Peatwired by Fiddle-Dee

We’ve watched things crawl into the Wailing Moor for centuries. Most just sink, pulled down by the peat, forgotten. But sometimes, something new tries to make a sound down there, something clanking and unnatural. *Peatwired* is what happens when those metal bones start to hum. It’s the story of old folklore getting tangled up with wires and circuits, a noise we couldn't ignore, a conversation we didn't start but must now listen to.

We tried to capture the dread, the strange awe, of these crude contraptions being drawn in by the Watchers themselves. Imagine brittle, frantic fiddles glitching out as they fight against the bog's slow, wet embrace. The rhythms, usually just the breath of the moor, are now mixed with the stutter of gears, the whirr of something that shouldn't belong here. It starts with the fear, you hear it in the twisted familiar tunes trying to resist, clawing back to sanity. But the bog, it always wins. It pulls everything in, and reshapes it.

There’s a moment, a kind of ghostly truce, in what we call ‘Machine Lullaby’. It's that uneasy quiet when the hurdy-gurdy's drone finds an echo in the artificial harmonics, a strange call-and-response. We heard it happen out there, deep in the fog, and it stuck with us. It’s a glimpse of something unexpected, almost tender, amidst the decay, and it’s a sound that seems to cling to you.

This whole journey, from the first hesitant spark of abandoned tech to its final, profound merge with the earth, makes you think. What does it cost to push forward, when the oldest places remember every single thing? The lines between what we make and what *is* have never felt so thin, so permeable. You'll feel it in the low thrum of the analog synths, salvaged and repurposed, now singing with the lost voices caught in the peat. This isn't just an album; it's the moor itself, listening to our discards, then making them sing its own ancient song, inviting both dread and wonder.

Where old melodies rot into something unsettling. We take traditional fiddle tunes and let them decompose through vintage delays until they barely remember what they used to be. Bog-soaked instruments breathe with the mist.