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First Departure

Lifted from CIRCLE, 'First Departure' is intended as a jarring break from a recurring pattern of stagnancy and decay. An appendix of sorts to [DIS]COMFORT EP, CIRCLE uses a hyperprocessed and stretched version of the track of the same name as a foundational prompt for several ambient experiments and improvised "departures". It is a deeper dive into circular thinking and habits, and that tug of war that so often occurs between what we want to do and what we actually do (or don't do). Dedicated to anyone that feels stuck in a rut. May you find your final departure.

.\/\//\\/., Aleksei Nisiforov, MIROCAW

Visions of claustrophobia (live)

Across two immense live transmissions, Russian experimentalists .\/\//\\/., MIROCAW, and Aleksei Nisiforov construct an architecture of pressure where the walls seem to inch closer with every passing minute. .\/\//\\/. opens the descent with "Abstinentia Rebus," an astonishing monument of atmospheric power electronics where immense tides of distortion rise and recede like black weather systems gathering above an abandoned industrial landscape. Every surge carries a profound sense of dread, yet beneath its overwhelming force lies an unexpected elegance—a slow choreography of tension, shadow, and malignant beauty that refuses to loosen its grip. The second half finds MIROCAW, joined by Aleksei Nisiforov, steering the listener into an altogether different abyss. The violence becomes quieter, colder, more insidious. Minimal industrial percussive gestures, no-wave austerity, spectral spoken-word incantations and skeletal electronic remnants assemble into an uncanny subterranean world. It is as though forgotten machines have continued communicating long after their creators vanished, their fractured transmissions echoing from somewhere beneath the earth's crust, where rust itself has learned to whisper. Dark, immersive, profoundly unsettling, and utterly essential. -Sir Kuliktavikt

Mirocaw

The Doll's Breath

Year 7000, after the Angel of Soot coughed its last cinder into the throat of heaven. The cinema still stood. Not proudly, not even stubbornly, but the way a punctured eye remains in its socket, collapsed yet unwilling to admit blindness. Around it: a confetti of dead futures. Luminous scraps. Atomic dandruff. The pavement whispered underfoot like a nest of thin teeth. Things moved in the alleys, not quite alive, not quite done with dying. No moon. It imploded many centuries ago... Since the great electromagnetic transfiguration, night had become a sealed chamber. Only the gas lamps persisted, dim and jaundiced, like elderly saints refusing extinction. Inside the cinema’s womb, past curtains that exhaled spores of velvet rot, the stage had reopened. The dolls were waiting.