Dip Shim
Enter The Maragrillo

After the quadruple compilation "Flash Dynamic Triade Color Test", seekers come back with a beautiful LP...."What He Does"... 4 tracks recorded in tape cassette in the 90's and 4 tracks recorded in the 2000s + an intro where the producer's father is explaining on the phone to a friend how his son is producing electronic music with his gear....artwork by Mona Bit.

Electronic Label toward multiple directions and influences

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.