Burning, Drifting by Bonechurch

The air hangs thick and still, a suffocating blanket woven from low, resonant drones. No pulse drives the silence, only the creeping unease of a space where sound itself seems to congeal. A sliver of something cold, a faint, metallic rasp, slices through the oppressive quiet, heralding a descent. The very walls buzz, a claustrophobic tremor that vibrates in the bone, a prelude to a deeper, more profound isolation. Time stretches and warps, becoming a vast, echoing chamber filled with the slow, agonizing crawl of manipulated sound. It is dragged, inexorably, down unlit corridors, into a place where the sun is a forgotten myth, and the only light is the phosphorescent glow of decay.

Crafting DIY dark ambient, isolationism, noise, and experimental abstracts since 1999.

All physical orders include a Random Sampler of Machine Tribe Recordings releases.