Showing posts with label avant-garde. Show all posts
Showing posts with label avant-garde. Show all posts

Why Split Releases Still Matter in Experimental and Noise Music (part two, sort of)

Why Splits Survive

Welcome to part two in The RZRecords Guide to Experimental Collaboration series, this time featuring case studies, a checklist, and the mistakes we made so you don’t have to.


Rzrecords and the Art of Splits
RZRecords and the Art of Splits

Split releases should have died years ago.

Too niche. Too fragmented. Too dependent on artists actually talking to each other.

And yet, they’re still here.

In experimental music, underground and indie, and obviously noise scenes, splits aren’t just tradition. They’re infrastructure.

Because this genre doesn’t evolve in isolation.

Put two artists or more on the same release and you don’t get balance, you get tension. Different approaches collide:

  • analog vs digital
  • structured vs improvised
  • minimal vs overwhelming

And somewhere in that clash, something new happens.

Recent splits are pushing this even further:
Noise layered with jazz improvisation. Drone interrupted by bursts of distortion. Ambient textures dissolving into pure signal decay.

Not clean. Not polished.

Good.

Because the moment this scene becomes predictable, it stops being relevant.

Splits prevent that.

They force unpredictability. They force interaction.

They remind everyone involved that this was never meant to be controlled.

So why haven’t splits gone extinct?

Simple. The same reason punk still has zines and black metal still has tape traders. Because the infrastructure isn’t about efficiency. It’s about belonging.

A split release is a handshake that leaves a paper trail. It’s proof that two weirdos found each other, agreed on something, and bothered to put it out into the world. In an era where anyone can upload a solo track to Bandcamp in ten minutes, a split says: I didn’t do this alone. And I didn’t want to.

That matters more than streams.

The myth of the solitary genius never really applied to noise anyway.

You think Merzbow built that wall alone? Sure, the name is one person. But listen close enough and you’ll hear the ghosts of collaborators, tape manipulators, live sound engineers who knew exactly which frequencies to push into red. Experimental music has always been a network. Splits just make the network visible.

And right now, the network is hungrier than ever.

Post-pandemic, post-platform-everything, artists are realizing that algorithms don’t love them back. But other artists might. A split isn’t just a release. It’s a mutual aid agreement. You promote my side, I promote yours. Your audience discovers my broken synthscapes. My audience falls into your feedback loop.

That’s not charity. That’s strategy with a soul.

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room: ego.

The original guide mentioned it. Let’s sit with it.

Every split has at least one moment where Artist A thinks their track should close the release because it’s “more final.” Or Artist B quietly resents that the other’s waveforms look louder on Bandcamp. Or someone asks, “Why did their track get shared by that blog and mine didn’t?”

It happens. It’s fine. The trick isn’t pretending ego doesn’t exist. It’s building a container that can hold it.

That’s why the “Gentleperson’s Agreement” from Part One isn’t just legal CYA. It’s emotional architecture. When everyone knows the rules upfront, who owns what, who gets paid how, who decides the running order, there’s less room for resentment to fester. The split becomes a collaboration instead of a custody battle.

What the best splits do that solo releases can’t.

They create dissonance of intention.

You know that feeling when a noise track ends and suddenly the silence feels like part of the album? Now imagine that silence being broken not by another track from the same artist, but by something completely alien. A jazz saxophone breathing in the wreckage. A folk sample cleaned up just enough to feel wrong. A field recording of rain that slowly reveals itself to be manipulated static.

That jarring shift isn’t a mistake. It’s the whole point.

A solo album, no matter how experimental, follows one brain. A split follows two. And when those two brains don’t think alike, when they actively refuse to blend, the listener becomes the mediator. You decide where the conversation goes. You feel the friction.

That’s active listening. That’s what streaming playlists can’t replicate.

So what’s next for splits?

More weird formats, probably. Not just A/B or interleaved, but releases where artists remix each other’s stems without telling each other which stems belong to whom. Splits that exist only as live recordings from two different continents, synced by latency and luck. Splits that are released as a single 45-minute track with no clear handoff, forcing listeners to find the seam themselves.

The tools are cheaper than ever. The barriers are lower than ever. The only thing stopping anyone from starting a split tomorrow is the courage to send that first awkward email.

And if RZRecords has proven anything over twenty years of herding feedback-loving cats, it’s this:

Someone out there is waiting for you to ask.

Recently we got an invite from Debopom Ghosh Must Be Killed, and we're working on that split right now. Last year we reached out to DEDDOM, and you should expect that one soon.
The former is from India and does blackened noise, the latter is Ukrainian and does conceptual progressive jazz-core. The best part about them, other than their music, is that they were tactful and considerate enough to follow up with us, do a welfare check once we lost touch, being persistent and accommodating, which is an incredibly rare combo.


Case Study C: The “Too Many Cooks” 5-Way Split

The Artists: Five harsh noise wall acts from three different time zones. All friends. All convinced it would be easy.

The Challenge: Nobody wanted to be first in the running order. Everybody wanted to be last. Also, one artist submitted a 90-second track. Another submitted 22 minutes. The imbalance was comical.

The RZR Solution: We abandoned the “equal track length” assumption entirely. Instead, we framed the split as “Five Interpretations of One Second of Sound”, a conceptual constraint that made the length disparity feel intentional. The 22-minute piece became the anchor; the 90-second bursts became palate cleansers.

Revenue Split: Weighted by track length, but with a twist: each artist could opt into a flat “solidarity rate” instead. Two chose solidarity. Three chose weighted. Everyone signed off without drama. 

Loss: This was a limited CDR run, and we sold all of them within a few days, thinking we'd make more. The hard drive died, we never backed anything up. There was only one mention of it online, a Swedish review, quite positive. The site is long gone. Everything can get lost to time and carelessness. 

Lesson: Don’t force symmetry. Turn your asymmetries into the concept. Back stuff up.

Case Study D: The “What Do You Mean You Already Released It” Disaster

The Artists: A dark ambient producer (let’s call them X) and a power electronics artist (Y). Both very  talented. Neither communicated well.

The Challenge: X rightly assumed the split was a “simultaneous release” on both artists’ Bandcamp pages plus the label page. Y interpreted the agreement differently. By the time we noticed, Y had already uploaded their side, with the split artwork, to their personal page. Three weeks early. Without telling anyone.

The RZR Solution: Damage control. We asked X to unpublish the early upload, push the date back, and re-upload with a “pre-order” tag instead of a live release. Everyone agreed, but the trust was cracked. The split still came out. It still got listens. But the vibe never recovered.

Lesson: Write down the exact release date. Write down where each artist can sell. Write down the embargo window. Assume nothing.

Common Split Mistakes (We Made All of These So You Don’t Have To)

Here’s the unglamorous truth. Splits fail more often than they succeed. Not because the music is bad, the music is almost always interesting. But because the human part breaks.

Avoid these.

1. The “We’ll Figure Out the Order Later” Mistake
You finalize the tracks. You master them. You send them to the duplication plant. And then you argue about who goes first.
Result: Someone feels like they “lost.” Even if the music is identical, running order signals status. Decide before anyone records a single note.

2. The “One Person Does All the Promotion” Mistake
Artist A is a natural self-promoter. Artist B is a hermit who hasn’t posted on social media since 2019. The split drops. Artist A posts daily. Artist B posts once, then disappears. Streams are 90/10.
Result: Resentment. Even if Artist B’s music is better, they didn’t show up. The fix? Agree on promotion minimums upfront. “Three posts per week. Two stories. One newsletter mention. Or we don’t release.”

3. The “Mastering to Please Both” Mistake
Artist A wants their side loud, crushed, and aggressive. Artist B wants dynamic range and silence between notes. The mastering engineer tries to find a middle ground. Everyone ends up unhappy.
Result: A split that sounds like two different albums glued together awkwardly. Better solution: master each side separately. Let the gap between them be the feature, not the bug.

4. The “No Expiration Date on the Agreement” Mistake
You release the split. A year passes. Two years. Artist B gets approached by a label wanting to re-release their side as part of a compilation. But the original split agreement didn’t say anything about re-releases. Artist A claims veto power. Lawyers get mentioned (briefly, cheaply, pathetically).
Result: Friendship over. Split pulled from platforms. Everyone loses.
Fix: Include a simple clause: “After 18 months, each artist may relicense their own material without restriction.” Clean. Fair. Future-proof.

5. The “Digital Only, But Actually We Want Tapes Now” Mistake
Halfway through the process, someone gets excited. “What if we did a limited run of cassettes?” Suddenly you’re researching duplication prices, J-card templates, and shipping costs to four countries.
Result: Delay. Scope creep. One artist drops out because they can’t afford their half of the tape run.
Fix: Decide the format before you announce the split. If you change your mind, do a second run later as a “special edition.” Don’t pivot mid-stream.


The One Mistake That’s Actually Fine

Thinking you need permission.

You don’t.

Every successful split in RZRecords history started with someone sending a message that felt slightly too forward. Slightly too vulnerable. “Hey, I like your work. Want to do something weird together?”

Sometimes the answer is no. Sometimes it’s silence.

But sometimes it’s yes. And that yes turns into a release that outlives both artists’ solo work, because splits aren’t just about the music. They’re about the record of two people finding each other in a fragmented, algorithm-driven world and saying: This mattered. This happened. We were here.


The RZRecords Split Release Checklist

Before you hit “send” on that message, run through this. Print it out. Tape it to your wall. Ignore it at your own peril.

Phase Task Done?
Concept Find an artist whose work clashes interestingly with yours. (Similar is fine. Tension is better.)
Concept Define a loose theme or constraint. (“Field recordings only.” “No editing allowed.” “Every track must include a door closing.”)
Logistics Agree on number of tracks per artist. Length? Optional.
Logistics Set a firm deadline for finished stems. Add a 2-week buffer. You’ll need it.
Legal Write the Gentleperson’s Agreement. Include: who owns what, non-exclusive license, re-release window (18 months recommended).
Legal Confirm sample clearance. That found sound from a YouTube video? Get permission or replace it.
Financial Choose your revenue split method: 50/50, weighted by track, or Bandcamp Friday direct-to-artist.
Financial Decide who pays for mastering, artwork, and (if physical) duplication. Split costs upfront.
Format Pick A/B side, interleaved, or collage method. Write down the running order.
Promotion Agree on minimum posts per artist per week. Designate a lead promoter (or rotate).
Promotion Set a simultaneous release date and time (UTC recommended for international splits).
The Exit Include an expiration clause. After X months, each artist can relicense their own work freely.

Checklist complete? Good. Now stop planning and start doing.

Q&A: What Artists Always Ask (But Are Afraid to Say Out Loud)

Q: What if my track is objectively worse than my partner’s?
A: First, “worse” isn’t real in experimental music. Different is real. Uncomfortable is real. But if you genuinely feel insecure, talk to your partner before the release. Most noise artists have been there. Some will even offer to remaster your side for free. Don’t let perfectionism kill a split. Release it messy. Release it honest. Release it now.

Q: Can I release a split with someone I’ve never met in person?
A: Absolutely. RZRecords has released splits between artists who only knew each other’s Bandcamp pages and a shared love for broken electronics. The digital handshake counts. Just be extra clear about expectations, no body language to read, no studio hang to smooth things over.

Q: What if my partner disappears halfway through?
A: It happens. Life gets loud sometimes. The polite move: send three check-in emails spaced two weeks apart. No response? Finish your side anyway, release it as a solo EP, and credit the split as “unfinished collaboration with [Artist Name], proceeds held for them if they ever return.” You keep the door open. You don’t wait forever.

Q: Do I need a label like RZRecords to do a split?
A: No. Labels help with distribution, mastering, and babysitting egos. But the purest splits are self-released. Two artists. One Bandcamp page (or two, linked together). A free download code for anyone who asks. That’s the original spirit. Labels are just scaffolding. The handshake is the real thing.

Q: How do I know if a split “worked”?
A: You’ll feel it. Not in streams or dollars. You’ll feel it when a stranger messages both of you saying, “I never would have found Artist B without this split, and now they’re my favorite thing.” That’s the metric. Audience crossover. Scene knitting. One weirdo introducing another weirdo to a third weirdo. Everything else is noise. (Pun intended.)

Q: What if I'm a newcomer or just completely unknown?
A: Go for it. Seriously, this might be your way to win a few hearts, get your sound out there, impress someone you think is out of your reach.

Q: One last thing, floppy disks?
A: We tried. We failed. Don’t. Or do, it's a weird format, maybe you're weird enough to make it, you do you!


Now go send that message.

Experimental Noise Music Is Evolving: From Chaos to Intentional Sound Design

Honey, wake up. Noise evolved again.

There was a time when experimental noise music felt like pure resistance, against structure, against melody, against anything remotely digestible, it was a new form of punk or free jazz. Just raw output. A wall of sound designed to confuse, to alienate, to refuse. No translation needed, none offered.

It was confrontational by nature. Anti-commercial by principle. If you didn't get it, that was kind of the point. Some even found it insulting. That was fine. That was sometimes the intention.

But something's shifting.


Thoughts About Noise / Much Ado About Nothing
Thoughts About Noise / Much Ado About Nothing 


The texture changed before the conversation did.

What we're hearing now isn't less chaotic, it's more deliberate. Distortion isn't just maxed out for the sake of it. Feedback isn't just screaming into the void. There's intent behind it. Shape. Direction. A sense that the person on the other side of the speaker actually thought about where the sound was going, even if that destination is somewhere uncomfortable.

Not structure in the traditional sense. No verse, no chorus, no resolution waiting at the end. But something close to it. A skeleton. An architecture built out of negation and pressure.

In some cases, you can feel the decision-making now in ways you couldn't before.
Maybe 2026 is the year when chaos goes just a tad more organized.

Across recent releases, yes, including your Spotify giants but also what's been quietly happening in smaller scenes and local channels most people haven't found yet, noise is starting to behave like a language. Not one you understand the first time. Not one that hands you meaning on a clean plate. But one you recognize. One that starts to feel familiar in the body even before the brain catches up.

Textures repeat. Patterns emerge. Then collapse, exactly when you thought you had a foothold. Some listeners might recognize the patterns, others might still not be aware.

That cycle, recognition, then rupture, isn't accidental. It's becoming the move.
For the sound, for the art, for whomever is making it.

People are reaching for different names for it:

  • intentional noise, sound that knows what it's doing even when it sounds like it doesn't
  • structured chaos, disorder with an internal logic, rules that only the artist knows
  • or just artists getting better at breaking things properly, knowing which rules to violate and in what order, understanding that destruction lands harder when it's precise

None of these labels are perfect. We might be just making it up. All of them are pointing at the same thing.

This overlaps heavily with dark ambient and drone music, which also had their renaissance and circular popularity, where time stretches until the concept of progression becomes almost irrelevant. Where the question isn't where is this going but what does it feel like to be inside it right now. Sound becomes less about movement and more about presence. Less about narrative and more about atmosphere. Some might say that marketing and brand building are also moving in that direction, ditch the narrative, just be there.

What noise is borrowing from that tradition is patience. The willingness to let something sit. To not fill every second with event. To trust that silence, or near-silence, or the ghost of a sound fading at the edge of perception, is doing as much work as the loudest moment.

But it also seems to be becoming more popular, and borrows repeatedly from traditional music, in ways of structure, form, and even marketing. I'm not going to name names, but think of a few popular noise acts that are just that, pop. Who comes to mind?

And maybe that's why the new wave of it works when it works.

Because in a landscape flooded with overproduced clarity, music that's been compressed and polished and optimized until every rough edge is gone, every surprise sanded down into something a streaming algorithm can metabolize, noise still feels real. Imperfect. Unresolved. It hasn't been buffed into something safe.

There's also something honest about the timing. The world outside doesn't resolve neatly either. Ambient dread is a real texture in the air right now. Music that refuses to reassure you, that doesn't build to catharsis, that just holds you in discomfort and lets you sit with it, maybe that's not escapism. Maybe it's the opposite. Maybe it's the only genre being straight with you.

Part of what's driving this is exhaustion. Not the kind you sleep off. The low, chronic kind that comes from living inside too much information, too many emergencies competing for the same emotional bandwidth, too many headlines that demand a reaction before you've processed the last one. People are burnt through in a way that clean, resolved music can't really reach anymore. A perfect pop song feels like a lie right now, not because it's bad, but because it's too neat. Life doesn't sound like that. The art that's landing, the art that's actually moving people, tends to be the kind that doesn't pretend otherwise.

And artists are feeling it too, maybe more acutely than most. The impulse to make something ugly, something unresolved, something that refuses to comfort, often comes from the same place as the impulse to scream. Except noise lets you shape the scream. It gives the chaos a container, just loose enough that the pressure still shows. In that sense, the rise of intentional noise isn't just an aesthetic development. It's a pretty accurate emotional report from people paying attention to the world and not looking away from what they're hearing.

Noise, at its best, doesn't try to guide you.

It doesn't offer comfort or context or a clear emotional instruction. It just exists, heavy and unresolved and alive, and lets you figure out what to do with it.

The evolution isn't toward accessibility. It's toward honesty. Toward a kind of rigor that takes the chaos seriously enough to shape it.

That distinction matters.

And yet, here's the tension no one wants to name out loud.

The moment intentional noise becomes recognizable as a thing with its own patterns and expected ruptures, it risks turning into just another genre. Another set of rules to follow, even if those rules are about breaking rules. You can already hear it in certain corners of the underground: the same blown-out low end, the same carefully placed feedback swells, the same "unexpected" silences that listeners have learned to anticipate. What was once a middle finger to form starts to feel like form itself.

That doesn't make it bad. It just makes it familiar. And familiarity is the first step toward the algorithm figuring out how to serve it to you between lo-fi hip-hop beats and dungeon synth recommendations. The underground has a way of being discovered and, once discovered, slowly hollowed out.

But here's where the new technology complicates the picture.

Cheap modular rigs, granular synthesis in browser tabs, AI tools that can generate infinite variations of white noise and harmonic distortion, none of it requires a manifesto anymore. You don't need a warehouse loft or a cracked mixing desk. You need a laptop and the willingness to let something ugly exist. The barrier has collapsed so completely that the question isn't who gets to make noise anymore. It's who bothers to make it mean something.

Because the floodgates are open. Always have been, really. But now the stream is loud enough to drown out the signal if you aren't careful.

What separates the new wave from the old isn't gear or even attitude. It's intentionality with restraint. Knowing when not to hit. When a single tone held for ninety seconds does more damage than a hundred tracks of layered static. That's the skill that's quietly becoming the most valued currency in the scene nobody's heard of yet. Not volume. Not shock. Just control over the precise shape of the wound.

So maybe noise isn't eating itself. Not yet. But it's definitely looking at its own reflection.

Is noise really moving from rebellion and artistic expression into something altogether new? The availability of new tech makes everything easier, the bar is lower, the gate isn't as kept. Maybe something altogether new will emerge soon. Maybe it already has and we just don't have a name for it yet.

Maybe some day noise will eat itself.

But we're not here to judge. Everything has its own trajectory, its own room to grow, its own weird and necessary path forward. Shit just happens. And sometimes that's exactly enough.

Retrospective: Revisiting gaop & Haggari Nakashe's Pictures of Gold and Terror (2006)

~20 Years of RZRecords, a Retrospective

Revisiting Haggari Nakashe & gaop's Pictures of Gold and Terror (2006)

45 tracks of noise rock, grindcore, free jazz, and Japanoise (inspired) madness, and what twenty years did (and didn’t) change


Pictures of Gold and Terror by Haggari Nakashe & gaop
Pictures of Gold and Terror

In the mid-2000s, the underground DIY scene was a wild west of file-sharing and CD-R trades. Blogs were the gatekeepers, forums were the community, and “going viral” meant someone posted your album on a Blogspot page that got 400 hits or mentioned you on Myspace. In the middle of this productive chaos, an unlikely partnership formed between Haggari Nakashe, a Canadian-Japanese artist who at the time had been quietly terrorizing local noise shows in Montreal and Osaka simultaneously, and gaop, a Eurasian multi-instrumental experimentalist. Their 2006 collaborative effort, Pictures of Gold and Terror, remains one of the most polarizing and fascinating relics of that era’s extreme music underground, a record that fused jazz improvisation, noise rock aggression, Japanoise abstraction, and grindcore brutality into something that carelessly defied every category it borrowed from.

Twenty years later, it’s worth asking: what does it mean that this album still exists, still circulates, and still sounds like its own unique thing? And what does it mean that gaop and Haggari Nakashe are still at it?


The 45-Track Gauntlet: DIY Grindcore Meets Jazz Abstraction

Pictures of Gold and Terror is an exercise in hyper-compression. It features a staggering 45 tracks, most of which clock in at under a minute. The artists famously describeג it as “extreme music for people with a short attention span”, a statement that feels almost eerily prophetic in today’s era of algorithmic playlists and bite-sized content, but was purely an avant-garde provocation back in ‘06.

The genre DNA here is now-all-too-familiar, although at the time some still considered it genuinely unusual. Grindcore provides the blast-beat skeleton; noise rock provides the abrasive muscle; free jazz supplies the improvisational nervous system; and noise runs underneath everything like a low-level electrical hum that occasionally surges into the foreground and shorts the whole circuit. It’s a combination that had precedent: John Zorn’s Naked City had been doing something adjacent since the late 80s, colliding jazz harmony with hardcore aggression and noise in short, violent bursts, but gaop and Haggari Nakashe pushed the formula into weirder, more playful territory than Zorn’s downtown-NY seriousness typically allowed.

RZRecords was itself a product of that specific cultural moment: at the time it just shifted from a one-person operation run out of a cluttered apartment into a duo doing the same out of two homes, months before adding a third friend to the mix to handle things more professionally, but then still pressing CD-Rs in batches of 50, stuffing them into hand-stamped envelopes, and mailing them to strangers who’d traded email and snail mail addresses on message boards. At its peak it released something like 30 albums in two years, most of which vanished without a trace. Pictures of Gold and Terror was the exception, the one that kept getting rediscovered, passed around, re-uploaded after link rot swallowed the original sites and files.

Twenty years on, RZRecords has transformed in the way that only the most stubborn DIY labels can: it hasn’t scaled up so much as it’s formalized its own weirdness. The CD-Rs are mostly gone, replaced by streaming platforms, Bandcamp pages and occasional limited releases. But the ethos, release anything interesting, charge almost nothing, make no concessions to accessibility, remains intact. In an era when “DIY” has been co-opted as an aesthetic by labels with real marketing budgets, RZRecords' commitment to genuine obscurity feels less like a limitation and more like a principled stance.

The track list still reads like a fever dream, a scrambled broadcast from a parallel dimension where half-melted melodies argue with ghosts of forgotten genres, and every title feels like an inside joke whispered by a synth that remembers your nightmares:

“Skin a Friend To Get Free Stuffing”
“Wall Volcano Wallkanoo”
“A Jaw As Big As a Garage”
"Please Give Me a Second Helping of Rocks"
"Sausages Made of Hands"
"Starving in the Name of Porn"

The “Hummable” Paradox: Noise Music That Gets Stuck in Your Head

Despite its roots in powerviolence, noise drones, and avant-garde grindcore, Pictures of Gold and Terror has a bizarre secret: it’s often surprisingly melodic. The Bandcamp description still claims 90% of the tracks are “hummable,” and while that sounds like a joke, there is a real grain of truth to it.

The album employs a relentless bait-and-switch tactic. A track might open with a “cute” or pleasant synth melody or a funky, Haggari's slapped bass guitar riff, a gaop OG Casio keyboard signature,  only to be violently interrupted by a blast of noise or a jagged grindcore transition. The result is something like “kawaii-noise” meets “scum-punk”: a sonic prank that keeps the listener in a constant state of brain whiplash.

This tension between melody and destruction had been explored before, but rarely with this particular flavour. Melt-Banana had been threading pop hooks through noise-punk shrapnel since the mid-90s. Fantômas, Mike Patton’s film-score-meets-grindcore project, whose 2001 self-titled debut carved up genre in similar short-burst fashion, was doing something structurally related, though with a cinematic grandeur that Pictures of Gold and Terror deliberately refuses. Closer in spirit was perhaps the work of Ruins, the Japanese duo who spent the 90s running progressive rock structures through hardcore filters with a similarly absurdist sensibility. What gaop and Haggari Nakashe added to this lineage was the jazz element: not jazz as decoration, but free-jazz as infrastructure, the improvisational logic that determined when a melody was allowed to breathe and when it would be ambushed.

“Extreme music for people with a short attention span.” — Haggari Nakashe & gaop on Pictures of Gold and Terror

What’s striking, revisiting this in 2026, is how much the broader culture has unconsciously caught up to this structure without acknowledging it. The internet trained an entire generation to process radical tonal shifts in seconds, the ironic pivot, the bait-and-switch thumbnail, the meme that starts cute and ends in chaos. Pictures of Gold and Terror was doing this as deliberate artistic provocation. Whether that makes it ahead of its time or simply unlucky, arriving just a tiny bit before the world had the language to appreciate it, probably depends on how generous you’re feeling.

Haggari Nakashe & gaop, never seemed particularly interested in being vindicated. their output since 2006 has continued along the same perverse trajectory: melodic ideas deployed as traps, accessibility used as a weapon. If anything, their recent work has doubled down on the free-jazz mixed into noise punk rock playfulness, leaning further into the “cartoony” end while keeping the trapdoor of extreme noise always one bar away.

The Noise and Jazz-Noise Lineage: Where Pictures of Gold and Terror Fits

The album’s DNA is deeply tied to the Japanoise and Japanese Noise Rock schools. With Haggari Nakashe’s background, the influence of bands like The Boredoms, Melt-Banana, and Hanatarash is undeniable, but so is a broader tradition of jazz-noise collision that was particularly fertile in the 90s and early 2000s.

Structure. Like the “ADHD” arrangements of Osaka’s noise scene, the songs don’t develop; they explode and disappear. This is a direct inheritance from artists like Masonna and Solmania, who treated duration itself as a form of aggression, why spend four minutes on something you can detonate in thirty seconds?

The Jazz Thread. The free-jazz influence puts the album in conversation with a specific 90s/00s lineage of artists who refused to keep jazz and noise in separate rooms. Zu, the Italian noise-jazz trio who emerged in the late 90s, were building a similar bridge, saxophone brutalism colliding with post-hardcore rhythms. US Maple were doing something adjacent from a more art-rock angle, using jazz’s rhythmic displacement to make rock music feel physically unstable. Borbetomagus had been fusing free jazz with pure noise even earlier, back in the 80s, but their influence was particularly felt in the 90s underground that gaop and Haggari Nakashe were clearly absorbing. All of these artists shared an instinct: that jazz’s improvisational logic and grindcore’s physical aggression were not opposites but natural co-conspirators.

The Slap. The use of the bass as a percussive, almost cartoony lead instrument adds a layer of surrealism rarely found in Western grindcore. This is where the jazz influence becomes most audible, the bass behaving less like a rhythm instrument and more like a soloist with a chaotic, bebop-inflected disregard for where the beat is supposed to land. This is years and years before they add woodwinds into their arsenal.

Haggari Nakashe’s own evolution over the two decades since is worth noting here. Where gaop has remained relatively prolific and consistent, Nakashe went through a long period of near-silence in the early 2010s, moving back to Japan, working outside music entirely, before re-emerging around 2017 with a series of solo noise and drone releases that felt like a direct continuation of Pictures of Gold and Terror’s most unhinged moments, as though the intervening decade had been compressed and fired out all at once. The collaboration between them resumed quietly, without announcement, in the way that real creative partnerships tend to: not with a reunion press release, but with a new file appearing in a shared folder.

The Japanoise lineage itself has shifted in the world’s perception. What was once genuinely underground, physically inaccessible, requiring real effort to find, is now a popular genre, few search terms away. That democratization is mostly good, and yet something about the friction of the original discovery mattered. The people who found extreme music, or Pictures of Gold and Terror in 2006 found it through effort. The people who find it now find it through an algorithm serving up “if you liked this, try…” It’s the same album. It hits differently.

A Legacy of the Weird: What 20 Years of RZRecords Tells Us About DIY Experimental Music

Looking back twenty years later, Pictures of Gold and Terror stands as a testament to the longevity of niche creative bonds, and unexpected  friendships, and to the specific kind of stubbornness required to make genuinely uncommercial art across three continents for two decades.

What Hasn’t Changed

  • The music itself. Its refusal to be palatable.
  • The gaop & Haggari Nakashe collaboration, still active.
  • RZRecords' commitment to releasing music that ignores rules and discoverability.
  • The album’s ability to sound abrasive, funny, and genuinely strange.

What Has Changed

  • The CD-R economy, blogs, and forums, they're all gone.
  • The underground is bigger, more visible, easily accessible, harder to define.
  • Jazz-noise-grindcore is now taught in music schools.
  • Streaming hosts the album but algorithmically buries it, often hoping you'd pay to make it visible.


Imagine if the internet had no algorithm, no recommendations, no safety net, just a billion random pages built by strangers with too much free time and zero design training. That was the 00s web. Instead of apps, you had Geocities shrines: personal websites so aggressively ugly they looped back around to beautiful, plastered with animated flames, visitor counters, and MIDI files that ambushed your speakers the second a page loaded. No mute button. No skip. Just whatever song some stranger decided you needed to hear.

Finding music like Pictures of Gold and Terror meant someone went genuinely hunting for it, digging through dead forum threads, copy-pasting sketchy URLs, watching a ZIP file unpack at a speed so slow you could make a sandwich between each percentage point. And if someone in your house picked up the phone mid-download, it killed your connection entirely. No autosave. Start over. The chaos wasn't a bug, it was the whole experience, and somehow that made the payoff feel enormous.

Today's internet is frictionless by design: everything is findable, streamable, and served to you based on what you already like. That's genuinely useful. But something got lost when discovery stopped feeling like discovery. When every niche got a subreddit, every obscure genre got a Spotify playlist, and every weird corner of the web got smoothed into a content category. The old internet was a place you could genuinely and easily get lost in, and losing yourself in it, stumbling onto something strange and perfect and completely unasked for, felt like finding a secret that the algorithm will never be able to fake.

Extreme music was out there, sure, this was way after the initial black metal waves, Japanese punk becoming harsh noise and decades after classical composers and jazz experimentalist went chaotic, all in existence, in the back racks of record stores brave enough to stock it, and scattered across the early internet in forgotten forum threads and sketchy ZIP files, lurking on file-sharing sites. But finding it still meant looking for it: following a thread, trusting a stranger's recommendation, disappearing down a rabbit hole with no algorithm to catch you. The discovery was part of the point.

The deeper question Pictures of Gold and Terror poses in 2026 is whether “extreme” still means anything at all. Loudness is ubiquitous. Weirdness has been aestheticized into a brand. Short attention spans have been validated by an entire industrial complex. And yet this album still manages to feel abrasive and strange and funny in a way that most calculated “weird” music doesn’t, because it was made by two people who genuinely didn’t care whether it landed, for a label that never expected it to travel, in a moment when none of the current incentive structures existed to reward legibility.

For those who missed it in 2006, Pictures of Gold and Terror is a time capsule of a moment when “extreme” didn’t just mean loud, it meant weird, funny, and unexpectedly catchy, with a jazz bassline running underneath the wreckage. For those returning to it now, it’s something rarer: proof that the things made without ambition sometimes outlast everything made with it.

In that sense, Pictures of Gold and Terror is less an album than a behavioral experiment conducted on anyone foolish enough to press play. It is music for people who think normal song structure is a polite suggestion, for listeners who enjoy being emotionally ambushed by a bassline, and for archivists of the absurd who still believe a record can be both comically overstuffed and genuinely principled. Twenty years on, it remains gloriously resistant to explanation: too melodic to dismiss as pure chaos, too chaotic to be mistaken for melody, and too self-aware to ever fully surrender to either category. It is the rare work that can sound like a joke and a manifesto at the same time, which is probably why it survives, not because it makes sense, but because it refuses to stop making trouble.

And maybe that is the real legacy of RZRecords: a catalog built like a dare, maintained like a habit, and remembered like a prank that accidentally became an institution. In a world where every release is supposed to be optimized, tagged, clipped, pre-promoted, playlisted, and pre-approved by invisible machines in distant rooms, RZRecords still behaves like a label run by people who would rather mail a CD-R to a stranger than explain themselves to an algorithm. That kind of commitment is almost tender in its own derangement. It says: here is something too weird, too loud, too specific, and too alive to be useful, which is exactly why it matters.

This text was written and HTML coded by Ben Zarik and fact-checked and edited by Haggari Nakashe & gaop to strip out false grandeur, minimize embarrassment, and generally prevent the whole thing from getting too self-important, which would be deeply on-brand and still pretty weird.



UIUIUI, Haggari Nakashe & gaop Drop a Chaotic 12-Track Split on RZRecords

RZRecords cat: RZR2025SUHg · UPC: 5063863770034 · New Release · Digital + Vinyl (CD coming soon)

We don't do things quietly around here. You know that. But every once in a while, a release lands that even we weren't fully prepared for, something so unhinged in the best possible way that it makes you want to flip your desk and start moshing in the ruins. The super WOOPER split is exactly that release.

Fifteen minutes and twenty seconds. That's all it takes. Fifteen minutes and twenty seconds of raw, beautiful, organized chaos, twelve tracks of free jazz, experimental noise, punk fury, and psych weirdness. All killer, zero filler.

🖤 Buy the Vinyl on ElasticStage 🖤

Who Are These People and Why Are They Like This

UIUIUI is an experimental duo consisting of Ori Zornitzer (Plopsk6x) and Itay Raiten (Koala), officially headquartered in the legendary and entirely real-sounding Pee Pee Township, Ohio. Their 2023 release UIUIUI – dies made clear what they're about: fourteen tracks of electronic punk, breakcore, hardcore, and full-throttle improvised mayhem. They arrived at this split fully loaded after re-recording some of their materials, ready to beat you up.

And then there's the other half. If you've been following RZRecords for any length of time, Haggari Nakashe and gaop need no introduction. You've seen their names on splits, on drone records, on that one release that made your neighbor knock and ask if everything was okay. gaop has been active since 2000 across noise, dark ambient, IDM, glitch, industrial, jazz, extreme metal, and lo-fi electro-acoustic improv. Haggari Nakashe, sound artist extraordinaire, label co-owner, your familiar, brings the synths, the bass, and the instinct for sonic architecture that longtime RZRecords listeners know and love. From Bad Dreams Revisited to IN DRONE WE TRUST, these two never release the same thing twice.

What Actually Happens on This Record

The super WOOPER split spans electronic punk, avant-punk, drone, grindcore & hardcore, improvisation, jazz-punk, noise rock, and noisegrind. Yes, ALL OF THAST. And it doesn't feel like genre tourism, it feels like three artists who simply live across all these territories.

UIUIUI come in like a caffeinated assault, fractured rhythms, jazz put through the shredder, punk cross-wired with noise electronics. Then Haggari Nakashe and gaop arrive like the back half of a storm: different in weight, equally uncompromising. Two halves in real dialogue. Not a compilation, a serious conversation.


Watch


We've been running splits since before most streaming platforms existed. CDRs, xerox inserts, floppy disks (we failed, but we tried). What makes a great split is the tension between its halves, the dialogue, the way two worlds share the same space and make something larger. The super WOOPER split nails that. UIUIUI and Haggari Nakashe & gaop are not the same kind of beast, but they are absolutely the same kind of hungry.

This one's for the people who still believe that experimental music made on low means and maximum energy is the most honest music there is. We believe that too. We always have.

🖤 Buy the Vinyl on ElasticStage 🖤

The RZRecords Team

EXPLORING NOISE TEXTURES by Haggari Nakashe

 

Usually, it's best to write original content so search engines won't tag you as a spammer copying texts from elsewhere. I guess this time is a perfect opportunity for an exception, as Haggari pretty much sums everything up perfectly, so rewriting his promo blurb into something else would just harm the message, his message.

What's left to add is that this very (sad but) enjoyable release (catalog no. RZR25HNENT)  is available on Bandcamp, and should hit streaming services sometime next month. 

Follow Haggari's Instagram for more updates.






Here's what Haggari had to say:
My latest offering, "EXPLORING NOISE TEXTURES", is a two-track album that delves deep into the interplay between sound and sadness, rethinking personal experiences that might resonate with the listener's emotional landscape via sounds. Each 25-minute track serves as an exploration, where dissonant layers of synth noise weave together delicate ambient-like textures, challenging the inner peace and further exploring notions of music and art in therapy. I feel that in the noise genre, the often-overlooked spaces of sadness and introspection are neglected as the genre tends to sometimes be more anger-driven, transforming raw emotional responses and angst into an auditory assault; where this is an attempt to turn negative emotions into something that serves the purpose of healing, venting and sharing, both haunting and profound, but not as aggressive as HNW tends to feel. I invite listeners to embrace the beauty of chaos and the significance of emotional vulnerability, hoping this could leave you pondering upon your own rich tapestry of sadness and sounds long after the final note fades.



What makes this release particularly compelling is how it challenges the listener's relationship with discomfort. While many noise artists use harshness as a form of confrontation or catharsis through aggression, Haggari opts for a more meditative descent into emotional terrain. The extended 25-minute format of each track isn't just ambitious, it's essential to the work's purpose, allowing the synth textures to gradually build and shift, creating space for genuine introspection rather than immediate impact. This is noise as a slow burn, where the therapeutic potential emerges not from explosive release but from sustained immersion in carefully crafted sonic unease.

For those new to our corner of experimental music, "EXPLORING NOISE TEXTURES" serves as an unexpectedly accessible entry point into the broader world of ambient noise and drone. The album rewards patient listening, ideally with headphones in a darkened room, allowing the layers to reveal themselves over time. We hope that you see how the effort by Haggari Nakashe to continue and demonstrate that he's vital to the underground experimental community since the early 2000s, consistently championing work that refuses easy categorization. If this release resonates with you, make sure to explore the rest of Haggari's catalog and keep an eye on RZR's ongoing split series, which regularly pairs complementary artists in ways that spark unexpected creative dialogue.

Beyond Bandcamp and streaming platforms, Haggari has been steadily building a visual dimension to his sonic explorations through the RZRecords YouTube channel, which he currently operates. The channel features videos accompanying his music, adding another layer to the immersive experience he's crafting. For those who want to dive deeper into his creative process or experience his work in a different format, the YouTube channel offers an evolving archive of his output. It's worth subscribing not just for the music itself, but to witness how Haggari continues to expand the ways listeners can engage with his brand of introspective noise, visual accompaniment often transforming these already meditative pieces into something approaching installation art.

In the Press: Paxit / DEDDOM Split Featured at Machine Music

Ahead of the upcoming split release, Ron Ben-Tovim over at Machine Music has published a massive feature interview with Andrii from DEDDOM ...