Tokyo-based sound artist Yuta Kudo - under his moniker Rhucle - unveils "No Wind", a tape-and-digital release that drifts at the crossroads of ambient, field recording, and delicate melody. With over 70 releases since 2013 under his belt, Kudo has refined a sound that celebrates subtlety and stillness, shaping moments of calm that feel both intentional and accidental.

Each of the ten miniatures - averaging around two to three minutes - feels like a breath caught between thoughts. “Curve” opens the EP with soft, undulating tones that coil gently into silence, while “Airship”, featuring Arbee, adds a touch of melodic lift before releasing back into ambient levity. The crystalline piano fragments on “Light Bubbles” (with Asami Tono) shimmer like sunlit dust motes, and the title track babbles faintly, as if wind left a message on glass.

Despite the brevity of each piece, Kudo builds immersive microcosms. Field recordings - rustling leaves, distant hums, subtle mechanical creaks - are woven into the synthetic textures, anchoring these abstractions in lived reality. It’s a soundscape where Japanese ambient greats like Hiroshi Yoshimura and Chihei Hatakeyama meet the crystalline warmth of Hakobune.

Guests like Peter Bark on “Blur” and Broken Chip on “Water Surface” add nuance without disrupting the album’s fragile coherence. "No Wind" is "not" a dramatic ambient journey; it’s a series of still-life sketches - tiny worlds captured in the margins of attention, fading just as you lean in. In an age of maximalist sound, Rhucle’s refusal to fill space feels subversive. It reminds us that sometimes, the most powerful statement is the quietest one.

In just over 26 minutes, "Night As Day Day As Night" unfolds like a half-remembered dream - fragile, luminous, and curiously boundless. A trio of Oslo’s most imaginative experimental musicians, Winther, Lauvdal, and Reinertsen conjure a world that inhabits the liminal spaces - morning haze, moonlit reveries, the unnoticed moment between heartbeat and breath.

The record is composed of five vignettes - "The Drummer’s Place", "As Night", "Hum", "Day As Night", "Nattravnen" - each a distinct texture in a cohesive dreamscape. Lauvdal’s piano and synths cast pale light across the soundstage, drawing parallels to her work with Laurel Halo and Billie Hval, but here she’s less in the spotlight and more the dawn breaking across the trio’s interplay.

Reinertsen’s alto sax and electronics warp organically around Winther’s guitars - both acoustic and electric - creating a dense network of echoes and timbral collision. It’s an approach rooted in patience: nothing is rushed, but every phrase feels intimately woven and full of intent.

This patience doesn’t slow things down - it sharpens them. Like watching a cloud drift overhead on a still morning, the music moves neither fast nor slow, but with awareness. Each track holds space: "Hum" breathes in sustained tones; "Nattravnen" (Night Raven) closes the set with a nocturnal shimmer, as though tracing the bird’s solitary flight under moonlight.

As a debut studio recording, it’s an elegant statement. The trio - united by Oslo’s fertile avant-garde scene - has created an album that feels both composed and improvised, structured yet spontaneous. Much of its charm stems from how they play off each other’s voices, allowing contrast and nuance to float to the surface without forcing resolution.

There are moments of humorous charm, too: the gentle crackle under a string bend, a hesitant arpeggio that sounds like a question, a saxophone sigh that could double as a yawn. These little imperfections make the music feel alive - breathing, human, aware of its own edges.

The title, inspired by Michel Leiris, speaks to this: night as day as night - a cycling of states, inversion and reflection. This album doesn't demand active listening, but rewards it: it's at once ambient companion, chamber reflection, and narrative without words.

Louise Rossiter’s "Der Industriepalast" is a stunning exercise in sonic anatomy: not a cold mechanical dissection, but a vividly imaginative reinterpretation of the body as factory, as imagined by infographic pioneer Fritz Kahn. Rather than retreating into abstraction, Rossiter grounds her electroacoustic compositions in a very physical, sometimes playful materiality - recordings from breweries, ticking clocks, wind-up toys, and cellars full of watery echoes become the raw tissue of her compositions. Though inspired by Kahn’s almost whimsical diagrams from the 1920s and '30s, these seven works are no retro-futurist pastiche. They are speculative soundings of the human machine, performed with precision, curiosity, and great emotional sensitivity.

The album, released on a single CD that unifies both Part I and Part II, unfolds as a conceptual suite. Beginning with “Homo Machina”, we are plunged into a body imagined as living engine - pulsing, breathing, digesting, wired with impulse and rhythm. “Neuronen” and “Synapse” follow with more nervous energy, shifting from the beat of inner organs to the crackling of synaptic exchanges. These tracks don’t imitate the body - they give it an alternate voice, one shaped by field recordings and sculpted into a new, impossible physiology.

Where the first half focuses on systems - heart, nerve, reflex - the second half invites a more poetic drift. “Fairytale Journey on the Bloodstream” is as descriptive as its title, carrying us through capillaries like spelunkers in wet, echoing caves. “Iris Key” imagines the eye not as lens but as diagnostic map, a window into the body's tangle of organs, while “Kernel” delivers a frenetic jolt, a compressed study of the brain as nutty, twitching center of operations. The final piece, “I/O”, offers a more introspective note - dedicated to Rossiter’s father, and based on Kahn’s image of soundwaves traveling into the ear and into consciousness. It’s the album’s emotional core: a moment where machine, music, and memory converge.

Rossiter, whose academic and NHS work inform her meticulous sonic research, avoids dry didacticism. Despite the intellectual framework, the work feels strangely alive, full of humor, tension, and awe. Her treatment of the body is not reductionist, but expansive - it doesn’t shrink us to cogs and fluids, but reveals the strange poetry of internal life. This is maximalist electroacoustic storytelling at its most refined: bristling with detail, rich with metaphors, and humming with a deep sense of wonder at how we’re wired together.

Switzerland’s v0ll (a solo artist based in Zürich, despite the name) serves up "Kitty Licks EP Vol.1", a five-track romp through the underbelly of rave nostalgia - where UK techno, breakbeats, and early Detroit techno collide in fluorescent clarity.

Opening with "Breaks 5", v0ll throws us straight into rhythm gymnastics: chopped breakbeats sponge off acid-tinged stabs, creating a playful tension that feels both retro and hypermodern. You can almost catch the faint smell of throbbing warehouse floors - and yet, the percussion is crisp enough for home headphones.

Next, "Breaks 2b" tightens the groove into a near-minute funk sprint: it's agile, compact, and sharp-edged. Here v0ll proves a knack for maximal impact with minimal runtime.

"Killer" arguably steals the show, a rolling Detroit-inspired groove with hearty swing and texture. It offers that familiar feeling of a midnight second wind: nostalgic, emotional, resolutely forward-moving.

"Cornflakes" flips expectation with a crunchy breakbeat breakfast of sorts - crisp snares and acidic flickers - before spiraling down into glitch yelps. It’s the EP's slippery humor: dancefloor energy wrapped in cheeky production.

Finally, "Büsi Schleck" (Swiss German for “kitty lick”) clocks in at four minutes of slow-burn closure. It’s less jittery than its predecessors, focusing on fizzing percussion and bass-line persistence. The playful title hints at domestic warmth, but the sub-bass and echoing hats give it a subterranean glow.

What makes this EP special is how v0ll blends eras without sounding like a pastiche. There's head-nodding UK techno DNA, but peppered with Detroitian soul and breakbeat mischief - no reverence, no retouch, just a wild dance across timelines. The production is both warm and lean: vinyl crackle whispers, digital clarity shines, and yet it's all intentionally raw.

On Bandcamp, v0ll is modestly tagged under “techno” and “Zürich”, but what unfolds here is a personalized rave vision - uncaged, playful, and physically resonant. This is the sound of someone who knows the history, loves the heat, and wants to reprint the past with fresh ink. And yes - you can hear the overdrive, the nostalgia, but it never sleeps in the rearview mirror.

Tel Aviv’s Ran Slavin invites you into the twilight with "Thunder Cookies", a remix EP where the duo behind the moniker Ahal Eden & Nik Spiv (collectively Thunder Cookies) take two pieces - “Fragile Fantasy #4” and “#3” - from Slavin's earlier "Radiances" album and reforge them into something darker, more visceral, yet eerily lucid.

If Slavin’s originals floated on vaporous textures and glitch-laced atmospheres, these remixes resurrect them in full club mode. Think dub-techno’s head-nod alignment meets glitch minimalism’s off-kilter sensuality. Each remix district feels like a neon-lit back alley at 3AM, where bass mutters secrets and fragmented vocal snaps feel confessional.

On “Fragile Fantasy #4(Remix),” the fevered bass pulse and steely percussion hook you immediately - this isn’t ambient daydreaming but a mood for the visceral. The texture is both raw and refined: ambient fragments peek through - testaments to Slavin’s original signature - but here they’re re-contextualized as shadows in a nightclub cavern.

The remix of "Fragile Fantasy #3" is even more hypnotic. Nearly ten minutes of rolling bass, cracking hats, and fractured ambiance waiting to swallow your map. It’s the kind of track where the pulse becomes your heartbeat, where minimal variation turns obsessive, where deep listening becomes compression-resistant ritual.

What’s thrilling about Thunder Cookies’ approach is that these aren’t polite reinterpretations - they rip the originals apart and glue them back together in brand-new forms. It's deconstruction with purpose: the ambiance is preserved, but the mode is now physical, bodily, uncompromising.

Ran Slavin, a multimedia artist based in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, works across sound, video, and cinema. Though much of Slavin’s ambient work is slow-burning and introspective, this remix release proves his material flexes into the dance floor too - just let someone else press the pedal.

Fans who've followed Slavin’s Nocturnal Rainbow label - especially his "Fragile Fantasy" cycle - will see this as a bold detour. For the uninitiated, "Thunder Cookies" is a sharp, nocturnal intro: twisted enough for underground tastes, clear enough to hold your attention.