Recent Shows

Liner notes, found in a suitcase with two packs of Marlboros, a coffee-stained passport, mirrored sunglasses, and a couple vials of mystery substance:

The note was folded twice and tucked into the tape case like a secret. The suitcase smelled faintly of cologne, jet fuel, and something else. Sweet and chemical. The kind of scent that lingers in hotel elevators and behind velvet ropes. There was sand in the zipper track. A bar napkin from a place called Le Tarmac. No return address.

This tape wasn’t made for distribution. It was stitched together somewhere between the fifth espresso and the first blackout. Maybe in Rio, maybe in Marseille. Wherever, the room had a balcony, bad wiring, and a turntable balanced on a minibar.

No Ar glides past in mirror-walled clubs where the ceiling fans spin too slow and the drinks come too fast. It moves through airport terminals at 2AM, riding the echo of someone else’s laughter. It’s the soundtrack to fogged-up taxi windows, to phone calls made from rotary phones in strange lobbies, to the soft buzz of fluorescent light on sunburned skin.

The mix spirals. It sweats. It refuses to land. Somewhere in there you’ll find the pulse. Or maybe you won’t. Maybe it finds you.

There’s no tracklist. He said they killed the buzz. Just the reel, the ride, and whatever it was that kept him cutting through dawn.

Fukaranta is wind and bloom. A flower carried to the edge of the shore. It is fleeting beauty. Quiet strength. The pull of tides and the push of change. Where earth meets water and moments become memories. It is movement. Renewal. A breath that lingers, then goes.

Ser is the lazy arc of the sun as it stretches across the sky, the golden hum of heat dancing off the horizon. It’s the shimmer of still waters, the quiet murmur of leaves swaying in conversation. This mix is a love letter to light—its warmth, its shadows, and the spaces it transforms. Ser moves like a sunbeam, unhurried but undeniable, tracing the edges of the world and leaving you wrapped in its glow. It is the sound of everything slowing down, yet coming alive.

A sunlit path through Andean highlands. Wood flutes echoing off stone and rhythms kicking dust along the trail.

Featuring artists from Chile, Argentina, Colombia, and Brazil, this mix follows in the footsteps of Cotinga—an unofficial part two, assembled on a bright afternoon somewhere stateside.

Call it a soundtrack for wandering, barefoot or otherwise.

Continga hums with the pulse of distant horizons, a blend of earthbound traditions and celestial explorations. It’s the sound of jungle canopies murmuring to starlit skies, of roots stretching deep while rhythms spiral outward. Tracks like Luzmila Carpio’s hauntingly reimagined Amaotayku Avelino Sinani and Nicola Cruz’s ethereal Colibria feel less like songs and more like rituals—intimate, transformative, alive. Continga is a map of unseen connections, a place where the sacred and the modern move in sync, inviting you to listen with your whole self.