On Vespera, Michael Cottone lets the piano take over from guitar as The Green Kingdom's centre of gravity, twelve unhurried pieces that treat evening less as a mood than as a liturgy, lamps lit one chord at a time, a flame kept deliberately low so it never quite goes out.
Andrei Tarkovsky rebuilt his childhood house in Yuryevets on its exact foundation, resowed the buckwheat field, and filmed his own mother's real reaction to seeing it again. Mirror turns memory into architecture, and a father's real poems into a son's cinema.
Formed in Dublin by two students who liked the Incredible String Band. What followed was a rotating cast of two hundred, a transatlantic touring circuit, two record labels, and a body of work that no one has yet tried to describe whole.
A field of reeds that breathes like a body, a pit that guards what's been repressed, a mask fused to the skin like a scar from Hiroshima. Shindō makes horror well up from the soil itself, a jurisdiction older than any shogun.
Mark Daniel Kuykendall, known as The New Honey Shade, steps back from his usual manipulated field recordings for Stillwater Rooms — five untitled harp improvisations recorded this summer on Wild Mountain, Osage County, Oklahoma, where he has spent recent years listening to its flora and fauna.
Recorded after Luluc's return to Australia, Sweet Thief is a whispered record of '60s-inflected melodies and soft harmonies, examining how beauty, exploitation and existential unease coexist beneath modernity's polished surface.
Five years on, Gordon Chapman-Fox revisits People & Industry — WRNTDP's tribute to the coal, chemical and car industries once booming around Warrington and Runcorn. This Castles in Space deluxe edition adds four previously vinyl-only bonus tracks to the 2021 original.
The Green Man carved into English churches isn't a buried pagan god. The same face recurs, independently, from Hindu temple lintels to Islamic folklore, Slavic ritual and Arthurian romance — one instinct, no shared bloodline.
Her third record leaves solitary folk behind for horns, electric piano, ominous percussion — the arrangements finally catching up with lyrics that move from burned women to hospital machines, restless by design.
Eighth album from the TENGGER family: SKY drops song form for a single ambient flow of patient drones, luminous synths and Itta's breath-like voice. A record built as sky to move through, not look at — warm, vast, in no hurry to arrive anywhere.
Jaromil Jireš adapted Vítězslav Nezval's surrealist novel in 1970, banned soon after by the regime that let it be made. A girl's first week of adulthood dissolves into vampires, priests and a Bohemian village filmed like a fever dream.
Named for a mineral formed by slow pressure, AGATE reworks pieces from Meitei's Kofū trilogy — refined across five years of touring — alongside new compositions, moving past reconstruction toward what he calls Shinpu: history as foundation, not constraint.
Essays
Two nights at Sound Techniques in 1971 made Pink Moon. Everything the record has come to mean — its title, its afterlife, its rediscovery by a Volkswagen ad and a generation of songwriters — was assembled afterward, by people who knew Nick Drake and people who simply happened to find him.
Album Reviews
With Angel Pavements, D. Rothon brings Nashville pedal steel into Clay Pipe Music's catalogue for the first time, turning the forgotten proletarian novels of James Curtis and Patrick Hamilton into sound — and perhaps, unknowingly, J.B. Priestley's Angel Pavement too.
Essays
Ask what hauntology sounds like and you'll be told: analogue synths, Ghost Box, a lost English 1973. But that's a dialect, not the language. From Bryars's looped dead man to an empty church to Grouper's vapour-voice — a manifesto for hauntology as the aesthetics of the threshold.
Album Reviews
Victoria Mingot's debut, God Spill, trades her hardcore alter ego St Agnis for a classical guitar worked loose, not treasured. Taku Sugimoto's near-silence keeps getting interrupted by static, and on "Annabel Lee" the record becomes a wake.
Essays
In a Byzantine crypt near Mottola, a bare eleventh-century cross lies beneath a painted Christ. Around it, a century of forgeries, state newsreels, academic conferences and a stripped, relocated fresco — proof that hauntology in Puglia's rupestrian churches never needed inventing, only documenting.
Album Reviews
Larry Conklin pressed three hundred copies of Jackdaw in 1980 and sent them into the world. He didn't yet know about the decades in Europe, the blues legends, or the neighbor named Jack Kerouac. This is what a beginning sounds like, overheard.
Album Reviews
Asuna spent ten years building Tide Ripples from a single guitar figure. Inside it is Rima Kato's voice — a singer who walked away from music in 2001, gave five years to football instead, and was only pulled back by a stranger's blog post about a band she'd already forgotten.
Album Reviews
Owen's debut swaps the well-worn Vashti Bunyan comparison for a stranger, apter ghost: Connie Converse, the songwriter who actually vanished. A pastoral record staged as exposure, not consolation, from the first title track's oxymoron to the last.
Film Reviews
Every language that has released The Reflecting Skin has translated its title differently — shining in Spanish, mirrored in Russian, a soft shell in Japanese. None mention where the image came from: a real photo of a real child, burned silver by a real bomb.
Essays
In 1999 a Volkswagen advert gave Nick Drake his only hit, twenty-six years after his death. This is the lineage that followed — guitarists, near-strangers to each other, who inherited not his sound but his economy of hush.
Essays
For fifteen years Frances Castle's Clay Pipe Music has treated the record as a hand-made object — illustrated, numbered, bound to a place. A field guide to a label that maps a minor, overlooked England and stays deliberately small.
Album Reviews
Drew Huddart faces the North Sea and listens. Built from subtractive analogue modular synthesis, Scholars of the Peak's album raises an architecture of watching — lighthouse, lookout, observatory — and trades nostalgia for the posture of the vigil: waiting.