Caim
Tripura EP

For this sixth release we prepared something special and very close to our hearts. While digging deep into the obscurities of French House music a few years ago, a friend pointed us to a label, Labo Music which had just a few releases in its catalogue and was run by an artist called “Bo’”. Through a series of synchronistic events, we managed to get a hold of the very first 2 releases produced by Bo’ himself, and since that moment we got lovestruck with the music contained in those records. It was later Bo’ himself to tell us that the music in LABO001 and LABO002 was capturing a very special and delicate moment of his life, while he was going through personal challenges and changes, that took him into musical directions that he was not used to pursue. We don’t know what force he channelled with those sessions, but the music resonates so much with us, that we felt it should not be heard just by a few lucky ones and thus decided to pick our favourite tracks and reissue them on OCD.

CALLING ALL FRENETIC LOONS - cursed to strut on thy toes, or to point them to the sky. Has a lack of dance based activity made you weary? The deprivation of bass inflected oxygen surging thru your body resulted in a euphoric fatigue? Well rise and shine all youSpiritually Deluded kinder, the hit parade is back, with Roza T & D. Tiff tip-toeing in with 8 tracks high in kinetic synergy and low in “bOriNGG!!”. The sound of 2 artists; serious in their intent yet blowing raspberries at the cork sniffers/snobs, obstinate to the world of industrial decay press shots + plastic ravers. Instead they straddle the Edge of Innocence. Residue of lines once written, now your own personal tightrope. You wobble to and fro as part of a troupe of ethereal jesters, composed of Lil’ Drummer Boi’s pitter pattering on Gravity Bongo’s. Both tracks repping and following the rhythm of the ozone bounce house. With enough elasticity you’ll ^^break thru^^, experiencing Possession by momentary ascension. The weightless sensation of falling in a circle; catch yourself if you please. Such transcendence is lucrative, the Paparazzi on hand to flash and burn the retina, providing instant short-circuit delusions of grandeur. Sonically every hard knock is met with a “bOinKK!!”, illuminating the dark yet cartoonish nature of the practice - guaranteed to make u skip, achieve the perfect sly pout. You and your gang can terraform into bodacious bass-bins, and cast your personal Redemption Arc onto the ether. Inhibitions are to be absolved, and fat kickdrums to be followed. In this hyper-informed yet unknowing present tense, who can ignore the beat based intrinsic incentive to fuck up the circadian rhythm - the music becoming a byte-based silkworm, spinning its digital silk from synapse to synapse, until your brain is a translucent cocoon playfully ricocheting, the cranium its pleasure dome. Call the drum dealer.