Abandoned places and desolate spaces, covered with rain, snow, and ash, wrapped in a blanket of white noise and pulsating bass, somewhat metallic, chilly, and wet. These are the images for these sounds for these places in my mind. Something is trembling with the beat of my heart. Tick-tock. Time rewinds to the mid-nineties, and I’m back in Berlin, and Moritz Von Oswald is cutting the wax on his...
↧