New Arrivals

  • DJ Nate, Da Trak Genious
  • Doc Daneeka, Hold On
  • Talking Shopcast 02: Soultek retires this week
  • Ikonika, Dckhdbtch
  • A Made Up Sound, Alarm/Crisis
  • Kabale Und Liebe, Since You Looked Into My Eyes
  • Pale Sketcher, Can I Go Now (Gone Version)
  • Mano Le Tough, Oblique
  • Shed, The Traveller
  • Unknown, Oops

LWE Monthly Archives

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Tag Archive: milton bradley

Milton Bradley, The Unheard Voice From Outer Space

Milton Bradley’s name has been synonymous with Do Not Resist The Beat!, his label and the instructions for ingesting the spacey, paranoid slates he’s been turning out since late 2008. His newest 12″, The Unheard Voice From Outer Space, arrives courtesy of Munich’s Prologue, whose line up of Cio D’or, Samuli Kemppi, and Giorgio Gigli are sonic kin to his neuron-probing techno aesthetic.

Milton Bradley, Psychological Drama

When we last checked in on Do Not Resist The Beat!’s menacing aesthetic — think selections for a techno dungeon beneath another techno dungeon — the labels proprietor and sole artist as of this writing, Milton Bradley, sounded manic, painting the apocalypse in broad, fiery strokes at a high BPM. “Dystopian Vision” might be the best Ostgut Ton record the fabled Berghain imprint had no hand in releasing this year, and it wouldn’t have been a huge surprise if “Psychological Drama,” Bradley’s latest, continued to pummel its audience with similarly brass knuckle-imbued fists. I mean, ’tis the zeitgeist, and the guy sure has a knack for ferocious, stuttering rhythms. But on his third 12″, Bradley turns his prophet’s gaze inward and maybe farther downward, trading visceral beats for paranoid ones. If he left you feeling slightly concussed before, then prepare to get head-fucked.

Milton Bradley, Dystopian Vision

Do Not Resist The Beat!—should we consider that a listening strategy? “Dystopian Vision,” Milton Bradley’s second release this year for his own willfully obscure label, encapsulates some of the most abrasive, pulverizing techno sound design a producer can commit to record without completely alienating the floor. But if you’re willing to stick your head over Mr. Bradley’s 500 copy, limited-edition hole into hell, you might just find some serious, sulfury funk gurgling up from the deep.