This EP does not introduce itself. It grabs you by the collar, mutters something in three languages, and drags you into a poorly lit room where repetition is law and volume is a physical condition. "Dééfait" is not interested in charm, balance, or your long-term wellbeing. It is interested in trance. Everything else is optional.

Formed in 2023 and already steeped in sweat and basement acoustics, Dééfait operates somewhere between krautrock’s obsessive forward motion, noise rock’s abrasion, and a kind of decaying psychedelia that smells faintly of ritual smoke and damp concrete. The lineup matters here. Two guitars that don’t negotiate, a bass that thickens the air rather than outlining it, drums that push relentlessly without ever quite settling, and Ric Lara’s voice, which doesn’t sing so much as inhabit multiple states of urgency at once.

The EP unfolds as six extended incantations. These are not songs in the traditional sense. There are no hooks waiting to rescue you, no choruses waving from a safe distance. Instead, each track behaves like a loop under pressure, stretching and deforming until something gives. What breaks is usually avoiding discomfort.

"We Love Each Other So Much That We Won’t Belong To Any Species Anymore" opens the record with a title that already sounds like a manifesto scribbled during a sleepless night. The track itself moves like a collective vow, desire and violence braided together. Love here is not sentimental. It’s corrosive, ecstatic, and oddly tender in its refusal to stay within recognizable forms.

"Molokh" sinks deeper, chewing on sacrifice and chemical imagery with a slow, punishing patience. The guitars feel less like riffs and more like surfaces being scraped. "BONDBONDBOND" tightens the focus, voices tangling and untangling in a sensual spiral that keeps slipping into compulsion. It’s uncomfortable in a deliberate way, like watching something you’re not sure you’re supposed to witness.

On the B-side, "Comatose Big Sun" drags heat and lethargy into the same space, while "Al’Ether" detonates whatever restraint was left. This is where Dééfait sounds closest to a live animal. Rhythms convulse, guitars surge, and the whole thing threatens to collapse under its own momentum, but never quite does. It’s exhausting. It’s effective.

The closer, "Wow! Ferreri Cooked For Us", ends the EP with a dark grin. Words are chewed, spat out, reprocessed. It feels like satire performed with clenched teeth. If this is humor, it’s the kind that laughs while the room is still on fire.

Recorded in a deliberately raw, DIY context and mixed without attempting to civilize it, the sound captures the band’s physical impact rather than polishing it into something respectable. References float around easily, from proto-punk savagery to krautrock repetition and noise extremism, but the EP never feels derivative. It feels inhabited.

Dééfait makes music like a ceremony without doctrine. Masks are inverted, roles dissolve, and repetition becomes both weapon and refuge. This debut doesn’t explain itself, doesn’t justify its intensity, and doesn’t care if you’re ready. It simply insists. And once it’s done, you’re left slightly disoriented, a bit drained, and strangely alert. Which, in this case, counts as success.

The title already does most of the work. It asks a question, then refuses to answer it properly. Which is exactly the kind of behavior you would expect from Rie Nakajima and David Toop when left alone with time, emails, and an inconvenient global pause.

This project grows out of lockdown conversations, which sounds like a warning label, but turns out to be a strength. Confined situations tend to either flatten thought or sharpen it. Here, thought drifts, loops, sidesteps itself. Nakajima and Toop don’t use isolation as a dramatic backdrop. They treat it as a condition that alters attention. Things float away. Other things become strangely fixed. Sound behaves like memory does when it’s left unsupervised.

Both artists arrive with long histories of refusing rigid categories. Nakajima’s work has consistently treated everyday objects and fragile sounds as instruments that barely agree to exist. Toop, for decades now, has operated somewhere between music, writing, ethnography, improvisation, and gentle provocation. Together, they don’t collaborate so much as coexist, leaving space for accidents, humour, and partial listening.

The idea of sculpture hangs over the record like a polite misunderstanding. Sculpture is supposed to be solid, heavy, durable. This music is none of those things. Instead, it unfolds as duration, as gesture, as something that briefly takes shape and then moves on without asking permission. If there is mass here, it’s temporal. If there is weight, it’s attentional.

Across the four parts, sound behaves like a collection of small events that never demand hierarchy. Percussive ticks, airy resonances, quiet scrapes, near-silences. Nothing insists on being central. Part I introduces the logic gently, almost conversationally. By Part II and III, the listening deepens. You start noticing how often you stop trying to “follow” and simply let the sounds pass through, like light shifting across a room.

The long final part stretches this sensibility without urgency. At nearly half an hour, it never announces itself as a climax. Instead, it tests patience in a friendly way. Sounds appear, disappear, reappear altered. You might miss something. That’s fine. The record is comfortable with being partially ignored, which is rare and oddly generous.

Humour is present, but quietly. Not punchlines, more the amusement of two people enjoying how strange serious ideas become when you look at them from the side. The notion that a season could be a sculpture is absurd until you realize how much effort goes into pretending it isn’t. Spring arrives, changes everything, then leaves. No pedestal required.

The accompanying book matters here. Photographs, fragments, and visual traces don’t explain the music. They echo its logic. Documentation without authority. Evidence without conclusion. The design keeps things light, deliberately unmonumental.

Mastered by Lawrence English with a careful hand, the sound preserves fragility rather than polishing it away. Room40 continues to be exactly the right home for work that values listening as an active, slightly unreliable process.

"Is Spring A Sculpture?" doesn’t argue its case. It suggests. It lingers. It trusts that if you spend enough time with it, the question will stop feeling abstract and start feeling practical. You might not be able to touch these sculptures, but they have a way of rearranging how you notice things afterward. Which, inconveniently, is often the point.

Memory is unreliable. It edits without asking, loops details until they blur, replaces facts with atmospheres. Paolo Tortora seems perfectly comfortable with this problem. "Waves of Fading Memories" does not attempt to reconstruct the past. It lets it dissolve in real time, gently, stubbornly, one frequency at a time.

This cassette marks Tortora’s first solo outing after years spent inside the porous organism known as Japanese Gum, a project that treated krautrock, ambient, dub, and psychedelia less as genres than as climates. That sensibility hasn’t vanished. It has thinned out, slowed down, and turned inward. Where Japanese Gum often felt communal and expansive, this record feels solitary, coastal, and quietly obsessive.

The Ligurian Sea is not a postcard here. Its waves are broken down, stretched, filtered through guitar drones, analog pedals, and tape processes that refuse to behave like neutral tools. Natural sound and instrumental gesture blur until neither quite knows where it begins. The sea becomes texture. The guitar becomes weather. The synths hover like emotional residue rather than melody.

The album unfolds across four long chapters, all variations on the same fragile idea. "From a Memory" parts one through four don’t escalate or resolve. They circle. They return. They slightly misremember themselves. Listening feels less like following a path and more like wading into shallow water that keeps pulling you sideways. Progress happens, but quietly, almost shyly.

What Tortora does well is restraint. These pieces could easily collapse into formless drift, but they don’t. Subtle changes in density, slow shifts in harmonic pressure, and the grain of tape saturation keep the surface alive. There’s a physicality to the sound, an organic unevenness that resists the smoothness often associated with ambient music. This isn’t background. It’s an environment that notices you noticing it.

There’s also a soft melancholy at work, but not the dramatic kind. No grand statements, no cinematic sadness. More like the feeling of standing somewhere familiar and realizing you can’t quite place why it matters. The record’s title promises fading, and it delivers honestly. Nothing here is held too tightly. Everything is allowed to slip.

If there’s humor, it’s subtle and human. The idea that memories “have their own lives” sounds poetic until you realize it’s also inconvenient. They wander off. They refuse instructions. This album accepts that and builds around it, rather than trying to impose order. The waves keep coming, indifferent to narrative.

Mastered with care and presented on cassette, "Waves of Fading Memories" feels deliberately intimate. A format choice that matches the music’s scale and temperament. This is not a statement piece. It’s a patient one. A record that rewards deep listening, or half-listening, or drifting somewhere between the two.

Paolo Tortora doesn’t offer answers, and he doesn’t frame memory as something to recover. He treats it as a space you briefly inhabit before it reshapes itself. You leave changed, unsure how, carrying traces of sound that feel personal even if they aren’t yours. Which is probably the most honest way memory ever works.

This is one of those records that doesn’t arrive so much as surround you. You don’t press play and wait for something to happen. You step inside, and the light politely excuses itself.

"Du noir tout autour" is Armando Balice doing what he does best, which is treating darkness not as mood, but as material. Not metaphorical gloom, not cinematic dread, but darkness as a working condition. As substance. As a space where sound has to earn its right to exist. This is acousmatic music that remembers where it came from: microphones out in the world, analogue oscillations with rough edges still showing, edited with care but never sanded down to politeness.

Balice has been circling this territory for years. A French-Italian composer shaped by Ina-GRM and the lineage of Denis Dufour and Jean-Marc Weber, he carries both the discipline of electroacoustic tradition and a taste for density that flirts openly with noise, metal, and orchestral mass. His music often sounds like it wants to be larger than the speakers that contain it. This album is no exception.

The record is built as a triptych, three long-form works that function like different angles on the same inner landscape. Black Garden, Empty Garden, Light Garden. The titles might suggest a neat progression, but the experience is less linear than that. Darkness doesn’t disappear. It reorganizes.

"Black Garden" opens the set with a sense of dramatic restraint. Field recordings, ravens, forest textures, and the cello of Lola Malique are not presented as scenery, but as unstable elements. Silence and noise keep interrupting each other, like tectonic plates that never quite lock into place. The short “noir” movements puncture the flow, brief moments where the ground seems to drop out entirely. It feels calm only if you mistake stillness for safety.

"Empty Garden" is the most unsettling of the three. Here, emptiness is not absence. It’s pressure. A void that hums quietly with potential. Sounds emerge cautiously, hover, then withdraw, leaving afterimages behind. There’s something almost physical about the way Balice lets space breathe, then compresses it again. This is not ambient comfort. It’s the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own listening.

By the time "Light Garden" arrives, the title risks optimism, but Balice avoids that trap. Light here is not resolution. It’s exposure. Refractions, iridescent textures, and spectral reflections rise from the same dark matter as before. The cello reappears, birds return, synthetic tones stretch and fracture. Light and shadow coexist, inseparable, like two sides of the same sound.

What stands out across the album is Balice’s sense of form. These pieces collapse and rebuild themselves constantly. Elevations fall. Ruins reorganize. It feels architectural, but unstable, like a structure designed to test how much imbalance it can survive. Editing plays as big a role as sound generation, but the edits never feel surgical. They feel like collisions.

There’s a quiet humor buried in all this severity. Not jokes, but a kind of wry awareness. The idea that in the dark you can see more than you expect. That monochrome surfaces hide complex materials. That a flock of birds and a cello can share a space without explanation. Balice doesn’t underline these moments. He lets them happen and trusts the listener to notice.

"Du noir tout autour" is not an easy record, and it has no interest in being one. It demands attention, patience, and a willingness to let images form slowly, then dissolve. But it’s also deeply lyrical in its own abrasive way. A reminder that darkness is not the opposite of clarity. Sometimes it’s the only place where things come into focus at all.

This record opens by refusing things. Service. Silence. Sequence. Surveillance. It keeps refusing until refusal itself becomes rhythm. Which is exactly the point. "Sorry, No Service" is not an album that wants to help you, guide you, or smooth anything out. It wants to keep moving while you’re still tying your shoes.

DJ Marcelle has built a career on saying no in productive ways. No genre loyalty. No fixed tempo. No polite separation between DJ culture, composition, performance, and mischief. Under the alias Another Nice Mess, she treats electronics and bass like elastic objects. They stretch, snap, wobble, then come back grinning. This LP feels like a continuation of that philosophy, but stripped of any remaining courtesy.
The Laurel & Hardy script woven into the concept is not a gimmick. It’s a structural device. Confusion, repetition, slapstick logic, timing that looks wrong until it suddenly lands perfectly. Stan and Ollie drift through the record like ghosts of vaudeville trapped inside a modular system. Their chatter mirrors the music’s method: repetition as insistence, humor as resistance, nonsense as a way of staying alert.

Musically, the A-side hits with a physical insistence that never quite settles into function. "Sorry, No Sorry" sets the tone: basslines that feel sturdy but slightly untrustworthy, rhythms that bounce like rubber balls in a concrete stairwell. "The 10.23 AM From Amsterdam Lelylaan" moves with commuter anxiety and accidental groove, a track that sounds like it might miss its stop but doesn’t care. The titles are long, dry, and pointed, like post-it notes left by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing and refuses to explain it.

Marcelle’s production has a particular clarity. Everything is audible, nothing is polite. Synths clank, oscillate, percolate, then repeat until repetition becomes content. "I Have Been Doing Some Accounting This Afternoon" is a perfect example: regimented but elastic, playful but slightly irritated. Numbers don’t add up, and neither does the track, which is why it works.

The short Latin detour, "Quidquid Latine Dictum Sit Altum Videtur", feels like a raised eyebrow aimed at institutional seriousness. It’s over quickly, says its piece, leaves no footnotes. That economy carries into the B-side, where "Sorry, No Silence" stretches out and breathes differently. Less chatter, more undertow. The groove is still there, but it’s wrapped in a kind of low-grade agitation, like a room full of people who all want to say something at once.

"Final Exam At The Music Academy" is as close as this album gets to a manifesto. It sounds like a test no one studied for and everyone passes anyway. "The High Synths Experiment" leans into texture and motion, while "Chairs" closes the record by refusing closure. Musical chairs, yes, but also power games, social choreography, who gets to sit and who keeps moving.

There is anger here, but it’s agile. There is humor, but it cuts. Marcelle doesn’t use repetition as comfort. She uses it as pressure. Repetition in protest, repetition in history, repetition everywhere. The album understands that nothing really changes unless it keeps happening, loudly, awkwardly, in public.

Recorded at home in Amsterdam, mastered with care, wrapped in Marcelle’s own visual language, "Sorry, No Service" sounds exactly like someone who doesn’t need permission. It’s dance music that doesn’t promise a dancefloor. It’s experimental music that doesn’t ask to be excused. It’s a record that keeps the bus moving even when no one knows the route, and somehow that feels like the most honest service available right now.