dreamcolour - spiritual celebration - nnf - cass - 6$

There’s currently a glut of bands dog-paddling around the trans-continental psych-pond with names involving words like ‘color,’ ‘dream,’ and ‘infinity,’ and Ventura County brass-groove arkestra Dreamcolour are smack thick in the middle of this ’08-‘09 nomenclatorial zeitgeist (though to their credit they use the British spelling). Yet, semi-ironically, the mood of the zones they explore on Spiritual Celebration are wonderfully vintage, with a strange, reverential “out of time” quality that seems decidedly non-NOW. Hand-drums beat along with a steady, easy lope, saxes are crooned (not skronked) smoothly up towards the sun, Farfisa trills further brighten the corners. There’s no damaged FX-abuse or lo-fi freakouts; all minds are fused into one gently simmering open-air spiritual jazz homage. Echoes of Don Cherry abound. The tape is split into three chapters: a stunning 20-minute A-side hayride (“Spiritual Celebration”), a briefer horn flurry piece (“Sun Ritual”), and a gorgeous lunar meditation chamber (“Moon Ritual”). A great West Coast force with an exotic back catalogue and a killer live vibe, worth keeping tabs on. Pro-dubbed cassettes in cases with full-color marker/collage J-cards designed by Amanda. Edition of 100.
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vibes - psychic - nnf - 7" - 6$

Every family has a freak (or 2). Every deck’s got a wild card. We’ve got Vibes. Ante up. NNF’s loosest cannons return to the recording fray with, Psychic, a blown-out briar patch of basement garage fantasy masquerading as obscurist protest funk – and the band’s first vinyl statement. Recorded in Eagle Rock on a “last legs”-style 4-track, the EP’s four songs are jacked deep in the red, with fuzz bass, wah shrapnel, vocal sloganeering, and drum racket all fighting for tape room. Competition is fierce. Recent live faves like “Dead Horses” and “Night Court” appear in particularly revved-up form, as do the first two Vibes songs ever written, “Psychic” and “Prisms Of Fame.” All bases are covered. All soul trains are derailed. Here comes the judge. Black vinyl 33 RPM singles in full-color fold-over sleeves with collage artwork and lettering by Cameron Stallones, photographs by Caitlin C. Mitchell, plus a rant-y revolution scrapbook insert. Edition of 400.
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matrix metals - flamingo breeze - nnf - cass - 6$

The Southern California mythology glints in the irises of certain dreamers more radiantly than it does in others, and few crews have begun capturing the imaginary high life of neon Corvette rides, Ray-Bans at night, and sea-breeze mind-surfing better than the Outer Limits Recordings collective. They operate under most radars but their output is a radical Rubik’s Cube of riddles, tape hiss, and tranced pop utopias. Matrix Metals is casually referred to as an “alien lounge music” project, but that’s not even the half of it. A hotwired collection of fringe-vision vignettes that roves from ghost club beats to astral 80s TV theme songs to loopy interdimensional dub-funk and beyond, Flamingo Breeze is a capitalized question mark in the NNF canon, and a recent obsession of ours. Anonymous pro-dubbed white tapes in cases with full-color “VHS box collage” J-cards designed by the artist, plus an insert and 2 tickets to a Matrix Metals performance at a fictional club in the future. Edition of 125.
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nasa - diamonds & wood - nnf - cass - 6$

These post-everything (noise-rock, kraut-punk, thrash-psych), post-Floridian (they live all over the place now...Canada, East Coast, etc) post-teens (somebody’s 20) have a savvy knack for mainlining that exact slow-burn basement car crash guitar/drums symbiosis that makes us wanna simultaneously mosh, steal a skateboard, and put out a tape. The previous NASA cassette on NNF (Bummer Daze) rolled in more of a groove-damaged Blues Control-on-glue mode, and the production was kinda clean and line-in sounding in places. But Diamonds & Wood (in addition to being the name of a bangin' Underground Kingz song) is in fact an earlier NASA album, recorded back in 2006 and originally released in an edition of 24 on their own H Tapes imprint. We’ve always wanted to reissue it for more ears, and happily that day has come. A staggering hour-long descent into frenzied depths of overdriven riffing, drum abuse, and distortion psychosis that seems to get inexplicably more and more lo-fi as it grinds on, this is what the teenage garage bands of America in our dreams sound like (not far off from a wasted, rawer Heavy Winged). Sloppy, shredding, surreal, sick, and stupid in equal parts, NASA at the height of their Epcot Center-based powers are nothing if not a shining example of low/high/no-art primitivism in its most gutter and uncut form. Take it or leave it. Pro-dubbed and imprinted tapes in silver-misted cases with full-color wood grain/bejeweled artwork designed by Amanda. Hand-numbered edition of 100.
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ducktails - nnf - cd - 11$

lp -13$ sold out

Plastic palm trees. Beach scene snowglobes. Airbrushed neon sunset hotel paintings. All shining examples of potent Fake Escapism at work, in real life. And if you’ve ever wondered what the audio equivalent of this kind of cheap coastal utopian simulacrum is, take a good listen to the recorded works of Mr. Matt Mondanile aka Ducktails, a crazy talented suburban New Jerseyan who serves up masterpiece after blasterpiece of shimmering, smoke-and-mirrors exotic fantasia, rainbow psych-pop muzak for imaginary helicopter rides over crystal lagoons and lost waterfalls. His self-released tapes dropped over the past year-plus have seen his basement guitar/rhythm hypnosis instincts gently arcing upwards into a total art form, and this, Ducktails’ debut full-length LP, is the absolute zenith of the vision. Lazy island percussion loops under blissed horizons of hovering synth colors, warm jangly wah-wah guitars lap like waves alongside casual hammock-chilling vocals; song titles like “Beach Point Pleasant” and “Dancing With The One You Love” further articulate Mondanile’s mood agenda: maxin’ & relaxin’. A few numbers get a bit more tripped/spaced in a loosely post-Pacific City model, but those parts function less like a drug ride and more just like the hazy time of night after the beach bonfire’s burned out and you pass out on the sand, holding hands with someone special, staring up at the stars. What do you see? Endless blackness? Or a new BFF? Black vinyl LPs mastered by Graham Lambkin (of The Shadow Ring) housed in matte jackets with cover artwork by Jan Anderzen (of Kemialliset Ystavat/Tomuttontu), plus a photocopied insert. Edition of 600.
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dolphins into the future - ...on sea-faring isolation - nnf - lp -  13$

A casual interweb cruiser could be forgiven for confusing Dolphins Into The Future the “band” (aka the one-man tape-loop blue-age ambient project executed by Belgian Cetacean Nation ambassador Lieven Martens) with Dolphins Into The Future the book (written by dimensional traveler Joan Ocean concerning her 20-year-long real life spirit quest to commune with a school of 200 wild Hawaiian Spinner dolphins). And, to be fair, they’re a LOT alike. Both deal heavily in trippy, drifting logics, vibrational holograms, and an overdose of psychedelic pastel artwork. But Ms. Ocean’s books are out of print so instead we have ...On Sea-Faring Isolation, Mr. Dolphin Martens’ vinyl debut under the DITF banner, after a 2-year string of increasingly blissed tapes and CDRs. Composed of three interwoven pieces per side, Isolation is one of those baffling magic eye LPs that seems to dissolve yr memory of it during the very act of listening. Turquoise webs of billowing synth smoke curl and dissipate into grey horizons of open sea field recordings. The wooden mast of a ship creaks quietly while astral bells toll away in morning fog. You are alone. This record could make a sailor homesick, and Joan Ocean weep. Beautifully composed and sequenced, with just the right amount of wobbly porpoise sonar prisms bubbling up from the deep, this LP exceeded all our expectations (and they were high). A fantastic voyage into the pan-dolphinic dawn. Black vinyl LPs in matte jackets with aquatic-loner artwork by Martens himself, plus a photocopied album review/interpretation by DJ Bongo Man. Edition of 375.
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heavy winged & inca ore - ring mining - nnf - lp - 13$

Been waiting multiple years for this mind-melting meeting-of-minds to finally manifest itself in physical form, and there’s actually a story behind it. Rewind to 2006: Heavy Winged is an active, Brooklyn-based psych-rock band who’ve yet to dissolve into the bi-coastal logistical tangle they exist as now; meanwhile, Eva/Inca Ore is on tour (for The Birds And The Bees maybe); meanwhile, Nick Bindeman happens to also be in NY hanging out. Since all are friends or friends-of-friends, Heavy Winged ask Nick and Eva to come jam with them at a show at Northsix for the heck of it. They do. The set is a charged, psychotropic cyclone of ragged electric weight and possessed pixie shriek, stomping up and down over several damaged mountains of riff-wreckage. Miraculously, someone thinks to record the performance. Jed Bindeman sends us a copy. Our speakers implode, we high five. Fast forward to Fall 2008: Heavy Winged record a new 20-minute epic (“Into The Fog”), send it to Eva, and she records her own hypno-bliss keyboard mirage over the top. Eureka. So goes the nearly three-year history of Ring Mining, a slow-burn triumph of long-distance collaborative patience and alchemy between two of our favorite creative institutions. Mine on, you crazy diamonds. Black vinyl LPs mastered by James Plotkin and housed in jackets with mountain-collage artwork by Eva Saelens, plus a photocopied insert. Edition of 500.
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teeth mountain - live on - nnf - lp -  13$

Bodymore, Murderland has a long and still-living history of wacko art/music loons operating out of cheap warehouses (Tarantula Hill, RIP) and cheaper apartments (The Comfort Dome, etc), and something about the place’s civic/social vibe seems to foster an almost schizophrenic degree of diversity amongst its bands. Needless to say, this is a good good thing. But despite the city’s recent-ish rep as a home to neon strobe light teen party heroes like Daniel Deacon and Ponytail and whatnot, there’s obviously a ton more to the story, and the band that seems to us crucial to this neo-wave B-MORE renaissance is Teeth Mountain. A seven-piece jam crew comprised of 2-3 odd drum kits, sax, clarinet, mixer drones, electric guitar, a pile of pedals, various voices, and probably other unknown mystery junk, they straddle a fine, fucked up line between carefully orchestrated rhythmic psychedelia and total drum-circle-damaged freeform freak-sprawl. To us, it’s a holy zone, and one we hope they continue to linger in. TM’s 2008 LP on SHWDPLY (recently reissued, grab one ASAP) was easily one of our top recs of the year, and so we are obviously awesomely jazzed to offer up Live On, their follow-up. Two all-new sides of artfully interwoven live recordings encompassing all the band’s best moods: outsider world scorch, jittery horn ragas, basement attack trance, etc. Raw and real and alive as life. Future Teeth Mountains will be scaled at NNF, learn the terrain now. Black vinyl LPs in jackets with painted-craft-cathedral artwork by the band, plus an 11x11 full-color double sided insert. Edition of 500.
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mythical beast - scales - nnf - lp -  13$

One of our favorite covens comes home to roost; break out the champagne/goat’s blood. We’ve long been fans-turned-fanatics of nomadic power trio Mythical Beast’s burned-out blackened sabbath songs, but even our mountainous expectations for their long-awaited debut were toppled by the reality of Scales’ reptile alchemy. Financed by Greg Weeks of Espers and tracked in a legit East Coast studio on generous banks of sick vintage gear, this 8-song LP is the aesthetic culmination of nearly four years of tours, trials, and twilit travels to the heart of the heart of the country. The results rip. Drone-ballad classics from their haunting 2006 demo like “Cycle/Circle” and “Chaos Spinner” reappear here in freshly realized forms, alongside a hefty handful of brand new tunes, ranging from quaking soul vox torch trancers to ritual string psych-rock skeletons. All pressure points are hit. The M Beast white magic wonder wheel is alive and hell-bound. Easily the high point in a discography already full of highs. Transparent yellow (streaked with black) vinyl LPs housed in glossy jackets with a pro-printed 11x11 insert. Edition of 500. CD edition available on Language Of Stone.
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u.s. girls - me + yoko - nnf - 7" -  5$

There’s no disputing the truth that certain formats befit certain artists. Think about it: where’s the logic in Tangerine Dream rocking a 3-way split 3” CDR? Those fools need room to roam. Conversely, why would Orthrelm drop a 4xLP? Who needs 160 minutes of 8-second spazz songs? The medium is a message, man. And for Megan Remy’s brief, brave re-imaginings of guitar/voice pop rapture done under the U.S. Girls flag, the 45 RPM 7 inch single is the absolute dream medium for transporting said sounds to the interested earhole. Short and sweet (and chemical) like a sugar rush, Me + Yoko is her latest reverb-gaze drug nugget in a string of strong singles (following releases on Hardscrabble Amateurs and Cherry Burger), and it’s another keeper. Whistling to life with a scrap of found sound/dialogue, the song then wings into a vague, hazed-out stone-toss between 2 tired notes (a dead ringer for that famous Les Rallizes Denudes bass riff), ebbing and flowing beneath smeary streaks of white-washed vocal blur. A Top 40 single for a universe of ghosts. The B, “Rise + Go,” might actually be the more aching of the two, a broke-down bedroom ballad, awash in sad seas of reverb, lapping at the shores of isolated islands, gently sailing into heartbreak. Sounds lo-fi but lush, like it was recorded high on a cloud on a cheap 80s boombox. Imagine that. Black vinyl 45 RPM singles, mastered by Pete Swanson, in photocopied sleeves with art by Remy. Edition of 380.
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sun araw - beach head - nnf - lp -  14$

Sun, surf, and self-hypnosis: all the core particles for a perfect Pacific zone dream-day/daydream. And Beach Head is the soundtrack, in case you were wondering. Hot on the heels of May’s masterful coconut-dub Boat Trip EP comes Magic Lantern-bearer Cameron Stallones’ latest loner luau under the Sun Araw umbrella, and it’s an equatorial escape of the highest order. Unlike his NNF debut, The Phynx, Beach Head drops the drones and cosmic distortion (for the most part) in favor of slippery banana peel smoke stacks, undulating tropical hallucinations, and crystal/coastal moods. Waves, rare birds, and swaying palms cameo in the background. Across the LP’s four snaky rhythm reveries Stallones maps a loose, blissed void of voice, island bass-lines, and shimmering sunset electricity, inviting all to drift in and float on. It’s a total hit parade, top to bottom, might as well glue it to the turntable and weld the whole rig into yr yellow convertible and park that shit in the sand. Fans of Ducktails, imaginary Jimmy Buffet demos, and long walks on the beach will sleep easy on this grass mat. Black vinyl LPs in matte jackets, plus a pro-printed 11x11 insert, with artwork by head beacher C. Stallones. Edition of 420.
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abe vigoda - skeleton - nnf - cass -7$

Shit is cliché, but ya can’t fight the fact that time changes EVERYTHING (or wait, maybe it's money?). Either way: we’re pretty old but not so old we’ve forgotten the cradle days of early Abe Vigoda shows when they only liked Smashing Pumpkins, short shorts, and boating shoes, and their sets were short spiky blasts of post-Unwound lo-fi outsider-punk (a la the Sky Route/Star Roof LP). That was a long time ago. But like all good bands the Vigodans have re-invented themselves a half dozen times over since then, and it’s been a totally rad ride to witness the evolution/transformation, especially since their journey’s culminated in the total sparkling tropic magic sunbath of Skeleton, the best AV record ever. Years of fiddling with delay pedal settings and intricate bass/drums equations somehow resulted in a weird, bright, upbeat island punk sound that’s as catchy and life-affirming as it is tripped-out and overwhelming. Who knew? Catch these die-hards at a show in yr neck of the woods any day now; they are now on PERMA-TOUR. Pro-dubbed cassettes in a “Columbia Records”-style super legit J-card. Edition of 200.
-nnf

 

 

raccoo-oo-oon - nnf - 2xlp -20$

All things must come to pass, if you love something set it free, it’s better to burn out than fade away, blah blah blah. No platitude can mask the permanent bummer of a favorite band breaking up in their prime, and such is the case with Iowa City’s most untamed civic treasure, feral-psych foursome Raccoo-oo-oon, who decided to dissolve this year after nearly half a decade of radical and galvanizing activity (tapes, tours, t-shirts, etc). Fortunately they’re generous sorts, so their parting gift to the fans/haters/planet is a vicious, thorny wilderness of endless, nameless songs heaved across four fried sides of black vinyl. Crawl a mile in their shoes. As far as R.I.P. band statements go, this self-titled monster is tough to beat, by far the most ambitious slabs of sounds the RAC pack has ever put together. Doomed, desperate prog-rock flailings decay into hollow purgatories of dimly pulsing ambience, only to re-erupt into pissed percussion firestorms and experimental electricity. There are a few moments of Behold Secret Kingdom-style focus, but for the most part the mood remains raw and acidic, four souls on edge, backs to the crowd, channeling everything they have left inside. It’s deconstruction time again. Nearly 80 minutes of music, mastered by Pete Swanson, housed in reinforced double LP jackets with
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ex cocaine / yellow swans - nnf - lp - 12$

Two storied USA duo institutions share war stories across twelve miles of raw wax, and the rest of us are lucky enough to eavesdrop. Missoula, Montana’s Ex-Cocaine continue roping that weird rambling wind that seems to stir the soul and keep America mellow, and the pair of anthems they jam out here encapsulates the whole breadth of their sea-to-shining-sea cosmosis. Plainsong guitar lassoes around loose-limbed percussion flame-fanning, building and burning till a boss bonfire glows on the horizon, then they close out the side with a ragged and earnest Meat Puppets cover that’s become a live staple of late. Real and roamin’. On the B, Yellow Swans channel a supreme slice of psychedelic eulogy that cuts twice as deep with the knowledge that after many a summer (they birthed in 2002-ish) dies the Swan. Pete and Gabe’s DYS saga has spanned the decade and their impending non-existence will be lamented all over the world, so the more 11th hour record books they want to stencil with their electric synergies, the better for all of us. R.I.P.eace out. In a stunning “sexy legs” kaleidoscopic masterpiece art jacket by Religious Knife Maya Miller. Half on bleached olive vinyl, half on black. Edition of 600.
-nnf

hny - mute in the dust - nnf - cass - 6$

dudes can dispute it, but the feminine mystique is real – especially in the realms of haunted interior-psych voice musique. a lotta our favorite ladies (inca ore, grouper, u.s. girls, etc) have the “private dreamer” communion ritual down to a science, whether due to talent, vision, chromosomes or some combo of the 3. we wanna add another siren to the squad: hny. when not buried in work as the sax/bass-playing half of social junk, she’s found time to drop a couple stellar solo joints over the past year-ish (scope her here you can touch the sky for proof), but they may have gotten more lost in the shuffle than seems fair, so we’re jazzed to present heather’s newest full-length collection of woozy diary drift, mute in the dust. nine song-stories of naked keyboards, 3 am spirit loops, and creaky attic narratives that blur the line between bedroom voodoo ceremony and otherworldly suicide note. recorded entirely outdoors on a tiny side porch in west oakland, mute tip-toes the hny mythos out of the shadows and off the deep end. dive in. pro-dubbed tapes in white cases with hallucinatory guitar-girl cover art (3 different color paper possibilities), and housed in hand-painted canvas pouches. edition of 100.
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inca ore - birthday of bless you - nnf - lp - 12$

This one has been a dream since the start. Literally, as Eva Saelens wrote us one day out of the clearest blue saying she had a dream one night that she sent us her brand new album and that we fell in love with it and released it. Well the dream’s become reality, as her latest spirit quest in pursuit of the inmost voice dazzled us instantly and lingered like déjà vu. An 11-song slideshow of psychedelic secrecy, rippling whispers, and private ghost ballads, Birthday of Bless You finds Inca Ore at her most lithe and longing, shifting focus from microscopic mood meditations to wide-lens surrealist romance fantasies in a heartbeat, then back again. A black-lit bedroom soon forgotten, a midnight garden of lucid sound, an LP to have and to hold. Mastered for wax by Pete Swanson. Black vinyl in jackets with collage-art by IO, plus a full-color 11x11 collage insert. Edition of 500.
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blank realm - mind peril - nnf - cass - 6$

So many steaming heaps of uniquely fried brains litter the “down under” underground landscape (Australia, NZ) you begin to worry for their greater wellbeing, health, sanity. But, at the same time, it’s hard to complain ‘cause those same forces have done wonders for the world’s weirdo CDR collections. Paeces, Lakes, all the Bros ‘o’ The Occult Sisterhood shit, Castings, Terracid, xNoBBQx (most of those Breakdance The Dawn bands, actually), Naked On The Vague, etc. – there’s a damn ARMY of Australasian gangs throwing up freaky signs and bizarre strains of audio consciousness, and we are all the richer for it. But our favorite such clan for the past year plus is Blank Realm, outta Brisbane. They’ve been emitting a steady smokestack of work-in-progress documents showcasing their pan-genre collective symbiosis the last couple years and each new cloud they puff out is a headier, heavier beast than the one before it – and Mind Peril shows they’ve yet to even fucking plateau. Self-released by the band early in ’08 in a micro-edition of a few dozen, we were fairly floored by it, and offered to spread the gospel a bit more. Listen up. Crouched hermetic energies arc upwards into unified spirals of electric heavens, animal clatter, basement trance, and zoner drums. 8-limbed songs grapple up from 4-track floors. Rituals retch into wrecked rock songs. Vertical motion for formless heights. This is Blank Realm at their blankest and best. NNF edition has a new track sequence, and is pro-dubbed on high-quality chrome cassettes, as befits this sprawling C54 classic. In oversized, hand-stamped, spray-painted cardstock sleeves with hand-ripped rainbow-tissue collage artwork. Edition of 100.
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law of the rope - beasts will have you - nnf - cass - 6$

Old folks often spout off to kids about not gettin’ in the car with strangers, but that doesn’t mean you can’t release cassettes by them. Good thing, too, cause bands creep outta the woodwork all the time with hoods on their heads and a fine master in their hand, and who’re we to give ‘em some inquisition shit? Law Of The Rope is an alleged trio (Nadine, Legin, and Beatrix Oppression, in case yr wondering) from the “United States Minor Outlying Islands” (yeah right) who mine a very idiosyncratic vein of isolated bedroom black metal somewhere between the more downtempo miserablist symphonies of Xasthur, the deranged 8-track stream-of-consciousness grooves of Lurker of Chalice, and the harsh arctic blasts of Wold. We’re no experts on the subject, but Beasts Will Have You holds its own against all those touchstones, and even adds a nice non-metal dimension to a lotta the songs that free ‘em up from the genre’s restrictions/expectations. The tape’s 2 16-minute-ish sides stalk through the spectrum of foul moods, at turns caged and violent, other times awash in arch-gothic negative grandeur, fleshed out with somber strings and icy life-in-prison-style keyboards. Bleak is back. Pro-dubbed & imprinted cassettes in black-on-black devourer art cases with black-and-blood paper fangs glued to the plastic. Edition of 100.
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time life - drumlins - nnf - 7" - 5$

To those not well versed in the studies of esoteric land mass terminology, the word “drumlin” might be pure WTF. But to Heidi Diehl and G. Lucas “Non-Horse” Crane it’s the key to a musty trunk ripe with memories, magic, mystery. In plain terms it describes a specific sort of glacially-carved hillock endemic to upstate NY (and Antarctica and Greece) which in recent years and regions have been utilized as dumping grounds for mining town industrial slag. A childhood spent summering on such junkyard drumlins spawned the strange smoggy swan-songs of Drumlins, Time Life’s vinyl debut. Decaying tape loops rumble beneath somberly sung lyrical riddles and bowed-string tonal arcs. Electric Appalachian regression fantasies. Metal mountain music. All of this and more (more or less). Black vinyl 7 inches with snowflake stickers in hand-cut full-color cardstock fold-over sleeves with drumlin collage by Manda and adorned with 2 pairs of (the hills have) eyes. Edition of 252.
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jeremy earl - skull - nnf - art book - 15$

After some 27 LPs, 48 tapes, 25 seven inches, 33 CDs/CDRs, and 4 ten inches, the time has finally come for Not Not Fun’s first foray into the great wide world of book publishing. And there’s few better NNF BFFs we could hope to share the adventure with than Fuck It Tapes/Woodsist CEO (and Meneguar/Shepherds/Woods multi-instrumentalist) Jeremy Earl. Since early on in FIT’s adolescence, he began incorporating his own loosely composed symbolist/primitivist designs into the label’s aesthetic (highlights like The Brain Band and Blues Control’s “Riverboat Styx” J-card come to mind), but constant focused labor and the endless march of new projects forced his craft into a heightened state of evolution, birthing countless killer compositions along the way. SKULL is here to pick up some of the choicest pieces from bone-yard and bind them all together. The art inside spans several years worth of work, from 2006-era obsessively rendered ritual serpents and bleeding, 8-fingered hands up through Earl’s most recent experiments with collage and multi-media hieroglyphics. Over a dozen of his most striking and iconic cassette covers are included as well, in addition to scores of never-before-seen images. Dazed pterodactyls, radiant pyramids, possessed worms, faceless figures beneath winged specters: all lurk and loom from the eye of the SKULL. 40 full-color pages, professionally printed and bound, in a one-time edition of 500.
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emaciator - coveting - nnf - lp -13$

Misery wears many masks, but Tulare, California fatalist Jon Borges has etched his mark on most of them. For at least half a decade he’s pursued increasingly suicidal tendencies under his Pedestrian Deposit guise (which is currently on hiatus), splicing subdued loops of morbid beauty against savage canyons of harsh noise histrionics. Lately, though, he’s been straying more and more from this aggressive exercise in contrasts in favor of his Emaciator alias, which draws from the same dark wellspring of bitter memories and bipolar rage but, instead of unleashing it in grand frenzies, bottles everything up inside until it seeps out the pores. Early efforts/cassettes retained a strain of buzzing nausea reminiscent of his PD days, but the last 12 months have witnessed a complete abandonment of any ties to the past. Times are still bleak, sure, but the grey prisms of brooding ambience Borges now conjures and slowly collapses convey a depth of mood and subtlety far surpassing simple signifiers like Indifference, Resentment, Remorse. Coveting collects together five exquisite Emaciator compositions (including two particularly riveting songs that were debuted live at Echo Curio last winter) for a harrowing 40 minutes of troubled solace, crisscrossing suicide guitar lines, and entranced self-reflection. Meditation is a myth; desire does not sleep. Black vinyl LPs in shrinkwrapped jackets with layout by Borges, cover photograph by Shannon Kennedy. Mastered by Pete Swanson, edition of 430.
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goliath bird eater / sasqrotch - nnf - 10" -  12$

LA’s rep as a hometown to heaviness is backed up by a lotta props: Richter Scale-wrecking earthquakes, Vin Diesel racing an army camo hummer down Sunset Blvd on a daily basis, Buzz Osbourne loitering at pretty much every flea market within walking distance of a greasy spoon, etc. Oh, and the sick & twisted Sunn amp-manglings emanating from the respective lairs of Goliath Bird Eater and Sasqrotch. Duh. GBE is the half-decade-strong gauntlet through which Eagle Rock-based Teen Choice Award-winner Bobb Bruno gives voice to his solitary metal ruminations, and oftentimes riffs germinate in his brain/fingers for YEARS before being finally committed to 8-track tape. After a string of shaky drummers but SLAYING tapes/CDRs, he solidified shit enough to lock this timeless psych-crusher in the can. “Blood Silk Road” slow-rides a one-note rock monolith into the void before post office local (and Wilco wild card) Nels Cline steps in to wail an absurdly eyeball-shredding guitar solo that crescendos the song into a black light hurricane of repetitious death. Kill me now please. Highland Park’s Sasqrotch cruise in a scummier mindset, rolling together depraved sax attacks, freakish costumes, and even the occasional bouzouki curveball intro into their mythically hirsute spliff before torching it in a blaze of drums and drop-tuned oblivion. Their B offering, “Menstrual Cyclone,” is a fairly archetypal document of the road-tested freeform ripper they were jamming live for most of the latter half of ’07. Suck it down. Black vinyl 10 inches in printed jackets, plus a hand-numbered insert, with artwork by French electronic enigma Kikifruit. Edition of 400.
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skullflower / axolotl - bored fortress vol III - nnf - 7" - 5$ sold out

Matthew Bower's guitar apocalypto boils and broods on "Starblood," layers of interstellar violence ripping through the sky. The flip finds Axolotl live in Paris in December, lost in a storm of shrieking haze.
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inca ore / secret abuse - bored fortress vol III - nnf - 7" - 5$

Western wayfarer Inca Ore speak-sings a strange rain vision from the knit lairs of her Portland winter '07 hibernation. On the B, noise nomad Jeff Witscher stares into the mirror/pedals and sees the dark night with fucked clarity. Negative meditation at its finest.
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sheperds / ignatz - bored fortress vol III - nnf - 7" - 5$

Brooklyn's Rear House boys trace a woolly kraut-punk path over the (loco) hills and through the woods. Brussell's resident psych-seclusionist Ignatz recounts ancient exotic sagas with wood, strings, voice, and hiss.
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charalambides / pocahaunted - bored fortress vol III - nnf - 7" - 5$ sold out

Historic East Texas jam-troubadours Charalambides kick out a fried and hypnotized re-working of a track from their most recent Kranky full-length, while LA ladies Pocahaunted surf on singing bowls above a smog-soaked sunset drum beat.
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slither / thurston moore & paul flaherty - bored fortress vol III - nnf - 7" - 5$

Detroit slimers Slither coil greasy tentacles around a table of warped gear and dumpster horns. Say hello to SEWER JAZZ. Old-schoolers Thurston & Flaherty ponder hardcore posters and do their best Borbetomagus impression (it's a good one).
-nnf

metal rouge - storm veil / desert champion - nnf - cs - 6$

Ex-Auckland high artists Helga Fassonaki and Andrew Scott first began hammering their flux-core electronics into sustained tunnels of pale fire back in early 2006, when living down under in New Zealand's thriving hive of free music freemasons. Their early documents were obscure, open-mouthed starclusters of harsh Hototogisu-heatspells, FX-heavy improv, and isolated tinkering. Since relocating to the Hollywood grid, however, the Metal Rouge matrix has transformed significantly. Recent volumes of their excellent Ephemeroptera series, as well the Eulogy For Keeler disc (on Phantom Limb), have showcased MR's increasingly controlled avant noise architectures, but Storm Veil/Desert Champion strikes their best balance yet. Both sides unfold from keening, tense beams of drone light, layering levels of expressionist tones one after the other, slowly growing into futurist frenzy, a thousand interstitial atoms of tempest noise warring for amp space. A focused and furious 40 minutes at the forge/4-track. Pro-dubbed, shell-imprinted tapes in cardstock J-cards adorned with metallic fabric shreds plus gold flecks. Edition of 100.e are 6 songs.
-nnf

eternal tapestry - mystic induction - nnf - lp -  12$

In today’s NEW new age one of the roughest audio landscapes to rehydrate and re-vivify seems to be ye olde ‘rock/roll.’ Too much schooled skill turns it to wanky puke, too much braindead string-mangling ends shit up in a puddle of noise drool. That hallowed middle ground is tough to hammer a stake into. But Portland posse Eternal Tapestry chase worms in that kinda moist soil all day and foggy night, and the two sides of glowing garden shroom-harvest they present on Mystic Induction makes a strong case for their status as psych-rock resurrectionists of the first degree. The LP opener, “Emerald Forest of Peace,” weaves a languid path through ET’s bright life as a short-lived five-piece (they’re down to a trio again now), with mossy bass and blissed drums kissing the slow-motion wah fireworks exploding above in the rain-drenched air. It’s a slow glide that continually threatens to ignite before eventually slipping into electric silence. And on the B jam (“Transcendence”), they make good on the threat of the A, riding a vertical riff into a howling storm of light and Jed Bindeman drum frenzy that leaves the rest of their recorded discography in the dust. Also marks the best use of wordless vocals ever captured on an ET track during the band’s brief window with diva Janina Angel Bath on the mic. Planet rock is no longer a cold dead place. Black vinyl LPs in fabric-collage jackets with artwork by guitarist Dewey Mahood. Edition of 450.
-nnf

blank realm - the returner - nnf - cass -  6$

It gets said a lot (and for good reason) but shit is the internet ever weird. We’ve had the good fortune to get outta the city/state/USA plenty of times but life’s short and the dollar’s weak so we haven’t trekked to most of the globe’s zones for firsthand audio-anthropology, and yet thanks to Firefox/Safari/whatever we are fairly well informed about the crucial psych emissions of Brisbane hypno-squad Blank Realm (thanks, online experience). So here we are. The Returner is BR’s most recent rusted grain silo mood piece cluster and though it might be their cleanest (fidelity-wise) crop of tracks to date, it also might be their trickiest one to pin down. Range-roving from overloaded bliss-noise collectivism to haunted barn bleak-folk death rattles, this C51 stakes out an endless outback of next-generation Musics Your Mind Will Love head-melt alternatives. Tape-labelled tapes in cases with full-color collage J-cards by Manda plus tied with black tassels. Edition of 100.

the goslings - occasion - nnf - cd -  11$

Hollywood, Florida family/band Max and Leslie Soren have been unleashing their private bouts of punishing ceremonial sludge-gaze for the past half a decade now, and there’s been some total titanic highlights (Between the Dead, Grandeur of Hair, etc). But the grunge swamp graveyard they seem to unearth their moss metal from must be profoundly fertile ground, because each new song-cycle they lay to tape is somehow even more miraculously brutal and shimmering and visionary than the one before it. This phenom holds true for Occasion, The Goslings’ newest and maybe deepest doom/beauty inquest. Eight thundering masterpieces of molten slime riff majesty, nightstalker drums, and soaring-into-the-sun female vox that crush the earth, bleed, and breathe in humid darkness. Ranging from the Slowdive-meets-Skullflower transcendent descent of “Motorcade” through to the quaking basement funeral of “Little Horn,” Occasion is a glorious passage into The Goslings’ hidden holy land. Mastered for optimal audio gravity by James Plotkin, and housed in a swank six-panel wallet-style metallic-ink digipak with artwork by the band.
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mudboy - hungry ghosts! these songs are doors - nnf – lp – 12$

For most of us, the doors of perception are triple-bolted shut and cast in bomb-proof iron. Only supernatural shapeshifters (or career criminals) can slip through and seize the wisdom within. But, sweetly, there is a hidden entrance: musick-as-magick. Providence, RI patch-cable conjuror Mudboy is one such secret key-crafter and his unlocking labors on this long-player stand at the summit of his already awesome discography. Alchemizing stylized soundtrack spells, organ wizardry, melodic mind-reading, and elegantly meditative harmonium hallucinations, Hungry Ghosts! These Songs Are Doors lights an urn’s worth of ritual powders and powers, filling the speakers with a sign language of smoke runes and ghost tones. Lie on the floor and be floored by Mudboy’s primordial plainsongs. Record comes housed in a dizzyingly intricate laser die-cut fold-over cover with an acutely aligned flame-silkscreened inner sleeve. Painstaking and perfect. Half on blood-red wax, half on black. Limited to 500.
-nnf

family underground - riven - nnf – lp – 10$

Denmark's deepest dope-dreamers dig up another pair of prism-splitting slabs of decaying radioactivity. Riven is the FU crew at their most crouched and concentrated, couched in fever, fog, futurism, and fucked densities, channels of brain-wave light fusion overloading with synergistic zero hour tectonics. Uncanny ex-men (and woman) aktivity. More metallic than Axial and far hungrier than Future Bread, Riven resonates like a dead bell in a buried valley, ringing, subterranean, wasted, industrial. Man-made clangs echo in mechanized caverns. Hologram hands sweat black light in the center of the earth. Implosion fantasies bloom. Black LPs (mastered by Pete Swanson of Yellow Swans for supreme sonic symmetry) in fractal cave art jackets by Svend Balslev plus a band-made insert. First 75 direct mail orderers also receive a limited FU pin. Limited to 450.
-nnf

ettrick – feeders of ravens – nnf - lp  10$

Prepare for sudden death. San Francisco brutalizers Ettrick finally deliver the full-length destruction they've been threatening for so long now. Feeders of Ravens is definitely the most potent collection of harsh jazz violence the duo's ever laid to tape, showcasing all their classic kill-moves: slaughtering saxophone dialogues, jittery percussive fits, raging horn/drum self-annihilation, etc. What escalates their improv attacks above just blind frenzy is the warped telepathy Jacob Heule and Jay Korber exhibit in their playing, wordlessly intuiting one another's energy upswings and downturns. And nowhere is this psychic connection more apparent (and demonic) than on "Raven Harvest,” the LP's final onslaught. Searing sax blasts burn through the ear drum, giving way to splatter paint percussion flailings and scraping metal, which then slowly take shape, coagulating into a dense, aggressive avalanche of pummeling, white-hot drum rapture. Life into death into life. Black LPs in pro-printed jackets with majestically sinuous, Haida-style cover art (and memento mori raven back art). Limited to 350.

magik markers - feel the crayon -nnf – lp –12$

This is a moment of heavy honor dudes. Magick Markers scrawled a permanent place in NNF’s heart the first time we jammed their deranged-shaman society-ripper “White Bikini” at max volume. Instantly became a total dream to carve that magik on sike-adelic vinyl. This IS that dream. Originally released as a limited-run 7-song CDR by the awesome east coasters, Apostasy Recordings, the wax edition of Feel the Crayon shaves 2 of the emptier tracks (for length/sound quality purposes), creating a harsher, denser document of their ecstatic feedback questing. full colour printed jackets, purple vinyl, new insert, no art booklet
-nnf

goliath bird eater - blood venus - nnf – cd – 8$

Few dudes understand the Eastern zen of heavy riffing more than Bobb Bruno. The man lives in a literal lair of black amps, black hair, and black metal, and only emerges to eat fried chicken or get wasted at Mika Miko shows. Blood Venus rages this yin/yang vibe to the speaker-shredding breaking point, alternating feedbacker obliteration with passages of complete tunnel vision drone stasis. The rampant guitar slaughter is epicly complemented by Jeremy Villalobos' iron hammer drum moves, which kick from stoner lopes to total crash attack, sometimes dropping out to peripheral cymbal shimmer, all in a sick split second. And you can truly hear it all, too, as the songs were tracked in the studio on serious two inch tape. Nine deafening epiphanies of black leather headbang war, somewhere between Sabbath, Sleep, and...qualuudes. Oh, and no vocals, cause they're too metal for that shit. In jewel cases, with weird blood-tentacle squid-witch cover art.
-nnf

hello astronaut goodbye television - pixielated math costumes - nnf - cd - 10$

Well, the long, lame wait is OVER. Sun Valley/Tujunga teamsters Hello Astronaut, Goodby Television finally re-drop their sold-out old opus, PMC. Howevs, last year’s pizza-punk production has been replaced by a California winter’s worth of shut-in bedroom-studio tinkering/obsession (not to mention a fancy-pants mastering job by J Golden), and now the jams shine like kitchen knives. 11 subtly hostile pop anthems of Evol guitar gestures, Philip K. Dick-style heartbreak, and orchestral post-teen existentialism, rounded out by a rare handful of secret solo recordings. You could call these songs “pretty,” but you’d probably get decked during the Minor Threat cover’s brutal mosh pit. Don’t forget: beauty lies in the middle finger of the beholder. Epicly, intensely, and truly OFF THE CHAIN (not not fun)

 

yuma nora - jewels in the snakepit - nnf - cd - 8$

This is like free jazz soulful sex scattered beat noise brass explosion meets the nicest, quirkiest minds from the dreary Portland streets. We’ve been screaming about them for months as the stupid ass world finally wakes up to their “genius” (-Wire fucking Magazine !). Amy’s sultry as hell, Aaron’s got tribal blues, and Jake’s guitar is barely-there perfection. And thus, the Oregon rain clouds parted to reveal Yuma Nora, brewing up their own storm. (not not fun)






- past -

las vegas club - whiskey flats - nnf - cdr -  7$sold out

Half imaginary spaghetti-western score, half ragtime saloon brawl, and half pirated cowboy movie samples (how many halves is that?), Whiskey Flats is like a night out on the range, gathered 'round a low fire with some chaw-gnawing men who don't talk much. Just the sounds of the dark desert winds, somebody peein' over by the cattle, and some tired hands fiddlin' with a banged-up acoustic guitar. There's good, there's bad, and there's ugly, all courtesy of hard-drinkin' (but harder-gamblin') LVC chief, Joe Kendall. He's helped out on most tunes by the good Jacob Smigel, who pitches in coffee-can percussion, homesick harmonica, and lonesome singin' where need be. A 16-track masterpiece nearly two years in the making, Whiskey Flats is the Dodge City of gun-slinging folk music. Covers printed on 50-year-old aged onion paper found at a tumbleweed-strewn yard sale, and accompanied by a dusty pamphlet of wild west funnies.
(not not fun)

 

 

ettrick - sudden arrhythmic death volume 2 - nnf – 3" cdr –  6$ sold out

Imagine an immediate/permanent global blackout. Tons would change about daily life (duh): no TV, computers, light bulbs, AMPS. Severed from the electric mainline, a lot of bands would break up – or suck. But not Ettrick. The San Franciscan saxophone/drums duo need nothing but their own breath/blood and your bored ears to wreak consummate audial carnage. This 3 inch is brutal proof. Documenting a desperate session of their free jazz war at the last stop on their October US tour, Sudden Arrhythmic Death Vol. 2 morphs from skittering, sticks-on-steel heartbeat clatter to harrowing/hemorrhaging sax chaos incantations before finally mounting to a black death apocalypse of possessed percussion immolation. Far, far, FAR beyond driven. Brace yrself for the forthcoming LP (out spring '07 on NNF). Stenciled CDRs in Mayan-tile encrusted mini-jewel cases with color-printed wraparound covers (plus a quote from the Popul Vuh). Hand-numbered, and limited to 100.
-nnf

 

heavy sets - robedoor / pocahaunted / sasqrotch - nnf – cass - -6$ sold out

Huff on, heavyweights. The late summer smog seeps like slime into the sockets and circuits and strings and sweatsongs burning out from the east LA scorched earth, and Heavy Sets is a blurry Polaroid of the steam rising (and forming a skull). Documenting a pair of punishing mid-August live Echo Park meltdowns, the wrecked sets on this bible-black CS showcase the more nocturnal, wasted wing of the Rock/Eagle macrocosm, when the heat turns to fumes and the fumes turn to black light. Pass out but don’t pass away. Robedoor climb into a cauldron of seer’s soup and drums, the Pocahaunted fatales war-whoop with buried beats in the wind, and Sasqrotch wrestle a riff over a cliff of boiling mud. Street fights with sweet plights. 48 minutes of breathless brawl-space. Tape-labeled tapes in paint-streaked/glitter-encrusted cases, with a hand-cut piece of voodoo cloth. Edition of 100.
-nnf

abe vigoda - sky route star roof - nnf - lp -8$ sold out

Chino, CA is in many ways a thriving place. There’s vegan Chinese diners, plenty of adult video stores, and an active post-teen no-wave scene. Sort of. Mainly there’s just Reggie, Mike, David, and Juan arguing about which colors suck (all of them) on a suburban porch. And thank god for that, cause these 909 loyalists are ubiquitous dudes, road-tripping to any two-bit post-punk community center that will let them plug in and play their claustrophobic angle jams. Repetitive beaten guitars, Animal (from Muppet Babies?) drumming, and burrowing, burying bass lines—like boating shoes and cut-off jean shorts, these are signature Abe Vigoda moves. (not not fun)

eternal tapestry - vibrations new dawn - nnf – cass –5$ sold out

Nothing ever ends. Eternal Tapestry’s fibers fray like worms up from the Oregon dirt, morph into cords coiled on the damp practice room floor, crawl the walls, and stitch themselves into the sky. The fabric is infinite, in/of everything. Comprised of the brothers Bindeman (Nick of Jackie-O Motherfucker, Jed of Heavy Winged) and bassist Dewey Mahood Wah, ET spike into a particularly pure vein of raw soul haze hidden in the forearm of today’s psyched/fucked underground. Vibrations New Dawn unfurls from fractured, feedback crystal-divining into slow-burn gravitational mass into astral kraut-rock motion/destruction. This is the new age of the newest new age. Black tapes in cases with hand-numbered, patterned textile J-cards adorned with hand-cut diamond-ranges of vision-colored cloth. Limited to 100.
-nnf

sasqrotch -myth of the hirsute - nnf – cass –6$ sold out

First time we saw Sasqrotch play was at a bowling alley bar after a Robedoor set, and it was PERFECT. A guitarist decked out in a baffling bearded-elf costume from the neck up (complete with rubbery oversized ears) stared at his guitar, holding an amp-eating drone tone with some wah-pedal oscillation while bassist and another dude crouched in front of speaker cabinets, drinking in the low-end, the whole place just fucking QUAKING with sound. Then third man moved over to the drums, counted some shit off, and let loose. We were floored. Lumbering untamed electric wilderness howling through lucid streets of puke and ice. Basement Sabbath breakdowns. Wasted, sub-human distortion. Basically: savage awesomeness. So here is “Myth of the Hirsute,” Sasqrotch’s debut release, a brutal, blown-out snapshot/C38 of the North Hollywood power trio’s hairy grandeur in action. Black tapes in hand-stamped origami-folded metallic paper sleeves adorned with fang/sequin braids, and limited to 100.
-nnf

dry tribes -live in tempe, az - nnf – cdr – 5$ sold out

This country’s way too big (cant we sell off a few states already??) but every blue moon or so faraway friends fuck distances, drive a billion miles, and UNITE. June 28th, 2006 was one such mesh/bond party of peace-pipe passing, extended high fives, and amplifier team spirit between Tent City, Quintana Roo, Black Monk, and Haunted Castle. Heavy ruling ensued. John Ryan & Co.’s sprawling Arizona backyard – and mercifully dim living room – played host to the geographical delirium of Michigan feedback, California smoke spirits, and hometown desert circle circuitry. Things ended in a 100-plus degrees 5 AM haze, but fortunately the mic was ON. Hear it all. Hieroglyphic-stamped CDRs in full-color hand-numbered fold-out cardstock cases bedecked with sun-gold string.
- nnf




foot village - world fantasy - nnf - 10"lp -8$ sold out

In the tradition of literary greats like “Bang the Drum Slowly” and Bowie’s not so great “Little Drummer Boy,” comes Foot Village – a bleeding, screaming, catastrophe drum circle that makes hippies wish they never invited Brian, Grace, Jeff, and Greg to jam on bongos at Zuma Beach. There’s been talk of covering Les Miserables and reenacting McDonald’s commercials, but for now Foot Village is happy to document their travels in World Fantasy. It’s a deep love for harsh noise, R. Kelly, Broadway musicals, and Rush that breathes life into the band that launched a million side projects. The Drum Machines Have No Soul guy is about to wet his pants (not not fun)

non horse - rigor lore - nnf – cass – 4$ sold out

Hope you like to read/research. Cause Gabriel Lucas Crane aka Non-Horse here unfurls an ancient 80 minute scroll of dense cryptic sound/texts, perfect for dream-diviners and out-of-work drone-archeologists. The Brooklyn tape-manipulator conspiracy theorist (and full-time Vanishing Voice chief) has crafted similarly mystic audio-calligraphies for other visionary label undergrounders like Release the Bats and Fuck It Tapes but “Rigor Lore” is his first real novel-length outpouring. The A side walks through wondrous home recorded catacombs of dead machine murk and hieroglyphic mystery, murmuring million-year-old Masonic secrets to pharaoh ghosts, while the B terrain documents a series of his live rituals, which are equally occult and symbol-ridden. Fire-red tapes with printed labels in cases with runic/riddle cover art by GLC himself, color-copied on heavy Byzantine-gold paper, plus a lengthy scripture insert.  
- label

shepherds / quintanaa roo - split - fuck it tapes / nnf – cass – 6$ sold out

Growth is god dudes. Gotta change, morph, MOVE, ring in new harvests and let fresh blank tapes bloom black in the sun. This shadowy C60 is a cryptic/cloaked stare-off between two recently-birthed coastal crews. Shepherds traverse the Bushwick/Brooklyn axis, watching their flock from a high crooked branch off the Fuck It Tapes tree of life/death. Old world clatter meanders against dead-dub bass echoes while thin air prayers levitate from weary throats. A spiral-eyed masterpiece of tattered tunic improv. On the flip is west coast crawl unit, Quintana Roo, who burrow through sub-cellar levels of spirit dust and cursed dirt worship. “Mythological Animals” ponders bowed drones, autoharp rust, and disembodied drumming for a haunted half hour, before drifting back to tomb hum. Painted tapes in silver-mist latticework cases, with full-color covers. Co-released with Fuck It Tapes.
- nnf

jacob smigel - lovers and drunkards- nnf - 7 - 3$ sold out

This is Not Not Fun’s first 7 inch and it’s probably our favorite Jacob Smigel song of all time. It’s mastered so it sounds really awesome, it’s pressed on sunny yellow vinyl, and all the covers are hand-colored by friends of Jacob. And “The Riddle Song” is an insiders hit about secret names that’s not available on any other recording in the world. AND there’s a found sound snippet that’s quite touching.

horsehead - defeatist - nnf – cdr - 7$ sold out

For a while it looked like OC loners Horse Head were gonna follow the path out to pasture and never look back. Their Birds and Bees tape (Arbor) was pure nature, a feathery field recording of grassy, buzzing bliss, and even the singer/songwriter folk diaries of Make It Something Else (also Arbor) were pretty unplugged and barefoot-vibed. However: NEVERMIND, cause The Defeatist fucks this theory/trajectory to hell. Gone is the wind-in-yr-hair acoustic delay, the whispery poet croons. In its place? Total teenage guitar trash, exploratory garage chaos, psychedelic puberty. Percussion like metal shelves full of wrenches being kicked on to concrete. Pissed kids scream-talking at dry walls. Uncomfortable and ugly. Maybe this is a concept album? Hand-stamped CDRs in blurry woven fiber paper, with one-of-a-kind collaged wooden horses, and a hand-numbered insert. Limited to 64.  
-nnf

pink luminous invocation - pink fog - nnf – cdr – 5$ sold out

Psychic smog. Memory-loss drugs. Tapestries of delay pedals. All great avenues to feeling fucked up and blissed/lost. Here’s another. Danish combo Pink Luminous Invocation serve up a half-hour bowl of sonic syrup, laced with wind chimes, methedrone, and déjà vu. Buried voices bleed like clouds, bouts of phasing stasis lapse into electric déjà vu. Like a more burned-out Pelt, or a sleeping Ghosting. Meditative and sedated. Silkscreened CDRs in black plastic cases with silk-screened, hand-stamped wraparound covers studded with jewels, plus a full-color insert. Hand-numbered edition of 71
-nnf

pocahaunted- waterborn - nnf – 3" cdr – 5$ sold out

Lie down in darkness, awake in white water. Eagle Rock’s most amp-laden spirit-talkers block out the sky with this deep, inner piece of elemental communion. Lulling, long-hair guitar strums flow into sweeping sea-breeze feedback while tidal dream-noise ebbs/flows over your blistered feet. Slowly siren voices wing down from grey mists and call you to wade into the warm waves, let go, be washed away…gradually the chanting submerges, dissolves, surrendering to the blood’s undertow, the ocean’s blue womb. A spectral, moving rite of psych passage. Spray-misted, hand-numbered 3” CDRs in full-color wraparound portrait-collage covers in plastic bags adorned with heavy woven strips of native textiles. Limited to 100.
-nnf

moongang - fifth sun visions - nnf – cass – 6$ sold out

Watching Steve Gunn’s fingers fly as he shred-drones an acoustic guitar is probably the chief joy of witnessing a GHQ set (at least, it was for us when they cruised through LA this past summer). But when he’s not on the road with Magik Markers or GHQ or Nolan-knows-who-else, he builds buzzing structures of six-string acid navigations under the guise of Moongang. Past dispatches (mainly self-released) have ranged from tranquilizer ragas to swarming arkestral maneuvers to blissed emptiness, but Fifth Sun Visions offers up yet another orbit in Gunn’s psych solar system. Urban field recordings slowly dissolve into stumbling folk trance while static clouds of menace hover in the sky…later thick riffs emerge, bathed in black light, shot through with gross growling and crawling undertones of templar apocalyptica. An awesome oracle of ruin from one of NNF’s favorite psych shapeshifters. Purple tapes with painted skull labels in bags with full-color shadow-shrine collage covers, plus a black spider. Hand-numbered and limited to 100.
-nnf

watersports / changeling - split - nnf – cass – 7$ sold out

Hello/goodbye. Entrance tones and farewell dissolves. Two of NNF’s pinnacle favorite cell-melting haze-raisers bow heads across a bliss-blind C50. Watersports are the heroically rad Russ and Lea, who head up NYC’s chief trickle-down esoterica fountain/label, White Tapes. The duo’s flow session here, “Mother’s Touch,” rides a smoke-wave of four-dimensional heartbeat pulses and spirit-organ drift-shift into pure hypno-unbecoming. Like being absorbed into a holy amoeba. Obviously: beautiful. Changeling’s B-side, “Great Tranquility,” buries yr ears in even more dream-fog, with voices flayed across infinite green/grey webs of lattice glowing clouds. New age prism-swimming through skies of delay. Color-misted tapes in hand-numbered olive vellum J-cards, with hand-colored off-set heaven-cell stickers on the cover. Artwork by Roy Tatum of Changeling.
-nnf

robedoor - unsummoning - not not fun - cdr - 7$ sold out

Too much voodoo, too little light, the cords coil into an elliptical infinity helix, the prayer rug bleeds. Darkening signs o’ the times. LA’s blindest seers peer once again into the voice/void for this pentagrammic document of dim delay worship and retching distortion ritual. Five fully forsaken tracks of synth séance, cello reckoning, and unholy howl. Anti-invocations for four-dimensional forces. Painted CDRs in witch-stitched, silk-screened cases with full-color wrap-around covers, plus a hand-numbered, silk-screened cardstock insert. Comes with a crust punk patch too. Limited to 100.
-nnf

 

racoo-oo-oon / woods - pre american lands- nnf - lp - 12$sold out

It feels like a trillion years ago that the musical universe collectively hyperventilated over the notion of “new weird America,” and thankfully so, as the catch-phrase was/is nakedly inaccurate. In contrast, Pre-American Lands tells it like it really is: insanely OLD. These are the sounds/songs of pre-concrete civilizations, resurrected by two of our country’s most mystic gangs of dream-beard antiquity-drifters. Iowa City’s Raccoo-oo-oon commune with dirt, drums, smoke, and tongues to ignite a sky-burning convocation of psychedelic exorcism and mumbled animal prayers. On the B side, Brooklyn’s Woods wander but are not lost, with stumbling strummed strings treading through a dense brush of forest jazz clatter and mossy electric hum. Pressed on blurry cream/sun vinyl with purple runic art labels and housed in awesome skull-magik screenprinted fold-over jackets (courtesy of Shawn Reed of R-coon), and adorned with a fortune-ensuring synthetic rabbit’s foot. (nnf)

 

various - wedding metal - nnf – cdr –5$ sold out

Hey beetles: love IS all you need. HOWEVER, love’s radness magnifies intensely when you run it through a hot pink thrash master pedal and tons of insane delay and jack it all on a volume 10 sunn amp. Which is how we celebrated our punk noise nuptials. Twas the MOST epic/beautiful day, crowded with a million siked friends, bands, amplifiers, microphones, beers/wines, vegan buffets, high fives and headbangs. Fortunately for us/you, our dear dude Bobb Bruno paced his bourbon intake that night, allowing him to semi-soberly record the whole amorous/glamorous affair on his black metal 8-track. 60 minutes of ripping sets by loud loved ones like Mika Miko, Abe Vigoda, Rainbow Blanket/Cruel Face (i.e. Jeff & Greg Witscher), and Hello Astronaut, Goodby Television. Stamped CDR comes in a collage-photocopied party-splatter envelope stuffed with confetti barf and tied with rainbow ribbon and yarn. Limited, and made with only love.
-nnf

various - siked pysch - not not fun – cd –8$ sold out

Dig the past and look homeward, angels. This many-months-in-the-making comp collects 21 old-school obscurities and raw gems scattered across Not Not Fun’s first 50 sonic statements. Sadly, current compact disc technology maxes out at roughly 75 minutes of audio action (get on that, scientists!), so tons of equally beloved but lengthier genius jams and beautiful sprawlscapes could not be included (maybe subsequent volumes should be released on microchip instead of CD?!). Siked Psych’s visionary visuals are courtesy of NW color wheeler Devon Varmega aka Hair Party, and his lettering, lines, layout, etc are a dream. Discs come with a dizzying double-sided six-panel photo-collage tribal/trip-out poster, celebratory shredded neon foil, and are banded with 1 of 10 retardoid band comics by Britt. Hand-numbered, and limited to 500.
-nnf

tracks by
My Little Red Toe, The Wolf Tracks, Raccoo-oo-oon , Haunted Castle,
D Yellow Swans
The Golden Hours, Belly Boat
AND MANY OTHERS!!!!!

blues control / heavy winged - bored fortress vol II - nnf - 7" -5$ sold out

Brooklyn/PDX wrecking crew Heavy Winged lurch out a riff monster of concrete crush, while NY groove-riders Blues Control trip the cosmos with space-drug arkestral maneuvers.

mindflayer / deep jew- bored fortress vol II - nnf - 7" -5$ sold out

Fort thunderers Mindflayer lay waste to the brains of the past. Five dimensional assault. LA scum crew Deep Jew give themselves shitty bic pen tattoos and puke into a wall of amps.
-nnf

ajilvsga - earth lodge - nnf – 2xcass -8$ sold out

Winter may be dead and gone (for now) but the haven of hibernation still calls out across the plains. And no landscape is more laid low by malevolent elements and psychic ice than the level-plane tundra of Oklahoma, which is where buffalo robed drone duo Ajilvsga (Brad Rose, Nathan Young) hole up/hibernate and eye the harvest moon. Earth Lodge is the soundtrack to a season spent in dirt shelters, hands in cold clay, amps bleeding out brown-green groans of bone OM and predatorial rapid eye movement. Riffs burrow through frozen soil, skull necklace percussion rattles under piles of pelts, inner spaces open up and unfold into invisible fields of blood and color and celestial imagining. Withdrawn and drawn out. Grey-sky tapes with printed labels in oversized cases with full-color double-sided antler mausoleum collage artwork by Manda. Edition of 100.
-nnf

 

hototogisu /hive mind - bored fortress vol II - nnf - 7" - 5$ sold out

Brainbombing guitar tectonics from the legendary Bower/Bassett duo. Ann Arbor weedian Hive Mind negative creeps a low-end lurk zone.
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magic lantern - at the mountains of madness - nnf – cass -5$ sold out

Plenty of cacophony comes crawling outta the NNF mailbox/inbox on a daily basis, but it’s been a spell since an hourglass of holy din has caught us captive quite the way Magic Lantern’s tape has. This LBC guru posse formed last year but only began laying down live sets in the last four months, and the evolution is radical. The A side shockwave, “At the Mountains of Madness,” rides a roiling riff through forcefields of charged tones, percussion concussion, and collective overdrive before slowly ramping up and over drug-rock repetition into raw light cone rapture. A perfect cyclone of basement storm and interstellar Hawkwind, and a real contender for CS single of ’07 in our book. The live B piece shows a looser slice of psychic youth, all amplifier wash and blissed waves of Bardo comedown…like a teenage Taj Mahal Travellers bootleg. Illuminating. Keep yr eyes peeled for more ML signal flares on NNF in the future. Stenciled tape-labeled tapes with full-color fire-dancer J-cards in gold-flecked cases embellished with jewels. Edition of 100.
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barn owl - bridge to the clouds - nnf – cdr –5$ sold out

A couple months ago this subtle San Fran three-piece rolled into the local CURIO for a low-key night and fucked everybody up. No one saw it coming. Their Digitalis debut was great – a warm wooden walkabout of six-string finger-dancing and acoustic themes – but it seemed a bit squarely/safely in post-Chasny territory, so no one freaked. Well apparently they’ve since relocated to a darker oaken throne, cause the LA show was a Sabbathy campfire of pentagram bass grooves, eloquent electric desolation, and stripped war drums. Music for dying in the desert to. Bridge to the Clouds was the tour CDR they were slinging on the trek, and though it’s not as purely psychedelic and forsaken as their live incarnation, it does serve as a powerful pathway to the present…hovering above Barn Owl’s earlier earth-bound Evan Miller mode with foreshadowing flashes of future shamanic doom alchemy. An NNF full-length is in the works, and we can’t wait. Stamped CDRs in silkscreened, spray-painted, gold leaf stamped arigato paks wrapped with rainbow ribbon. Edition of 147.
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pocahaunted / mythical beast – gone to grey b/w swayed tongue – nnf - lp  10$ sold out

If the body is a temple, then the human voice is the endless Om pulsing within the architecture. And if the body is a corpse, then it's the post-life ghost mist hissing in the wind. Either way, it's a heavy force, and this split LP spotlights two of today's greatest vocal ritualists at the peak of their process. Drone gypsies Mythical Beast have spent the last few years like nomads, drifting from N'awlins to Austin to Kansas City, and their piece here ("Gone to Grey") throbs with a weary hypnosis, too many nights spent staring into foreign
freeways...alien landscapes passing in the dark. These are blues for the rootless, homeless feedback curling up by the side of the road, by the side of a grave. Hitchhiking into the void. Pocahaunted, too, beckon the dead, turning in a crushing, low-lidded amplifier chant of clanging guitar and primitive distortion. "Swayed Tongue" treads even deeper into the forests of noise they explored on Native Seduction, bathing their tribe-song prayer shawls in rivers of electricity and twilight static. Totem soul totality. Opaque violet LPs in pro-printed jackets with unbelievable colored pencil tomb rumination artwork by NNF's favorite color dreamer, Devon Varmega, plus an eagle feather. Limited to 380.

A++ / soft shoulder - live - nnf – cass –5$ sold out

The holidays are supposed to be AWESOME. You wear crazy scarves, hang out with weird cousins, and secretly spike the eggnog (with soy-nog)!! Another good thing to do is play shows with your friends and go crazy. That’s why this applause-heavy C30 is PERFECT. A++ are the trumpet/drums pop-monster duo starring Grace from Foot Village/Gang Wizard and their side documents an Il Corral show from 2006 summertime. They pass out trivia questions, yell about animals and sneak attacks, and even cover some 80s song. The sonic equivalent of rainbow confetti exploding in yr face. Tempe, Arizona’s hardest working posi-wave trio Soft Shoulder shred sax, riffs, and drums across the B side, which is culled/compiled from a trilogy of early December shows in Phoenix and Flagstaff. Their jump-cuts from angular feedback action to beatless skronk drift keeps you (and the crowd) guessing. Good luck! Printed-label tapes in stapled, spray-painted cardstock fold-over cases. Googly-eyed horn-blower blob beast art by Manda. Hand-numbered, and limited to 100.  
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pukers - beach cop - nnf - cass -  5$ sold out

”Where are you going, what are you doing, you’re doing a bad job, you’re doing a bad job.” Lyrics like these – and song titles like “Look at Me” and “Don’t Look at Me” – are what elevate Pukers’ meta-thrash into an even wilder arena of high art internal debate. Beach cops aren’t the only law enforcers brought to task on this savage C32; bike cops and park cops get equally brutalized. Since semi-temporarily relocating to Culver City/LA, Pukers have ditched the dead dog worship for a more conceptual crowd-surf across the polluted waters of stream-of-songciousness. The results are sick and blazing. Especially seeing as how the A-side finds Britt sitting in on electric axe for a session while the B stars Manda’s intuitive six-string synergies. This is some supergroup shit. Cardstock fold-out J-card in a case stuck with weirdo foam shapes. Edition of 100.
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ghq /ex cocaine- bored fortress vol II - nnf - 7" -  5$ sold out

Third eye mystico-trancing from the impenetrable Gunn/Nolan/Bassett trio. Ex-Cocaine dope up and bang bongos into a blood groove.
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ajilvsga - earth lodge - nnf – 2xcass - 8$ sold out

Winter may be dead and gone (for now) but the haven of hibernation still calls out across the plains. And no landscape is more laid low by malevolent elements and psychic ice than the level-plane tundra of Oklahoma, which is where buffalo robed drone duo Ajilvsga (Brad Rose, Nathan Young) hole up/hibernate and eye the harvest moon. Earth Lodge is the soundtrack to a season spent in dirt shelters, hands in cold clay, amps bleeding out brown-green groans of bone OM and predatorial rapid eye movement. Riffs burrow through frozen soil, skull necklace percussion rattles under piles of pelts, inner spaces open up and unfold into invisible fields of blood and color and celestial imagining. Withdrawn and drawn out. Grey-sky tapes with printed labels in oversized cases with full-color double-sided antler mausoleum collage artwork by Manda. Edition of 100.
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heavy winged / taiga remains - split – nnf - lp -10$ sold out

Sky of blue and sea of green, in our yellow methedrine. Unnatural energies harnessed into a new universe of planetary tumult and astral injection courtesy of bi-coastal frequent flyers Heavy Winged and sultan of Cincinnati solitude, Taiga Remains. Pure planar schizophrenia carved into perfect circles of fool’s glass. The Winged’s war, “Witches Cradle,” immolates a levitating altar of prehistoric granite into an ashen mass that blocks out the light from a hundred suns. As raw and frenzied and hypnotically devastating as any single piece of hyperkinetic sludge the power trio has released to date. The flip is the same radiant annihilation only spread across 66 million millennia….all motion and violence stretched into historical cirrus clouds trembling with gravitational tension. Infinity’s burden burning off in wisps of audio mirage and glacial stasis. Go nowhere fast. Originally released as a micro-edition CDR on the Australian MYMWLY label, this LP re-issue was pressed from a fresh edit of the HW material and comes with an entirely unreleased bonus TR track as well. Coke-bottle clear 12 inches in art-cage silkscreened picture disc sleeves bedecked with painstaking
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kenji siratori - harakiri - nnf - cass -  5$ sold out

Much has been made of Mr. Siratori’s unchecked outpouring of textured black silt, but the fact remains that quantity and quality don’t necessarily rage hand-in-hand. Whether an artist paints a painting a day or a decade matters nothing if the results RULE. And Harakiri is a formidable and dense subterranean canal/C50 of wrecked electric waste and toxic sludge flowing ceaselessly into a bottomless pit. A good hypnotic void to pour in yr ears for the better chunk of an hour, semi-reminiscent of Black Monk’s drumless jams. Word is Kenji labors a lot on his alternate career as a cyberpunk novelist, and that makes plenty of sense in light of this audio apocalypto. Black tapes in cases with tactile art paper J-cards and cases stuck with hand-cut black shape runes. Hand-numbered edition of 64.
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yellow swans /goslings - bored fortress vol II - nnf - 7" -   5$ sold out

circuitry secession from PDX teamsters Yellow Swans. Florida family The Goslings slow-stir a lava swamp of volcanic sludge with female vocal mist hovering in the everglades.
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robedoor - ritual heirs - nnf – cdr – 7$ sold out

Out of the past and into the white. A three song cellblock originally slated for JYRK but Detainment Yellow Swans’ endless global touring enterprises and various other peripheral obstacles/injuries stranded it in limbo until now. And the omnivorous Now is all that matters. Recorded at the close of the Shining Smoke sessions, and edited/tweaked slightly by Pete Swanson in PDX, Ritual Heirs drifts from centrifugal spiral light patterns into a rarefied air of slowly choking atmosphere, ascending gravitational violence, the world’s weight dissolving into the marrow like a brick of hash lodged in the throat. No drums, no mass cult life to shoulder blame or sorrow. Only unclean clocks ticking above bodies, goatskin strings bowed by blind men, corridors of cold distortion. Inherit the end times. Metallic-stamped CDRs in white-on-white silkscreened sleeves with triforce die-cut ghost-painted/silver sequined plastic cases. Limited 165.

topaz rags - tarot harem - nnf - 7" -5$ sold out

Eagle Rock’s most reclusive comedown crew creep back into the blacklight for their vinyl debut with a pair of loosely more focused excursions into cold soul music and post-beatnik jazz shadowplay. Dress accordingly. Recorded in the weeks preceding the ritual void sessions that birthed the California Ash cassette, both tracks here tread the grey but groovy haunted interzone between bummed DIY ghost bop and outright goth lament. It’s a fine line, watch it closely. “Tarot Harem” is the A side, and it feigns a pure funeral mood before slowly stirring to life with erotic spectral voices, distant trumpet, and a swingingly narcoleptic rhythm section. The B is “Black Honey,” which tip-toes a similar path through 3 AM city streets while forlorn piano notes fall like light rain, the drums gently rev up, and vocals scat about “black tar black tar” and how “the beat goes on.” It does. This is the wrong side of town. Hang around if that’s yr thing. Black vinyl singles in hand-silkscreened, photocopied, and die-cut sleeves with topless nature nymph/burnout artwork. Edition of 250. First 78 copies come with a tarot card from the 1970’s Aleister Crowley edition illustrated by Lady Frieda Harris.
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thousands - pig cooks pig - nnf – cass –5$ sold out

This California beard-commune have been jamming at a furious pace since forming back in who knows when. Featuring a rotating cast of VxPxC-ers, Antique Brothers, and other East LA psychedelicates, Thousands are limitless in their instrumentation, enthusiasm, and willingness to trek into the deepest deserts (both literally AND metaphorically) to excavate/achieve the perfect chemistry of tattered clatter and tripped vibes. On Pig Cooks Pig they turn in two side-long monsters of conceptual cop contempt, loose Mansonian lore, and fried pork psychosis. Greasy slabs of wasted guitar and synth smoke twirl on sticks above a pit of simmering campfire flames, loping drums creepy-crawl over murmuring voices and pitch-black hippie grooves. Bold, boundless, and broasted. Purple tapes in silkscreened art-flaps with printed labels. Hand-numbered edition of 72.
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heather leigh murray - devil if you can hear me - nnf - lp -  12$ sold out

Heather Leigh’s set at last year’s Colour Out Of Space festival in Brighton was everything music should be: personal, deranged, profound, loud. Her song mode meshes astral-traveling electric pedal-steel guitar with a wasted sense of Western expanse and a lyrical, drugged vocal mood, and the results are weird and wonderful. Devil If You Can Hear Me, her debut vinyl full-length, spills across three varying arenas of psychedelic privacy, loaded with loaded statements, wild Charalambides-ish tunnel-digging, and an almost Jandek-ian jam-driven wanderlust. An intense, brave step forward/outside 2006’s phenomenal Jailhouse Rock CS on Fag Tapes and her string of solo CDRs on Volcanic Tongue. Black-vinyl LPs in matte jackets with a “Heather-in-sunlight” cover photo plus some of her abstract/confessional drawings on the back. Edition of 500
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black monk - flowstone – nnf / arbor - lp  12$sold out

Flowstoned and dethroned, finally. Last year’s bored/burning summer spell of Eagle Rock entropy birthed a numb drum ‘n drones duo dubbed Black Monk. The aesthetic of inept, free-punk drumming and red-eyed, void-surfing low-end infinity found output on two micro-limited cassette releases (one on Buried Valley, one on Zac/Lambsbread’s Maim & Disfigure) and one weedian live show (in Tempe, AZ) and then the scholars split to separate coasts. Fortunately for us/you, Flowstone comes crawling outta the caverns of a babeless summer on a slab of black wax, collecting their out-of-print Murmur CS and half the V CS, plus an unreleased side-long wastoid-land of subterranean percussion and roaring magma. Just in time for 2012. Black vinyl LPs in stark pro-printed fold-over covers plus a poster of arcane team scribble by BM. Limited to 270.

barrabarracuda- abasement tapes - nnf – cdr –7$sold out

Confusion is hex. Or worse. Digging around in the BBC vaults yields a lot of dubbed-over Aerosmith tapes and scrawled notes like “chaos jam – LOUD.” Factor in the steady membership flux and restless vibe/sound shifts and you’ve got an archivist’s nightmare on your hands. But here it is anyway. Abasement Tapes spans the band’s last 15 foggy months, culling fucked cuts from early Grace-phase, dual-drummer, post-political, microphone assault all the way to relatively recent Roy-era, stoned-free, art-rant amp-songs. Five tracks, fifty minutes, a thousand years of historical/celebrity shit-talking. Neon stenciled CDRs in black plastic cases with full-color wrap-around collage covers (artwork by Manda), affixed with weird beaded safety pins, plus a stenciled, hand-numbered insert. Limited to 120.
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quintana roo/warmth - runes translucent - nnf – cass – 7$sold out

Looking down, looking in, under the sand, under the skin. A tape/trip for star/shoe/dirt-gazing, soundtracks for shapeshifting glow-zones deep in the distance. QR cast “Black Dreaming Place,” a 25-minute soul séance of sparse ghost dust and moonlit rattlesnakes. Recorded in the middle of the Anza Borrego desert with the rumbling help of Josh Taylor’s legendary generator. Warmth is Steev (aka the late Roxanne Jean Polise) and Branden (of Quilts, etc) and their tone blanket B side, “Sharing Antique Mothers,” crawls on slow and soft like a morphine drip. A drugged electronic massage from amplified hands with wire fingers. Painted-label tapes in white vinyl cases with dual-layer dream-vellum covers, plus an origami insert with a piece of found film salvaged from a trashed Brussels fleamarket. Artwork by Roy Tatum of Changeling/Quintana Roo. Limited to 100.
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robedoor - dead telepathy - neon commune - nnf - cs -  7$sold out

Two ancient prayer dirges dug from deep outta the rankest RBDR vaults. Recorded in fall of '05 shortly before the Failed Grails sessions and quickly misplaced, these pieces retch through slo-mo, blown-out sludge convulsions then fade to black. Transparent mirror plastic layered over hand-cut magazine landscape J-cards, plus tape labels. Edition of 50.
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loosers - logic on its head - nnf / woodsist - 10" -  11$sold out

Portugal’s greatest export (besides cork and textiles) continues its
dusky, creeping bleed of six-limbed psychedelic windmilling. Loosers have always excelled at ripping strange spatial curvatures out of drums, electronics, and exotic moods, and Logic On Its Head serves up two more classic black platters of sidelight ritualism. The A drapes incense and chimes atop an old copper bowl of ringing tones and tentacle percussion fusion that slow-burns a sweet smoke you never wanna exhale. Don’t. The B, “Daeh Sti No Cigol,” is even more perverse, as backwards as its title and dusty as a mosque. Sudden gestures flutter in the dusk and the sky turns purple. Really commanding and liberated in a way few improv outfits achieve so easily. Impending double LPs on Eclipse and Qbico should only escalate their visionary aura. Two-color silkscreening on fabric-photocopied, hand-stamped sleeves. Black vinyl. Edition of 340. Co-released with the crew at Woodsist.
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pocahaunted - bearskin rug - neon commune - nnf - 3" cdr & art zine -  14$sold out

Dying campfire guitar duel from NNF HQ’s loveliest ladies. Electric tendrils flower and intertwine while vocal lines peal like bells and dissolve in the dark. Intense and intimate, on the skin of an animal. Stenciled CDR stapled to the back page of a full-color double-sided 16-panel collage-art zine. Edition of 50.
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metal rouge - ceremonial junk - neon commune - nnf - 3" cdr -  6$sold out

The Andrew/Helga mind-team engage in a 20-minute arc welding session of focused white light distortion. No protective masks, no turning back. Fusing the hollow into the holy, one echoing noise blast at a time. Sprayed discs glued on to hand-painted and collaged pieces of wood. Edition of 50.
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uneven universe - neon commune - nnf - cs -  7$sold out

Dan and Holly's horns-o'-plenty party continues to deliver the goods. Two 10-minute expanses of basement sax haze, winter noise rumblings, and tense dead space. Grunge and grime, weed and crime. Stickered-and-painted tapes tied with translucent neon animals and housed in stapled clear plastic bags (store-candy style). Edition of 50.
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magic lantern - live - neon commune - nnf - cs -  7$sold out

Raw audio snapshot of ML’s set at Echo Curio with Cex Fuxc and Robedoor in November ’07 finds them jamming a couple live favorites not found on their self-released CDR. Heavy and hypnotic and wholly effective at making all who weren’t there wish they had been. Metallic silver wallpapered cases with sequin/foam zen cover arrangements. Edition of 50.
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pukers - live in minneapolis - neon commune - nnf - cs -  7$sold out

Iowa City-turned-LA miscreants took their sneering, conceptual punk puke (plus renegade guitarist/corn farmer Will Kapp) on the road last winter for a whirlwind pillaging of living rooms and art dives and one of the dates best caught on tape was this Minnesota gig. Chaos meets content meets a ten-man mosh pit. Future cops beware. In pirated Pukers/peace-logo silkscreened cardstock cases. Edition of 50.
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goliath bird eater - go to sleep - neon commune - nnf - 3" cdr -   7$sold out

NNF’s favorite metal maniac returns with a uniquely studied excursion of post-production silences and obituary riff ritual. Lays you down slowly then gently buries you in the cold earth. Eyeless, satanic spray-glued model heads with black yarn mouth-smoke art, plus an insert. Edition of 50.
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elektronavn - black zurnai - nnf – cass -5$sold out

In Pink Luminous Invocation, Magnus Olsen Majmon works the fog machine, emitting sensory deprivation clouds of holistic brain smoke. But in his solo universe as Elektronavn, his duties run darker and deeper. Black Zurnai showcases a recent pair of summer collage-composition offerings from his Danish pedal factory, and they both traverse strange terrains of chain-shaking hymnals, enchanted echo attic exploring, and timeless vocal phantasmagoria. Personal, parallel odysseys into devotion and repetition. A forthcoming Qbico LP will only heighten the post-hypnotic haze. In hand-sewn cloth cases entwined with purple mesh and gold beads. Limited to 99.
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pink luminous invocation- sings the blues - nnf - cs - 6$sold out

PLI have been preaching the “Peace, Love, Invisibility” gospel for at least a few years at this point, radiating sub-radar FX resplendence across a grand handful of subtle CDRs and shows, but Sings The Blues stands strikingly apart from their crouch-core past and is all the better for it. Raw hybrid soul dirges of commune lament and hypnotic mourning resurrected from dirt drums, wicker guitar, and ancient electric melancholy. Intense ballads of transformation, chains giving way to God, hope turning to flight. Two women, two men, constant sorrow. This young Danish underground pedal family have never sounded so up on their feet, momentous, musical. Break on through. An impending LP should further plumb the dark Invocation behind the Pink Luminosity. Pro-dubbed grey tapes with metallic shell imprinting in freedom-fighter silkscreened cardstock sleeves tied with prayer bells. Edition of 100.
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changeling - astral arch - not not fun – 1 sided 7" –5$sold out

Attention sky-walkers: the eagle has landed. After an honest fistful of serenity-smoke cassette releases, Changeling finally alights his wings-of-gauze/claws-of-fog on this one-sided black vinyl seven inch. “Astral Arch” is a tranquil electric halo of hushed guitar sunrays flickering on lapping waves of cloud voice peace. A song for closed eyes, no memory, and impossible drift. Hand-numbered, hand-screened olive-branch cardstock jackets with unreal shape-shift cover art by Changeling himself. Plus the B-sides are stenciled with cryptic metallic runes. Limited to 176.
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birds of delay / dreamcatcher - bored fortress vol II - nnf - 7" - 5$sold out

UK wastoids Birds of Delay wing flighty electronics into a burbling ball of purple snarling sound. Montreal's Dreamcatcher weave a chaos quilt out of turntables, voice, and collective unconsciousness.

ghq - california night burning dreams – nnf - lp & 3" cdr  - 12$ sold out

These world wide web weavers work in waves, assembling for key shows and small tours, then dissipating into their respective networks of parallel projects/bands (Magik Markers, Moongang, Hototogisu, etc). Their time together, however, burns bright. Last summer the GHQ triumvirate of Nolan/Gunn/Bassett united for a leg of west coast wandering and all who bore witness left converted. Fortunately for those not there, the minidisc was ON at these gatherings and the California portion of the proceedings have been pored over and wreathed into this luminous masterpiece of Golden State mind-reading ragas. The sets showcased (Sacramento, Eureka) shine like electric dew on a dawn Sequoia and sprawl through sitar starscapes, acoustic fingerpicking, cosmic harmonica, and forest floor hand-drums. A raw document of real time dream machine vision-questing. Slate sky-blue vinyl LPs in full-color jackets (with California-collage art by Manda) adorned with a GHQ “winged skull” logo sticker, plus a bonus 3” CDR of their Seattle performance. Limited to 500.
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loosers - bumba meu boi - not not fun – cass –   7$ sold out
The great unraveling continues. We first heard Loosers’ fried/frayed spool of sound-sprawl last year, via the Ruby Red/Jelle Crama-splattered LP/CDR offering. Immediate Portuguese fever set in. They, however, are a busy crew, dropping albums for Qbico and Our Mouth, touring Europe with Mouthus, generally ruling, etc. So NNF release plans moved slow. Fast forward to today: the CS is HERE, the time is NOW. Named for a semi-metaphorical 18th century Brazilian tale/dance concerning the FUCKED hierarchical relations between slaves and lords at the time, Bumba Meu Boi boils/roils with post-rational uprise, alchemical percussion ritual, and pulse-of-the-people electronic sub-consciousness. Two beautiful sides of fluidly splayed labor-as-magick post-Sunburned collectivist psych action. REAL tapes (a first for NNF) in hand-color-dyed, hand-numbered cardstock J-cards with cult cave-art covers. Limited to 200.
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family underground / quintana roo - vengeance valley b/w horses neck - nnf – 7"- 7$sold out

A pair of implosion constructs from Denmark’s finest and Eagle Rock’s vaguest. Originally conceived for the Quintana/Underground doomed west coast tour dates, but car rental hostilities and passport chaos shot the drone team scheme dead. Alas. At any rate: the single still stands. “Vengeance Valley” finds FU at their most steeped-in-dread, channeling Spahn Ranch brainwash kill vibes into rumbling black hills of bad acid alchemy. Pure murder magick. Q Roo’s “Horses Neck” wanders its own Death Valley nothingness, loses contact/control, and carves slow sigils in the sand. A hovering aura of desert oblivion. Black vinyl 7 inches in hand-numbered, hand-screened grey cardstock jackets with skull-rider/ancient ruins cover art. Limited to 300.
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sun araw - the phynx - nnf - cdr -  7$sold out

Long Beach psychonauts Magic Lantern get ranted about a lot by us for their mystic ability to overwhelm and transport, and don’t expect that to stop soon. But in the meantime we’ve had the good fortune to learn about ML guitarist Cameron Stallones’ solo universe as Sun Araw and, no surprise, the silver apple don’t fall too far from the tree (so to speak). Spanning Spacemen 3 garage cosmos, Starving Weirdos coastal séance, and a healthy stratosphere of pan-dimensional astral feedbackers, The Phynx is a fantastic four-track suite that floats freely from form to formlessness in the blink of a third eye. A great journey into white light dirge and dead distortion blues, and as killer a debut full-length as a label/listener/fan/head could hope for. Fingers are crossed that more Sun Araw sunbeams shine down our ears again before ’08 is out. Stenciled CDRs in full-color mysterio-portrait foldover artwork by Stallones, and sanctified with a triad of kaleidoscope stickers. Edition of 155.
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robedoor / ghosting – nnf – 7" vinyl-  5$sold out

Here it is. Crouched cloud-summoning from two of the west coast’s most coma-coaxing cloak teams. Both have been questing/crawling after the holy drug-drone grail for years now, but this vinyl union is an even deeper step into their respective fog/smog voids. Ghosting’s A-side, “Rivermouth,” might be the most awesomely charged piece of weather-stricken wire-séance the Portland duo’s ever recorded. Roiling banks of suspended densities and white-hot metals are shot through with flickering loops of lightning, lances of light beams. Stunning spiral sky-welding. The B-side (“Roving Shaman”) is more of a white-eyed trance, with Robedoor throwing bones under a thatched roof, eyes sewn shut. Smoke-tones spin and wobble while sixth sense frequencies chime in the distance. A no-mind ritual of atmospheric fear. White vinyl 7 inches with hand-stamped labels in 2-color silkscreened fold-over cardstock sleeves. Limited to 325.
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sheperds w/shawn reed - eyes of the world - nnf – cass - 7$sold out

Named (maybe?) after some not-too-noteworthy Grateful Dead hoedown (off the Wake of the Flood LP, FYI), Eyes of the World here means the banner-in-the-sky under which Brooklyn’s tenders of the wandering psych flock, Shepherds, communed with Raccoo-oo-oon’s singer/shredder Shawn Reed for a C50-something of carefully cultivated rhythmic primitivism and early man ghost-chanting. Non-Horse-play tape loops spool in the shadows while J Earl percussion flashes light on cave art corridors of SK1 wave-walking and Christian’s stringed psycho-babble. Hold hands in the flames of the fire till your eyes are radiant with Right Now. Live and learn: regression is progression. Pro-manufactured-and-mastered orange tapes with full-color double-sided fold-out J-cards group-designed/drawn/written by Jeremy Earl, Shawn Reed, and Gabriel Lucas Crane. Edition of 200.
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super minerals - the thaw - nnf - cass -  8$sold out

Tracing the veins of a band’s constituent parts can uncover strange and enlightening currents of influence, history, mystery, etc. And LBC riff kings Magic Lantern have as ripe and rich a creative periphery as any other crew in the NNF matrix: guitarist Cameron spellbinds as Sun Araw, other guitarist William does the luminous Eureka, drummer Chip stars in Christian musicals (!!), and together William and vocalist/keyboarder Phil soundtrack acid vistas as Super Minerals. What’s perhaps even more unknown to most is that SM actually predates Magic Lantern by a solid few years, and have been gently unfurling fried and frayed zoner atmospheres in micro-edition CDRs since at least 2005. Due to humility or mellow marketing, however, virtually zero of these have slipped into the greater global earhole. So when Phil one day graced us with the Minerals’ entire collected works, we realized the time was now to right this wrong, and began compiling The Thaw, a gargantuan C120 selection of their most truly tripped and narcotic audio mirages, and we couldn’t be more thrilled with it. Murky sunlight string-jangle, jungle Om heatwaves, distant insect whirr, phantom flute whispers, deep drugged rainforests of vibrant harmonic hallucination – this land is yr land. Immense and imaginary. Pro-manufactured high-bias chrome tapes (with shell-imprinting) in faintly silkscreened oversized cases with double-sided full-color ‘solar ooze devouring owl’ artwork by the band. Edition of 100.
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loopool - courtesy run rampant - not not fun - 1 sided lp w/cdr -10$sold out

LA’s king discontent Loopool finally achieved such core-level burn-out at day-to-day California-cation that he uprooted his Sycophanticide mini-empire and bolted for greener/rainier pastures (the Pacific Northwest). That said, Courtesy Run Rampant is the perfect Not Not Fun-eral for our favorite post-noise avante cultural disintegrator. Three bizarrely orchestrated manifestoes ringing with bashed upright piano, harsh drum distortion, and elegiac clarinet lament, often complimented with Herr Loopool’s Leonard Cohen-like dead poeticizing. Recorded during a day-in-the-studio birthday present at The Distillery in Costa Mesa on thick reel-to-reel tape, and effused with focus/purpose. One-sided LPs – with an ornate conspiracy-theorizing art chart etched on the B side – housed in hand-stamped, stenciled, painted jackets, plus a full-page insert AND a bonus full-length CDR of additional music/musings. Limited to 200.
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barn owl - from our mouths a perpetual light - nnf - lp -  12$sold out

Since first bearing witness to Barn Owl’s mythically desolate amplifier alchemy last year, we’ve been rabid fans/fanatics. But like lots of badass bands, BO are a rolling stone, heavy on the transformation tip, and the BO of today is an altered beast from the one that folkily fingerpicked Bridge To The Clouds and their self-titled disc way back when. And in case we’re not being clear: this is a beautiful thing. From Our Mouths A Perpetual Light burns with the sun-dead majesty of a Death Valley burial ground, all wasted waterless expanse and cracked earth smoke blowing in the dry wind. Heavy western drone revelations bleed into forlorn guitar drift, downcast percussion plods across the plain, a skull on its side lies in the sands. Evan Caminiti and Jon Porras have somehow flawlessly evolved Barn Owl into a blazing new universe, and From Our Mouths… is the first mission statement from their new spectral/aesthetic outpost, a stunning and timeless eight-song suite of grim cinematic electricity. Tune in, drop dead, rot on. In swank matte jackets with ‘four-armed demon warrior-yogi’ artwork by the band. Edition of 435 (275 on white wax, 160 on black).
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pocahaunted / christina carter - nnf - lp -12$sold out

Been beautifully blissed on this pairing for months now and we’re amped it’s finally public unveiling time. Christina Carter has trekked around this country (and planet) countless times in the past decade plus, both by herself and with Tom Carter in Charalambides, and the constant gypsy-drifting has weathered her song-stories down into spare, spiral reflections on life, death, and afterlife. Here she lays down four perfect vignettes of acoustic guitar pattern, softly sung desperation, and dangerous intimacy. A beatific bring-down. Sisters-with-voices Pocahaunted handle the B side wax, and their two tracks span the psych-ward spectrum from doomy warpath exile (“Sweat Lodge”) to octave-climbing estrogen ecstasy cloud-tripping (“Silk Fog Traveler”). Both were recorded by Bobb Bruno at Eagle Rock HQ across summer ’07 and cling like cotton to the memory banks. Edition of 500.
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NASA - bummer daze - nnf - cs -  6$sold out

Florida jam gang NASA have been launching around the International Noise Conference scene/periphery (plus other places) for a little while now, and every so often a rare snapshot cassette of their warped riff firepower finds its way into our Cali-fried hands and we always cherish the moment. Prime drum/strings shred of the best and most unclassifiable sort. Groovy, deranged, burned-out moonrock shrapnel that glows as it hits the ozone layer. High on the highway. Bad trip color haze J-cards with dumb smiley stickers and full-color tape labels. Edition of 100.
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robedoor / husere grav - storm veil / desert champion - nnf - cs - 6$ out of stock

Two bleak teams pass the death pipe across this black lake of a tape, and the mood – at best – runs from dread to dead (or undead, same vibe). Robedoor's "Terminal Abomination" finds them grappling their recent song-form style with bass, drums, and slime, a heavy metal swamp-thing crawl that drips and riffs from the depths to deeper depths. A strident stalk across new weird wetlands. The B side is a suite of songs from southern lord Husere Grav, who operates from more of a bedroom black metal/death drone perspective, utilizing buzzing guitar, tomb tones, and the occasional drum machine plod to convey his message of relentless misery with strange elegance. Past self-released CDRs like The Great Empty and Stay Asleep have mapped similarly cursed terrains, but his five queasy pieces here are easily among his most cold and cutting ever laid to tape. On pro-dubbed cassettes. Edition of 150.
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cloudland canyon / mythical beast - split - nnf - 12" -  12$ out of stock

This fair pairing has been in the wings for a few years now by our count, but tripped things come to those who wait, so better late-as-shit than never. Cloudland Canyon have been spanning geographies (Brooklyn, Germany, Memphis) and genres (krautrock, drone, psych-pop) since at least 2002, but only recently has their technological studio-sorcery began to gather steam and affect the more far-flung populations (powered in no small part by their partnership with Kranky Records). Anyone who's gotten lost in CC's latest, Lie In Light, knows this duo is currently at the pinnacle of their potency, and their offering here ("Harvest Hunt") is a fantastic mechanical motorik ascent into symphonic hypnosis. Comparisons to classic Teutonic psych outfits of yesteryear are warranted but inadequate: this is music of today, for tomorrow. On the flip, beloved Not Not Fun in-laws Mythical Beast return to the vinyl spotlight with two luminous soul meditations conjured during the past winter's grey maze of days. Both ballads burn with Corinne's voice-for-the-voiceless defiance, wind-draped and incensed by Jeremiah and Aaron's subtle electric string energies. Naked music for open spaces, empty skies, endless nights. High-audio 45 RPM LPs (NNF's first!) in matte-jackets with cloud-skull artwork by Blackblack beauty Diva Dompe. Edition of 415.
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end springs / wolf tracks - peace paws - nnf - cass -10$ sold out

Even though most bands sing and ALL bands have songs, the "singer-songwriter" vibe still makes us barf. Hard. Which is what's so rare/special about these two United Kingdom acousticks. Both fingerpick into pensive drift zones and solitary mumble rumination, but neither steps near the shit poet pulpit of fake public heartbreak. The End Springs spins six-string patterns like spider webs, all quiet bossa-nova wanderings and neo-Fahey dusty landscapes, spruced with poignant sunrise/sunset delay and subtle sampled naturalism. Total tranquility base. The Wolf Tracks hunts a more feral, wall-of-the-wild vein. Clawed guitar leads and chord organ drones collide with forest-wind flutes and hairy wolfpack percussion clatter while vague voices mutter in the dirt. Campfire songs for after the fire goes out. Hand-stenciled and twine-tied with a talisman of palm tree-shrapnel. (not not fun)

heatsick - perpendicular rain - nnf - cs -6$ sold out

Berlin-based Bird of Delay Steven Warwick has been winging away from the BoD nest under his Heatsick moniker with increasing frequency the past couple years, and each new flight seems to soar into ever more varied airstreams of cyclonic electronics and emotional wind-riding. Perpendicular Rain is his most recent convection cell, and it pits two pendulum-tilting pieces against one another for a beatific blowout of barometric disorientation. “Suspended Horse, Carousel” rides an orchestral morning glory hallucination forklift into total mind white out, layers of radial confusion overlapping in a circus wheel of entrancing electricity. One of Warwick’s audio-life highlights to date. The B, “Perpendicular Rain,” opts to flatline into more of a classic Heatsick stasis vortex (a lot like his semi-recent Reverse Gardens CS), wiring every circuit into itself till the mainframe collapses under its own wall/cloud weight. Let it come down. Hand-cut tape-labeled pro-dubbed red tapes in full-color double-sided fold-out J-cards with art by Warwick, plus a slight metallic stencil. Edition of 100.
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heavy winged – we grow – nnf - lp - 11$ sold out

Today is the greatest. Cause time has come for total take off. Brooklyn/PDX instrumental interstellar overdrivers Heavy Winged deliver the most gravity-crushing pair of fight-flight journeys in their entire cumulative psych revolution thus far. And it is glorious. We Grow is the apex realization of every tectonic assault, wind tunnel vortex, and outer space meltdown HW have ever unleashed across the past 15 months worth of stunning CDRs, splits, and comp appearances. The A side, “A Stretch of Time,” slow-burns an ascent into explosive galactic violence, guitars, bass, and drums detonating into endless feedback fireworks. Then “Shifting Clouds” closes the album, marching a drifting riff of haze and mass into a majestic no man’s land of darkening space. A masterpiece record, and packaged accordingly. Blackened-blue vinyl LPs with collage center labels housed in full-color pro-printed jackets, in sleeves adorned with rad oval vinyl stickers, plus a hand-numbered insert. Limited t0 450.
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pocahaunted - island diamonds - nnf - cd -12$ sold out

There’s a working theory out there about Pocahaunted: either EVERY record they’ve released is a concept album, or NONE of them are. There’s good proof to support both camps. But truth, of course, probably lies somewhere between the two (if that’s possible – which it isn’t), but Island Diamonds makes a stronger case for the former. The ladies’ longstanding studio union with Eagle Rock guru Bobb Bruno has explored an array of terrains in the past, but their partnership on Diamonds transforms Pocahaunted into a way weirder, doper, and dancier creature than ever before, inspired in equal parts by Manda’s obsession with Max Romeo tropical soul and bad acid jazz and Bethany’s abiding love of mainstream rap and the Cocteau Twins (that sounds like it’d be a nightmare, right?). Naturally, the results don’t really resemble any of the influences they may have attempted to channel during these sessions, but so what? Low-lidded drum machine beats, sparse guitar chimes, and the occasional air raid siren cycle beneath a night sky of cooing, crying, and caterwauling in the classic PHAUNT mode/model. This CD digipak edition is a repress of the sold out LP on Arbor, with all new collage-portrait artwork by the band, plus two bonus tracks added on (one an outtake from the Diamonds sessions, one the unedited mix of their Bored Fortress 7” single) and a freaky digital music video for “Ashes Is White” created by part-time Pocahaunted bassist/best friend Luis Naranjo. Edition of 500.
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topaz rags - california ash - nnf - cass - 6$sold out

people in the west blame weird moods on a string of things: the wind (those santa anas), the end (of the country), the moon (crescent is cursed), even the movies. but it doesn’t matter which is right/real, because the effect is the same, freaked souls in a trapped environment, lotuses floating on a lake littered with bodies. topaz rags is a new late night downer trio devoted to mapping these sour times and long goodbyes, and california ash is their 2-sided elegy for the golden state’s darkest ghosts, the rich hills full of fire, the day after the kool-aid. back-alley bass lines plod under smoky piano shadows, drums stalk a straight line in a house with the power out, a trumpet mourns from a warped 78 spinning in the basement. wasted, grey, diy drug jazz lost somewhere between bohren & der club of gore and some half-destroyed pre-digital portishead demo. gold-on-white pro-dubbed cassettes in spraypainted cases with doomed hippie chick portrait cover photo and bedecked with a hand-cut shred of neon palm tree fabric. edition of 100.
-nnf

secret abuse - violent narcissus - nnf - lp - 13$sold out

secret abuser jeff witscher is an enigma wrapped in a riddle rolled in cassette tape and plugged into a battered pair of towering pa speakers. he’s lived everywhere, met everyone, and inspired legions through his loner lifestyle, utopian fashions (“refugee chic”), and spellbindingly intense music. up from rainbow blanket, through to impregnable, and across the arid plains of roman torment and deep jew, witscher’s maintained a singularity of vision and total commitment to execution that has wrecked us, personally, to the point of speechlessness at least a dozen times. but, despite his restlessly shapeshifting spirit, the past year plus has seen him settling ever deeper into his secret abuse sinkhole mode, and here’s hoping he lingers a while longer, cause it’s a fucking winner. brutal, pensive, blown-out tones crossfade into tortured minor key guitar laments before being slowly subsumed in a droning ocean of choked vocals and sulking, selfish electronics. repressed, burning, and emotional as only a young man pushing away everything can be, violent narcissus is as definitive a document as has thus far yet emerged from the sa canon (and lord knows there’s been a grip of gems). look long and hard; the mirror is a bitter mistress. black lps, mastered by bill hutson, housed in jackets designed by witscher. edition of 445.
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super minerals - the thaw - nnf - cass - 6$sold out

We spent weeks farming through three and a half years worth of Super Minerals' greatests recordings to birth The Thaw, the massive C120 collection we released in early '08. But as edition-of-100s are wont to do, the CS sold out fast and vanished into the yawning past. Which is cool, but we felt this classic deserved a 2nd go-round for the united global earhole, so we fashioned a new edition, and here it is. Exact same music ("murky sunlight string-jangle, jungle Om heatwaves, distant insect whirr, phantom flute whispers, deep drugged rainforests of vibrant harmonic hallucination"), on the exact same high quality pro-imprinted chrome cassettes, but this time each tape is housed in a unique hand-cut full-color wraparound piece of brain-hazed new age art, and tied with a piece of sea glass scavenged in Fort Bragg, CA. Edition of 100.
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belly boat -dear robert hanoy- nnf – cd –8$sold out

All aboard, gang. After 23 months of back-and-forth and waiting/wondering, Zoe and Silvie have finally docked the debut Belly Boat album in NNF harbor, and we are BEYOND happy about it. Dear Robert Hanoy is a scratchy, expansive masterpiece, 14 sung songs of outsider ragtime, rambling European café waltz, and charismatic lyrical chemistry. Influenced equally by Cocorosie, Celine Dion, and Chamillionaire (circa “Ridin’ Dirty”), BB weave piano, accordion, and dueling voices into a freaky, frayed woolen mitten of strange emotions. Put it on, feel weird, throw a snowball. This is a storybook soundtrack for barefoot exploration and natural wonder, culled from years of face-painting, taking pictures of horses, and making best friends laugh. CDs come with full-color 8-panel booklets of artwork by Belly Boat, in sleeves sewn with grunge flannel, strung with grey yarn/clear beads, and flecked with gold dust. Limited to 500.
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magic lantern - high beams - nnf - lp - 14$sold out

After far, far too long lost in the merch-less dark, the LBC’s most married band, Magic Lantern, finally beam down the blinding full-length psych-statement we always knew they had hidden inside. It only took the Southern California sector a single 5-song demo plus a handful of incense-dense komische live flights to fully fall under the spell of ML’s oncoming headlights, but now the rest of the globe can hop on the band’s wild wagon. Hold on. High Beams throws out the total 20-sided die of the their illuminative powers, from stomping, storming show staples like “Deathshead Hawkmoth” and “Vampires In Heat” through to Sun Araw-vibed chime trancers (“Feasting On Energy”) and even a good time acid-addled feedback boogie (“Cactus Raga”). These are all of the Lanterns’ classic long-form anthems, captured in glorious high-def thanks to Bobb Bruno’s attuned production/recording capabilities and a radiant mastering job courtesy of James Plotkin. The riffs rip, the drums destroy, and the organ burns a hole in the sun. Walk into the light. Black vinyl LPs (with full color center labels) in glossy jackets with flag photography by Cameron & Erica Stallones, plus a fried-eyed, full-color 11x17 poster. Edition of 500.
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social junk - concussion summer - nnf - lp - 13$sold out

the greater midwest 'hood is responsible for so much of the u.s.'s most living musics it seems like lately. out here on the west we tend to get a bit blissed and burnt and, conversely, eastern seaboarders can fall into a condensed-consciousness that sometimes doesn't translate well to those outside their bubble. but in the middle country there's often a rawness that's honest and real and really clears the ears/mind, and for our tastes ashland, kentucky's social junk are champs at this direct, red-blooded approach. somewhere between the bible belt brutality of sword heaven and tusco terror and the sticky southern electronics of pax titania or even recent wet hair, sj navigate an interesting interzone, boiling together ominous loops, mangled sax, heavy riffs, various vocal moods (pissed, lost, aggro, angelic), militant tribal drumming, and a mess of electric atmospheres into something genuinely gripping and wholly their own. and right on the eve of both a behemoth bi-coastal tour (six weeks long!) and a brave re-location to ca's bay area, we are amped-as-shit to announce their vinyl debut after a million killer limited tapes and splits. concussion summer rumbles through noisy drum circles, hypnotic thrash, and even a couple creepy ballads, with noah anthony and heather young's co-dependent chemistry channeled into eight concise hybrid pieces of perfect/classic junk. high-time, and fully worth the wait. see them soon. black vinyl lps in jackets with artwork by hair police's robert beatty. edition of 435.
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wagon tongues - shadowrock destroyer - nnf - cass - 6$ sold out

you can live in la/southern cali for 40 years and still not traverse all the fucked up fringe boroughs and forgotten neighborhoods sprawling outwards in every direction, no matter how hard you hit the highways. and as long as we’ve been rooted out here, we’ve only had reason to venture into the sun-dead desert no man’s land of beaumont on one occasion, but the place speaks volumes about the weird water which hometown garbage-folk-chaos ensemble wagon tongues have clearly been drinkin’ their whole life. a creepy meeting ground of olde-tymey wild west relics and trashy meth-dealing truckstop culture, it’s an ideal breeding ground for drifters, criminals, and creative youth with singular visions. which is pretty much the name of the game on shadowrock destroyer, the tongues’ most recent ep of deranged collective chemistry. the a, “fire in the hole,” is a raw free ritual of stomping drums, loops, teen screams, guitar noise, and pots and pans, conducted in a crappy basement with cavernous reverb and black mold on the walls. confusion is king. the b rises up in a similar cloud of clatter but swings with a folkier gait, sunlight brain-fry chords, dusty horns, and possessed babble bubbling over into an ecstatic tumbleweed hayride into the sunset. squint yr eyes, raise your hand, seek the shadows. pro-dubbed yellow cassettes with hand-brushed tape labels in cases with hand-numbered full-color masked band photo cover artwork, and wrapped with a hand-cut patch of brown picnic cloth stickering. edition of 100.
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absinthe minds - the song of returning light - nnf - cass -6$ sold out

Every other blue moon or so someone will inquire if we think there’s a unifying trait shared amongst the bands on NNF. The answer given is usually “maybe,” but when it’s “yes” it’s qualified by the opinion that we like hybrid forms of creativity (purity is wack), juxtaposed shit, intermarriages, collage art, etc. Enter Wisconsin’s Absinthe Minds, a great cryptic trio that drive our point home by dripping a uniquely cross-purposes sonic slime from their ragged amps that we’re tempted to term “industrial raga.” Their mode meshes the mechanistic with the mystical, to awesome effect. Negative machines grind beside bubbling cauldrons of steam-psych synth, crystal prism vocals reverberate in cold concrete chambers, naked primitives with closed eyes chant and dance on broken generators in an empty parking garage. Contrast is king and The Song Of Returning Light soundtracks the coronation. Ab Minds’ past tapes found them sprawling with more of an overtly bleak agenda, but here Dead Luke & Co (plus guest GF Zola Jesus on one track) have balanced the darkness with the light (albeit dead grey light) for a sick 6-song C56 of interzone angst and grim zen moods. Like metal dragged across a prayer mat. Namaste, wasteland. Pro-dubbed tapes with hand-painted labels in cases with full-color J-cards designed by Amanda. Edition of 100.
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changeling - into great peace - nnf - cass - 6$ sold out

Ex-Texan Roy Tatum has been holing up in un-air conditioned apartments mumbling out his bleak loner blues drift for the past couple years, but his most recent-ish outpourings have found him plumbing even foggier inner vistas (see Five Thousand Nights, On The Other Side Of You, etc), and Into Great Peace may be the ultimate Changeling surrendering to date. A pair of blurry, beautiful guitar meditations that tread water in the sky, rippling with murmurs and weird waves, cycling through a lost, narcoleptic wash of reverb atmospherics and mirage vibrations. A slow-motion migration from new age depths to ancient heights. Let go. Pro-manufactured aqua cassettes with seaweed-green shell art in a Tatum-designed J-card. Hand-numbered edition of 200.
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antique brothers - season's feast - nnf - cass -6$ sold out

You don’t need a cassette description to school you on the knowledge that blood is thicker than water, but if that’s what it takes to make the lesson stick, so be it. Or, if you want a shortcut, just peruse the discography of Connecticut-bred brothers Cy and Ged Gengras. They’ve been harvesting jams together under the Antique Bros banner for, shit, almost four years now, and in that span have trawled through a thousand different hybrid strains (creep-folk, math-psych, chaos improv, etc). But the inter-family familiarity hasn’t bred contempt (take THAT, old proverb); on the contrary it’s spawned a secret psychic/musical language the rest of us ain’t privy to. And, despite a hefty local bias (Ged’s an LA/NNF hero, drums for Pocahaunted, Robedoor, AND Vibes), we can still say with honesty and confidence that Season’s Feast is easily our fave Antique B full-length to date. The ragers are dense and bearded, the acoustic passages evocative and hazy, the ambient lulls sticky as fresh resin. There’s a flow and a focus here that’s rare within the AB discog, and it makes for more meat on the bones, more flames in the fire. If yr already a fan, you’re in luck; and if you’re new to the Antique canon, THIS is the place to start. Pro-dubbed tapes with hand-typed/stamped labels in bags with full-color art by Amanda. Edition of 100.
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peaking lights - imaginary falcons - nnf - cass -6$ sold out

Since you asked, here’s a new truism we vibed out of the cosmos: Isolation (not Necessity) is the Mother of Invention. ‘Cause distance makes the heart grow radder, remember? And drift-pop duo Peaking Lights (aka epic newlyweds Aaron Coyes and Indra Dunis) have proven this in spades, by beating a sweet retreat from the big city to a cool commune deep in the rolling, wooded hills on the outskirts of Madison, Wisconsin, where they’re free to bond with the land, breathe easy, and levitate lofty organic magic from their unique analog electronics mainframe. It’s like they say: location, location, location. Apparently the big sky country is hittin’ their bloodstream like an exotic opiate, because their latest full-length, Imaginary Falcons, digs deeper and flies higher than anything else they’ve ever laid to tape by miles (which isn’t to say their early shit isn’t sick too; it is). Seven strung-out sing-song serenades of Suicide-style drum machinery, groovy lost ghost candle crooning, dubby keyboard echoes, gentle guitar gestures, and narcotic harmonia, woven into an expertly sequenced lucid dream you never wanna wake up from. This is the sound of Peaking Lights peaking; hold it yr ear as long as you can. Already dangerously high on our “One To Beat For ‘09” file. Pro-dubbed cassettes in cases with pro-printed full-color J-cards designed by Amanda. Edition of 150. Also available on LP from our friends at Night People.
-nnf

sun araw / predator vision - nnf - lp -12$ sold out

Two loose electric crews grind the great ghost-pipe in the sky on this sweaty slab of black wax. East Coast triad Predator Vision hit all our pressure points last year with a pair of rank/dank self-titled tapes, both of which trailblazed a shaggy path through curtains of cavernous moss via slow-burn low-end/drums rumbling (Ben Daly and Etienne Duguay, respectively) and fucked up outer space shredding by big dog Matt Mondanile (aka Ducktails). Near-perfect new age psych rock but without the trappings of either genre-hole. This is PV’s vinyl debut, and their A side monster, “Real Aliens,” alternately levitates/bulldozes through four main movements: tripped, trashed, free, and feel-good. All zones worth wandering through! Share the Vision. On the flip is hometown hero Sun Araw/Cameron Stallones, whose fertile crescent of Long Beach drugged out mantric world soul psych shows no signs of drying up. If anything, “Hey Mandala!” might be the most far out, deep down, revved up magic 8-ball he’s yet to throw into the public’s eye/ear. Buoyed up by hairy low-lidded free trumpet courtesy of Phil French (of Magic Lantern/Super Minerals), the track explodes in a narcotic cyclone of digital drums, voices, and waves of wah, before slowly phoenix-ebbing into a sick floor-shaking rhythm machine. Shit is funked up. Like nothing he’s done before, and all the better for it. Black vinyl LPs, mastered by Casio Mon, in glossy pro-printed jackets with island/jungle art designed by Stallones. Edition of 475.
-nnf

wet hair - dream - nnf - lp -  13$ sold out

When Iowa City freak-out free-rockers Raccoo-oo-oon called it quits last year it left a bummer scar in the Midwest underground scene. But time is a great healer, and so are new bands. So out of the ashes of the RAC pack comes Wet Hair, a synth-punk-trance duo composed of keyboardist/vocalizer Shawn Reed and keyboardist/drummer Ryan Garbes, and Dream is the band’s debut vinyl full-length after a series of increasingly shredding limited-edition cassettes on their own Night People label. Piling together an unlikely trash heap of Suicide-style drum machine beat-bops, zone-droned krautrock keys, and fucked up outsider crooning, the LP’s four tracks careen across a spectrum of moods and mangled melodies. Recorded at Flat Black Studios by Luke Tweedy and mastered by Pete Swanson, Wet Hair’s cult electric annihilation has never gleamed with such razor-edged weirdness; this is their dream made real. Black vinyl LPs in jackets with artwork by Reed and Garbes, plus a pro-printed full-color 11x11 insert. CD edition available on Release The Bats.
-nnf




my little red toe / foot foot - bored fortress vol I - feb 06 - nnf - 7" -5$ sold out

Local legends My Little Red Toe crawl outta Burbank for an hour to sing two ruminative jingles of fire heroes and wandering hearts, while west side folks Foot Foot stomp their sandy cowgirl boots to a twisted slide guitar storytelling tune. Lonely and nice like twilight wind.

 

high wolf - animal totem - nnf - cass - 6$ sold out

For some reason unexpected pleasures are superior to the expected variety, at least 9 times outta 10. And so it was when we happened upon the dizzy/fizzy music of French loop enthusiast High Wolf for the first time, regarding whom we had zero preconceived notions. Cheers to open minds/ears then, cause the High Wolf audio worldview is weird and wobbly and one that should appeal to all lovers of tripped out, swelter-zone equatorial electronics. Animal Totem is High Wolf’s debut release, and it piles wavy, tranced keyboard melodies one on top of the other into a pulsing ritual heap of colored smoke. Elsewhere he slips in sunset fuzz-guitar lines and temple meditation tones and even dangles down some flanger-flecked synthetic percussion like a bunch of mellow yellow bananas. Take a look up/down/all-around. Overall it’s a rich, ripe rumble in the escapist-psych jungle. Future trips are booked on Long Beach drone/craft emporium Stunned Records, keep an eye open. Pro-dubbed cassettes in cases with full-color animal-collage artwork by Amanda. Hand-numbered edition of 100.
-nnf

vampire belt / magik markers - bored fortress vol III - nnf - 7" - 6$ sold out

The mythically incommunicado West Mass Nace/Corsano duo break a half-decade hiatus with two trashed tracks of psychic free-shred. Feel alive. Elsewhere, boss poets Magik Markers collapse in beanbags and tape down synth notes for the smoky tangerine dreamer, "Tango & Cash."
-nnf

sun araw - the phynx - nnf - lp & cass - 18$ sold out

All wild, natural organisms have roots, and some even say they’re a good thing to return to from time to time. For instance, right now. In the wake of the jazzed reactions garnered by his Beach Head album and split LP with Predator Vision, today seems as ripe a time as any to re-introduce yrself to chapter one of Cameron Stallones’ Sun Araw saga: The Phynx. Originally released on NNF as a micro-edition CDR in early ’08, this four-song scorcher blinded us the first time ‘round, but now, fully re-mastered by James Plotkin and spread across 12 inches of black vinyl, these raw electric stomping grounds sound positively holy. Our first-time descrip read: “Spanning Spacemen 3 garage cosmos, Starving Weirdos coastal séance, and a healthy stratosphere of pan-dimensional astral feedbackers, The Phynx is a fantastic four-track suite that floats freely from form to formlessness in the blink of a third eye. A great journey into white light dirge and dead distortion blues, and as killer a debut full-length as a label/listener/fan/head could hope for.” All of this rambling was, and remains, true blue. Edition of 500, housed in matte jackets with new back artwork. As an extra audio high-five, this reissue is actually available one of two ways: 1) on its own, or 2) with a copy of a brand new Sun Araw bonus C20 called Leaves Like These. Please paypal accordingly.
-nnf

sheperds - loco hills - nnf - lp -  12$ sold out

A lot of beloved-by-us artists and artisans icepick out shapely creations from the marble slab of life on a steady schedule, but even within this rarefied realm it’s a real cause for jubilee when an individual/band fucks precedent and totally redefines themselves through a real masterwork. And, in our book (check it out, it’s a good read), Loco Hills is one such touchstone. Distilling down every fried fuzz-groove, tape-loop ghost cloud, and mass-mind motorik psychosis Shepherds have ever let loose into four perfectly sculpted jam-journeys, the language of Loco is a rolling, roiling ride through twisted wordless tongues and hieroglyphic electricity, at once more focused and far-out than anything else in their canon. Mentioning that members moonlight in projects like Meneguar, Non-Horse, and Vanishing Voice is meaningless, this is the Rear House posse’s shining achievement to date and it stands alone. Black vinyl LPs in matte jackets with the same ‘gnashing viper’ artwork of the Release the Bats CD edition. First 115-ish direct mailorder copies come with a bonus CDR of unreleased live recordings. Edition of 500.
-nnf

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