Cold Meat Industry – CMI121
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Barn Sour - 2021 - Belgian Gelding
Penultimate Press – PPCS7 165.95MB FLAC
Belgian Gelding feels like the archive taking a sharp turn out of ritual darkness and into a crooked field where the animals have started speaking through broken equipment. After so much Cold Meat Industry severity, Barn Sour arrives as a different kind of difficult: not oppressive, not martial, not infernal, but unstable, comic, damaged, and oddly alive.
Released by Penultimate Press in 2021, the tape carries five tracks with titles that already wobble between rural joke, bodily weirdness, and absurdist performance: “20 Hands,” “Cloaco Professional,” “20 Hands Redux,” “Plum Track,” and “Big Jake.” The Bandcamp description offers only the phrase “New state being baby, hallucinations,” which is exactly the kind of almost-useless clue that becomes useful because it refuses to tidy the music up.
The title Belgian Gelding points toward the heavy draft horse: large, domesticated, powerful, altered. A gelding is strength with reproduction removed, work energy redirected. That image gives the tape a strange comic weight. The music does not feel sleek or predatory. It feels big, awkward, breathing, maybe stubborn, maybe docile until it suddenly isn’t. There is something agricultural about the sound world, but not pastoral. More like a barn after midnight with a microphone left running beside tools, boards, animal sounds, human mumbling, small machines, and the private theater of someone making sense only sideways.
This is the kind of experimental music that benefits from not being explained too cleanly. It has affinities with sound poetry, damaged folk gesture, tape collage, outsider performance, and the stranger corners of domestic improvisation. It does not build a grand cathedral of dread. It makes a crooked pen and lets the listener stand inside while noises approach from uncertain angles.
What makes Barn Sour refreshing after the CMI run is that the tension is not ideological. It is behavioral. The record feels less concerned with power, ritual, or history than with presence: bodies making noises, objects producing accidental meaning, the human voice becoming almost-animal and almost-language. Humor flickers through it, but not as punchline. More like the nervous comedy of hearing something too human to classify.
As an archive entry, this kind of release is valuable because it reminds the ear that difficulty has many temperatures. Darkness is only one. There is also awkwardness, absurdity, rural surrealism, private performance, and the fruitful confusion of not knowing whether something is primitive, sophisticated, ridiculous, or quietly brilliant. Belgian Gelding lives in that confusion.
It is not asking to be mastered by interpretation. It wants to remain partially feral. The listener can bring genre names, label context, and experimental-music history to it, but the tape keeps wandering back to its own enclosure, chewing the fence, staring sideways, refusing the dignity of an easy explanation.
After the long black hallway, Belgian Gelding feels like mud, breath, rope, tape hiss, animal mass, and a joke told by someone who may not be joking. It is a relief, but not a vacation. It is the archive remembering that weirdness can be heavy without wearing armor.
Barn Sour - 2022 - One Trick Pony
Staighre – S7 137.14MB FLAC
One Trick Pony feels like a title daring the listener to underestimate it. The phrase usually means limitation: a performer with only one move, one gimmick, one little routine trotted out until the applause dies. Barn Sour turns that insult inside out. What if the “one trick” is not a weakness, but a portal? What if the pony only needs one trick because the trick keeps changing shape every time the room looks at it?
Released in 2022 on Staighre, One Trick Pony continues the unstable animal logic suggested by Belgian Gelding, but this one feels sharper and more feverish. The titles alone make the tape feel half-rural, half-possessed: “Bowl Cut Part 5,” “False Witness At Hollow Tree,” “Steamboat Salve,” “Peace, Be Still (Mane Mix),” “Wellington Horse Search,” and “Gowanus Encounter.” The horse imagery remains, but it is no longer just farm matter. It becomes a moving system of jokes, hauntings, sermons, bad dreams, and private mythology.
Tobira describes the tape, in translation, as the latest work by sound artist Barn Sour, previously associated with Careful Catalog and Penultimate Press, and mentions its discomforting atmosphere, likening it to a live broadcast of an exorcism. That phrase is useful because the music does feel broadcast rather than performed in the ordinary sense. It has the quality of something intercepted: voices, fragments, room tone, electronic scrape, ritual mutter, damaged domestic space, little spasms of theater, and sounds that seem to have arrived already overheard.
The Staighre connection matters too. The label was started by Matthew Sullivan, known for Ekhein, one of those underground imprints from the late-2000s American ambient/noise cassette ecosystem where small editions, strange packaging, and highly specific sound worlds carried real cultural weight. One Trick Pony does not feel detached from that history. It belongs to the lineage of tapes that treat sound less as a polished statement than as a contaminated object: something handled, dubbed, mailed, played, misunderstood, and then remembered wrong.
Pat Klassen’s Barn Sour project has been described by Noisenotmusic as “radically bizarre” and “subversive,” with One Trick Pony noted as the last release of entirely new material before the project’s final performances and general end. That gives the tape another charge. It is not only another strange entry. It is a late-stage summation, maybe even a last convulsion of the project’s private grammar before the barn door closes.
What makes Barn Sour interesting is that the work resists the dignity usually demanded by experimental music. It does not sit in the clean gallery and explain its method. It drools on the floorboards, changes voices, makes animal reference, stumbles into religious cadence, then veers into something that might be comedy if it were less unnerving. The project understands that absurdity is not the opposite of seriousness. Sometimes absurdity is what seriousness looks like after it has been left alone too long.
Compared with Belgian Gelding, this feels less massive and more animated. The previous tape had weight, body, awkward animal scale. One Trick Pony has twitch. It feels verbal even when words are unclear, theatrical even when no scene fully forms, rural even when the setting becomes urban or psychic. “Gowanus Encounter” alone suggests that the pony has wandered far from the field and into polluted city-water folklore. The map is unstable, which is exactly the appeal.
Inside the archive, this is valuable because it proves difficulty does not have to wear black robes. Difficulty can be silly, itchy, possessed, handmade, and impossible to summarize without sounding slightly deranged. After the Cold Meat Industry material, where symbols often arrive with military, occult, religious, or institutional weight, Barn Sour lets weirdness become local again. Not less intense, just less monumental. A chair scrapes. A voice cracks. A phrase repeats until it stops being funny and starts being law.
One Trick Pony is not a record that asks to be decoded cleanly. Its pleasure lies in the wobble between performance and breakdown, joke and omen, animal and human, tape object and psychic spill. The “one trick” may simply be this: Barn Sour can make the listener feel that meaning is standing just outside the stall, breathing heavily, refusing to come into the light.
Barn Sour - 2023 - Soap and Glue
Penultimate Press – PP54 268.74MB FLAC
Soap & Glue is the right title for Barn Sour’s final release because it names two opposite materials that both deal with residue. Soap removes. Glue binds. One promises cleanliness, the other attachment. Put together, they become a perfect little formula for Pat Klassen’s project: a sound world obsessed with bodies, animals, domestic mess, vocal leakage, private performance, and the strange failure of things to separate cleanly from one another.
Released by Penultimate Press in January 2023, Soap & Glue is not just another Barn Sour album. The label calls it a “compendium coffin closer,” and that phrase is useful. This is the project being sealed, but not embalmed. The CD is one 54-minute piece collaging material from all six Barn Sour releases across labels such as Staighre, Careful Catalog, and 72 Fold Mane, with a small amount of exclusive material included as well. That makes it feel less like a retrospective and more like a digestive system. The earlier tapes are not simply represented. They are chewed, swallowed, and returned as one long unstable body.
The previous Barn Sour records already had a strong animal logic: horses, geldings, ponies, barns, bodies, rural fragments, voices behaving badly. Soap & Glue gathers that language into something more total. The Penultimate Press description mentions animals appearing as phantasms and humans expelling intense emotional states, which is exactly where this music lives: between barnyard haunting and nervous confession. It is funny, but not safely funny. It is grotesque, but not merely ugly. It keeps sliding between performance, breakdown, private joke, folk ritual, tape collage, sound poetry, and something close to possession.
What makes Barn Sour valuable is that the project refuses the respectable posture that experimental music often adopts when it wants to be taken seriously. There is no clean white-room distance here. The sounds feel damp, handled, overheard, mouthed, dragged, and half-understood. Voices become animal. Animals become symbolic. Household materials start behaving like ritual objects. A joke wanders too far from the house and comes back changed. The music is not “abstract” in the sterile sense. It is abstract the way a dream is abstract: specific, physical, emotionally obvious, and logically broken.
Because Soap & Glue collages the whole project, it also becomes a kind of self-portrait through wreckage. Instead of presenting Barn Sour as a neat discography, it shows how the project actually thinks. Fragments recur. Textures mutate. The borders between tracks, releases, and identities soften. One hears the project less as a sequence of separate objects and more as a single ongoing behavior. That behavior is the real subject: the urge to vocalize, deform, imitate, contaminate, collect, and turn embarrassment into a usable instrument.
After the Cold Meat Industry stretch, this music feels liberating because its darkness is not monumental. It is not trying to summon empire, punishment, apocalypse, or infernal authority. Its difficulty is closer to the floorboards. It smells like glue, old tape, breath, animal bedding, cheap electronics, soap scum, and overheated imagination. That does not make it lighter. In some ways it is more intimate, because it does not allow dread to hide behind grand symbols. The weirdness is domestic. The theater is local. The creature is in the next room.
The format matters too. A single 54-minute CD in an ecopack digipack with a booklet feels almost perversely formal for something this unruly. Penultimate Press gives the mess a frame without taming it. The label’s own description calls the project “borderline music and borderline funny,” and that phrase catches the main unstable charm. Barn Sour lives on borders: music/non-music, comedy/distress, animal/human, field/performance, collage/confession, stupidity/intelligence. Every time the listener tries to sort it out, the sorting becomes part of the joke.
As an archive entry, Soap & Glue is especially useful because it is already archival by design. It gathers, recombines, and closes the project. But in this blog context, closure becomes another kind of opening. Someone can arrive here without hearing the six earlier releases and still meet the whole Barn Sour organism in concentrated form. The “final Barn Sour release” becomes the first door for a new listener. That is one of the strange gifts of archives: endings often become entrances.
There is a beautiful ugliness in that. Soap tries to clean the body. Glue tries to keep the broken thing together. Barn Sour needs both. The project scrubs and sticks, leaks and binds, laughs and gags, neighs and mutters, falls apart and keeps performing anyway.
Soap & Glue does not summarize Barn Sour so much as preserve its residue. Whatever this project was, this final piece leaves it exactly where it belongs: half-washed, half-stuck, still making noises from inside the stall.
Bjerga / Iversen - 2008 - Throwing Giant Pebbles In A Tiny Pond CDr
Impulsy Stetoskopu – 006 79.17MB FLAC
Throwing Giant Sounds In A Small Box is a title that almost reviews the music before the listener arrives. It gives the whole thing a physical comedy of scale: something too large being forced into something too limited, sound behaving like an animal shoved into cardboard, the ridiculous ambition of trying to contain atmosphere in a little edition, a little sleeve, a little file, a little post.
Bjerga/Iversen’s work often lives in that tension between modest means and expanded perception. The duo’s music can feel handmade without feeling small. Drones, field-like textures, tape grit, electronic drift, object-sound, and slow improvisational movement gather into pieces that do not announce themselves as monuments, yet they keep making more space around the listener. The “giant sounds” are not necessarily loud. They are giant because they alter proportion.
That makes the “small box” part important. Experimental underground releases often arrive in tiny containers: CDRs, tapes, handmade editions, recycled sleeves, obscure net pages, hard drives, forgotten folders. But those formats do not reduce the work. Sometimes they intensify it. The smallness of the object becomes part of the charm, even part of the philosophy. Here is a limited vessel. Here is an unlimited listening event. Good luck reconciling them.
Sindre Bjerga and Jan-M. Iversen both belong to the Norwegian experimental/noise/drone network where process matters as much as product. Iversen’s own site shows how active and interwoven that world is: monthly projects, collaborations, netlabel activity, remixes, live recordings, lathe-cut editions, and ongoing Bjerga/Iversen releases scattered across formats and labels. That kind of activity gives the music its lived-in quality. It does not feel like a band preparing definitive statements from a distant throne. It feels like people continually making, exchanging, documenting, trying again, letting the work exist in motion.
The best way into this kind of release may be to stop asking it for the usual album pleasures. It probably will not hand over hooks, climaxes, or obvious narrative. Instead, it asks the listener to notice pressure changes. A tone thickens. A texture frays. A quiet event becomes central because nothing else is insisting louder. The ear starts behaving like a hand in the dark, feeling the edges of things that may or may not be furniture.
After Barn Sour, this keeps the archive in experimental territory, but the psychology shifts. Barn Sour’s world is bodily, animal, comic, half-possessed. Bjerga/Iversen are more environmental. They do not perform weirdness at the listener so much as set up conditions where weirdness slowly becomes the room temperature. The music is less a creature in the barn than weather inside the box.
There is also something beautiful about the humility of the phrase “small box.” It acknowledges limitation without apologizing for it. That feels close to the truth of underground sound culture in general. Nobody has infinite equipment, infinite money, infinite attention, infinite time. Yet people keep making these containers for experience: a disc, a tape, a zip file, a blog post. The box may be small, but the act of throwing sound into it is enormous.
As an archive entry, Throwing Giant Sounds In A Small Box works because it understands scale as a trick of attention. The post may be one item among thousands, another little square in a vast grid, but once opened it can become temporarily huge. That is the secret engine of the whole process. The archive is made of small boxes. Every so often, one of them contains weather.
Cryptofascisme - 2017 - La Mort Visible & La Mort Invisible Pt. 1: Reggane - In Ekker
Yes Divulgation – none 296.99MB FLAC
La Mort Visible & La Mort Invisible Pt.1: Reggane - In Ekker is the kind of release where the title does not sit on top of the music. It excavates under it. Cryptofascisme is already a loaded name, half-political diagnosis and half-underground warning label. Then the subtitle points directly toward Reggane and In Ekker, two French nuclear test sites in Algeria. Suddenly the album is not just “noise” as texture. It is noise as historical residue.
That context matters. Reggane, in the Algerian Sahara, was the site of France’s first nuclear weapons tests beginning in 1960. In Ekker later became a major underground test site, including the infamous 1962 Béryl accident, when an underground nuclear test released radioactive material and exposed military personnel, officials, and local populations. The phrase “visible death and invisible death” becomes painfully precise. There is the spectacular death everyone can imagine: blast, fire, military image, desert cloud. Then there is the invisible death: contamination, fallout, illness, secrecy, documents, long latency, consequences carried quietly through bodies and soil.
Cryptofascisme’s 2017 cassette, originally issued through Yes Divulgation, takes that history and refuses to turn it into a clean educational object. It does not behave like documentary in the polite sense. The two sides are simply “Face A” and “Face B,” which gives the tape a severe, almost archival blankness. No sentimental titles. No obvious narrative guidance. Just two faces of a wound.
That blankness is powerful because nuclear violence is partly a war against perception. The visible event happens once. The invisible event continues. Radiation has no dramatic face until it has already entered consequence. Bureaucracies prefer that kind of violence because it can be delayed, denied, statistically managed, buried in reports, or blamed on uncertainty. Noise is an appropriate language for this because noise can represent both excess and erasure. Too much signal. Not enough evidence. A history screaming behind a wall.
The name Cryptofascisme adds another layer. “Crypto-fascism” suggests power that hides its shape, authoritarian force disguised under respectable language, violence buried inside administrative procedure, nationalism or colonialism wearing a technical mask. In this context, the word does not need to be used as a slogan. It becomes a method of reading. Nuclear testing in colonized or formerly colonized territory is not only scientific experimentation. It is geography chosen by power. It is whose desert can be turned into a laboratory, whose bodies can be made statistically distant, whose future can be treated as acceptable collateral.
The music, then, does not need to imitate explosions. In fact, the stronger choice is to avoid simple drama. Industrial/noise work tied to histories like this gains force when it suggests process: drone as contamination, distortion as dust, repetition as bureaucracy, low pressure as buried matter, sudden harshness as rupture. The listener is not placed at the cinematic center of the blast. The listener is placed afterward, inside the continuing field.
This is where the tape format matters. A cassette is a fragile carrier of magnetic information, always vulnerable to hiss, wear, warble, copying, decay. That makes it an oddly fitting vessel for a work about invisible traces. The medium itself speaks in residue. It does not deliver pristine truth. It carries damage forward in a form that can be duplicated, mislaid, rediscovered, and reissued.
The later 2022 Dogmatics In Outline 2CS boxset reinforces that archival movement by pairing the first part with the second part, which was recorded during 2017 and 2018. Sentimental Youth lists the box as a 2022 Dogmatics In Outline release in the noise genre, while the Bandcamp page for part two notes that it appeared in the box with a reissue of the first part. The work therefore has two lives: first as a 2017 statement, then as a gathered historical object five years later.
Inside the Private Release sequence, this feels like a major pivot away from the theatrical darkness of Cold Meat Industry. The darkness here is not infernal, erotic, occult, or martial. It is geopolitical. It is postcolonial. It is environmental. It is scientific language turned lethal. That may be why it feels more immediately alive, even if the subject is decades old. The twentieth century never ended cleanly. Its tests are still running inside the ground.
La Mort Visible & La Mort Invisible is valuable because it understands that some horrors do not become less real when they become less visible. They become harder to accuse. Noise, at its best, can accuse without pretending to solve. It can make a field unstable. It can make silence sound contaminated.
This tape does not explain Reggane and In Ekker. It points toward them and lets the desert hum.
Gate To Gate - 2005 - I Turn Black Keys
PACrec – PACrec113 612.34MB FLAC
I Turn Black Keys is a title with a perfect double edge. It sounds musical at first, like a hand moving toward a piano, but the phrase immediately darkens. The keys do not play black notes. They are turned black. Something has happened to the instrument, or to the lock, or to the act of access itself. Gate To Gate take that ambiguity and drag it through almost eighty minutes of blackened noise, drone, percussion, and suffocated industrial atmosphere.
Gate To Gate was the collaboration of Greh Holger, known for Hive Mind and Chondritic Sound, and Mike Connelly of Hair Police, Wolf Eyes, and Gods of Thundra. That pairing already suggests a meeting of two Michigan-adjacent underground nerve systems: Holger’s heavy electronic dread and Connelly’s feral noise-rock/industrial damage. Released in 2005 by PACrec and Troniks, I Turn Black Keys gathered two earlier cassette releases in remastered form and added a new thirty-eight-minute title piece. Vital Weekly described it as “almost eighty minutes” on the darker side of the noise spectrum, with the new piece moving from muffled tone into feedback and buried percussion while remaining “pitch black.”
That structure matters because the disc is not only an album. It is a transition document. The massive opening title track feels like a new tunnel being bored through the earlier material. It is long, airless, and stubborn. Rather than explode in clean harsh-noise fashion, it seems to sink, thicken, and clog. The sound has weight but not release. Feedback and percussion appear as shapes trapped in tar, trying to move through an environment that keeps absorbing them.
The remaining pieces, “Bane” and “House With The Clocks In Its Walls,” come from earlier cassette material, and that origin remains audible in the best way. They feel more torn open, more unstable, less monolithic than the title track. Guts of Darkness lists the CD as five tracks, with the title piece at 37:58, two “Bane” parts around ten minutes each, and two “House With The Clocks In Its Walls” parts around eleven minutes each. It also notes the cardboard sleeve and an edition of 1000 copies, which gives the release that mid-2000s noise-object quality: substantial enough to circulate, limited enough to feel like a door you had to know existed.
What separates this from simple “dark noise” is the sense of pressure management. Gate To Gate do not just pile distortion until the room fills. They work with occlusion. Sounds are hidden inside other sounds. Percussion does not always strike forward; sometimes it seems to happen behind a wall. The drones are not smooth atmospheres but contaminated weather. The black metal element is present less as riffing than as temperature: thin shriek, suffocation, hostile air, a refusal of brightness.
There is something interesting about hearing this after Barn Sour. Barn Sour lets weirdness remain bodily, comic, rural, half-domestic. Gate To Gate removes the joke and turns the space inward. The body is still present, but more as pressure, breath, impact, and panic. If Barn Sour makes the barn strange, Gate To Gate makes the cellar endless.
The title “House With The Clocks In Its Walls” also gives the record one of its strongest images. Time is not outside the structure. It is embedded in the walls, ticking where it cannot be reached. That feels right for this album’s relationship to old cassette material. The earlier recordings are not merely bonus tracks. They are clocks inside the house, still running underneath the newer title piece. The CD becomes a building where multiple moments of the project coexist: tape past, remastered present, new long-form statement, and later blog rediscovery.
As an archive entry, I Turn Black Keys fits beautifully because it belongs to a period when noise, black metal texture, drone, and cassette-culture ritual were feeding one another without needing clean genre permission. It is not a polished dark ambient record, not a straight harsh noise disc, not metal in the usual sense. It is a black room with equipment left on, and somewhere inside that room the door keeps changing location.
This is not easy listening, but it is not empty punishment either. Its value is in the density, the refusal of easy climax, the way it makes darkness feel material rather than symbolic. Gate To Gate do not point at the void. They pack the void into a small room and let it sweat through the walls.
Incapacitants - 2019 - Project Pallo '85 3xLP
Urashima – 136 1.18GB FLAC
Project Pallo ’85 is not only an Incapacitants reissue. In this archive, it is a physical encounter that became digital evidence. That matters. A personal rip carries a different kind of charge than a downloaded file. It is not automatically “better” in some simple purity contest, but it is more embodied. The record had to be acquired, opened, played, captured, checked, named, uploaded. The sound passed through a room, a system, a person, a decision. The archive did not merely receive it. It metabolized it.
The release itself already has that historical gravity. Project Pallo ’85 was originally issued in 1985 by Pariah Tapes as a triple-cassette handmade box, and Urashima’s 2019 edition presented it as the first vinyl reissue, remastered by Andrea Marutti and pressed as a 3LP box in a limited numbered edition of 299 copies. The Urashima notes describe the set as black 140-gram vinyl housed in a grey wooden box with laser engraving, three 30x30 cm cardboard inserts from the original box cover art, a dragon drawing by Takuya Sakaguchi, and the original insert. That is not packaging as decoration. That is packaging as resurrection apparatus.
Incapacitants occupy a special place in Japanese noise because their extremity is not just loudness. Toshiji Mikawa began the project in Osaka in 1981, and Fumio Kosakai later joined after Mikawa moved to Tokyo. Both men are famously associated with work lives outside the expected rock/noise mythology: Mikawa in banking and securities, Kosakai as a government office worker. That biographical detail has followed them for decades because it makes the music seem even stranger. This is not the fantasy of total outsider collapse. It is noise made by people who could walk through ordinary bureaucratic life and then generate storms of impossible saturation.
That contrast is part of the power of Project Pallo ’85. The music does not sound like rebellion in a tidy cultural sense. It sounds like overload as a way of being. The tracks are long, volatile, and almost absurdly committed: “Pallo 1 ‘Receita’ A Jaapsoc,” “Leprosy,” “Manic-Depressive,” “Pallo 2 ‘Quiet Sound’,” “Peony Crackers 2,” “Irrevocable Letter of Credit,” “Pallo 3 ‘To Die Key’,” “Living Zombie Is About To Die,” and “Long Awaited.” Even the titles swing between illness, finance, deadpan joke, and collapse, which is exactly the kind of collision Incapacitants make audible.
What makes this music remain alive is that it refuses to resolve into a single image of “harsh noise.” Incapacitants are often treated as one of the purest examples of full-force noise performance, but the best listening happens when the ear stops hearing only density and begins noticing behavior. The sound swells, buckles, sprays, folds back, flickers, overloads, and surges again. It is ecstatic without being pretty, disciplined without sounding controlled, funny without becoming a joke. It is the sound of two people pushing instability until instability becomes form.
There is something almost devotional in that commitment. Not devotional in a peaceful sense, but in the sense of total offering. Incapacitants do not dabble in noise as texture. They submit to it as a condition. The listener is not given a neat route through the material. Instead, the record demands a different listening organ, one less interested in melody or narrative and more willing to track force, grain, pressure, and psychic stamina.
The 3LP format makes the scale physical again. Noise on vinyl is always a little paradoxical: an art of overload cut into a fragile mechanical groove, chaos made to travel by needle. With a triple LP box, the listener has to keep returning to the object, flipping sides, handling the sequence, respecting duration. That ritual slows down what a file can make frictionless. Your personal rip sits right at that crossing. The vinyl ritual becomes digital circulation. The handmade box’s descendant becomes a blog post. The private object becomes a public release.
That is why this upload belongs to the core of the project. It joins several histories at once: 1985 Japanese cassette noise, 2019 Italian archival reissue culture, your own physical media practice, and the blog as a strange public mailbox for extreme sound. The post is not only saying, “Here is Incapacitants.” It is saying, “Here is how an object moved through time, through labels, formats, hands, machines, and finally into this archive.”
After the recent run of downloaded posts, this personal rip also clarifies something important: the archive has never been one method. It is a changing relationship to access. Sometimes the source is a box set in the room. Sometimes the source is a file found after life has made the old room unreachable. Sometimes the act is preservation, sometimes continuation, sometimes survival, sometimes sharing the thing because it would be wrong for the signal to stop.
Project Pallo ’85 can withstand all of that because the music itself is already a survival form. It is sound refusing containment while constantly being contained: cassette, box, LP, rip, post. Every container fails a little. Every container succeeds enough to pass it forward.
That may be the deepest pleasure of this upload. Incapacitants make music that seems impossible to hold, yet here it is, held again.
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