SXSW Music 2014 We cover the music portion of this year’s conference through reviews, art, and streams

[Tiny Mix Tapes sent three writers to cover SXSW Music 2014. Page 1 features Mukqs’ experience, Page 2 showcases SXSW-inspired artwork by Carolina Purdum, Page 3 comes courtesy of resident SXSW expert Grant ‘Gumshoe’ Purdum, and Page 4 features six full-set streams that comprise the entirety of the Ba Da Bing/Northern Spy showcase.]

SXSW holds surprises at all levels of expectation. Go into it with the mental image of endless lines, eight dollar beers, and suffocating corporational tie-ins, and you’ll get exactly what you imagine — yet all of your suffering will occur in the middle of lovely Austin, TX instead of a fenced-in field prison of mud and teens. Even in the line hell SXSW scenario, when you’re tethered to a series of hot showcases for hours a pop, you’re still a three-minute walk from a solid taco zone, ten minutes from non-festival real life, and you’re probably about to see Young Thug (which I, to my eternal chagrin, never managed).

Approach the festival as an opportunity to encounter unknown strains of the underground, transplanted from across the world into a sudden omni-scene and given free reign of a huge roster of venues, homes, and public spaces, and you will have a really great time. Scan the show list, find some band or label you’ve maybe kind of heard of, and get there: there will be no line, cheap (sometimes free) beer and/or food, and you’ll be standing two human-widths away from a performance space that will, half the time, host something spectacular. The other half of the time it’ll host two steampunk-lookin’ gentlemen, gripping banjo and guitar respectively, plucking on some Mumford bullshit. Breeze ‘em out, killer. Breeze ‘em out.

La Luz

The sun came out for La Luz’s set aboard the Panache Booking booze cruise, and their warm tones poured from the PA in perfect synchros with the riverfront environment: bone-dry bass chug, guitar twang, bouncy snare work, and the sustain of Nord Electro organ chords. The Seattle-based quartet sandwiched neo-surf melodies, complete with vibrato trails and faux-Eastern harmonies, between gang-vocal doo-wop spassages led by guitarist Shana Cleveland. Whenever the boat passed under a bridge, the live mix amplified into 30-second patches of natural reverb that pushed the band’s already sopping wet sound deeper into the waterfall grotto of slapback echo. Their beach jams sidestepped the pitfall of nostalgia (“Remember surf rock, guys??” “…Naw.”) in favor of a confidently executed revamp, with a few generations of fine-tuning and demythologizing to separate forefathers from present-day daughters. When I commended Cleveland’s “Link Wray vibe” after the show, she told me, quite simply, “He’s my favorite.”


Based on hearsay and Google Image Search, I wondered if Tempe, AZ-based extreme music omnivores and Ascetic House founders Marshstepper would enact a noise ritual before our eyes. Would clothes be shed? Bondage gear utilized? Chalices? Masks? No such luck this time, but despite the lack of occult artifacts, a noise ritual it was. The duo, composed of multi-instrumentalists N. Nappa and JS Aurelius (both also members of Destruction Unit), tore through a relentless blitz of blood-curdling screams, martial electronic beats, and piercing feedback, goading the PA and our eardrums past the tipping point into ecstatic oblivion. Aurelius hunched over in half, cupped his hands over his microphone, and intoned demonic vocalizations through a system of effects to construct a wall of abstracted tones reminiscent of the Double Leopards school of vocal manipulation. Nappa thrashed over his rig of synths and pedals in sweeping gestures and tilted back to howl with abandon, as the crowd seesawed with him in mutual delirium. Y e a h.

Mark McGuire

The boat got back to land before Cleveland’s prodigal shredder took to the deck with his solo rig of guitar, pedals, and sampler/drum machine. McGuire interwove pre-programmed synths and rhythms with clarion six-string leads, conflating the glistening new New Age textures that defined this year’s Along The Way 2xLP with the 80s-skate-and-surf-inspired riffage more characteristic of his Inner Tube project with Spencer Clark. Peals of hi-fi distortion, recursive bursts of live-looped input, and layering of drone elements elevated McGuire performance of new material into a physical experience to complement the more meditative nature of his recordings. He transitioned smoothly between tracks by draping guitar tones across each swath of cross-fading synth, to unite his compositions into a master take conducive to the day-tripping agenda. The delay could’ve been reasonably described as “giga.” The zones: cosmic. The energy: posi. We drained our cups and got off the boat, as a giant posse queued up on shore for the Coachwhips set taking place on the next river trip.

Wrekmeister Harmonies

In the studio, JR Robinson assembles large ensembles to bring his Wrekmeister Harmonies compositions to life, uniting his collaborators’ synthesis, doom/sludge stomp, and classical string arrangements into electro-acoustic drone metal opuses charged with the chaos and unexpected concordance of disparate disciplines. Recent shows, however, find Robinson onstage solo, armed with a guitar and a backdrop of strings and synths as his pre-recorded electronic accompaniment. He settled into a slow-burning session of structured improv, accelerating from rubato arpeggio passages into upper-register comping and tremolo-picked leads to trace a dark narrative across the fretboard with the low E string (tuned, probably, much lower than E) resounding with each sustaining lick. The set’s most riveting moments showcased his vocals, which alternated between moaned paeans to an absent loved one (“Have you gone too far away from me?”) and the screams of a cast away driven insane by isolation (“IT’S A SHIP!/ I CAN FUCKING SEE IT!!!”). At the climax, Robinson opened his mouth wide for a few croaked black metal ululations, as if to illustrate that for all of his choice collaborations, he alone constitutes the nightmarish nucleus of his project.


Austin-by-way-of-L.A. drum machine warrior SSLEEPERHOLD (José Cota) embodied the aesthetics of hometown heroes Holodeck Records with his strident industrial rhythms, horror-score synths, and brain-scrambling squalls of noise. His confident live beatdown sent every head in the zone bobbing and brought repeat offenders, including myself, back for more than one show over the course of the week. He steered his arsenal of intricately connected hardware through a series of intensifying sequences and triumphant structural resolutions, and channeled touchstones from Pretty Hate Machine to Gatekeeper’s Giza to the soundtrack to A Clockwork Orange into his own vision of maximal solo performance — equal parts warehouse rave cave and pitch-black highway. Cota’s bass drum patterns, clattering closer to the mid-range than the low-end, dominate his live mix for a reason: they’re some of the most hypnotizing rhythms in the drone underground, with enough variation and forward momentum to propel his compositions into your brain’s long-term memory banks.

Weyes Blood

The playback of murmured piano takes and synth washes from a cassette deck meshed with Natalie Mering’s acoustic guitar to transform the Mexican Summer showcase into a 30-minute oasis of welcome introspection. Mering’s solo performance under her Weyes Blood moniker tiptoed past the audience’s defenses by way of austere torch songs and tape hiss, distilling a thematic palette of loss, hope, and solitude into swells of effect-pedal abstraction and operatic vocal grandeur. She paced the stage with mic in hand, sketched out her internal landscape, and elevated her tracks to new emotional plateaux with stomps on her loop pedal that layered her voice into cascading harmonies. Mering capped off the gig with an angelic rendition of Nilsson’s “Everybody’s Talking,” draped in a tape’s sustaining arpeggios and paced at a languid crawl that elegantly reinscribed the overfamiliar source material. We swayed, close to swooning, and glimpsed new facets in that line, “Only the echoes of my mind.”

Marie Davidson

Montreal-based dark ambient/electronic explorer Marie Davidson surpassed the high watermark of her recent studio recordings with a disarming live set at the Holodeck Records showcase. Her command of a table-sized rig of sequencers and synths, each airing its own bleeps and beats within her layered technoid arrangements, would’ve been enough to captivate the crowd on its own, but Davidson’s sonic multitasking expanded beyond the reverb-frosted tones of her gear into the realm of dramatic vocal performance. While one hand adjusted levels and triggered new synth patches, the other held the microphone at close range to receive her entrancing stream of whispers, detached monologues, boasts, direct questions, promises (“I’m not trying to fool you/ Just give my heart to you”), and mantras, delivered in a mixture of French and English. The combination of her unpredictable vocals and the baroque interplay of her analog backdrops evoked a pan-international incarnation of MCing or dancehall toasting after the apocalypse, animated by verbal bravado and matched by technical expertise on a web of cyborg gear.


If the Nintendo-derived melodies, pop-punk power chords, and hyperactive drumbeats of Anamanaguchi sound like a sugar rush clusterfuck on paper, the Brooklyn-based quartet’s live show reveals a remarkable degree of control and professionalism within the chiptune rock aesthetic they’ve popularized over the last five years. They struck a tight balance between the technicolor playback of a hacked NES and the hands-on-fretboard shred of their post-Weezer chord progressions, executing each feint, breakdown, and climax as one Mother Brain in tandem with their electronics. Given the space to breathe on the outdoor stage, the guitars crushed, the bass cut through the mix, and the drums drove each jam up into fierce energy levels (arguably over 9000). The urge to mosh, headbang, and stage-dive gripped the rabid crowd and sparked the band’s spiritual godfather Peelander Yellow into inspired freestyle crowd-surfing. Although thematically light-hearted, candy-coated with Contra blips and samples of cat meows, Anamanaguchi pounded out heavy music with widescreen impact.

Ryley Walker

Turn around during a Ryley Walker gig and scope out the grins on all those faces. The Chicago-based singer/songwriter dialed into the audience’s sweet spot with his mixture of ornate fingerstyle melodies and assured folk balladry, planting himself into a lineage that includes the likes of Bert Jansch, Jack Rose, and Johns both Fahey and Martyn. Walker flitted between warp-speed chordal arpeggios, raga-style upper-register soloing, and passages of hammer-on riffing that extended into transcendent repetitions of individual figures. He backed up his disciplined fretwork with atypical chord voicings and unpredictable harmonic progressions, without straying from the consonance that kept the crowd rapt. His throaty vocals, doled out over busy guitar work in languorous couplets or smeared into improvised wails during freewheeling interludes, attested to surprising depths of experience for his 24 years of age. When his set ended, a half-dozen listeners crowded the stage to get a word in, offer a beer or a cigarette, and hear his future plans. He had left his impression.

Cian Nugent

While Cian Nugent’s studio recordings can find room for full-band accompaniment, lush string arrangements, and the occasional brass fanfare, the Irish guitarist commanded his audience’s attention at End of an Ear records with his guitar and his voice alone. Nugent sparked comparisons to his tour mate Ryley Walker, by way of their shared affinity for the American Primitive school of fingerstyle playing. If Walker landed closer to the “progressive” side of the spectrum, Nugent’s looser set culled licks and vibes more from the classic/southern rock arsenal, and stretched into longer sessions inlayed with bright harmonies and woozy stretches of six-(or five-)string meditation. He approached the guitar with a stolid confidence and a tight grip, and dipped into stories between takes that attest to a similar unflappability of character. He played on unphased when his third string snapped, and the gap in his fretboard highlighted the two discrete modalities woven into his solo performances: the consistent bass line backdrop of root notes in the lower open strings and the nuanced melodic voices of the higher register.


Jay Gambit’s prolific Crowhurst project spans everything from stripped-down solo sessions to collages compiled of the output of various collaborators, but one facet remains steady across his catalog: static-blasted death. Stationed with two tape decks at the helm of an ensemble of two shred-happy guitarists and a live drummer, he finished off the first night of the unofficial noise showcase Sux By Suxwest with ~20 minutes of blackened improv that crested into A/V mayhem with the utilization of a neon pyramid totem and the expectoration of fake blood all over the floor of the Romani Gallery. The quartet brought the sounds to match the spectacle with their surges of feedback, intertwined tremolo picking, and blastbeats. The resultant wall of aggression varied in tonal quality from decaying four-track noise experiments, to the clipped fuzz of one-man black metal, to walls of detailed distortion. Gambit issued a series of gnarly screams before the end that stood out in the center of his chaos, his chest heaving with the euphoria of the cataclysm.

[Tiny Mix Tapes sent three writers to cover SXSW Music 2014. Page 1 features Mukqs’ experience, Page 2 showcases SXSW-inspired artwork by Carolina Purdum, Page 3 comes courtesy of resident SXSW expert Grant ‘Gumshoe’ Purdum, and Page 4 features six full-set streams that comprise the entirety of the Ba Da Bing/Northern Spy showcase.]

Cloud Becomes Your Hand

Guerilla Toss

King Buzzo



Sux By Suxwest guy with crowbar

Tech N9ne

The Fresh & Onlys

random guy dressed as robot, pumping out Daft Punk tunes

[Tiny Mix Tapes sent three writers to cover SXSW Music 2014. Page 1 features Mukqs’ experience, Page 2 showcases SXSW-inspired artwork by Carolina Purdum, Page 3 comes courtesy of resident SXSW expert Grant ‘Gumshoe’ Purdum, and Page 4 features six full-set streams that comprise the entirety of the Ba Da Bing/Northern Spy showcase.]

My first South By Southwest experience occurred a decade ago. One of my firmest memories from SXSW 2004 has always been a random one: the sight of Jason Molina showing up at a small-time Skyscraper Magazine showcase, looking chipper and obviously enjoying the laid-back atmosphere. He was at the peak of his popularity then, but you would never have known it from his humble demeanor as he milled about and enjoyed watching (for once), rather than playing, a few shows. And that was what struck me about SXSW all those years ago: The unity, the thrill of seeing the artists who brighten our lives with their music as people, as friends, and as, just maybe, equals. Sure, later that week I ate fancy chicken out of steam trays and was asked, “Who are you with” at a party, but my image of SXSW as a utopian musician’s/music writer’s dream, at least somewhat free of the textbook twattage of the music business-at-large, remained.

Now, 10 years later, Molina is dead and SXSW has been invaded by several new varieties of Dorito, a stinging reminder that no matter how much I want the conference to remain what it was 10 years ago, things done changed, mostly for the worst. But there’s still hope to be found, and luckily for people like me (and a good chunk of TMT’s readers), the best stuff goin’ at SXSW these days has nothing to do with long lines that never move, product lines with too much to prove, and lines of coke that steal the groove. Below are 10 reasons I continue to believe in the power of love. And South by Southwest.


I can’t think of a more inappropriate way to tunnel into the giant mound of glossy dirt that is SXSW than by seeing a family-friendly comedian and ex-star of Houseguest toss out a few jokes about how fools be actin’ like zombies at the mall, and that’s why, in a strange way, it made all the sense in the world. You see, we weren’t quite ready to plunge ourselves in head-first, and the Esther’s Follies environment offered a nice respite from the beard-fluff, beer foam, and blunt smoke we’d be second-handing all week. Despite the limited nature of his antics (we’re talking relationship/marriage patter and little else), it’s tough not to smile when this dude subtly diddles your funny bone because, despite yourself, you relate to everything he’s saying, at least if you’ve ever been in a relationship. And if you haven’t… shit, what do those people do on a Tuesday night? It’s too depressing to think about… Speaking of depressing, a mildly inebriated Jim Breuer played host and, from what I could tell, didn’t crack a single joke. Why?

DJ Rashad / DJ Spinn

Photo: Carolina Purdum

It’s embarrassing to exist on the wrong side of history, and that’s exactly where I have resided when it comes to DJ Rashad and the footwork stuff so many TMT folks helped break for you a few years back. But I’ve been working my way into the groove and doing my best to understand, to the point where my eroded resistance has become wanton acceptance of everything Rashizzy stands for. And it all started with one song: “She Gonna Go.” While the duo of Rashad and DJ Spinn didn’t touch that particular number, their set delved into the corners of their repertoire you might expect, hopping spastically from “CCP” to “Acid Bit” to “10 On Da Cush” and flexing the versatility I once doubted they possessed. The crowd seemed mostly confused as to how to dance to Rashad and Spinn’s spiraling samples and beats, and that’s part of what makes it all interesting. Until commercial rappers finally start hitting Rashad up for some of those hot trax, we’ve got him to ourselves, so let’s enjoy it.

King Buzzo

Quite an inauspicious outing for a man of much repute in the world of underground metal and rock, King Buzzo, hyping up recent 10-inch release This Machine Kills Artists, played one of his first solo acoustic sets during SXSW. No one would accuse The Melvins of being a band easily covered by a voice and acoustic guitar, so while my expectations were high, I tried not to expect too much from the veteran ‘fro-basher. The outcome was much as you’d expect: Quaint, small-scale recreations of selections from The Melvins oeuvre, growled out by Buzzo and occasionally accented by a comic-book scream. The best conversion was “Boris”-lite, which kept most of the longform track intact and gave Buzz the chance to stretch his voice to the rafters. He also told a story about his relations with Dave Grohl, and while I love his snide delivery, the gist of the story was that he turned down the chance to hang out with Grohl, so Grohl doesn’t call him any more (what a sellout?); not exactly earthshaking stuff.

Fat White Family

Photo: Carolina Purdum

Fat White Family were disgustingly distinctive enough that I can still smell their sweat and feel the discomfort I suffered when confronted by their lack of dental hygiene. But these are BRITS, and they’re bloody-amazin’ in a way American bands just can’t be. I got my first hint when their Golem of a co-lead guitarist started sound-checking all the band’s equipment leading up to the set. He looked grimey and a bit grim, and his fascination with sounds shone through his soul even as he puttered around waiting for the show to begin. The fact that he looks more like a roadie than a band member was a good sign; usually those dudes can shred harder than any of the ‘lookers,’ and sure enough, he prowled ‘round the small space allotted to Fat White Family at Hotel Vegas like a scorned bookie. But that’s not the best part: FWF boast the most ROCK-AND-FUCKIN’-ROLL frontman since… jesus, I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen such a traditionally punk-appropriate singer in person. He’s aggressive like J. Rotten, Brit as fuck like Jagger and the Gallaghers, cocksure like Small Faces-era Rod Stewart, and sorta sexy in a quasi-Jim Morrison kinda way (you’d have to ask a female for more details than that). He’s the dutiful cheerleader most rock bands can only dream of employing, riling up his charges, climbing half-stacks like a punk Tarzan, and emitting a haphazard shriek when all else fails. I’m so goddamn impressed by how motivated Fat White Family were, bouncing off each other and laughing like the ugly-ass UK hyenas they are. And unlike a lot of the other “motivated” bands I’ve seen over the years, these fatties have the songs to back it up, songs that spill out their influences, which range from Thee Oh Sees to Oasis to Brian Jonestown Massacre, without betraying their hand. How can Sean Lennon not see a band like this and be a bit embarrassed? I’d pass on a three-hour set by Ghost Of A Saber-Toothed Tiger for three minutes of Fat White Family. Go ahead; test me.

Tech N9ne

If ever there was a performance that encapsulated exactly what I LOVE and H8 about SXSW (and even hip-hop concerts in general), it was Tech N9ne’s bizarre late-night set at The Main. We’re talking major schitzo action here. For every homerun Tech hit, he let at least a few smashable balls right past him. Part of the blame can be put on scheduling: Since most SXSW sets last a half-hour at most, to require Mr. N9ne to play for upwards of an hour seems a bit taxing. But T9 has a long way to go when it comes to connecting with a crowd and keeping that union strong for more than a few numbers. To wit: Burst onto the stage in bright-white facepaint, jail inmate uniforms, and a heart full of murder? That’s good! Talk about Monster Energy Drink between just about every song, sounding more than a little unconvinced about the product you’ve obviously been told to peddle? That’s bad! Hype your hometown of Kansas to the sky amid slamming, almost threatening beats? That’s good! Ramble on and on about how everyone should be getting drunken tonight, almost awkwardly so? That’s bad! And on and on we go… My complaints aside though, not a single person in the crowd will ever forget the first 5-10 minutes of this performance, no matter what happened later.


Over the years, Thee Oh Sees have rounded-out their sound and turned it into an unstoppable juggernaut. Which is good, of course, but what about those down ‘n’ dirty years John Dwyer spent as frontman of Coachwhips? I finally got my answer at the Yellow Jacket Social Club, and I’m still trying to coax the grit and grime from my ear cavities. Where do I even start with these fuckin’ amateurs? I mean the trio, after a day full of bands standing up on the stage, set up on the ground and played out of what sounded like a couple of practice amps. The concert that resulted was closer to a gang-rape than a proper performance, with no separation between artist and crowd and the distinct likelihood that one of the onlookers would have his or her head smashed into a bass drum at any minute. WHAT A ROW! Hearing the drummer struggle to propel the simple beats was annoying at first, then sort of drifted to the background as the unit pumped out non-hit after non-hit. After 20 minutes or so, it was time to hit the dusty trail, appropriate because the melee had produced a thick cloud of floating dirt. Just goes to show: You can take Dwyer out of Coachwhips, but you can’t take the Coachwhips out of Dwyer.

New Bums

Easily the most understated performance of the week, and easily one of the best; New Bums don’t strum and sing as much as they pluck and whisper, their set ready to blow apart and scatter at any second like dandelion seeds in the wind. Ben Chasny and Donovan Quinn (holy FUCKhole, that’s Donovan Quinn?) spin spare folk ruminations that betray a maturity well beyond their relatively young years, using space and an almost eerie quiet to leave the listener hanging on every pin-prick of a string-slide. Chasny might have been trying just a little too hard to look casual — at one point, I caught him checking the length of his cuticles in between string plucks — but as I mentioned, there’s a lot of room to stretch out here. New Bums play it like the too-cool-for-school cats they are, vanishing around the corner, leaving you wanting more. Watching them stop playing was like my ears just got out of a hot tub. Just one more song?

Cloud Becomes Your Hand

Photo: Grant Purdum

CBYH put on the best show of SXSW, bar none. I’m almost afraid to write about it, lest my memories fade once I’ve committed them to paper. But persevere I must, because you must know of their charms, especially if you’ve heard the album, because, to me, there’s a huge gap between what Cloud Becomes Your Hand achieve on-record (somewhat of a post-Curtains feel) as opposed to in a live setting, their off-brand mind-pop growing wings before your very eyes. Not that the record isn’t good; it’s just that a cut like “Bay Shamps,” in all its slide-whistling, xylophone-ing majesty, doesn’t quite hit home unless you can see exactly what they’re doing, because it’s rare to see a band in which each member seems to be accomplishing something completely different. And the performance-art aspect of the show took things up yet another notch as the quintet acted as a strange variety of dance troupe, lining up parallel in order to use their limbs to communicate, then falling out, crawling about, and finally huddling together under a blanket for the final moments of worshipful drone via “Waste Park.” I hadn’t heard a note of Cloud’s music before this show, so I (and you!) have a lot of work to do.


I WAS aware of NYMPH’s psychedelic ear-clog beforehand, but had forgotten just how powerful their twin-guitar attack is. Talk about scattered appeal; it’s as if the guitarist from The Rhythm Of Black Lines got together with the drummer from Comets On Fire, the singer from Degenerate Art Ensemble, and the quiet guy from Talibam! (hey, that actually IS the quiet guy from Talibam! [Matt Mottel]!) got together and made not only a day of it, but a band out of it. We’re talking ZS-level thrash here, too, particularly when a loooong soooong stretches out and gets into an on-off progression. But that’s not even the best part: As Devi Mambouka worked herself into a banshee-style freakout, she singled out TMTer Mike McHugh and MIND-FUCKED the SHIT out of him. Seriously, I’ve never seen anything like it. If you’re aching for colorful music and even more-colorful characters, NYMPH is the acid-damaged nectar you’ve been seeking. Holy GOD!

Guerilla Toss

Being a fan of Gay Beast/AIDS Wolf/Arab On Radar/Sleetmute Nightmute and just about anything in between places me in the perfect position to appreciate a band like Guerilla Toss. Their withering assault is so effective as to serve as a continuation of said bands, a new benchmark for nihilistic post-post no-wave with a sax to grind and a heady sampler to match the unhinged vocals and fill-filled drumming. I reviewed their split with Sediment Club for Cerberus recently, so I don’t want to bust my cherry, but what am I supposed to do when a band wields such a formidable sound-cock? In fact, I’ve never heard anyone denigrate Guerilla Toss for this precise reason. They sound dangerous, uncontrollable, and that, above all else, is what we ask for from a band in position to bang our dear eardrums. Toss’ set at Beerland didn’t offer anything you wouldn’t expect from the group, yet they almost seemed to push twice as hard on what they did provide. It’s a fine trick to sound scattered yet fused, loud yet complicated and clear, and GT have no problem getting this intricate combination to fire on all cylinders.

[Tiny Mix Tapes sent three writers to cover SXSW Music 2014. Page 1 features Mukqs’ experience, Page 2 showcases SXSW-inspired artwork by Carolina Purdum, Page 3 comes courtesy of resident SXSW expert Grant ‘Gumshoe’ Purdum, and Page 4 features six full-set streams that comprise the entirety of the Ba Da Bing/Northern Spy showcase.]

Earlier this month, Tiny Mix Tapes posted guest mixes by Ba Da Bing and Northern Spy. Both were made in anticipation of their joint SXSW showcase, which happened March 14 at Austin’s Palm Door. Today, the two labels have given us the privilege of posting streams of the entire showcase, including the full six sets from its lineup of Ghost of a Saber Tooth Tiger (Sean Lennon & Charlotte Kemp Muhl), DVA, NYMPH, Slothrust, Cloud Becomes Your Hand, and Cross Record.

Check out the streams below. The sets will be available for download next week via the good people at NYCTaper.

Cross Record:


Cloud Becomes Your Hand:

Ghost of a Saber Tooth Tiger:



Most Read