not not fun

Showing 41–50 of 91 results

  • robedoor – dead telepathy – neon commune – not not fun

    out of stock

    Two ancient prayer dirges dug from deep outta the rankest RBDR vaults. Recorded in fall of ’05 shortly before the Failed Grails sessions and quickly misplaced, these pieces retch through slo-mo, blown-out sludge convulsions then fade to black. Transparent mirror plastic layered over hand-cut magazine landscape J-cards, plus tape labels. Edition of 50.
    -nnf


  • goliath bird eater – go to sleep – neon commune – not not fun

    $7.00 Add to cart

    NNF’s favorite metal maniac returns with a uniquely studied excursion of post-production silences and obituary riff ritual. Lays you down slowly then gently buries you in the cold earth. Eyeless, satanic spray-glued model heads with black yarn mouth-smoke art, plus an insert. Edition of 50.
    -nnf


  • xander harris – urban gothic – nnf

    $12.00 Add to cart

    In much the same way as Umberto excavates the graves of old 70’s Euro gore/occult scores for new nightmare-synth strategies, classically trained Austin, TX keyboard-creep maestro Xander Harris (aka Justin Sweatt) scavenges rat-gnawed 80’s basement horror VHS tapes to sift out the glimmering gothic goldflakes hidden within. Grim process, grimmer results. Each of the unlucky 13 tracks on Urban Gothic, his debut full-length, seethe and shiver and boil with sleek synthesizer city-lights paranoia and cool, cold dread. A few are cribbed from the minimal/throbbing John Carpenter handbook (“First Body,” “Crying In The Dark”) and some go for more of a clawhammering industrial approach (“Hunting,” “When The Hammer Starts To Drop”) while a few marry the video undead vibes to an almost thrill-kill cult-dance beat (“Fucking Eat Your Face,” “Tanned Skin Dress”) that pulses blackly like a strobe-lit corpse. A cool detail is that Sweatt’s a decade-deep drummer so every percussion sound on the record is actually manually played on synthetic drum pads, which gives the songs a looser and less mechanical execution. A bad-ass brainbomb of an LP with enough eerie witch-fog anthems to keep even the darkest darkwaver’s head buried in the speaker cabinet. Expect tapes, tours, and even a 100% Silk 12” from this nightstalker in the near future. Black vinyl LPs in jackets with photographed-TV horror stills by Manda B Brown. Edition of 480.
    -nnf


  • LA vampires goes ital – streetwise – nnf

    $7.00 Add to cart

    Rolling like a stone (thus no moss, man), LA Vampires recontextualizes into a new collab EP, this time with SF-gone-NY lovers rocker Ital. Each song was pieced together from a rainbow of sources – screwed tape loops, multiple drum machines, layers of synth lines and phasings, analog samplers, live vocal remixing, etc – and the results are what you might expect: raw asymmetrical bangers blasting down dim concrete hallways streaked with chemical graffiti and bootleg club lights. Too gritty and blasted for dancing but too bangin’ to sit still, this is a real mutant zone, a white label 12” found in a sewer seething with dry ice and recorded through a wall. Wake up and weird out. Life’s too lame to play it straight. Black vinyl 12 inches in spineless no-hole Euro-style jackets with 90s videodromed art and layout by Spencer Longo. Edition of 600.


  • robedoor / husere grav – storm veil / desert champion

    out of stock

    Two bleak teams pass the death pipe across this black lake of a tape, and the mood – at best – runs from dread to dead (or undead, same vibe). Robedoor’s “Terminal Abomination” finds them grappling their recent song-form style with bass, drums, and slime, a heavy metal swamp-thing crawl that drips and riffs from the depths to deeper depths. A strident stalk across new weird wetlands. The B side is a suite of songs from southern lord Husere Grav, who operates from more of a bedroom black metal/death drone perspective, utilizing buzzing guitar, tomb tones, and the occasional drum machine plod to convey his message of relentless misery with strange elegance. Past self-released CDRs like The Great Empty and Stay Asleep have mapped similarly cursed terrains, but his five queasy pieces here are easily among his most cold and cutting ever laid to tape. On pro-dubbed cassettes. Edition of 150.
    -nnf


  • invisible path – levitating mirror – not not fun

    out of stock

    The billowing, cloaked drones of Michael Bailey’s low-burning Invisible Path have always felt a bit out of step amidst the tweeting, energy drink-sponsored hustle of the L.A. music scene, which is perhaps what’s allowed it the freedom to ferment and fortify into such a singular, vibrational force. Past shows staged in pure darkness with bowed gongs and orbital amplifier worship hinted at the potency of the project but nothing in the IP oeuvre prepared us for the enveloping, textural infinities and planetary pulsations of The Levitating Mirror. Translucent electric mists undulate while sub-bass synth heartbeats throb sparsely and a distant, clanging metal metronome reverberates in the sky. The submerged rhythmic dimension of these pieces gives them a fascinatingly shadowed sense of motion, like some obscenely abstract ambient techno record pitched to 12 BPM. The mood moves from meditative and mesmerized (“Unraveling Threat Of Light”) to drugged and dissolved (“Escaped Into The Mist,” “Decompression”) before plummeting to industrialized, subterranean blackness (“Descension”). One of the most transportive headphone bio-domes we’ve heard in multiple years, hands down. Plug into the Path. Pro-dubbed tapes in collaged J-cards designed by B. Brown. Edition of 100.


  • russian tsarlag – gagged in boonesville – not not fun

    out of stock

    Providence, RI garbage-artisan Russian Tsarlag aka Carlos Gonzales ought to need no introduction at this point – he’s been trucking his moldy fruit cart of sewage-pop and bad acid storytelling across the American wasteland since longer than most people have had an email account. Yet the past few years have seen his uniquely zombified scrapheap songcraft fermenting into its ripest and most reflective forms, none more so than his latest bleach blanket odyssey, Gagged In Boonesville. The album tells the sordid tale of a tenement apartment building whose residents are mentally poisoned by an ancient poster of Medusa haunting the basement, not to mention an unruly pack of rabies-stricken dogs living in the courtyard. (Shit’s pretty bleak in Boonesville, clearly). Given the backstory, it’s fitting that the LP’s 9 tracks traverse a more melancholy, meditative dimension of the Tsarlag multiverse: dumpster-scrounged 5th-generation new-wave demos (“Gagged In Boonesville,” “Play This Tape Again”), homeless mutant campfire dirges (“This Waltz”), cyborg-mumbling depressive ambience (“Become Solid”), even a cockroach-covered piano ballad (“Island Of Lost Souls”). It’s all here, echoing down the derelict stairwells. Another fascinating, unclassifiable chapter in the Neverending Story Of Tsarlag. Read it or weep. Xerox-smeared Medusa collage artwork by Carlos Gonzales, plus an 8-panel zine of original drawings and imaginary 2036 Tsarlag musings. Half on crimson smear vinyl, half on black. Edition of 475.


  • high wolf – kairos:chronos – not not fun

    out of stock

    French globe-tourist High Wolf has hand-rolled his way up Mount Fuji, trainspotted every corner of Europe, hitchiked across America and Australia, chugged Ganges water, and crouched on all manner of smoke-stained prayer rug since first looping a bongo back in ’09. His apprenticeship in the House Of Wah is nearly complete. He’s hinted at a potentially seismic shift in the High Wolf third eye doctrine lurking in the near future; perhaps his Away Team exfoliation moment is nigh. Lucky then that we’ve been able to coax/coach the astral jungle jah concoctions of Kairos: Chronos out into the ether, because this LP is the summation of his entire half-decade Amazon Cosmos quest. All the tenets of the HW mythology are in place: humid heatspells of hand-percussion, coiling snakecharmer fuzz-guitar stacked six deep, sunlit synth textures, dubby bass-lines thumping through grass amps, ceremonial voodoo babble, etc. From the hidden temple hymn “Kulti” to the 13-minute self-beheading solar eclipse shakedown, “Alvarado,” the record represents rarified proof of The Wolf On High. On tour now in every country on Earth. Black vinyl LPs in jackets designed by esteemed London visualist Anthony Gerace. Edition of 450.


  • group rhoda – 12th lp – not not fun

    $12.00 Add to cart

    Mara Barenbaum’s solo vessel Group Rhoda emerged last year from an introspective incubational phase with one of 2012′s deftest debuts, Out Of Time – Out Of Touch, an alluring, sensory sound-garden of jittery drumbox beats, moody exotica, DIY dub-pop, and elegantly aloof, shadow theater vocal melodies. A series of sustained, long-form tours – both foreign and domestic – soon followed, during which time she began blueprinting the bones of 12th House, her sophomore statement. Recorded and produced in collaboration with Ben Versluis in San Francisco, the album’s eight songs snake through similarly entrancing terrain as her past work but the production this time is starker and spikier, with an almost post-punk clarity in places, which energizes the collection. From witchy island pop (“Day Ruiner,” “Dust”) and dizzy, micro-cosmic disco (“Coral Castle”) through to paisley-flavored circus-psych (“Disappearing Ground”) and wobbly, haunted house dub-damage (“Space Race,” “Blk Mtl”), the record is rich with rarefied Rhoda rhinestones and reflections. Her vocals, as always, pirouette and perplex, detached yet discerning, casting strange dimensions into the music: “finally you look away / you look a way / do you see ghosts walking around? / it’s your town / it’s their town too.” A free-spirited and fascinating follow-up by one of California’s most intriguing young pioneers. Black vinyl LPs in vivid feline-fantasy collage jackets by Mary Elizabeth Yarbrough. Edition of 400.


  • wet hair – radiant lines – nnf

    $14.00 Add to cart

    Amazing new pair of singles by this ever-evolving Iowa City kraut-pop duo-turned-trio comes in a stunning full-color 22-page pro-printed art book of brand new works by Wet Hair main-men, Shawn Reed and Ryan Garbes. Limited to 500 copies.
    -nnf