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If this item in stock, then you will get an infomation E-Mail!Limited edition of 300 copies, housed in a screen printed sleeve. Includes a download code. The flawed wonders that Yair Elazar Glotman puts forth on his latest opus I know no weekend are the coldest dreams you would ever wish to immerse yourself in. They recall echoes of echoes, forced into slowly struggling shapes, ghosts of memories, whispers of life from another dimension. Shamanic-repetitive beats shift slowly beneath echoing bells and fragments of past transmissions. Overwhelmingly, one is taken into upon a winding mental path, with no clear resolution in sight, although the journey is ever-evolving and new.
he listener perceives a great mechanism at the edges of this mass of sound, a machinery of blackened iron that grinds ceaselessly, opening vast spaces to the ear. Howling winds caress the nerves like ground glass, opening up the long limits of the Void. These are the siining harmonics of entropy
A lover’s memory. Centuries of thought dissolved into unusual dimensions, creating a new language woven from the fragment of a mad entity. Amorphous at first, it evolves to become as piercing as glass. caught in a patiently eternal and animal gaze, all that is left to do is surrender to the vacuum of this cosmos.
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