Experimental Electronic Music
I trust BoC to make something interesting and emotionally effective, but when it comes to their music’s meaning, they’re slippery and mysterious. Inferno is a collection of pieces that grapple with scary feelings, scary beliefs, and the inescapable feeling that you can only trust your senses so far.
Petites Constellations develops shifting and subtle soundscapes with a retro-ish feeling, emerging from analog keyboards and vintage electronic equipment. However, it also stands as a thoroughly modern album, filled with kinetic grooves and bold compositional ingredients.
Each chopped rhythm feels tethered by fragile harmonic strands, giving Echoloto its identity as a multidimensional collection of fuzzy glitch-hop abstraction, steeped in grit, grain, and faded sonic residue.
What began as speculation over a possible new Boards of Canada release evolved into a meditation on how their rare and mysterious presence awakens a profound collective longing for beauty, unity, and transcendence in an increasingly fragmented world.
soak vol 2 unfolds like a damaged transmission from somewhere intimate and unplaceable—32 fractured, emotional, and strangely beautiful pieces stitched together from the outer edges of contemporary electronic sound.
Within that tension between structure and collapse, Sven Piayda uncovers a strange sense of ease. Intercelestial thrives inside instability, shaping corroded electronics and broken rhythmic patterns into something fluid, tactile, and strangely alive.
Set within the ongoing restoration of East London’s historic Tate Institute, Sunden’s one-take live performance transforms themes of collapse, renewal, and emotional reconstruction from Minor Coda into a visceral audiovisual experience.
After 13 years of silence, Boards of Canada returned not simply with new music, but with a surreal, memory-soaked communion at Barnsdall Gallery Theatre where every fading ray of sunset, whispering pine, analog pulse, and hushed breath among 300 devoted listeners made Inferno feel less like an album preview and more like a long-lost transmission finally reaching home.
Lost Hope Society doesn’t deal in easy optimism. Instead, it locates hope as a kind of underlying signal—constant, even when masked by noise. Like Midsommar, it uses brightness to reveal shadow, and in doing so, turns discomfort into clarity.
Two of my favorite sonic sculptors converge as F~M, alias of Roel Funcken and Jeroen Bax (aka exm), shaping Fose into four extended chapters that warp and reassemble rhythmic glitch fragments, threaded with fluid collisions of bass pressure, flickering bleeps, and meticulous sound design.
The resulting experience of Sorry I Didn’t Realize feels untethered from trends or nostalgia bait, instead standing defiantly above contemporaries as both tribute and evolution — easily deserving placement near summit of any Best of 2026 conversation.
