Because cassettes rule hard and never really age, The Analog Cave is here to bring you some of the best in underground tapes and collected vision. A cassette is like your best friend, your most trusted travel partner, and a specimen of imaginative fantasy and otherworldly dimension. Pop one in and transform. Ride the highway eternal.

PETITE: Eleven Songs Tape: Runstate Tapes

Portland, Oregon’s PETITE sound the way The Clash, Minutemen, and Sleater-Kinney sounded so many decades ago—that is, fucking real. Their sound is one of evenness and purity, no frills but many thrills, mostly via the clear and precise approach taken. This is music made of passion and punk, the kind that inspires you to get up, pick up the guitar, play three chords, and sing about the abuses animals all around the world suffer in this fucked up place we live in or how corporations own every aspect of your commodity-angled multisphere. It’s in the simplicity PETITE attack with that an expansive zone of pure emotion and creativity is reached. Only through punk does this happen in such a unique and clean way. Simple and absolutely infinite messages, banged straight into your head—no ulterior motives, no hidden agendas, only pure heart, pure blood, and love.

The Grow Fangs: An Every Night Mystery: Already Dead Tapes And Records

The Grow Fangs say they made An Every Night Mystery as a soundtrack to “playing D&D, drawing, or doing anything where you use your imagination.” Yes, and the music is journey-laden and peaceful, in a ’round-the-corner, right-at-the-Nebula sort of way. Soft strokes of gliding guitar melt with minimalistic rhythm work, stationing your heart in the country, in the woods of the evergreen expanse, where the berries grow lushly, heightened by the slow glide of the moon and sun. You dream and you dream and you sink into the painter’s full gloom—a happy gloom, a dismal gloom that is carried in a basket over the funeral grounds of the ancient high-knights, the ones of gold and silver, the practitioners in animal rights, complete veganism: the forerunners. The Grow Fangs have abstract jazz in their hearts, and that washy patience is what really makes their new recording a nice trip. So, pop it in, eat a little mushroom, or just sway with the breeze here on Earth: ascension, without ever a hiccup.

Visitors: Nature Documentary: \\NULL|ZØNE//

Visitors are an epic mesh of psychedelic pop, free jazz, and ’70s-ish Euro-prog—a sound like melting worlds and then mixing into breakfast-cool soup. “Art house” is a good way to describe the feel of Nature Documentary, the band’s latest, offering extensions in the form of uncalculated freedom of expression. Synths fuse with over-patterns that stiffen and coalesce. Rasheeda Ali—the group’s lead vocalist and flutist—holds the fluxing universe together with her subtle and nuanced modes, circulating an inner-pattern like an invisible diamond made of water and light. You can really drift with this stuff. Like Bitches Brew-era Miles Davis and Yusef Lateef meet Soft Machine in the vineyards of Eden, you’ll cook up some fierce mind patterns, places you can let your mind wander and think of the beauty of living. The simple fact that you’re alive and not yet dead—be modest and be kind to all living creatures. Pain and death is the end, the cold nothing. Live and smile.

Pentagram Home Video: Walpurgisnacht II: Self-released

Dark ambient music has the knack for opening the doorway from the nightmare world to the waking—possibly realistic—world. This door is heavy and moves slowly. It creaks, though without a sound. The two worlds it connects are universally dependent upon one another. The contrast is seemingly easy to differentiate yet undoubtedly subtle and possibly incorrect. You begin to question what the door actually separates. Pentagram Home Video, from London, use heavy minimalism to create an ultraworld, one thick with notions of spirit and memory. It focuses on tragedy, or rather, possible tragedy: the walk between fatalism and existentialism. It’s also scary—psychologically scary. Like you’re walking behind someone slowly. When the person stops, you stop. They turn, you turn and look away, but then, they turn while you’re fixed blank. They stare at you. That person is you: dead, walking home to forever. Yikes.

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