Raf Reza from Toronto and Ramjac Corporation from Irdial.
‘It begins with a bouncy, cut-up, Errorsmith-esque rhythm, with a recurring fright night melody. Rotten Mix is more traditional house, with dub FX and a nice DJ friendly outro. The final uptempo excursion is head-scrambling electro.
‘Swampy Dub on the flip really dismantles everything up to that point, with slo-mo drums and a kind of modern classical sound. The finale Rootless Dub removes all the tough drums, for an ambient decompression.’

Lethal footwork from three originators. The A is dancefloor murder, honed and nasty, vintage Chicago and Detroit gone clear across the SA border; the flip is a fierce, futuristic juke vocal collage, hard as nails.

Lovely, heartful seventies soul, the collected works of the Flint, Michigan singer, in lineups like Hunts Determination, smartly done. Apparently Reginald’s aunt had a strong southern accent; the hospital mis-heard.

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The one-hundredth Trilogy!
Hats off to an amazing, uncompromising run of killer music and lavishly brilliant artwork. Bangers and magic like dirt.
21 gun salute.

Classic mood-lifting party stomper, with RC rabbiting on about how he likes to party, over a looped sample from Blue Magic’s Welcome To The Club. With a dub, besides two mixes and an accapella.
‘Doctor Love was my song, and I would only take deep breaths, and fill my lungs with the rhythm, with the bass… I get deep.’

A terrific, fresh techno EP by Robin Stewart. Minimalist and dubwise, but fizzing with physical energy, and loaded with thrills and spills, like fairground ghost trains clanking and rattling through Rome, at a clip.
Check it out!

‘Regrows dub techno from the seeds,’ says Boomkat, ‘with a set of twisted warehouse melters that apply advanced dub logic to pointillistic technoid rhythms.
‘The off-grid, lolloping kicks are interesting enough on their own, but it’s how Stewart treats them that makes opener Stomach pop, sinking them in swirling, lysergic goop rather than drowning them out with rinsed tape FX. The oscillating, demonic subs that heave just beneath the surface don’t muddy things completely, they crack the sunroof on the top end, letting the industrialized foley clanks and hoarse vocaloid stutters boot us towards an unexpected destination. And although Compact is more trad on the surface — a gated peak-time roller, natch — Stewart’s canny processing makes the kicks tickle more than they thump. Everything builds up to the title track, where Stewart freezes mind-rinsing dissociated echo spirals into their own rhythmic forms that push against the relentless double-time thuds, weaving phantom polyrhythms out of thin air while spectral voices whisper overhead.’