / a person who has second sight and is believed to have the ability to know and tell what will happen in the future. And we also learn that ‘The local mythological figure of the Spökenkieker is situated in the mystical depths of the Teutoburg Forest and serves both as name giver and patron saint for this journey to the initial starting point.

Arguably, anyone who has invested any significant time in studying the past can predict the future. History has a habit of repeating itself, and this has perhaps never been more apparent than now. Consider the following:

In 1933 Mussolini closed the national opera to “renovate” it.

In 1934, Hitler closed the national opera house to “renovate” it.

In 1935, Portuguese dictator Salazar closed the national opera house to “renovate” it.

Orwell’s 1984 is considered one of the greatest dystopian novels of all time, but 1984 is an inversion of 1948, the year it was written, and as such, penned in a recently post-war world, holds a mirror to the ways in which totalitarian regimes operate. And now, here we are, and it’s not just the US under Trump, but a creeping shift towards totalitarianism and total surveillance. We may not be in World War 3, but the world is very much at war, and what peace we have is hanging on a knife edge. If you’re not scared, you’re simply not paying attention.

Sicker Man’s fifteenth album, Spökenkieker is a mesh of different elements thrown together and mixed, blended, chopped, and pulped together. ‘Stop the Gravy Train’ is a perfect example of the melting pot of post-punk, stuttering drum machines, ambience, rave, and experimental jazz. And that’s just four minutes. And however representative it is, it doesn’t really prepare the listener for so much going on all at once. And it’s no mere wheeze that the album is strewn with spoken word samples culled from the past – the idea is to pull these snippets into the present, and cast the future, too, a layering of sorts whereby the past reverberates, echoes forward through the generations.

‘Jojatsu’ and its reprise, and the three-part ‘Ad Finem’ sequence is built around an orchestral / jazz hybrid that transitions between passages of tranquillity and of tension, while samples flit in and out.

I’m going to hit the pause button here for a moment: I’ve been fairly explicit in my dislike of Public Service Broadcasting over the years, online and in conversation. So why is Spökenkieker great and PSB’s work an abomination? It boils down to the fact that Sicker Man is digging through the archives and responding to both the past and the present in a way which strives to articulate something meaningful. It may not be immediately apparent, but some of the titles offer clues: ‘Greedy People’ and ‘Mean Drift’ for example. In contrast, boil these dark moments in history and present them as some for of nostalgia-infused entertainment, no more than the endless ‘documentaries’ churned out on Channel 5, lean on content and even leaner on analysis.

Spökenkieker engages on another level, and the aforementioned ‘Greedy People’ lands like Melvins gone jazz with a Roland 606 spinning a primitive post-punk beat while muttering samples criss-cross over one another as things take a turn for the experimental / ambient / dark dance vibe – and if that sounds like a wild hybrid, it is. ‘Matchless’ is simply a frenzy of elements which defies categorisation. The fact that it works is barely conceivable. But work, it does, and well.

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