014, New Release, Split Tape

Running Point – The Mic’d Time-Scene

Armed with two handhelds: the microcassette and cassette recorders flash broken-stream reds and blurred spotty static speaker blow-up on top of winter sound. A clean condenser intensifies the samples on lamp-lighting duty and the paper corners turn in.

Avoiding the surface capture.

Going to work. Working.

Immediacy lost in thinking-wonder. Waiting to strike, declaration/clarification of the specifics, the specs are only here-now. Go out and find the lungs.

A freezing temperature blast and wind-worn walk subtracts the warmth in-home with bullet and tape. No counters for the unused radio dial’s turn of extra-hiss. The greying-black of white noise in the covered room with empty reception bleeds everything together. Outside and in, all mirrored the same. Furnace plugs along in stomp pedal timing. Cold air and the lake convert the amplifier into trains rumbling underneath. Rhythms ignored for their psychogeographical counterpart.

Erasing the own, a century-turning windscreen protects real time from the made:

Part one, documentation through tape-roll and manipulation.

Part two, chance and accidental/guess-work collage.

What can’t be found is the time-scene objective. Go back and find it through cut-up. Realize that’s the imagined end-point that will forever elude.

The left-behind represents the mystery and the original self, the original vision.

What’s the microphone listening to when sleeping?

Where’s the original self?

This is the second half, Side B, of the split with Cahill Locksmith – Starter Kin, 012.

Tapes limited to 30 copies coming soon.

Both albums clock in at a hair under 36 minutes and seem like a nice pairing.

Guitars work out existential problems of spatial folk and circumstantial collection. Microphones perk/peak to differing realities, instruments in ultimate-silencer-tunings slice the air.

Where Locksmith dabbles in brother twos/blues and patient ellipsis, Running Point battles the many selves in observed/pragmatic time with implied technique.

The two sides of our living coins.

Hope you dig it …

Thanks for listening and reading,

013, New Release

Sloom’s Mix Tape #1

Tape transfer granule drop, the Luxman with touch to dust sincerity loading and underpin bedding. Specific type: specific recollections/imprinting for turning digital to grain. Sanded down in pleasure-molecule contemplation.

No rain imminent in clear sun lookout until formed clouds roll in.

Boiled down to gas and fume, breathe/intake the memory lapse turned coloured air in a lonely head-space, in stereo-rattled inner-ear change-over. An analogue chemistry set charting the positional mapography of sleeping big-cities. One cylinder pours the closeness into another.

Escaping haze.

Hidden grit underneath time-treble hit and hiss. Buried in noise reductionism, a curious layer, the rewarded side effect guides the proceedings. Map-points merging/submerging. Pin-points threaded in pinched hubs, place-names occurring to calculate space and new-turning distances. Attenuated soundtrack work, night cars and pitch-blackness through artificial shine, building speed then gridless. Nowhere drives and small-moments writ large.

And a hot sun blazing.

Now we have the master on the other side of the horn. The ear now looks out.

This a gifted collection of blanketed aura iron-out and windows-down tempo pulse from James A. Toth, our usual in-house master technician.

Here, he removes the white hat and takes the long, treed road chasing the warmth and the experiment in tone and technology.

Tape manipulation, part of the mixing process, printing/creating new textures, allowing the decay and compression to spindle appropriate melody, the add-on/dump-down schemata holds the stamp. The flashes break the horizon’s long-distant view, it moves ever-closer with the heat turning, lighting the propel. Small, irregular clock-wise rollers collecting and disseminating new data in an almost instant compositional-like poise and lacquer.

The drifting, shouldering weight/less suspension.

A terrific mix of dream and wake-up. Moving and sitting still.

Limited to 30 tapes, coming very soon.

Thanks for listening and reading!

Hope you dig…

012, New Release

Cahill Locksmith – Starter Kin

Blue Water Bridge cloned two as we leave.

Car accidents on the center top when still one.

Memories of thinking/finding the other side’s got to be the same as ours.

Both sides visualize the tatters when exposed out from under inter-support.

Bikes left unlocked only to return to later.

Still there, wonders of small town play-around and the lack of life’s heavy concern.

Pineries as dune-huge temples representing omnipresent force and mystery.

Clean, face-first water combatting a valley of chemicals and train track shrieks through the screens that lay open at night.

A giant wick flaming blue-green hot air and toxicity.

Full contact cement, all time, tough south-end small school near-violent-eruption and unkind walk-bys.

Sludged stream markings of a beat up place.

Late nights sitting on a roof staring at sky-fires in places we’ll never return to.

Parks and beaches to escape the boring sprawl.

Interlock conversation as years pass.

Time underneath, aging, life lessons in full-bore activity.

A very small window.

Always open.

We’ll hold those irrelevant time-trips as memories-on-film, captured pure, a photographic survey of the same-trees offering their together’d palms.

Roll the machines out and capture something.

Childhood grey.

This is the preliminary work of a brother project materializing and catching breath. A digital release to keep the wood burning for the future tape-hold.

Sitting outside around the fire unlocking time.

This album will be a split, limited to 30 tapes, with Power Moves Label 014, coming at a later date.

Please have and share.

Thanks for reading + listening,

011, New Release

Shredderghost – Golden Cell

Absorbing the peace/pieces, extrapolating on long silence form, each glowing layer constructed in closed-eye shutter creating a physical space emanating a unified thought-vibration-singularity.

Parallel miniature features attune to the center, fixed and moving, floating, hovering, radiating awake.

Integral chops combine in top-heavy start-over, a dark, rich blue of clipped image and coils, skipping and coiling around bluer tremble.

All new-reds on amplifier wash-out, tube-lit night-ocean’s dark pigment, all aglare with hum-and-crackle.

Multiple lives in succession, living the same time-and-space.

Delayed and without beginning. There is no start, only continuation.

Dream’s the same.

An encyclopedia of thought-vision, an individual’s day-and-past taped together in one moment. Simultaneous levelling in several defined directions.

The non-psychological workings of the life-body, joint beauty and the reaching, not thinking but hoping, unconsciously feeling for purpose.

Looking for strategy, for meaning, waking up in the continuation. A shining and perfect symbol to complete the confusion/eureka.

Theoretical-gold then as mystery’s radiance, as shiner, as blinder, as reflection.

Only attainment real is in humanity’s ability to back off.

A miracle surrender.

Named after Odilon Redon’s painting La Cellule d’Or, Ian Franklin, under his Shredderghost name, tackles some mind-trip work of turbulent soft/heated control and excited cloud/cooling stretch-out.

Guitars get chances to resurrect and to speak again, blurred but with stoic integrity they hang on, they leak through the closed netting.

The amplifier gets full working duty, gets the last say. It all passes and erases in sonic solder memory come-and-go.

Temporal looping on earth, while working, untricking the enlight/enrich code.

Reaching for sustainability for the mind and heart, reaching for a heightened trance, passive yet anxiety-inducing, challenging, always cycling to the same spot. In sight/grasp yet slips through. A Taoist turmoil.

Amongst, within, seeing outside of, repeat.

Amongst, within, seeing outside of.

Dream’s the same.

Either thought-confined in that series of similar dreams (“Among the Flowers”) or its lucid hindsight initiates the exposition/extraction. That wave of escape keeps one grounded, keeps one awake, ready to receive new/old letting-go.

Consciousness under inquisitive and final inspection (“À Soi-Même”) – an alarm/trust dimensional ribbon. Markers unfold and move, never fixed, if drawn: held like cellular adventure, in plane-capture aspect, binding yet offering a new start-again, as mental fly-away disperses and returns. Atmosphere, timing, movement, evaporating.

Both sides of the stream, above and below, the realms for step-through.

This is gorgeous work presented in two side long pieces. Philosophical or not, the resolution’s in the clarity of feeling. The trips stand alone.

Limited to 50 tapes, coming very soon.

Hope you dig …

Thanks for reading and listening!

010, New Release

The Shouts from the Sea

In Ti Jean moments of far flung
Water-crash sound a literature
Blizzard of seeing live poem
Sit as open crest breathes

Shared wail shoring boats
In wobbled cursive unbalance

Waves tumble and call out
Reverberate and mimic previous cycle
Mist erases structure then-beautiful
Now in locked re-occurence swift

Cloud cover reaching for the low hang
Of crisp white tops in spiral
And splash
Teetering jungle-strength heavier
Than rain
Only to oblivion’s wearing retreat

Holed wood splintering
Flood pile-up in
Transparent fleet still dry

For liquid hallucination

Rock forming moan-sing
Magic modernized as unblind
Scraped pre-painting in
Raft wind dock plans

Lost arch beginnings to see
Temple total relic shaping

Original layers bell
Erupting ready
Cliff bound when overdosed
In soaring exclamation

Tidal to tonal

For hallucinating liquid

Got a monster for you, some right gnarled sounds from the hands and minds of Patrick Cain and Phong Tran. Improvised and fully felt, complete immersion for the togethered flame, the fire sparkling light on dangerous terrain, this is an all-out ripper.

The burning is needed for warmth and deconstruction. Water too, ocean or river or sea – an array of punishing pools, whiplash, undercurrents, being thrown about, gracefully and glacially intact and howling sun-and-moon for day-long.


The ancestral water mysteries turn proud. Paddling shore’s unfamiliar voyage, lost lands covered in archaic art-leafage. Mission of elastic grip-hold, tensions minimized through collective gift-offer. A mirage turns magic real, an opened page from the book of peoples.

Lineal every-sound following and zoning in on the source.

Voices shaped through the sea’s vast horn.

Moans and wails and screaming free association. Rocking boats traipsing through choppy waters. Explorers, kind to the land. Receivers, using the land.

A duo in friend thorn lock, on soft carpet, in a prayer reach, extended beyond the individual.

“Just playing music.”

Sink or swim.

Tapes coming soon, limited to 50 copies.

Hope you dig it!

Thanks for reading + listening!

009, New Release

Talugung – Multiplying Dead Ends

For reference: the concrete curtain will create noises.

Acousmatic: a motorized cooing antique.

Balletic signatures are carved on the mind-film with dull knives, splinters of computer burrow inside. Stitching strips in a long fragmented quilt, the backwards-forwards continuum is peaking.

Translucent snow fields of animal concerto shift to dominating leaves, stepping off metaphorical celluloid into cone and grill.

Research in to moving parts.

All colour removes itself when reels begin to turn.

Sharp edges pillow into the disappearing. Hands look like fins, tails look like eyes, all piled in no-special attention.

Light and shade and singular shapes find time to dance in paper-like movement, cut-up from screen and bow, wind blowing communal, fanning structural kamikaze drop offs, to hover and zoom near distant.

Laser-like precision lumbers to through-line directive, aim at end point reinvigorate, reinvention line-through, crossed out, left to write over, no such thing as scrap pile, no such thing as …

The sound the brush makes.

Patter of rain pallet, canvas interlocked with hands, wetness dries and attaches its new form to the painter’s descriptive bristles. The thin minute hairs animate the sound they hear when brushed free, ready for reload.

Hairs on film jar essence sound poet wave in miniscule statement aloud read invisible.

Clacking keys mouse note specifics.

Near-far away eating snake encircled in motherboard battery ink.

Moving tables, swivelling wheels, columns of artist-brain matter cavernous and castle-filled brimming with re-purpose, lined with play. To engineer for entrance.

For reference: seal with cubist abstract glue.

This is a magical set of curiosities from Ryan Waldron under his Talugung name. Live bowl strikes and bow-work overturn into laptop disarray. Small drips of water in purposeful allowance shorting original content.

Manipulation, sampling, seeing through the process to start again.

Removing the overdone, adding intricate art-flame to renew the ancient clutter, all-microtonal chord species living in chambered depot.

Seven tracks of warbled, pre-warped, angular attachments on graph paper poly-imagination. Hints of naive art history liquidate under heavy, random calculation. Scissor-tricks spark firework-like drawing, screen and speaker make original tools of wet/dry primitive composition.

Minor-crescendo is continuous, in two-dimensional flattened form, birthed from plastic box-spring and vibrant basement omni-directional vision.

Time-lacking, of this time, of another time-plane, alien and archaeologically-origin-settled, when water first touched land.

This is art in full caught-its-stride. Experimental in the outcome-questioning, but absolutely masterful and full of expertise. An essential document to push open the computer/electronic/hardware/software/live instrument dialectic.

An artist’s class.

Limited to 30 tapes, coming soon.

Hope you dig!

Thanks for reading + listening,

008, New Release

Sealadder – Tiny Territories

In rented cars, experience as a dog-eared biography, looking out windows and barely finishing sentences, the moment wants to let that natural outside hum and glistening atmosphere climb right in.

It can be a lot to look at, seeing wonderful landscapes turn and twist around opening corners and the green wrapping all of itself all over everything.

Even the shadows turn green under northern sky brush. There’s pieces or abstract notions that never catch the eye’s view, gone with the breezes and the clouds as they move slow-crawl fast hovering above for eternity, then long gone in time’s open-concept of a window. It flies away, time. It can stop too, if your willing to let it.

While watching water circle in rapid-random movements in constant search of the edge, in search of the end, longing to touch what it isn’t, the sheer mastery of the illuminating transparency laughingly mirrors thought back. It longs for no shape. It spreads thinner and thinner. Movement is silent. Constant flashes meditating on its contourless beginning and end. Even under ice. You can stare down and challenge it. Test nature’s choices. Get a small worry-feeling in the bottom of your stomach for a second or two, the ice may give way to weight and foreign particle, but you end up looking into your own eyes anyhow. The firmness doesn’t blink. Form with strength.

A daredevil bathed in a camera’s glowing blue and white, a moving body in the distance, the wind picks up and yet nothing cracks. Sliding movement sliding in close up.

Sitting now, at the table, looking out windows larger than walls, conducting musical research through open-gazed light-refraction and moisture-condensing sensory unload. Watching it melt.

And circling the woods and bay on foot, timing it, tiptoeing on ice thicker than the trunk. An expansive deep-drop below covered in white roughness, strange yet comforting your body to be someplace else, wandering, desolate and filled-up, half-way across, staring back in through the crisp glass at the seated apparition in deep lock-down. Brain toggling between the realities and whispers. There or here.

Sun is out.

To be two places at once. Eyes close as if dreaming. Dreaming closes. Reality lapping against the sides of the lodgings. Temperature crackling subtle hand-drawn lines in never-parallel geometry. Visible but mostly hidden.

The fallen snow piling up and holding strong, the reminder of time’s slow steps. There’s always more to come. The house settles in a similar key. Earth’s natural dissonance cancel. It echoes.

Disclosure’s partnership clause:

I’m more than a little excited to be releasing these solo meditations.

These explorations make me feel like I’m participating, like my ears are breathing, songs pumped by the human harmonium through a timeless expanse of floating heart-signal.

Lay back on the sweeping warmth, the rivers and sky visuals softly focus around the eyelids, under centered dial.

Tiny territories, like miniature little creative-thought-and-sound-worlds we can inhabit, we can take up sleep under a shared star-shelter. We fill in blank space with our own personal histories and leave the remaining blankness open to interpretation and revelry.

Borderless meaning is found and let go. A solitary rock in a fog of sea.

The lion’s share of recording was done at Lake St. Peter, up at day’s first offering, hitting the record button, staring into the zone and out the window. Then hiking. Then quiet nights.

Two ghost selves, one outside in cold-weather covering, covered warm and exploratory. The second in still portrait realism, working, creating, finding expression. Fingertip-time dissolving back into the universe, back into the first form, without the uncanny, more real than ghost.

All music written/improvised/performed/recorded in layered real time by Cheryl Fraser as Sealadder, with her Nord Lead 2X.

Finished off here in Toronto, Cheryl put the sequence/totality together, I worked on the rough mix and added some reverbs and Jim axed the pieces into master, the master ready for the hiss frame.

Limited to 30 tapes, coming very soon.

Hope you enjoy…

Thanks for listening + reading!