Since its inception in 2017, Oslated has come a long way, releasing five albums, three compilations, and numerous EPs in just over two years. Now, label owner Oslon seeks to expand the label’s reach by starting up a sub-label, Huinali (희나리). The aim of Huinali (which means “wet firewood” in Korean) is to release dub techno and ambient music, styles which have obviously influenced several other Oslated releases. The fledgling label’s first release comes courtesy of Brazilian producer Racco, who is based in Sao Paulo. The name of the EP, Bada, means “sea” in Korean, and judging by the track titles it is clear that the ocean has served as a source of inspiration for the music presented here.

 

The EP, it must be said, doesn’t start off particularly strong. Opening track “B1rds” is a well-produced but rather lifeless slice of by-the-numbers dub techno: echoing minor chords, a low, thumping kick, wet, organic sound effects in the background. There’s nothing especially wrong with it, but nothing especially right with it either: it’s simply another iteration of the formula we’ve all heard a million times before, ever since those first game-changing Basic Channel records came out in the early ‘90s.

Fortunately, the remaining three tracks are far more interesting. Track 2, “Seaside”, is a warm, dreamy number that starts out as blissful ambient and then gradually gains more energy and urgency with the addition of a rolling sinewave bassline and crisp hi-hats. The gentle pads in the background evoke the sound of softly falling rain more than they do waves or the sea, and the percussive fills and details sound like they could be played by an orchestra of insects. The third track, “Seashore”, is one of the EP’s highlights. It’s a far brighter tune, pairing metallic, resonant arpeggios with fuzzed-out hollow pads over a steady 4/4 beat; the “seashore” being evoked here is that of a futuristic beach resort, white sand drenched in pink and blue neon. The EP closes with “0b”, a piece of cosmic-sounding ambient that feels perfectly suited to watching the sun rise over the sea. Rising and falling synth tones are framed by microscopic percussive sounds that sound as if they come from, or are at least inspired by, the legendary Buchla Music Easel. It’s a deeply layered and richly complex tune, one which rewards several close listens.

Overall, Racco’s Bada EP is a solid listen; Racco clearly has a strong grasp of the intricacies of music production and an ear for sound. It remains to be seen, however, if Huinali will be able to stand out in the over-saturated world of dub techno. If the label’s producers can push the envelope a little, though, and resist the temptation to fall back on tired and overdone dub tropes, Huinali will surely grow from strength to strength.

Bada is available for purchase over at the Huinali Bandcamp page. 

 

My first encounter with Sanjib’s music came last year, when I was listening to Saphileaum’s fantastic album Uninhibited Kingdom. The French producer had provided the closing track on that album, a remix of Saphileaum’s ‘Dual Expression’ (which was, incidentally, used last year by London bass wizard Forest Drive West in his XLR8R podcast). It’s a good  tune, a bass-heavy dub/tribal techno hybrid, but as I noted in my review of the album it was unfortunately a bit overshadowed by some of the other stellar remixes that accompanied it. Sadly for Sanjib, the same problem appears to be dogging him on his own Oslated release, Distant Communion. Though it’s billed as an album, and is album-length, in practice it’s more a kind of extended EP, featuring three original tracks by Sanjib and six remixes of those tracks by other producers. Sanjib’s three originals certainly aren’t bad by any definition of the word, but they do languish a bit in the shadow of the remixes, all of which piqued my interest far more than their source material did.

Title track ‘Distant Communion’, the first of Sanib’s three originals presented here, is probably one of the happiest-sounding tunes that Oslated has ever released, featuring a bright percussive lead, a warm, deep kick drum, sweeping pads and tropical-sounding percussion lines. Though Sanjib’s sound design is on point, the track as a whole doesn’t really hold together that well; each (well-crafted) sonic component feels like it is fighting the others for the listener’s attention. The second track, ‘Without Words’, fares much better. Here Sanjib’s music takes a darker, dubbier direction. Cosmic rays of sound fire out and then fade away, leaving echoes to ripple away across the darkness of the bass, like afterimages of the sun burned into retinas. Later, they’re joined by streams of bleeps and blips that could just as easily be sampled and distorted birdsong as they could digital artefacts. It’s an unpredictable tune, with each bar feeling different to the one that came before it – no mindless loop techno here. Around midway through, Sanjib threatens to overwhelm the track with a cacophony of hollow voices, but when the babble abruptly ceases and the drop hits it’s one of the album’s finest moments; the beat turns irresistibly groovy thanks to a clever little rolling percussion trick, and the disparate scraps of sound and texture that Sanjib has slowly introduced over the course of the track gel together to form a seamless rhythmic atmosphere.

 

The final Sanjib original track, ‘Sincerity Channel’, doesn’t work quite as well. Once again, the sound design is immaculate; Sanjib conjures up a series of chittering, organic noises, like swarms of alien insects flying in rigid formation, and offsets them with resonating sonar beeps and corroded claps that entwine themselves like vines around the deep boom of the bassline. However, once again I couldn’t shake the feeling that, as with ‘Distant Communion’, the whole was a little less than the sum of its immaculately-produced parts; the low end on ‘Sincerity Channel’ didn’t seem to work especially well with everything going on in the high frequencies, and a couple minutes into the track I found myself wishing it would hurry up and end; not a good sign. Of the three Sanjib originals on the album, two of them I didn’t really take to and can’t see myself listening to again much in future.

The crew of remixers brought on board for the album fared significantly better. The first, a remix of ‘Distant Communion’ by Italian producer Shaded Explorer, takes Sanjib’s bright, hopeful percussive lead, chops it up, pitches it down, and smears it in a generous coating of delay and reverb, with the end result sounding far tougher and more sinister. The progression in the track comes primarily from the way Shaded Explorer gradually layers new elements – gritty swells of bass, synths that sound like icy winds echoing through concrete tunnels – atop one another, until the track reaches its shuddering, shimmering climax. The next ‘Distant Communion’ remix, by the mysterious French artist Abismal, is even better, ratcheting up the tempo and propelling the track forward with a funky syncopated kick drum groove, dub techno chord-pulses, and synth pads that glow like bioluminescent mushrooms in an underwater cave. Rigid, mechanical claps and hats provide a pleasing contrast to the sinuous, organic atmosphere of the track.

 

The dub techno feel of the album is made even more explicit in Romi’s remix of ‘Without Words’. The longtime Oslated affiliate offers up the kind of tune that Rod Modell would feel proud to have produced, pairing soul-shakingly deep bass with hazy dub chords and intricate, microscopically detailed percussion that leaves no sliver of the frequency spectrum unused. The way in which the track gradually builds and releases tension, with each new sound introduced feeling both unexpected and at the same time entirely natural, is testament to how refined a sense Romi has of the deep structure of techno music. Next up is Saphileaum, who returns the favor by contributing a second remix of ‘Without Words’ (called, in classic Saphileaum style, ‘Saphileaum’s 4th Sky’). The Georgian artist’s take on the tune is characteristically cinematic and serene, warm and watery ambient techno that sounds like the feeling you get watching rays of sunshine break through a haze of smoke at an afterparty in a stranger’s house at ten AM on Sunday morning.

Saphileaum’s blissful cut is followed by the only real “banger” on the album, Nigm’s remix of ‘Sincerity Channel’. It’s one of Distant Communion’s best moments, an eyes-closed headfuck of a tune. The kick and bass hit hard, galloping forward beneath organic rustling and chittering (with Nigm having carefully preserved some of the insectile nature of Sanjib’s original) and lithe, undulating synthesizer growls that are bound to send shivers down every spine on the dancefloor. It’s also very cleanly produced, with each sonic element sounding punishingly clear, an advantage it has over Sanjib’s original which sounds unfortunately muddy in comparison.

It falls to Javier Marimon (who released a truly sublime album, General Noise, on Oslated last year) to finish off Distant Communion. Marimon’s ‘Salve Dub’ of ‘Sincerity Channel’ is a tour de force of dubby psychedelia. It’s a witchy, haunting tune, full of occult overtones: think “Demdike Stare covers Basic Channel”. There’s a lot to love about this track – the halting, shuddering percussion, the faint shrieks of circuitry warped into unnatural forms –but my personal favourite aspect is the dusty, muffled melody, the one that sounds like it’s coming from deep within the listener’s own skull. All of the remixes on here are incredibly strong in their own way, but Marimon’s feels the most distinct; as if he has taken Sanjib’s track and truly made it his own.

The presence of so many excellent remixes on this release is a bit of a double-edged sword. On the one hand, Nigm, Romi, Marimon, and others have all seriously stepped up to the plate, and this release is worth copping for their efforts alone. But on the other hand, this has the unintended effect of making Sanjib seem a bit outclassed on his own release. Perhaps, given a different format – a more traditional album, for instance – Sanjib may be able to spread his wings a bit more and better demonstrate the musical artistry he is surely capable of. On Distant Communion, however, it feels like he was never really given the chance to shine.

Distant Communion is available for purchase over on Oslated’s Bandcamp

Though it is relatively small and isolated, the Korean techno scene is notable for the consistently high level of quality it produces. Both in terms of club spaces and in terms of producers and labels, Korean techno has shown that it is more than capable of holding its own on the international stage, in a way that is rare among nations on the global underground’s periphery. This is only possible, of course, due to the talent, passion, and hard work of the people who devote themselves to promoting the health of the scene. Chief among these dedicated individuals is Scøpe, who has been instrumental in curating and promoting techno on the peninsula thanks to his SCOPÁVIK label, podcasts and parties. As well as being a skilled promoter and DJ, Scøpe also has serious chops as a producer, and his latest offering, the Corrode EP, showcases those talents in such a way that would make many other artists green with envy.

The EP opener ‘Eludes Observation’ features one of the slightly off-kilter staggered kick drum rhythms favoured so heavily in his DJ sets, the kind of beat that lurches to and fro rather than pounding out a simple staccato four to the floor pattern. It still packs a hefty punch though; the bass frequencies hit low and they hit hard. Elsewhere in the track, repetitive loops of sci-fi hi-fi noise warp and decay like the radio signals of an eons-extinct alien civilization, sizzling up against the boundaries of the rigid sequences they’ve been confined to. Scøpe apparently used a DIY instrument of his own design and manufacture to make some of the sounds on ‘Elude Observation’, which may explain the exotic and idiosyncratic nature of the sonic arsenal at his disposal.

SCOPE DIY instrument

One of the DIY instruments that Scøpe built himself in order to create the sounds used on the EP. Picture courtesy of Scøpe

The next track, ‘Cruel Fragment’, uses a more conservative kick and offbeat bass substructure to glue everything else together, but it doesn’t feel any less adventurous for it. ‘Cruel Fragment’ is a slow-burner that piles layer upon layer of wet, organic-sounding synth sounds on top of one another like layers of cyborg bacteria, a bubbling, burbling head-nodding slice of techno that relies less on melody or harmony or counterpoint and more on what sounds like a grid of biological static shuddering in time to the beat. It’s an intensely creepy track that I can see causing more than a few shivers on the dancefloor.

Things get even heavier with the titular ‘Corrode’. The rolling kick drums bring to mind a tribal ritual being held in the middle of an irradiated wasteland, while the rises and sweeps of synth feel like they could have come straight from the sound effects banks of a vintage ‘80s mecha anime. It feels akin in some way to ‘Elude Observation’, and I had to wonder if some of these sounds also came from some bizarre homemade instrument of Scøpe’s devising. It does feel a little lacking in some way, however – somewhat stagnant or predictable in the way it progresses, cycling through a handful of bare-bones rhythmic arrangements before gradually fading out. It would have been nice to have heard him do something a little more exciting with such an original and interesting set of sounds.

If ‘Corrode’ left me a little wanting, however, the following track, ‘Inner Passage’, more than made up for it. The low end is so deep it feels positively abyssal, and yet each kick still punches through the mix with pinpoint-precise force and clarity. Meanwhile, the gritty synth leads that make up the bulk of the rest of the track seem to be play strange tricks with the listener’s ears and minds, slithering from ear to ear and appearing to play strange duets with themselves thanks to Scøpe’s masterful manipulation of echo and delay. This is proper body music, the kind of track that could tear apart a packed dancefloor like a plutonium bomb.

The EP closes out with a trio of mind-melting remixes from some of the biggest names in psychedelic techno. First up is Semantica boss Svreca, whose contributions to this particular strain of darkened dance music – as a DJ, producer, and label boss – have earned him a rightly legendary reputation. On his remix of ‘Cruel Fragment’ the Spaniard definitely doesn’t disappoint, serving up a Mike Parker-esque work of subaquatic driving techno, whose whirlpools of sonic texture are pulled along by a relentless surge of hi-hats. It feels like no sound in this tune ever goes away entirely; elements are introduced, and occasionally fade into the background, but they are always there, building up layer by layer until the entire track is a solid wall of shadowy bliss. Of particular interest is the outro; it’s kind of sad that most DJs playing this out will probably have mixed out at this stage, as the way that Svreca allows the various parts of the track to lurch and stumble against themselves as he brings the music to a close is a true masterclass in techno composition. Next up is Acronym, a Swedish producer championed by the likes of Abdulla Rashim and particularly adept at pulling off that most tricky of techno propositions, the long-form album; his 2015 LP June stands out as one of the best techno albums, not only of that year, but probably of the last decade. On his ‘Couloumb Mix’ of Scøpe’s banger ‘Inner Passage’, Acronym provides the EP with a burst of soul, combining an infectious bass groove with ragged, acid-adjacent chords and background sound effects that sound like an oldschool kung fu fight scene sped up until each punch lands like a laser blast. Along with Scøpe’s original, this is definitely one of the strongest cuts on the EP, and one I can see getting a lot of play by DJs the world over. The EP rounds off with a remix from one of Scøpe’s longtime compatriots, Korean DJ Xanexx, who released his own EP Poem of Light on SCOPÁVIK last year. Xanexx’s take on ‘Inner Passage’ is astonishingly well put together. It feels almost impossible to distinguish where one element of the track ends and others begin; the usual musical delineations of “kick”, “snare”, “synth”, “bass” etc. seem totally meaningless, the various parts shifting and flowing into one another like the space where the ocean meets the sky, viewed through a sleepless haze. It lacks the raw physicality of the other two remixes, but that doesn’t really matter – it works as a fantastic end to a fantastic musical journey.

 

Taken as a whole, the Corrode EP is a profound illustration not only of the producer’s own musical identity, but that of the Korean techno underground as a whole. The tracks and remixes on Corrode sound exactly how a night out in one of Seoul’s basement establishment feels. It’s possible to discern, in these heady, hypnotic tunes, a kind of dark musical lineage that begins at Mystik (RIP), winds its way to the contemporary triad of purist techno spaces vurt., Volnost and Beton Brut, and stretches all the way through to newer scenes such as AIN and Trippy. This, to me, is the sound of Seoul itself, crystallized and given timeless form on this EP. Now, if someone ever asks me “what’s the techno scene like in Seoul? What does it sound like?”, I can just point them to this EP and say: here. This is what it sounds like.
Corrode is available for purchase over on the SCOPÁVIK Bandcamp

 

 

When You Awake, the latest offering from Changwon-based producer mcthfg, is a concept album of sorts – “the outline of an SF story set to music”, inspired by the music of legendary roots-rock group The Band and the writing of speculative fiction authors N.K. Jemisin and Yoon Ha Lee. It’s an ambitious project; The five tracks (six, if one includes the album mix that forms track 6) on When You Awake range over a wide variety of musical styles, and the narrative intent is clear in the way in which the tracks progress and flow into one another.

Opening track ‘The Traveller’ starts off with a melody of microscopic blips, before being joined by a slowed-down electro groove and a warm Reese-esque bassline. The track makes great use of the stereo field; low-passed arps, wooden-sounding drum fills and spacey dub chords flow seamlessly from one headphone to the next, making the listener feel totally submerged in the music. The following track, ‘The World’, has a similar effect, achieved this time with dusty, delay-drenched synth notes bubbling in and out of hearing, punctuated every now and then by what sounds like the screech of a violin being fed through an over-spun loop of degraded tape. Other details – the occasional air-raid siren sweep, sparse, melancholic piano notes, a kind of dirty G-funk bass – combine to give the track a palpable sense of digital dread.

 

This atmosphere of dread and tension gradually evaporates over the course of the next track, ‘The Game’. Here, mcthfg deploys slow, evolving, Eno-like ambient pads and a relatively minimal arrangement that comes as a bit of a palette cleanser after the intensity of the two preceding tracks. A dry, tinny beat feels there to add texture rather than momentum, and overall the track reminds me of the kind of woozy, head-nodding numbers that occasionally crop up in the vaporwave end of the ambient spectrum.

If ‘The Game’ acts as the album’s pre-climactic ‘quiet before the storm’, then ‘The Difference’ is the storm itself. A heavy, echoey beat, with all the emphasis placed on the snare, gives the track a distinct mid 90s trip-hop vibe. This impression is only further entrenched by the arrival of dramatic organ chords that give the track its defining character. In my notes for this review, I see I have scrawled “mcthfg Does Portishead” next to the title of this track, and it honestly feels like the most accurate summation of what he’s done here.

Closing track ‘The End’ forms a kind of book-end to opener ‘The Traveller’, utilizing a similar opening melody, though here it sounds far more cosmic and ethereal. The bass is fathoms deep, and like ‘The Difference’, there is something a little retro, specifically something a little 90s, about the sound design in this track. Capping it all off is a distorted lead synth that, at the track’s peak moments, almost begins to feel like the wailing of an electric guitar, spliced and stitched into something far stranger.

The album ends with a continuous 32-minute mix of all the preceding tracks, a nice touch and one that highlights one of the key strengths of When You Awake; the flow of the music. Each track, while having its own distinct sense of identity, leads very naturally into the next, and overall the sequencing of the album is very well executed, something that sets it aside from a lot of other Bandcamp artists who, while they are gifted at making music, aren’t always as gifted when it comes to putting that music together in an aesthetically pleasing order. Part of this, no doubt, stems from the overarching narrative concept behind the album – the album is structured like a story, and its major moments feel like key scenes in a gripping graphic novel. Perfect tunes to close your eyes and explore future universes to.

When You Awake is available for purchase over on Dubmission’s Bandcamp. 

 

On the Bandcamp page for Heptaprism by Yetsuby, one of the most recent additions to the Extra Noir family, the mysterious South Korean producer is described as ‘reflecting Seoul’s nocturnal futurism’. It’s an apt description. There is a sort of futurism at work in Yetsuby’s tracks, but the future being hinted at is closer to that depicted in Neuromancer or Blade Runner than anything one might imagine from the vantage point of the 21st century. A kind of retro-cyberpunk atmosphere threads itself like DNA through all of the tracks on display here, whose rigid soundscapes and dusty pop hooks feel deeply indebted to the much-fetishized analogue synth music of that halcyon age of electronic music, the 1980s.

Heptaprism opens with ‘Sunrisemagic’, a laidback tune whose warm analogue chords and crooning vocals give it a distinctly New Age kind of vibe, like Boards of Canada being played at the back of an incense shop. The second track, a slow but summery slice of house entitled ‘Who Ate My Chocolate’ features African-inspired percussion, basketball kicks and massive, echo-drenched claps that put me in mind of some of John Talabot’s early material. The title of track three, ‘Ppuppuppappa’, could be an onomatopoeia for the high-pitched crystalline whistling that makes up the bulk of the track. Interlocking melodies, their tones reminiscent of early 90s home computing, play off and around one another, accented by the occasional burst of keyboard-clack percussion. It’s a fun little sonic exercise, but at over five minutes feels a little overlong for what it is; I felt like it overstayed its welcome very quickly, and on subsequent listens I found myself frequently skipping this track halfway through.

 

 

The following track, ‘Croquis 1’, features similar wistful, ethereal vocals to ‘sunrisemagic’, this time set over a staggering, glitchy mechanical rhythm, creating an interesting contrast between the organic and inorganic elements of the track. Further atmosphere is furnished by smatterings of street sounds and delirious, half-buried fragments of forgotten melody. This to my mind is one of the most interesting and arresting pieces of music on the album – my only complaint, this time, being that’s a bit too short; I would have liked for Yetsuby to maybe draw it out a little, give some of its captivating detail more time to glow.

On track five, ‘Sea Frog’, Yetsuby combines a fuzzed-out oldschool drum machine kick with a simple two note bassline and melodic streams of bleeps and blips in a way that feels pulled from the soundtrack of a long-lost straight to video 80s action movie. That vintage feel continues into the next tune, ‘Wiretap In My Ear’, whose central feature is a rubbery, groovy bass guitar riff. The title of the closing track, ‘Sunsetmagic’, seems intended to act as a companion to opener ‘Sunrisemagic’, but the names are really the only point of comparison. Where ‘Sunrisemagic’ is starry-eyed and serene, ‘Sunsetmagic’ is far more boisterous: big, booming gated drums lay down a rhythmic foundation, while snatches of human voices, sanded down and shaped into microscopic bursts of noise, provide the lead melody.

Final thoughts: while I really enjoyed Heptaprism, I do think it could have done with some more ruthless editing, and would probably have worked better as an EP than an album. Several tracks on here are very strong – most notably ‘Who Ate My Chocolate?’ and ‘Croquis 1’ – but others feel more like personal sketches or experiments than fully realised pieces of music in their own right, and may have been better off left on the cutting room floor. That being said, however, it’s clear that Yetsuby is both technically gifted and creatively innovative as a producer, and this album has definitely made me curious to hear what she comes up with next.

Heptaprism is available for purchase over at Extra Noir’s Bandcamp.

My first encounter with Tengger’s work came when I was reviewing the first Extra Noir compilation last year. There, the track the Seoul-based duo, comprised of  Itta (on harmonium and vocals) and Marqido (on analogue synthesizers) submitted (‘Breathe In, Breathe Out’) was dark and haunting, which fitted in well with Extra Noir’s witchy darkwave aesthetic. When given the space to define their own sound, however, Tengger favours a more fuzzed-out, sunburnt sound, exemplified in their album Spiritual, an eight-track array of synthesizer jams and garage psychedelia. Tengger first released Spiritual back in 2017, initially sold as a digital album and cassette tape combo produced in collaboration with arts collective Seendosi (the tape version is, sadly, no longer available). Thanks to Extra Noir, however the album is seeing a re-release, with a limited-run vinyl edition (at the time of writing, only 5 records are left up for grabs!). 

The titular opening track is all about repetition, pairing a chugging bass riff with Raga-reminiscent synth chords and… not a whole lot else. Snatches of crooning female vocals add some colour to the track’s final third, but beyond that, all of the track’s sense of progression is textural (or vertical, if that’s your preferred terminology) rather than melodic; the same rhythms and patterns repeat ad infinitum, but subtle changes in the substance of the sounds themselves keep it from growing stale or boring. This sets the trend for the rest of the album, which follows a similar path, and uses a similar sonic pallet. On Track 2, (‘Luft’), however, the bass groove is far funkier, and the thick waves of feedback and reverb that Tengger spice things up with seem to channel the wide-eyed and inventive spirit of a stoned teenager playing with effects pedals in Guitar Center. The vocal on this track, when it does put in appearance, is almost lost in the sea of sound, feeling more like a splash of sonic colour than an instrument per se. It’s followed by ‘Earther’, whose analogue arpeggios and harmonium keys and chord progressions sound reminiscent of both medieval music and the soundtracks of 1970s nature documentaries. The fourth track, ‘Barabonda’, is much more heavy and raw, centering around a sludgy distorted riff that acts as a counterpoint to a wispy, ethereal vocal warble. Bursts of feedback (a crucial element in Tengger’s sonic repertoire, it seems) complete the picture, setting the track up for an epic extended breakdown jam towards the end.

Footage of Tengger performing at a Spiritual album launch gig in 2017. 

This is followed by ‘Jongsori’, more a kind of brief interlude than a “track” in its own right, featuring the faint hiss of field recordings, the sound of what could be gongs warped and mutated by the dark sorcery of analogue technology till they’re almost unrecognizable, and the ominous sound of chanting voices. The sixth tune on the album, ‘Dancing’, is much more upbeat. Here insistent two and three note synth patterns spiral like the arms of galaxies around one another while an unassuming Pong-like blip keeps time. The real surprise, however, comes when Itta begins to play a jaunty sea-shanty-style tune on the harmonium. Considered individually, all these elements shouldn’t really work together, but somehow Tengger manages to pull it off. On Track 7, ‘Morgen Tempei’, percussive elements (which up until now has been either relegated to the background or entirely absent) take on more of a prominent role, with a rounded kick drum sound providing the rhythmic backbone of the tune. ‘Morgen Tempei’ is a cinematic and uplifting track; There is a pleasing sense of point and counterpoint between a clear, gentle bleeping sound and more ragged and energetic synth chords, and at different points in the track I was reminded both of the soft and poignant techno of The Field and also, for some reason, of Radiohead.

Tengger - Gatefold Outer

The outer sleeve design for the Spiritual vinyl release.

Spiritual finishes off with an epic, almost 15 minute long odyssey of a closing track, entitled ‘Dodeuri’. The track begins with some heavy-handed, loose bass and key rhythms, that sound like they’ve been recorded from an ancient grand piano rather than on a synthesizer. A high-pitched shuddering synthetic hum, however, reminds the listener that this is most certainly still electronic music. Female vocals whisper and chant, while low, fuzzed-out synth stabs lend the tune something approaching a “bassline”. At around 11 minutes in, ‘Dodeuri’ fakes out the listener, fading into near silence before kicking in again with a vengeance for the album’s last stretch. It’s clear that Tengger intended ‘Dodeuri’ to be the crowning moment of the album, an epic psychedelic voyage, which makes it a pity that, for me at least, it falls a little flat. It seems like there just aren’t enough ideas here to sustain a track of this length, and the chaotic jumble of elements at play feels less like a raw surge of musical energy than it does simply under-produced.

Despite my disappointments with the final track, however, I still think Spiritual is a good album, a showcase of how you can wring a lot of emotion and narrative out of very simple, abstract electronic sounds. The whole album feels played, rather than produced – there’s a loose, live kind of atmosphere that permeates throughout – which makes me even more keen than I was before to try and catch a live Tengger set sometime.

Spiritual is available for purchase over at Tengger’s Bandcamp. You can order a copy of the vinyl release from Extra Noir

The tail end of January saw the release of Jeju 濟州 ,the third compilation release by Seoul-based techno label Oslated. The compilation’s namesake is Jeju island, a subtropical volcanic island off the coast of the Korean peninsula, and South Korea’s southernmost province. The island seems to hold a special place in the Korean psyche; its warm climate, beautiful natural landscape and pristine beaches combine to make it an extremely popular holiday destination (among both Koreans and people from elsewhere in Asia), and the island’s relative isolation from the mainland has meant that the people of Jeju have developed a language, culture and customs quite distinct from those of the mainland. It has always been a land apart; during Korea’s Joseon dynasty period, Jeju was used as a place to send political exiles who had fallen out of favour with the court, and shortly after World War 2 it was the site of a bloody political uprising (one in a long line of such uprisings in the islands history). Jeju is also a place richly steeped in myth and folklore, with stories of gods, goddesses, heroes and spirits abounding around the island. These themes – beauty and isolation, mystery and mysticism – are all foregrounded in this latest Oslated compilation, in which label curator Oslon has sought to pay tribute to the island in the form of a diverse selection of techno and techno-like tracks from a wide variety of producers, from both Korea and elsewhere around the globe.

The compilation starts off slowly, easing the listener into things. Opening track ‘Biyangdo (비양도)’ by Cyme is a study in ambient minimalism, using a combination of modulated found sounds – waves crashing, planes flying overhead, insects chittering – and softly glimmering synth tones to create an evocative but sparse soundscape that brings to mind the colours of sunrise playing over the waves. The track seems designed to evoke the image of its namesake (Biyang-do is a small, mountainous island off the coast of Jeju), a theme which runs throughout several tracks on the compilation. It’s followed by ‘Seolmundae (설문대할망)’, which takes its name from the mythological ‘Grandmother Goddess’ who is said to have created the island. Here the New York based artist Earthen Sea puts forward a tune that feels like a dub techno track whose beat has been slowly siphoned away, like sand spilling from a shattered hourglass. Echoes reverberate beneath the sound of static rain, and it is the interplay of reverberation and echo that drives the track forward.

 

The next track, ‘The Rain and the Storm’ by Asymmetric, is a cinematic, anticipation-building number, stirring tension with its nervy arps, staccato drums and percussive hits wrapped in shrouds of glitched-out reverb. It’s only really in the final two minutes of the track that the kick drum really hits – and hits hard – but rather than being a cathartic release, its introduction only seems to further amplify that feeling of anticipation, acting as an excellent bridge between the compilation’s ambient beginnings and the more frenetic tracks that are soon to follow. However, this then leads into ‘Hy’Naku’, by Dutch producer Alume, a move that feels like a slight misstep. It’s an all right tune for sure; deep, psychedelic-sounding cosmic techno, in which layer after layer of sound, some crisp and velvety, some little more than phantom smears of reverb, are layered over crunchy, textured bass and blunt kicks to hypnotic and head-nodding effect. However, the transition from Asymmetric’s track to Alume’s felt awkward and forced, and this track would probably have worked better had it been slotted in somewhere else.

Track 5, ‘Seongsan (성산일출봉) comes courtesy of French producer Xylème , and to my mind is one of the high points of the entire compilation. Tectonically deep rumbling bass propels the track forward, in concert with an offbeat hi-hat that sounds like a match being struck over and over again on a rain-drenched beach. There’s a great deal of sonic depth in the detailing and intricacies of the other sounds Xylème  has strung together here, and I imagine this tune would be absolutely mind-warping if heard on a big sound system. The next track, ‘Evaporite’ by Bmbmd, didn’t impress me quite as much, but it’s a fun tune nonetheless; its low-slung funky bassline groove and snatches of syncopated rhythm make it feel a bit like a technoid mutation of a deep house track.

 

The seventh track is the work of an old Oslated alumnus, Swedish producer Eyvind Blix, whose album Västberga Allé was released on the label last year. Entitled ‘In A Safe Place’, this is another slow-burning, tension building tune. If you stripped away the bass and drums, it might work as a blissful ambient piece, but the rapid-fire bursts of quasi-tribal percussion and subaquatic squelches and bleeps position the track in a darker dimension. Again, however, the transition between this track and the ones preceding and following it feels somewhat jarring, and this is another tune that might have worked better had it been slipped into a different portion of the compilation.

The following tune, ‘Cheonjiyeon (천지연) by Kannabi, is another one of the compilation’s best moments. Named for a famous waterfall on Jeju, the track is full of chaos and character from beginning to end. A dizzying collection of sounds – rubber band twangs, UFO engine noise, classic acid squelches – babble amongst themselves, their wildness barely contained by the dull sinoid thump of the kick attempting to keep everything from falling apart. It’s heady, trippy stuff – there’s a lot for the listener to lose themselves in here – but it seems to be made with a hint of playfulness as well. The ninth track, by contrast – ‘Underground Sea’ by Stigr – seems far more dour and serious in comparison. French producer Stigr takes his title quite literally, using the sounds of water lapping against the shore and what sounds like the digital squeals of cybernetic dolphins to evoke the ‘underground sea’ in question. It’s a pretty good tune, very atmospheric and psychedelic, but doesn’t really measure up against the rest of the compilation, in my opinion.

 

Track 10, ‘Vagabond’ by ASLLAN, seems to have been made with the 4 am basement dancefloor firmly in mind. A huge, galloping kick rhythm keeps time underneath a surging sea of sound, including a percussive rhythm that sounds stitched together from the sounds of old film projectors and rusty scissors, and a high-pitched synthetic whistle that brings to mind the soundtracks of 1960s Western films. Loose, off-kilter tribal percussion, great little drum fills, and exciting but rapid builds and breakdowns make the entire track feel like a blackened techno take on the tropes and styles of UK funky. Track 11, ‘Soggy Eyes to Winter Light’, is far deeper and more cerebral in comparison. Here Korean producer Hyein, whose background is in film and visual art, presents a tune that is as much a work of sonic art as it is a dancefloor track, a deep-space cosmic transmission that sounds like an encrypted signal being beamed down to an abandoned military base deep in a frozen forest. Hyein’s keen sense for rhythm and groove, however, keeps the piece from feeling too abstract or unapproachable; the beat gives it the feel of cutting-edge 21st century electro, and you can most certainly dance to it.

The eleventh track, ‘Oedolgae (외돌개)’ by Leipzig-based artist Kontinum, pairs a rolling bassline with ethereal cycles of synth and bursts of punctuation – like percussion in a way that makes time feel like it no longer exists. This is a very subtle track, the kind of tune that you might need to listen to a few times before it ‘clicks’. Track 13 – ‘Magma’ by Massa – also makes use of a rolling kick-bass rhythm, as well as chasms of dub techno reverb through which squelches of synth appear like veins in the skin of something floating in a vat. Psychedelic scraps of sound begin to crawl and slither out of the murk, appearing and disintegrating faster than a heartbeat.

 

Its at this point that Oslated begins to really bring out the big guns. Track 14 comes courtesy of Volnost boss and longtime Korean techno scene veteran Comarobot. The track’s title – ‘Baengnokdam (백록담)’ – is taken from the name of a massive crater lake situated at the top of Jeju’s Mount Halla, and there is something strangely romantic about it (an odd term to apply to a techno banger, I know). The gusts of synthetic reverb bring to mind windswept mountaintops, while something that is more than just a rhythm, but less than a melody, drives the tune forward, together with the rich, mournful tones of what sounds to me like an electric organ. The drop, when it happens, is definitely the most dramatic moment on the compilation. Comarobot displays a more “classical” approach to techno than any of the other artists on Jeju, but his music is definitely not any weaker for it. The next track, ‘Geomoreum (금오름)’ comes from another Seoul techno stalwart, SCOPÁVIK mastermind Scøpe. Here synthesizer growls and groans almost drown each other out over the stumbling, shuffling rumble of the kick drums, while the rest of the percussion sounds as if it is being twisted and deformed into razor-sharp ribbons of sculpted static. Each time the track seems to settle into the groove, it breaks apart again in a brief but violent moment of cacophony, constantly surprising the listener. This is another tune that I really want to hear on a bigger sound system – I feel like in a club or rave setting it would be absolutely massive.

The final two tracks are less frenetic and intense, slowly winding down from the fever pitch of the compilation’s second half. ‘Sarang (사랑)’ by Swedish artist Skóll  is named after the Korean word for ‘love’, and the rolling bassline, deep, hypnotic pads and liquid sound effects all combine to create a trancey, tranquil atmosphere. The compilation closer comes courtesy of collaboration between Swiss artists Ben Kaczor and Morphing Territories. It’s called ‘Halla (할라)’, after Halla Mountain, the active volcano that is the highest mountain in Korean territory, and that historically has a great deal of spiritual significance in Korean mythology, seen as the home of the gods and spirits in a way somewhat analogous to the role played by Mount Olympus in Greek mythology. The track starts out as a piece of shadowy bleep techno in the vein of Sleeparchive, but the initial sense of menace or darkness begins to gradually crumble with the introduction of deep, digital whalesong chords and jaunty syncopated techno rhythms that sound as if they’re being played on an ancient typewriter. It’s a good end to a good compilation, finishing the intense marathon of techno that went before it on a more calm and meditative note.

Jeju 濟州 is an excellent addition to Oslated’s catalogue, working both as a wide-ranging collection of various talented artists and on another level as a “concept album” representing the mystery and grandeur of Jeju album itself. Several of the tracks on offer here – most notably ‘Soggy Eyes to Winter Light’ and ‘Geumoreum (금오름)’, are arguably some of the high points not only of the compilation album, but of Oslated in general, standing out as some of the strongest individual pieces of music the label has yet to release. It’s not perfect, however. The sequencing of tracks is sometimes unintuitive or jarring, breaking the flow of the compilation. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be too concerned by this, as generally speaking compilations are not necessarily intended to be listened to the way that albums are, and the flow and sequencing of tracks is of lesser importance, but in the case of Jeju 濟州 I think such criticisms are warranted, as as I’ve mentioned above it seems to be intended to work as both a compilation and a concept album of sorts. Another issue I have with it is that it’s a bit too long, clocking in at 17 tracks. Certain tracks, while not bad by any means, are definitely noticeably weaker than the rest, and the compilation would have been stronger had Oslon been a bit more judicious with his editing and left them on the cutting room floor. Still, these are fairly minor quibbles, and at the end of the day I can still see myself giving Jeju 濟州 a lot of love in the months to come.

Jeju 濟州  is available for purchase over on Oslated’s Bandcamp

Though they may seem a million miles apart, ambient music and techno are really two sides of the same coin. While they may differ dramatically in function – one form of music being made for relaxing, calming down and spacing out, and the other being made to be moved to – both are similar in that they pull the listener into a world of their own, a psycho-acoustic space in which the all of the burdens of the self and the world beyond are brushed aside, for a brief while at least. On a more mundane level, of course, ambient and techno music often share similar methods and tools of composition, either digital or analogue, and many if not most techno producers have experimented with ambient works and vice versa. The blurring of the lines between techno and ambient music has arguably produced some of the best works in either genre, such as Voices From The Lake’s seminal self-titled album, or Wolfgang Voigt’s sublime GAS project.

Unjin Yeo (a name that anyone with any interest in the Korean techno scene should be very familiar with) is no stranger to ambient music. Though there are many ambient and electronica tracks kicking about in his back catalogue alongside his more floor-focused fare, in recent years he seems to have been drawn more and more to ambient production, as evinced by his recent excellent collaboration with Sunji. His latest album, Hui Gui, the second release on fledgling Japan-based label Kizen Records, is another of his recent ambient explorations. The album was composed primarily using analogue synthesizers and acoustic bass, with a couple of well-chosen guests being called in for remix duty.

In album opener ‘Ties’ Unjin places metallic pulses against a backdrop of static rain. Long, low bass notes cut through the mix like the horns of ships sounding through icy fog, while shards of guitar and fragmented chords float like ribbons around the track’s edges, adding to the cinematic feel of the piece. The watery theme continues into the following track, ‘Hui Gui’. Here, waves of musical texture crash and break against each other, and something that sounds like a distant, distorted church bell rings out a repetitive rhythm. But that description really just scratches the surface; ‘Hui Gui’ is a track full of minute details, a tapestry of sonic intricacies that is easy to get lost in. Unjin’s deployment of texture and timbre here feels very much inspired by dub techno; his soundscape puts me in mind of the work of artists such as Echospace or Pole in the way that it has been constructed. Towards the end of the track, notes begin streaming down towards and shattering upon the foundation of the bass, like a waterfall turning to ice moments before it reaches the ground.

 

 

After the last few echoes of ‘Hui Gui’ have faded away, Swedish producer Ntogn steps up to the plate to provide listeners with a change of pace. His remix of ‘Hui Gui’ takes Unjin’s eerie ambient sounds and contorts them into something more closely resembling straight-up techno, albeit of a hypnotic and trippy variety. A low, organic-sounding growl shifts up and down in pitch over the deep thud of the kick drum and the ticks and scratches and scrapes of the percussion. As the track goes on, otherworldly voices begin to gasp and howl as around them Ntogn contorts scraps of dub-industrial atmosphere into vaguely rhythmic forms. The mix feels both busy and sparse at the same time; there’s a lot going on, many elements at play, but each sonic detail still feels as if it has been allocated adequate space to breathe.

The fourth track, ‘Untitled Space’, takes things back in a more ambient direction, pairing gentle, choir like-pads with chest-rattling drawn-out bass notes that again reminded me of horns – this time more of ancient war horns, shofars or something similar, than of those used by ships in the night. Other sounds, high-pitched and alien, fluctuate in and out of hearing, each one slightly changed from the one that preceded it, but overall I found that this track felt somewhat unfinished, more a tantalizing loop or sketch of something greater than a full track in its own right. The album closes off with another remix, this time of the opening track ‘Ties’ by Hydrangea, a French producer who is a relatively recent addition to the mesmerising techno scene. Like Ntogn, Hydrangea’s remix opts to trade out Unjin’s dark and dreamy ambience for an altogether more beat-driven and danceable affair. An unpredictable double-time kick pattern and sinuous rumble of sub-bass anchor the track to earth while a complex pattern of interlocking and intersecting rhythms radiates through the blackness. Hydrangea appears to have left Unjin’s sound design more or less untouched; most of the sounds she deploys here are recognisable as those from ‘Ties’, but re-sculpted and re-arranged into very different forms, giving the remix a sense of both newness and familiarity. As the mix goes on the pads grow steadily more uplifting and dramatic, until by the track’s climax it feels like it would be better suited to an open-air rave under the stars than to a pitch-black warehouse.

The digital version of Hui Gui comes with two bonus tracks, ‘Atramentum (The End of the Orbit)’ and ‘Tail of Us’. ‘Atramentum (The End of the Orbit)’ is another diversion from the album’s ambient ambitions. A dry, classic-drum-machine sounding kick slices through a liquid miasma of greyscale psychedelia that seems to be constantly mutating and evolving as the track progresses. An indistinct voice chants a mournful mantra as resonant synth tones orbit the body of the tune like the remnants of stars circling the event horizon of a supermassive black hole. The second bonus track, ‘Tail of Us’, makes use of microscopic, clicky kicks, loops of gated static, and warm analogue pads in a way that makes me think that Unjin must have been listening to a lot of Autechre when he was making it, or possibly to Radiohead’s Kid A. It’s a very minimal, ritualistic-sounding tune, and the bareness of its arrangement and soundscape means that even minor changes – the introduction of a snare hit around halfway through, for instance – end up having a massive impact. Both of the bonus tracks are masterful pieces of music, to the point where I am somewhat confused as to why they didn’t make it to the vinyl release, as in my opinion they are the two strongest tracks on Hui Gui.

Hui Gui is a challenging but ultimately rewarding album, the kind that benefits from many close and careful listens. I’ve had it on constant rotation this November, and as winter descends over Seoul (and thick clouds of pollution billow in from China), Unjin’s analogue explorations have provided the perfect soundtrack to, and respite from, this cold, dark, dusty time.

Hui Gui is available for purchase (in either vinyl or digital form) over at Kizen Records’ Bandcamp.

I’ve written a couple of times before about how much I’ve come to enjoy Xanexx’s DJ prowess since I arrived in Korea. His sets have never failed to disappoint; his sounds are invariably dark and uncompromising and overflowing with gnarly energy, and he has a knack for challenging his audience and making them really think about the tunes they’re hearing while also making them dance like their lives depended on it. This ear for music and refined sense of rhythm and groove carries over well into his production work, as well, as evinced by the thunderous broken-beat of ‘Resplendent’, his track on this year’s ECI Korea compilation, or in the industrial haze of his remix for Javier Marimon that I wrote about earlier this month. As such, I was very keen to get my hands on his latest release, the Poem of Light EP that recently came out on SCOPÁVIK, the label and podcast expertly managed by Seoul techno veteran Scøpe.

After hearing Xanexx’s ethereal rework of Javier Marimon’s ‘General Noise I’, I half expected him to dabble in more ambient techno for this release; however, all four tracks here seem to be designed with the dancefloor firmly in mind. Title track and EP opener ‘Poem of Light’ kicks off with a deep, rubbery bassline whose innate funkiness is offset by the ghostly inhuman voices and cascade of retro sci-fi effects that Xanexx drapes over it. As the track progresses the snap and sizzle of laser blasts grows ever more rapid and insistent until it is transformed into a jackhammer of synth tones, tunneling into the dark foundation of the bass while the rest of the track’s structural elements begin to glow white-hot. The following track, ‘Superposition’, follows on so suddenly and smoothly from ‘Poem of Light’ that I had to double check to see if the first track wasn’t still playing. Here, ragged, alien noises expand and contract, glistening against the backdrop of a pitch-black kick and bass combo that feels loose, almost jazzlike in its composition. Meanwhile, rapidly revolving cycles of shamanistic synth cut through the carefully constructed soundscape, providing the listener with a kind of rhythmic anchor and imposing a sense of order on the near-chaos around them.

 

 

Track 3, ‘Swaying Lights’, is centered around a staccato sequence of synth notes that feels reminiscent of the early days of Detroit techno. The earthquake pulse of the kick rumbles along below a kaleidoscope formed from glitched-out fragments of sonic architecture. The EP closes off with a remix by German DJ/producer and Mind Express label boss Refracted, who puts his own spin on ‘Swaying Lights’. He chooses to beef things up a bit here, swapping out Xanexx’s nimble, polished 909 kicks for a much rougher and boomier low-end sound that thuds along constrained by a rigid 4/4 grid. Like the original track, Refracted’s remix of ‘Swaying Lights’ relies on repetitive loops of microscopic noise to drive itself forward, but in Refracted’s hands the end result is much more direct, much “trackier”, transforming Xanexx’s tune into a jacking groove that will surely devastate many a dimly-lit dancefloor. DJs will undoubtedly love this one, but to my ears it’s probably the least interesting of the four tracks on the EP, eroding much of the intrigue and depth of the original and losing out on one of Xanexx’s greatest strengths as a producer – his unusual and unpredictable drum programming.

The EP is, unfortunately, marred by a few slight technical mishaps; I think it probably could have done with a bit more time spent in the mixing and mastering stage, as to my ears the higher frequencies on a couple of tracks (most notably ‘Poem of Light’) are mixed a little too loud and harsh, detracting from the work going on in the low-end. I was also a little let down by Refracted’s remix, and feel that he could have done more to preserve the spirit of the original tune and craft a remix that fit better with the flow and feel of the EP. Ultimately, however, these are fairly minor quibbles, and Poem of Light remains a strong collection of tracks, a bold statement of intent from an artist who continues to prove time and time again that he is one of the most important figures within the world of Korean techno today. I’m looking forward to hearing more from him in the near future – and secretly hoping that his next release is album-length.

Poem of Light is available for purchase over on SCOPAVIK’s Bandcamp

2018 has been a fruitful year for Oslated. The fledgling label has already released two stellar albums this year – Eyvind Blix’s Västberga Allé and Saphileaum’s Uninhibited Kingdom – and now, as the memory of summer fades and the trees have begun to turn the crimsons and golds of autumn, they’ve put out their most challenging and experimental release yet: General Noise, by Spanish-born, Vietnam based producer Javier Marimon.

On General Noise Marimon, who contributed a remix of Saphileaum’s ‘No Clue of Life’ for Uninhibited Noise earlier this year, offers up six cuts of moody, atmospheric ambient techno, which are presented alongside four remixes by various Oslated affiliates. The album’s intro consists of reverb-drenched found sound – something like ping pong balls falling to a wooden floor, or marbles being rolled across a stage – that bubble and echo against a backdrop of ominous buzzes and drones that grow steadily richer and more textured as the track progresses, while a halting, uncertain kick rhythm lies almost buried in the mix. After the intro fades away, the album kicks off with the first ‘proper’ track, ‘General Noise I’ – though “kicks off” is really the wrong turn of phrase to use for such a muted, understated piece of music. A pad so deep it frequently finds itself merging with the bass rumbles and creaks alongside the thump of a chaotic kick pattern while more reverb-laden samples, similar to those in the intro piece, provide a counterpoint to the other elements of the track. It’s a bare-bones, hyperminimalist work, but at the same time it has a certain warmth to it, a flicker of emotion that belies the sparseness of the overall arrangement. No such sense of warmth is present in the following tune, ‘General Noise II’, a far more eerie and ominous affair. A soft rain of static leaves streaks of sound against a crystalline lead rhythm (I say “rhythm” because it would be an extreme stretch of the term to describe it as a “melody”), while over time something vaguely resembling a traditional techno track structure – 4/4 bass thud, whispers of percussion – is worn away by gusts of metallic wind. Later in the track things grow slightly more intense with the arrival of distorted, twisted clap-like sounds, battering the bulk of the track in a faltering, unpredictable frenzy, but they’re still mixed low enough that they only add to the murk of the piece, rather than making it any clearer.

 

 

General Noise III’, the fourth track, is probably the closest Marimon gets here to ‘straight’ dancefloor material, but even here he’s undeniably charting a stranger territory than paint-by-numbers peak-time techno ever dares to. A blunt-edged sub-bass and dry grid of kick drums form the basis of the track as bursts of shaped static sound off like faraway gunfire and synth sweeps and spirals through the air like UFOs searching for their next victim. It’s danceable, sure, but only in the darkest of basements in the blackest of hours, which I feel like is exactly what Marimon was aiming for. It’s followed by the last of the ‘General Noise’ tunes, ‘General Noise IV’. The low-end of the track tunnels its way through a fog of engine noise before being joined by the microscopic click and hiss of percussion and a swell of bright synth that would almost sound like vaporwave if heard in a different context.

After the last notes of ‘General Noise IV’ have faded away, it’s time for the remixes to start. First up is a remix of ‘General Noise I’ by Korea’s dark prince of the 5 a.m dancefloor, Xanexx. Here, Xanexx hollows out the dense soundscape of Marimon’s original and cloaks it in a shroud of his own ghostly electronics, producing an ambient work somehow even more somber and despondent than the original, making the listener feel as if they’re gazing out over the frozen surface of a desolate moon. The next rework comes from one of the most renowned names to have worked with Oslated to date, Silent Season luminary Winter in June. On his rework of ‘General Noise II’, the Sardinian producer cranks up the originals ominous atmosphere to 11, creating a tense, paranoid slice of dark ambient reminiscent of the early work of Ben Frost; it’s the kind of track that wouldn’t sound out of place on the soundtrack of a horror film. For the third remix, Georgian producer Saphileaum delivers what may be the album’s most floor-friendly moment with his ‘3rd Sky’ remix of ‘General Noise III’. A syncopated stepper kick rhythm gives the track a bit of groove and sexiness, but Saphileaum keeps things on the weird and experimental side by layering on a cacophony of disintegrating waveforms that flow and evaporate over the track’s dark void of bass. Saphileaum’s dub techno influences are prominently on display here, and his tune is probably the most original of the four remixes on the album, the one that deviates the furthest from its source material. The final remix comes courtesy of the mysterious Mojave, whose re-imagining of ‘General Noise IV’ features serene, glowing pads whose gentle hum forms a counterpoint to the repetitive buzz and click of something that was once, maybe, percussion, but that Mojave has bent and deformed until it’s closer to simple raw sound. Actual percussion emerges from the depths of the track a little later, in the form of sixteenth note hi-hat ticks and a tightly wound snare sound, but these details are soon eclipsed by a sudden unfurling of shimmering, warped noise that transforms the track into a stunning tapestry of sonic detail. The album closes off with Marimon’s ‘Outro’, a simple reprisal of the ‘Intro’ tracks that takes the intro’s pared-down minimalism and engulfs it in a gale of digital wind.

 

 

As an album, ‘General Noise’ is a triumph, both for Marimon as a producer and for Oslated as a label; it’s introspective, experimental nature represents a willingness to take risks and explore a deeper realm of sound, demonstrating the capacity of techno music to extend beyond its functional dimension as party music and instead illuminate something richer and more mysterious about the human condition. Furthermore, both Marimon and his remixers appear to be operating on the same wavelength, sharing a singular vision and understanding of techno that allows both Marimon’s original tracks and the four remixed tunes to operate as one continuous musical experience. All of the artists involved should be congratulated for putting forth such a fearless transgression of musical boundaries.

General Noise is available for purchase at Oslated’s Bandcamp