Dispatches from a forty-something crate-digger — twenty-five years deep in record shops, and now, somehow, building a video game after the kids are asleep.
A cursed, talking bag narrates two adventurers' descent into a city rotted by a lich. Black-and-white sticker sprites, breakbeat tempo, one very judgmental inventory.
A lich has curdled the city from the inside out. A green squire and a battle-worn hero descend into the rot, armed with little more than a bag of holding. The catch: the bag is cursed. It talks. It judges. And it is narrating your every questionable decision.
{{ f.d }}
I don't write about records I merely like. These are the ones I keep coming back to — so there are no scores here, no stars, no out-of-tens. Just a long conversation about why they work.
{{ r.take }}
Read the full piece →Breakbeats, dusty samples and late-night low end — the music I make when the house finally goes quiet. The same restless ear that fills the record shelves, pointed back at an empty session.
No label, no schedule, no plan — just tracks that escape the hard drive when they're ready. If one of them soundtracks a late drive or a long night, the cult has done its work.