Dilettante Ultra Newsletter #40

Reverse Evolution Sporadic News: July 2026

Oi.

STATION MODEL VIOLENCE TOUR JOURNAL

Here’s a little tour journal you might like. With love to Tommy Alan Emma Kucci Mane Buz and Michael.

Wednesday. Triple R.

Dawn. First day of tour. Grapefruit, three boiled eggs, coffee with glycine, orange juice with theanine and creatine and plenty of salt. This my normal breakfast. But today, I need nutrition and energy, so I go for my pre-tour breakfast champion: psilocybin gummy, sashimi of parrot, reproductive glands of a possum flattened by a garbage truck behind my apartment and a shot of rakija to keep it down.

There’s a Telstra outage which causes some slight delays and airport arrival for six people travelling with instruments and boxes of merch can be an ordeal but we’ve done it enough times we have the routine down. Pro travellers. We get through the livestock and anal scan circuit with time for a coffee, buy phone charger, sample Tom Ford fragrance.

I order a gluten free rum and coke on the flight to the delight of my bandmates. “Here we go.”

We arrive in Melbourne, drop bags into our digs, and then run around the city frantically chasing a drum kit, amplifiers, and, most importantly, a carton of Peace cigarettes, the Station Model Violence preferred cigarette brand.

I first grew affection for Peace cigarettes on tour in Japan. My preference is for the Peace lights, the dark blue pack, Mishima’s preference. The distinctive can of Peace cigarette is seen in many photos of Mishima’s home and writing desk. I never could attain one for my home and writing desk. Instead, I settle for cartons purchased in Melbourne whenever I visit. Melbourne is the best city in Australia to buy cigarettes because you can find Peace there. World peace can be done!

Preference for a cigarette because your favourite writer smoked that cigarette is immature, certainly, and it isn’t like I exclusively eat capsicum following David Bowie, but I have some idiosyncratic and arbitrary devotions of the fanatic or discipline: I follow Aston Villa because it is Black Sabbath’s football team. I drink Domaine Tempier Bandol following Jim Harrison. I lift weights because Terminator 2: Judgement Day. And I play in a rnr band because Bad Brains.

And speak of rnr and Triple R, this was the last show to be confirmed of the tour, a tour that grew around the Friday night show and became four days in Vic. Triple R have been pumping our album, so when they asked us to do this show we mashed to make it work in gratitude for their subb0rt.

The performance was pre-recorded in front of a live audience. There was no subb0rt band and no atmosphere. We had about 40 minutes after soundcheck to prepare backstage by chain-smoking our hard won Peace cigarettes, drinking our hard won wine, and listening to some hard won Iron Age. Suddenly, the room was full and we walked out on stage to perform. The show went well despite the nerves and the pre-show manic traversing city for gear offered some adrenaline. At the end of our performance, the radio host, name Tim Scott, got on stage to ask us some questions. I’d warned him of the awkwardness of this and asked if he would be happy with us answering in one-word impressions: a colour, a flavour, a smell. This didn’t work, or maybe it did. You can listen here.

After the show we had a couple of celebratory drink at the house where the band was staying courtesy of our good friend Steve. Shy of midnight I headed back to my hotel room, drank a bottle of champagne, and did some research into a project I’ve been meaning to kick into for a while about ugliness and music.

I’ve read a bit about ugliness in art and literature: ugliness as the absence of beauty, or ugliness as a rejection of beauty. It is certainly not my primary relation to the world or to art and music, but a lifetime listening to hardcore, metal, gangsta rap, power electronics, noise, industrial music, certain breed psychotic techno, I am attuned to this sound. I not talking about Reel Big Fish or Coldplay or whatever, music I personally find excruciating, I talking deliberately ugly music, a band like Anal Cunt or Eyehategod aren’t an attempt to reconfigure our relation to beauty or to broaden the scope of what could be considered beautiful. They’re bands that celebrate and in indulgence in ugliness as an aesthetic.

This is absolutely not representative of Station Model Violence, but I see a similar motivation between Céline and music that indulges in ugliness as an aesthetic. Anyway, this is what I contemplated in my hotel room while drink champagne and listen to Rachmaninov ‘Isle of the Dead’.

Thursday. John Curtin.

I slept in and spent most of the morning catching up on emails and correspondence for Distort and Reverse Evolution. I worked a little on a piece I’d been writing about hitchhiking in Milat country when I was younger and reading Jack Kerouac, you can read here.

I had a nap in the early afternoon and when I woke I turned on the telly. It was showing recaps of State of Origin on one channel. I skipped it. Mission: Impossible 17. I skipped it. Warsaw playing “Leaders of Men”, a live performance I’d never seen nor knew existed.

Joy Division and Warsaw are two of my favourite bands and I’ve seen most of what there is to see of Joy Division. I was slight hungover and psychic damage and felt I’d opened some kind of portal to the genesis of Station Model Violence before I realised that this was actually a performance from the film Control, the Ian Curtis biopic. I watched the movie when it first came out at the cinema and completely forgot about it. Discovering it again on that day was unsettling. I indulged in the melancholy and opened a bottle of wine and headed to soundcheck.

Château is Alex McFarlane (from Faceless Burial, from Green Child) with Al Montfort (from every band in Melbourne.) They play a kind of ambient prog which made me feel like the sombre reptiles from Another Green World. I could imagine the voice of Adam Curtis describing some nefarious oligarch in the interim between songs. A Mac and Al make for a great collaboration and Château are already one of my favourite Australian bands. After their set I suggested a show on a yacht for only exclusive members of our clique. Straightjacket Nation play a song, then Château, then Faceless Burial. Looping throughout the afternoon as we dip a line for some deep-sea creatures, dive and swim with friendly sharks dolphins giant squid and in the golden hour shoot clay pigeons off the back of the boat. There would be vegan food options, of course, but I would appreciate oysters, cracked peppers and cut lemons. I recalled our Straightjacket Nation set directly after the Congos at RISING recently. They were the most devastating band to follow, roots reggae dub into violent hardcore. I would have loved to play song for song with them, the closest thing to Bad Brains I’d experience in my life. Perhaps the SJN/C/FB would come close.

Following Château were Season Two, a new Melbourne band that distilled the sum of their parts and the history of the last decade in the post-dole wave Melbourne style. Then, The Shifters, who I’ve always thought of as Melbourne’s The Fall, Miles being the Mark E. Smith, the lone mainstay member of a band that plays repetitive, mesmerising post-punk with droll lyrics. Of course this is reductive! On one hand, most of their set didn’t sound anything like The Fall! But then, on the other hand, The Fall often don’t sound like “The Fall”!

I ducked out of the show after we played to preserve myself for the next day and work a little more on my writing while the tequila was firing.

Friday. Curtin.

I spent the morning reading James Lee Burke, a series of novels that I’m quite obsessed with, hard boiled detective stories set in the backwoods and bayous of Louisiana.

For breakfast, I had a bowl of ramen with a One Cup Ozeki sake. I love the design of this cup. Look at this cup.

I went to meet a friend for coffee and while I was ordering, a woman came in and asked to charge her phone. The lady at the counter said that they only had a charger in the kitchen but she was welcome to sit and order some food whilst she waited for the phone to charge, and the lady said, “Oh, that’s okay. I’ll just wait.” My ears pricked up. Who just walks into a joint and asks to charge a phone and doesn’t even order a coffee? I wish I had the sense to drop my menu and run, but I was so much younger then and didn’t know the cold hard facts of life.

The charger woman sat down across from me and picked up a menu. There was an erratic hesitancy in her movement and I could feel her eyes on me as I surveyed the menu. It’s very difficult to avoid when someone is staring directly at you, waiting for you to catch their eye, and eventually I looked up and was suddenly immersed in her madness and chaos.

“Can you guess what I’m thinking?” she asked. In my experience, this line has never been the start of any kind of rewarding exchange with a stranger.

“Cheeseburger,” I guessed.

“No,” she said.

“Coffee?” I guessed.

“No,” she said.

“I’ve heard of gift-giving parties where people traded fluids and chased incurable diseases. AIDS fetishists, for whom the disease represented status and an honour. But I’ve never heard of people who would intentionally tread in dog shit.” I guessed.

“Water. I was thinking of water, okay? Are you having a good day?” she asked.

I looked at the door nervously, pleading for my friend to walk in.

“Yeah, it’s a good day,” I replied.

“Okay. Why? Why is it a good day?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. The sun’s out,” I said.

“Oh, so you like it when the sun’s out? Well, I hate it when the sun’s out. I like dark and cold and grim weather,” she announced.

“Okay,” I said.

“Yeah, some people think I’m a bit weird. Some people think I’m odd,” she said.

“Well, that’s alright,” I responded.

“Is it? Is it alright?” she asked. “Because it doesn’t feel that good to be odd.”

I said, “Well, I’ve known plenty of odd people.”

She said, “Sometimes I wish that I could just be aligned, you know, and think like normal people.”

I said, “Well, look, in my experience a lot of people who are well aligned long for some kind of experience of strangeness and misalignment. It can get pretty boring, you know.”

She said, “Yeah, but when you’re not aligned, your experience of life is being lonely and afraid.”

At that very moment my friend walked in. I gave him a look and asked if we could sit outside. I said goodbye to the misaligned woman. She said to my friend, “I’m jealous of you.”

He said, “Why?”

She said, “Well, he’d rather hang out with you guys than me.”

To which he replied, “Well, why don’t you come join us?”

There’s something in my nature, maybe a sympathetic-looking face, a certain calmness around the erratic and the strange, but these kinds of experiences are frequent. They make me feel extremely vulnerable and exposed. They are one of my favourite storytelling mechanisms because of how often it happens in my life: the random encounter with an erratic person who stare holes into you. Sometimes they speak like oracles, with uncanny insight into unseen mechanisms and future promise. Sometimes they threaten violence because they are lonely and afraid. But most of the time they speak with such aggressive paranoia and suspicion that you can understand how people get trapped in their world because the moment that they interact with you, you feel the need to placate and calm them.

The next day I went back to the café and I asked the lady behind the counter how she went with the erratic woman.

“She was terrifying,” she responded. “After you left, she started ranting about immigration and world war 3.”

Spitting Image opened the show. This is the band I’ve always wanted to see Lewis Hodgson play in. He’s got a fantastic voice and is one of the greatest rock ’n’ roll guitarists in Australia. Charlotte and Lewis played together in The Snakes, and here she plays the Farfisa organ, which applies a very simple motorik beat and a deep bassline accompaniment to Lewis’s guitar. Ben Hepworth from Exek plays the slide guitar. They sound somewhere between Death in June and The Gun Club.

Following Spitting Image was Life Girl. They played a kind of disassembled, experimental post-punk. The lack of cohesion was occasionally compelling but tough act to follow Spitting Image, for the contrast in composition and delivery made it feel like the momentum was slipping.

Then Sleeper and Snake. When we first were booking the shows, this is the first band that I asked to play. I’ve missed their last few shows since moving to Melbourne and it was such a pleasure to see them after such a long time. Effortless communion.

I think we played well, and following the show I enjoyed Mikey Young’s glam rock and boogie-heavy DJ set and catching up with some old friends.

There’s a spot in Melbourne city that I make a ritual out of attending on late nights. It’s the Melbourne Supper Cub lamb tripe soup, which is probably the most perfect hangover anticipation cure. But I was completely shot after the show, and as soon as Mikey finished DJing around two, I ducked out and hit the bed with a vengeance and woke up wishing I’d had the energy to get that lamb tripe soup.

Saturday. Castlemaine.

Final day of tour. We booked the show in Castlemaine specifically to play the Royal Theatre, a wonderful old theatre, now a cinema and occasional music venue.

I have a couple of fond memories of this place. The furniture company I worked for in Melbourne, Friendly Moving Men, had our end-of-year Christmas party one night. We took advantage of the on-site accommodation and, in the morning, when we were to leave, I was rather disoriented, turned right when I should’ve turned left, and emerged next to the screen to a room packed with children watching Shrek 3. Somebody screamed, “An ogre!” and the entire cinema started laughing, which did wonders for my traumatised and sleep-deprived brain.

Total Control played a show there with The Cannanes and on a rare weekend mid-lockdown UV Race played a show there. There’s a remarkable photo taken this day. We were all nerve fried, having seen little of each other on or off the stage for over a year. As we posed for a photo a large monarch butterfly flew down and sat upon Marcus’s head.

I was ready to make another memorable night. RMFC were headlining this show, which took some of the pressure off us, but considering half of the band is in RMFC, it would probably be better said it took some of the pressure off me.

My good friend Mahmood Fazal came to join us for the show. Unrelated to Melbourne misadventures with cigarette purchasing, he brought us a tin of Peace cigarettes. Look at this.

Beauty Park opened the show, featuring Harriet Williams of Miss Destiny and School of Radiant Living, and Johnny Telephone. Acoustic guitar, electric guitar, minimal drum beat, and they played one type of music: country music. Of particular resonance was a brutal ballad Harriet wrote called ‘Edgewater Drive’ about where she grew up in Auckland. Harriet and Amy (Sleeper and Snake) introduced me to a great deal of my favourite country and western country music: Porter Wagoner, Townes Van Zandt, Gram Parsons, Gene Clark. This song distilled everything I love about these artists.

Following Beauty Park, Romansy delivered the best set I’ve seen them play. An intoxicating and ecstatic blend of Blasphemy and Zouo, drum-machine hardcore is incredibly difficult to pull off live. The bigger the PA, the better it sound. Fantastic in that room, the best band of the night for mine.

Silicon Prairie followed, irreverent angular post-punk from Ian Teeple, who designed the Station Model Violence LP and the posters for each of these shows.

Station Model Violence followed. We had a couple of sound issues, but I think it was a fantastic show, and during an extended intro to ‘Heat’, Mahmood joined us on stage to read a poem he’d penned the night before about a prison near Castlemaine. It was a perfect way to finish the weekend.

Here’s a sample of the recording of Mahmood reading his poem over ‘Heat’:

And here’s the text from Mahmood:

(Written to be spoken over Station Model Violence’s ‘Heat’)

round the corner from Loddon prison
I heard the muster siren
around the corner from Loddon prison
I heard the screws neck piss
around the corner from Loddon prison
I heard the old gaol’s become an art show
brother, I swear

and in some corner of Loddon prison
the boys smoke tea leaf cigarettes
in some corner of Loddon prison
they gassed old mate Hizir to death
in some corner of Loddon prison
Uncle Jack taught claymaking and drama
and laughter and he’d go time and time again time and time again

beneath the hearty snow gum
cutting laps on flat asphalt
a carousel of marching Nikes
the green boys served time on their hands
they served time on their heads

and there were blue heaven milkshakes
and dogs sniffing on weekends
and those promises, over and over,
it won’t happen again

from Dhurringile to Fulham
from Barwon to Port Phillip Bay
I hear the muster siren
and the keys being chucked away

from Dhurringile to Fulham
from Barwon to Port Phillip Bay
I hear the muster siren
and the keys being chucked away

from Dhurringile to Fulham
from Barwon to Port Phillip Bay
I hear the muster siren
and the keys being chucked away

RMFC killed it as always and, after an extended pack-down and confusing attempt to find an after-party in the late hours of Castlemaine, traversing from winery to winery, ended up back at our hotel room with Mahmood, drinking some exceptional wine and listening to some exceptional Scott Walker, which is basically how we’ve ended most nights together over the past seven years of our friendship.

EDWARD BUNKER

Six months ago I stayed with Mahmood and left a copy of Edward Bunker’s No Beast So Fierce at his house. I’d read the first half of it in a manic binge on the flight down to Melbourne and train journey to his house out in the sticks, and it made a great impression on me. Losing a book halfway through reading it has happened only a few times in my life, but it’s always an incredibly frustrating affair. I wrote about it here when I lost The Thief’s Journal while touring Belgium.

losing a book when it has its teeth in you is an awful experience… the world you’ve grown accustomed to, suddenly inaccessible… the voice that has comforted or stirred your passions, silent… I try to be equal to the gesture at any opportunity if someone is browsing my books and exclaims their surprise at seeing a wanted book, I generally insist they take it home, half of my library is out there in the world somewhere… wayward children, come home.

After finally bringing it home, I read it all in a couple of days. Ed Bunker is a fantastic writer. You probably recognise him as Mr. Blue from Reservoir Dogs, cast by Tarantino because of his talent as a writer and lifetimes experience in the Los Angeles underworld.

His spare, methodical style is hard-boiled, elegant, rich with the slang of the prison and criminal world. While coming from completely different worlds and perspectives, the closest comparison I could find are the hard novels of Georges Simenon. The unrepentant criminal, accustomed to violence and brutality and incapable of conformity.

STATION MODEL VIOLENCE (CONT.)

After such a manic run of shows and activity, Station Model Violence are having a little time off. Our next show has just been announced in September with Low Life at the Oxford Art Factory.

HOUSEKEEPING

Follow up to this mix.

Do you know Crisis? British agitprop punk band. Good stuff. You must listen. My mate Josh Neutron coined this term of endearment when a song sounded good it “smells like Kwisis”. I’ve written about how this perfume became our gold standard when working on songs for KX Aminal and Station Model Violence.

I asked Buz (RMFC, SMV) for songs that smell like Kwisis, this mix features some of his picks and some stuff I’ve been running, from Crisis contemporaries to more recent bands.

Here’s a mix curated by Buz (RMFC, SMV) for songs that smell like Wire: Colin Newman and Graham Lewis and Bruce Gilbert and Robert Gotobed.

Dome is Bruce Gilbert and Graham Lewis.

Ear Trumpet is Bruce Gilbert with Steven Severin from Siouxsie & The Banshees and Tony Barber from Lack Of Knowledge.

P’o is Bruce Gilbert and Angela Conway and Graham Lewis.

AC Marias is Bruce Gilbert and Angela Conway.

Spoiler alert: this is not fluff on Beat Generation lit etc. On cold blood and allergy to nostalgia, on amphetamine tedium, on adventure risk danger and crushing boredom, on budget airlines and knife carry laws, on reading Jack Kerouac while hitch-hiking in Milat country…

Revisiting the problem of the nerd.

Many criticism friends have of the above piece is I’ve not been more specific in defining the nerd.

Let us have the courage to resist a pedantic definition of what nerd is. Precise and rigorous definitions are the domain of the nerd.

But for sake of further clarity, I spoke to the poet Erling Haarland, better known as a football player for the Norwegian national team and Manchester city .

I asked him to assist with brief outlines of some character types many confuse which may elucidate the character and problem of the nerd.

DX: Haaland. What is a nerd ?

EH: A nerd is not simply someone intelligent or possessing significant and specific technical knowledge. Rather, a nerd is someone who is likely of above-average intelligence and embraces this as a core part of their identity.

A nerd trades in identity pedantry and exhibits a smug expertise, but crucially, they have no charisma, no charm, no personality outside of nerd word.

A nerd needs authority to affirm their identity, so they are generally sycophantic snitches who seek teachers approval throughout life. Their taste is the taste of other nerds, mutually enforced, but their conception of taste is that it’s a subjective preference.

Everybody hates nerds except other nerds but they exist in mutual suspicion.

DX: what about a geek?

EH: the geek has a specialised or technical knowledge like the nerd, is specifically more intelligent and less interested in teachers approval. Their thing is finding other geeks to geek out with.

Where the nerd is desperate for validation the geek is more anti social and this can offer a strange kind of charm, though the geek has little personality and view themselves and the world functionally, they are a cog. They have little conception or interest in questions of taste, but if they listen to music it would be Bach fugues or some prog math polyrhythmic ambient techno, they would say taste is objective and about quality, etc.

nobody hates geeks because they fix your wi fi or connect your Bluetooth printer or ensure the elevator you’re in doesn’t break between floors.

The geek is who many picture a nerd as but there is a crucial distinction. The geek is not a social striver.

DX: how about the dork?

EH: the dork is the harmless one. Has little social awareness, is generally less intelligent than the nerd or geek, has little charisma but a strange charm and loads of personality.

The dork has interests and poor taste, the idea of taste doesn’t exist for the dork. They are open strivers, naked in their petty ambitions.

Nobody hates dorks except nerds, they are harmless consumers for the most part. BUT their naked ambition threatens the nerd, and most importantly the nerd has contempt for anyone they regard as less smart than them.

Til next month,

DX

Buy Me A Grape

When I started posting describing myself as a Dilettante Ultra, this was most apt way of conveying I respond to the manic passion of other dilettantes, against the measured and sober professional, so this is what I look for in writing about writing, art, cinema, food, wine, football and music… breadth of obsessions… contrasted against shallow credentials and dubious expertise, contrasted against the striver for whom a snide and pedantic retention of lexicon and trivialities is traded for status amongst other ambitious strivers…

This is why the spontaneous brilliance of the young and hungry and radical perennially acts as wildfire to regenerate forms and reconnect them with their vital essence… a ritual cleansing of the careerists, the aged and comfortable and conservative, a ritual purification against the encroachment of strivers, priests and nerds…

I would like to offer a weekly newsletter offering some brief insight into some of my own attempts to feed this fire and to share with you the writing, art, cinema, food, wine, football and music that I delight in. :)

More Dilettante Ultra:

#39 (July 2026) Cioran Ultras

#38 (June 2026) The drowned Buddha smiles at you

#37 (April 2026) music for donating blood to random strangers on the street

#36 - (April 2026) Learn 2 Hate

#35 (March 2026) end nerd tyranny

#34 (February 2026) STATION MODEL VIOLENCE, Udith Dematagoda ON AESTHETICS AND SPORT, Andrew Groves ON C.P. COMPANY, Sam McPheeters ON ENSHITTIFICATION, Ryan Pitchford ON RICK RUBIN, OUTLAWS & HIGHWAYS ON BOURDAIN

#33 (January 2026) On Bela Tarr’s Turin Horse. Plus substack holiday reads with deep cuts , Amphetamine Sulphate , Méditations Nietzschéennes , Bend Dexter , Ned Bajic , MORE PLATES by Patrick Lumes and the Mishima Delusion Delusion

#32 (January 2026) Substack holiday reads with Jake Hanrahan, Benjamin Aitken, Cosmic Louche , Justin Isis / Neo-Passéism , Matt Korvette (Yellow Green Red), Beautiful Monsters , Real Japanese Aesthetics

#31 (December 2025) Itchy Bugger in the grass, SpiderXDeath and the Return of the Mont Grand Cru

#30 (November 2025) catching up

#29 (November 2025) On Muro, on Shaun Daniel Allen (Shal), on crime novels, on unreleased Misfits...

#28 (October 2025) Endless Joy, imperishable hatred, the hardcore of the future, Distort #62

#27 (October 2025) On London Clay & Industrial Music & JG Ballard, on Nabokov & Russian lit, on Yukio Mishima & Tadanori Yokoo, on the new album from DEN

#26 (October 2025) On Nabokov, poshlost, Vivaldi / Darkthrone, suburban violence, butterfly collectors, irrational prejudices and redemption.

#25 (September 2025) On Charles Bukowski, Straightjacket Nation, Lester Bangs... and an epilogue to Blood Meridian in Kings Cross

#24 (September 2025) Eurypides' The Bacchae, Jim Harrison, Nicolas Cage in Joe, Nature and Organisation

#23 (August 2025) SOME MUSIC FOR YOU: WAGNER. ROBBER. RMFC.

#22 (August 2025) BOOKSTORE CREEPY CRAWL, SLEEP (THE BAND), SCI-FI FANZINE APPRECIATION

#21 (July 2025) 21 years of Straightjacket Nation, Iron Lung and Extortion, Blood Meridian, Electric Eels, Poison Idea

#20 (July 2025) John Maus & 28 Years Later

#19 (July 2025) On writers and their desks, on recent printed matter & on punks and politics

#18 (June 2025) Hectic comedown

#17 (June 2025) Catching up

#16 (May 2025) Housekeeping, an introduction to Against the Nerd

#15 (May 2025) On Harry Crews & Takeshi Kitano

#14 (May 2025) KEANU NELSON / TASTE (AND TARKOVSKY) / GOLDIE'S JUNGLE MIX / MARTIN NEWELL / AGATHA CHRISTIE

#13 (May 2025) ENO'S OBSCURE RECORDS / JAPANESE CRIME NOVELS

#12 (April 2025) EASTER EVERYWHERE

#11 (April 2025) ERNST JUNGER / SEX PISTOLS / MCA SPOKEN WORD FAILURE

#10 (April 2025) THE KINKS / STATION MODEL VIOLENCE

#9 (April 2025) HOUSEKEEPING

#8 (March 2025) DEBUSSY / ADAM CURTIS' TRAUMAZONE / NEW ORDER / JOY DIVISION / HENRY DE MONTHERLANT / NAG NAG NAG / PROP RECORDS

#7 (March 2025) ISAO TOMITA / WENDY CARLOS / JIM HARRISON / PATRICK LUMES / JAMES LEE BURKE / MARK N & BLOODY FIST

#6 (March 2025) LOGIC SYSTEM / MAHMOOD FAZAL & 550BC / THE ZIZIANS / STENDHAL X ROSSINI

#5 (March 2025) MONGREL MATTER / DARBY CRASH / EXEK & DJ SPANISH FLY / THE ZIZIANS / YUKIHIRO TAKAHASHI

#4 (February 2025) RAPID DYE / G2g / DJ SPANISH FLY / VOICE IMITATOR

#3 (February 2025) SCOTT WALKER / YUKIO MISHIMA / INFINITY POOL / RAPID DYE / DJ SPANISH FLY / ROBERT MUSIL / LULU’S LAST WARNING / THE GREEN CHILD

#2 (February 2025) GRAHAM GREENE / GEORGE V. HIGGINS / ADULT DREAMS / APARTMENT 7A / KIRIN J CALLINAN / LULU’S

#1 (January 2025) THE COOK, THE THIEF, HIS WIFE AND HER LOVER / STATION MODEL VIOLENCE / HOUELLEBECQ’S PLATFORM / THE PACT / DAVID LYNCH & BLUE VELVET