Archivefield by Astrolabe

For years, we've explored the Archive's vast silence, mapping its forgotten corners. With 'Archivefield,' we’ve finally pushed into what we call the Chamber of Echoes. It's a place where the air itself hums with fracturing memory, where the old machines never truly die, they just shift their groan. This album isn't just about sound; it's about the very act of things falling apart, and what still stands, or echoes, after. We pushed our instruments, and ourselves, deep into that space, capturing the relentless grind of time against concrete and steel. We heard the permafrost sigh and the generators hum their final, endless hymn.

From the ominous entry of 'Sector Seven Descent,' a slow, heavy drop into the unknown, you're thrust into 'Memory Fragments,' where tape loops twist ghost-like recollections, pieces of history refusing to settle. But then, there's 'Signal/Inheritance.' That track, the Cartographer’s bass cutting through the wreckage, it was a breakthrough for us. It’s that moment when amidst all the noise and decay, a clear message, a purpose, somehow emerges. It’s about how even something breaking down can reveal its truest form.

We built these pieces using contact mics pressed against rusted beams, processing guitar drones until they mirrored the brutalist structures we walked through. We found rhythms in permafrost cracking, and the melancholic, endless hum of submerged generators. This isn't just about making noise; it's about making the sound of impermanence audible, tangible. It’s about exploring how knowledge, or even just consciousness, might be etched into the very fabric of these abandoned places, waiting to be found.

The journey climaxes with 'Surface Breach,' a release, a violent catharsis as all those buried pressures finally give way. And in the aftermath, we found a quiet revelation: these forgotten histories aren't just in the walls, they’re woven into everything that remains, a persistent hum in the rhythm of the present. This Drone Post-Rock record is our attempt to translate that, to offer a piece of the Archive's truth. It’s a sonic monument, yes, but it’s also an invitation to confront what lasts, and what fades, within ourselves.

We build massive walls of distorted guitars that stretch like abandoned highways through endless landscapes. Our instruments capture the weight of empty places where machinery once hummed—now only rust and silence remain, telling stories through layers of processed sound.