Estuaries by Jean de la Baptiste

In 2020, we released our first vinyl record, as well as a few digital releases, and are looking to build on this with a new EP from Jean de la Baptiste entitled Estuaries [NH005]. The sounds on Estuaries range from garage, breaks, and house, and are inspired by lived experience astride timtumili minanya/Derwent River. The seven tracks can be previewed on Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/neuhorizons42/nh005-jean-de-la-baptiste-estuaries-preview

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The effervescent Jean de la Baptiste can rear his head anywhere along the eclectic spectrum of dance music. A major force as honcho of nipaluna/Hobart’s Neu Hörizöns, their machiavellian shape-shifting deejay sets regularly twists themselves through sounds as diverse as deep house, industrial, ambient, juke, jazz, dnb and deconstructed club, across a slew of different aliases.

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"The Estuarie"

The Bridgewater jerry lies on its back; an inverted bug gazing up at the iceberg lettuce clouds in the sky. The hum of the hospital drum smoulders in the distance, the old tram tracks that infest Hobart roads grimace with the squelch of dry citrus and unshucked oysters on their way to the fields and factories. A young child with a kite lets it rise in the up-draught of high hats that cascade carelessly along Hinsby’s peninsula. The child puts some of the up-draught in its tongue; it tastes like cigarettes after yoga and chickpea bagels. Many years later the child begins to synthesise the air, the nurturing voices, the hateful voices, the voices that don’t say anything and the voices inside its head. All of this activity paired with fabric softener, autumn blossom incense and alkaloid sweat informs the child their meaning in the world of rocks, leather wallets and keep cups. The meaning for the child is manifested in movement. The need to dance when the drums of passion beckons. And so the child begins. First the arms begin to circulate, exposing their red blood cells to the kick kick kick of tight skin. Next the child holds up its nose to the bloom of wattle inside their computer, it invokes feelings of freshly swept concrete floors, an absent mother and apple cider vinegar. This is the capsule of life i shall loll around on my tongue thought the child. This will become the can of beetroot I open with my teeth. So with that the child shed a layer of skin and left it in the coat room of their sister's tobacco farm.

-- a dear friend

Club night and start-up label, a cutting-edge mishmash of young artisans and aesthetes, bringing you trans-Bassian sounds from 42° latitude

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