I’ve been to Wembley Arena many times for gigs, but I’d never been inside the iconic Wembley Stadium next door. On Tuesday evening we went to see the England vs Japan friendly, and while the game itself was rubbish, we really enjoyed the overall experience.

We’ll be cheering for both teams at the World Cup and wish them luck (especially England, because they’ll need it).

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John Newling at Beam, 19th February. I’ve known renowned artist John for many years and find his ecological sensitivity very interesting. I loved his note about embedding material—additional layers, text, and so on—into the work that most (or all) won’t see, but which is of great importance to the artist, and how it increases the possibility that the results will resonate with people.

E.R. Thorpe and Richard Warren at The Grove, 7th March. Emma’s a fantastic singer songwriter, recently championed by 6 Music. She’s also one third of The Low Drift. Richard’s best known for The Hybrids in the ’90s, his solo work as Echoboy, and for playing bass with Spiritualized in the 2000s. It was a treat to see both play acoustic sets in an intimate space a short walk from home.

Torn Sail at Squire PAC, 26th March. A rare full-band line-up with Huw Costin on lead vocal and acoustic guitar, Henry Claude on guitar and backing vocals, John Thompson on bass, Jim Baron on keys, synth and backing vocals, and Jeff Davenport on drums. It was such a treat to see Huw, Jim, and Brown Fang play together in one exceptionally tight band, and I think everyone in attendance was a long-time supporter. Highlights included a mesmeric Mud People and every moment of Nutshell. E.R. Thorpe was a late addition as support, the night before her new album, Human Love, was released. Brilliant stuff.

As I’ve noted previously, I enjoy attending these local events as they’re an opportunity to hang out with friends—all of us united by the wonderful work several small labels and individuals do for local art and community.

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Days 11 to 15. We celebrated a retirement, caught beans for good fortune, and spent three Perfect Days ticking off favourite places and stores.

This is Part three, days 11–15. See also Part one, days 1–5 and Part two, days 6–10

Day eleven, Saturday 31st January

It’s another beautiful, sunny day. We take a taxi to the Kokugikan and, as we get out, our driver offers us origami paper cranes she’s folded in advance.

The New Year Grand Sumo tournament (see part one) ended last week, and we’ve returned for something special: the retirement ceremony of former Yokozuna Terunofuji. It’s a fun, more relaxed day—witty announcements, exhibition tournaments, and ceremonial events. More people than usual are dressed up and, because it’s Terunofuji, there are Mongolians in ornate national dress.

During tournaments, people arrive gradually throughout the day. Today, everyone’s trying to get seated by 11am, so it’s much more chaotic navigating the tight spaces to find our zone. We have a West side box seat just for the two of us, so I can stretch out my tired legs all day.

Terunofuji performs his last-ever dohyō-iri, with three attendants: the two current Yokozuna, Hōshōryū and Ōnosato, and his little boy, who looks just like him. Next we get a slapstick comedy bout, with lots of excessive salt-throwing that gets everyone laughing. Then, several wrestlers, all with good singing voices, perform sumo jinku: a medley of songs in the folk tradition, typically about the seasons and about sumo life, and sometimes the lyrics reflect on a wrestler’s career.

Red carpets are laid and a chair is positioned. Terunofuji enters the dohyō in formal dress and sits for the hair-cutting ceremony. Supporters and wrestlers, current and retired, step up one by one to snip a small piece of his hair. Key guests include several former Yokozuna—most notably, to huge applause, Hakuho—the greatest of all time, and forever one of my favourites—wearing a magnificent golden coat. Finally, Terunofuji’s stablemaster removes his topknot, marking his official retirement. It’s an emotional moment. His family joins the ceremony, and his wife and boy present flowers before he departs the dohyō.

Then come the typical Yokozuna dohyō-iri ring-entering ceremonies and the Makuuchi bouts. It’s exhibition level, as it was in London, but still fun.

There’s a big gasp and applause as Terunofuji returns in a suit with his new haircut. Everyone from his stable joins him as he makes a speech, then they all bow and leave. It’s all over, and we eventually make it outside. It’s still sunny but very cold as we walk back through Yokoamicho Park.

We head to Ryōgoku for food. Geri’s chanko hotspots are all full, so we try Yabakyu in the station annex and it’s just what we needed. I have Tochigi wagyu (with faggot, some kind of leek, translucent red onion, and green leaves) in a thin but rich bonito broth, plus perfect zaru soba (cold noodles presented on a flat bamboo strainer) to dip and slurp as I please, with spring onions and wasabi on the side. It’s expensive, but one of my fave meals on this trip.

Day twelve, Sunday 1st February

We walk to Lattest for the usual treats, then head to Skytree Square to see the stable master and a rikishi from Naruto stable (along with two cute mascots) throwing roasted soy beans into the crowd for Setsubun (meaning “seasonal division,” the day before spring in the old Japanese calendar). They’re doing it a couple of days early, probably because it’s a Sunday.

There’s quite a scrum, and I’m half-blind from staring into the blazing sun, but I manage to catch a packet of beans—which should help me ward off a few demons.

We decide to have a shopping day and check a few favourites off our lists. We take the train to Omotesandō. It’s suddenly T-shirt weather, but I have my big coat on and must carry my scarf.

We stroll around busy Cat Street and other tight lanes. These areas feel so familiar, and I’m pleased my brain remembers exactly where many fave shops and food places are. At the Roland store, I briefly play some chords on a cool little Jupiter-Xm and get a nod of approval when I loop a little sequence and twiddle the right knobs.

We aim for the Omotesandō branch of Dandelion, only to discover that it’s permanently closed, so we head to Chop Coffee instead.

We find Snow Peak, where a lovely young staff member tells me how amazed she is at my wife’s fluent Japanese, and I return the compliment about her English. We also pop into Carhartt, and yet another Ships. I’m an unashamed Beams fan, so it’s a treat to revisit the men’s store on the hill in Shibuya. I come away with a new tee, a sweatshirt, and a fancy hand towel. I head back to Tower and buy three used records: Akiko Yano, Ai Ga Nakuchane, Kate Bush, The Kick Inside (1978 Japanese issue with obi), and David Sylvian, Brilliant Trees (UK).

We head across the Scramble to Hikarie Mall for some final shopping, then make for Muji Café. Knackered, we take the train home. It’s pot noodles and washing night.

Day thirteen, Monday 2nd February

Geri heads out frighteningly early to watch morning practice at Naruto stable, so I enjoy a slow morning sipping vending machine coffee, eating 7-11 donuts and catching up on new music.

We meet up late morning and head to nearby Leaves Coffee, one of Geri’s favourites. The reverence for coffee here reminds me of Koffee Mameya—there’s a sense of theatre to it all, but the layout and atmosphere feel more relaxed. We try two drip coffees, one Kenyan and one Ethiopian. They’re presented on custom wooden trays with little note cards, and it’s really quite beautiful. The Kenyan is especially good.

We learn that renowned cassette store Waltz is closed today—and that they’ve just deleted their Instagram, which seems odd—so we decide to check a few things off in that area tomorrow.

Instead, we head to Shimokitazawa, which is very familiar from previous trips—though it’s changed a lot, and I lose my bearings surprisingly quickly. On arrival, we buy silly hedgehog cakes because they’re cute, and devour them outside in the sun. We wander around the new Bonus Track: small indie shops and cafés nestled among High Line–style planting we’d seen on NHK’s excellent Design x Stories.

There’s a tiny record shop called Pianola. It looks good and the door’s open, but someone’s bags are blocking the entrance and it doesn’t feel inviting, so we skip it.

Back in the old streets, we walk past the super-cheap Airbnb we had eight years ago, then along the road where On The Way Cupcake used to be. We walk up the street that Geri illustrated for Unseen Japan and pop into P’s First to meet some tiny pups.

We climb the steep stairs up to Flash Disc Ranch, the record shop featured in Wim Wenders’ wonderful Perfect Days. They’ve got a small but excellent city pop section, and I pick up a pristine first pressing of Mariya Takeuchi’s Request. I also buy another Sakamoto book. Geri finds an intriguing Misora Hibari folk songs 10". The owners start chatting with us, and it’s a delight to feel so welcome. And because we buy stuff, they invite us to take photos.

There’s a Mister Donut, and we’re flagging, so we refuel with pon-de-ring and coffee. Then we head back to Shinjuku to wander Isetan’s utterly incredible food floor. If you ever want to see Japanese care and skill at its finest, check out the pastry and confectionery here. We pop upstairs and wander around the fashion and perfume floors before taking the train home.

I’m loving every moment, but after two weeks on the go I’m starting to feel it now.

Day fourteen, Tuesday 3rd February

Another sunny morning, another walk to Lattest, where we see Yumi again. I’ve brought one of my Tokyo tapes with me, and take a photo of my nonsite at its site.

We take the train to upmarket Nakameguro. Walking through the quiet residential backstreets, I’m surprised to spot posters for the Brian Eno film and Autechre’s tour in someone’s window. We’re heading for Waltz, where new and used tapes are presented alongside select vinyl, books, and reconditioned stereos. It’s my first visit and it’s undoubtedly one of the best shops in Tokyo. But there’s a downside I knew about in advance, and it plays out.

I’m totally fine with a strict no photos rule, but I’m disappointed to experience the rumoured frosty welcome. The woman looks at me as though she’s carrying resentment towards anyone who’s ever annoyed her (compare with Flash Disc yesterday, whose owners have similar issues but express an eagerness to be friendly). I think the assumption at Waltz is that any foreigner will probably be disrespectful in some way. Or maybe it’s everyone, because I then watch the man shuffle a bemused young Japanese guy out of the shop for holding a closed bottle of water.

Despite all of this, our exchange with the man at the till—and the goodbye—are nice. I buy three perfectly presented cassettes: Kate Bush, Hounds of Love (original from 1985, which I later discover to be untested and unplayable), Fleet Foxes, Crack-Up (original from 2017), Shigeru Suzuki, Band Wagon (reissue). Still, the cold welcome will linger in my memory.

We retrace our steps and make for excellent Onibus Coffee, where we grab seats under the awning. Then we walk to Daikanyama and, in this sunshine, the upscale neighbourhood looks a bit like California; the way the shops and boutiques are presented feels a bit Abbot Kinney in places.

Our destination is Tsutaya Books’ T-Site, and it’s probably the very best bookshop I’ll ever visit: a complex of three custom buildings, their white façades patterned with the repeated T logo. Inside, there are six distinct sections, plus mini stationery stores, cafés, records, and a kombini.

It’s a books-and-magazines dream. There’s a bit of everything, but a strong focus on art and design—and a brilliant corner for music equipment and books, plus loads of YMO/Sakamoto vinyl and related books I’ve not seen anywhere else.

Time is ticking, so we walk to Ebisu in lovely light, then take the train back to the hotel to freshen up.

We head straight back out to Ryoma’s for dinner with Tomoya and Yamada (who I meet for the first time, and he gifts me a custom Naruto bag). We’re also joined by Ōshōumi, a top-division rikishi who picked up an impressive ten wins in the recent tournament.

I consume many bowls of proper chanko-nabe from a huge pot, more of that amazing mackerel, and some new things: crackers with natto and cream cheese, shelled maigokai, spicy bean sprouts with pork, noodles, battered chicken. I lose track—food just keeps coming, whether we order it or not.

It’s a long night—almost five hours at the table—that will live long in the memory. It’s not every night a 150kg pro wrestler quietly and deftly shows you how to extract whelk flesh with a cocktail stick.

Day fifteen, Wednesday 4th February

Our last full day, and we decide to keep it easy—we’re knackered, and we’ve got a lot of packing configurations to try before an early night.

For almost the final time, we walk to Lattest for the usual coffee and toast, then head to the Skytree Mall for some last-minute shopping. We browse Geri’s favourite shops, plus Beams and a bookshop. I buy a lovely The Goodland Market recycled wool scarf with orange detailing at Urban Research Store.

We can’t resist retracing our steps to Lattest for takeaway lattes and gooey choc-chip cookies, which we enjoy in perfect weather on a bench by the river, with the Skytree looming over us.

Double-caffeinated, we stroll to Asakusa and head down into Tokyo’s oldest underground street. We’re looking for Fuku-chan, the yakisoba bar featured in Perfect Days, and everything is exactly as it appeared in the film. Next door is Siam Time, a tiny vinyl stand selling classic city pop and seemingly everything by The Beatles; it looks great, but I don’t dare browse as I can’t carry any more records home. The owner is clearly proud to have played a small part in the filming, with laminated info about Wim Wenders using the shop as a mini HQ.

As day fifteen draws to a close, we wander through a few streets and arcades, then walk home under a gorgeous sunset. An evening of 7‑Eleven food and packing awaits.

And finally...

No trip to Japan is complete without collecting a few (usually unintentionally) funny brand names. Here are a handful I snapped this time.

Thanks for reading. I’ve received some lovely comments online and in person about these posts, and it’s much appreciated :)

If you enjoyed this post covering days 11–15 of our 2026 trip, check out Part one, days 1–5 and Part two, days 6–10. I also wrote about the music I bought. Previous trips are tagged Japan 2016 and Japan 2018, and there’s a general Japan tag.

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Days 6 to 10 brought several trip highlights, including an outstanding café, trippy outdoor bathing in Karuizawa, and a perfect few hours at Sakamoto Library.

This is Part two, days 6–10. See also Part one, days 1–5 and Part three, days 11–15.

Day six, Monday 26th January

Another gorgeous day, crisp and breezy and not a cloud in the sky—barely any cloud at all so far this trip. Geri twisted her ankle over the weekend, so she’s struggling a bit, but in good spirits. We walk to Lattest for flat whites and French toast, before a brief return to the Skytree mall to pick up a couple of things.

After that, we take the long train ride to Kichijōji. I loved it there on the last trip — and it’s so clear that we glimpse Mount Fuji from the train.

We make for Shirohige’s Cream Puff Factory—a tiny bakery owned by Hayao Miyazaki’s brother—then walk a while to Coconuts Disk, where I pick up Tatsuro Yamashita’s first album, Circus Town (2023 reissue).

We amble through the huge park for a bit, then drift in and out of some vintage shops. We grab donuts from Hara, then head nextdoor for delicious Kenyan drip at Light Up Coffee.

As the light falls, we head for the malls and arcades—Ships, Green Label Relaxing, and P’s First to see the tiny pups. We finish with a cheap pasta dinner and melon soda at Saizeriya. Students love it and I get the budget vibe, but I wouldn’t go again. Still, melon soda.

On the long train ride home across Tokyo, we see Fuji again, silhouetted against a stunning sunset.

Day seven, Tuesday 27th January

Geri’s ankle is still bad, but she’s up for another big day. We take a train to Shinjuku, then on to Okubo, and a sunny stroll to Lambert—perhaps the most beautiful café in Tokyo right now: a meticulously renovated old building with a lovely garden. A pair of acrobatic white-eyes pick at early blossom right above our heads.

Geri had been on her last trip and made sure to get us a reservation (in the best room), and I’m thrilled she did, because I love everything about Lambert. We get chatting to a friendly Aussie called Jason, who offers to take a few pics for us. We buy two rounds of drinks—matcha lattes first, then matcha lemonade—and also have an amazing matcha ice cream monaka. (Yes, they specialise in matcha.)

Refreshed, we get a train to Hatagaya to check off several things on our list. After an onigiri boost, we wander down Nishihara Street.

I like good socks, and I’m a huge fan of Rototo. We head to their modest but gorgeous little shop and receive a warm welcome. I flash the Rototo socks I’m wearing, much to the staff’s delight. I’m spoiled for choice, but eventually settle on three new pairs—all in some way orange.

A few yards on is Ella Records in a lovely old wooden building. After a good rummage I buy four: YMO’s Public Pressure, Tatsuro Yamashita’s Ride on Time, Akiko Yano’s Oh Hisse Oh Hisse and Japan’s Tin Drum—all second hand.

The third of the three spots on our list is Kasiki, which specialises in wine and ice cream pairings. We luck into the best seat in the corner, with street-level windows and a vase of flowers. I order a red Languedoc and two scoops of ice cream: strawberry and rosemary, and yuzu and white chocolate. Geri has an Italian orange wine, and her pairings are strawberry and rosemary, and kumquat and Earl Grey. Everything is outstanding.

We reach the end of the road, but keep walking for another hour or so until we get to Shibuya. We both adore Loft, and stock up on favourite stationery—mostly Midori notebooks and Pentel pencils for me. Knackered, we head to Muji Café for an easy dinner, then take the Ginza Line home.

Day eight, Wednesday 28th January

Cooler today; no sun, and the first sight of cloud for a week. We stroll to Lattest for flat whites and French Toast. We bump into top division rikishi Ōshōma, who Geri knows well. He’s enjoying time off with his wife and kid. We also spot yobidashi Kenta, but decide not to bother him as he’s with other people. We walk over to Asakusa for a wander among the temples, markets, and selfie-ing foreigners.

Today is a big deal for me. I have a reservation at the Sakamoto Library, Ryuichi’s personal book collection curated under his direction before his death, in a secret location. I’m not allowed to share any details, but it’s genuinely wonderful to browse his books for a few hours, hunting for his page folds, pencil notes, and other marginalia. Quietly reading something I know he cherished was extraordinary. A huge trip highlight.

Since I’m not allowed to share anything publicly about Sakamoto Library, I’ve written a private post about the experience and why it meant so much to me. Drop me an email if you’d like to read it.

Afterwards, we head to Asakusa to pick up some treats from Mister Donut. We also pop in a couple specialist shops, brave the big Don Quijote for a few essentials, and head back for an early one and pack for tomorrow’s trip within a trip.

Day nine, Thursday 29th January

Up early, we head to Ueno to catch the Hakutaka Shinkansen on the Hokuriku line, and travel smoothly towards Karuizawa in Nagano Prefecture. Before long the city thins out and mountains appear in the distance, snow-draped against the sky. We pass Mount Haruna, then slip into a tunnel, and just as quickly we’re out again in Karuizawa. We step onto the platform and get smacked by the bracing mountain air.

Karuizawa has been a favourite resort for more than a century—loved by writers and musicians, and even featured in two Studio Ghibli films, most notably The Wind Rises, which I love.

It also has a massive outdoor outlet mall. It’s wall-to-wall luxury brands, but with more affordable stuff too, like Beams and Ships. I pick up an ace Beams fleece scarf (a forever accessory I’ve since fallen in love with) and a Manhattan Portage sling bag that fits more than my old cheap one.

We warm up over lunch at Miso Ramen. Outside it’s proper bracing; feels like a Newfoundland winter that tears your face off. By 3pm it feels like -8°C.

We grab a taxi to the hotel. Our driver is a Beatles fan, going on and on about Abbey Road, but also Björk, and I’m impressed that he pronounces her name perfectly.

Our hotel, BEB5, sounds like a sci‑fi planet or droid, but it’s actually Hoshino Resorts’ more affordable but no less cool offering (I wrote previously about short stays at five-star Hoshinoya Tokyo and Hoshinoya Kyoto). Modern architecture, warm wooden interiors. It’s a little haven tucked away in the woods.

BEB5 is close to several satellite spots, and we stroll over to Harunire Terrace for waffles and lattes at cosy Maruyama Coffee.

After a short rest at the hotel, we head back out through the woods to Tonbo-no-yu onsen—also owned by Hoshino—with indoor and outdoor baths fed by natural hot spring water. It’s impressively modern, but the rules are traditional, so I head left for the men’s side and Geri goes right to the women’s.

Once inside, I get nude and am required to stay that way. Almost everyone else seems young and fit and I feel a bit old and frumpy—but I don’t really care any more. First, I wash properly, sat on a little plastic stool, and then I can enter the baths. There’s a lovely big indoor pool, but I head straight for the dramatic outdoor onsen ringed with rocks and set against a woodland backdrop.

I don’t really know how to sum up the experience, but when I met up with Geri, I declared it of the best things I’ve ever done. I loved the classic Japanese wash‑house experience. The outdoor pool was as hot as any in Iceland; I went in and out a few times, and did two five‑minute spells in the sauna.

Towards the end, I did a cold pool plunge. The first hit was pure pain, but as my body began to adjust it eased into something else entirely—a shiver up my spine, then this deep, comforting rush. I honestly felt like I was tripping. From the corner where I sat naked in the cool air, the view was unreal: those massive rocks, the trees lit from below, soft snowflakes falling. And then, I thought I saw spirits dancing in the steam. Very briefly, I was high.

Day ten, Friday 30th January

We wake in Karuizawa, in our soft bunk. I love the feel of tatami under bare feet.

I head down to the lobby café in my pyjamas, expecting to order two coffees and grab something simple to eat. But there’s a confusing breakfast system at play and nobody speaks English—just a lot of pointing. I mess it up, get grumpy, then later bow an apology to the server as we leave. Any time I try to handle things solo, I’m reminded how much I benefit from Geri’s fluent Japanese.

We check out of BEB5 and walk the path to Maruyama for a flat white and a mustardy ham-and-cheese toastie.

The light in the woods is beautiful, and the benches—along with those steel grates that let the old trees breathe—feel as thoughtful and deliberate as good land art. Even the shadows of bare winter branches cast onto the concrete seem to capture something distinctly Japanese in their restraint and precision. We stay a while and praise the shadows.

We follow the perfectly maintained woodland path, climb some steps to the elevated outdoor ice rink, then head back to the bus stop for a short ride to Karuizawa’s Old Ginza Street. I try to picture the shop-lined road in its heyday—a playground for well-to-do Western visitors and Japan’s creative set. Not today, though. It’s off-season: cold, quiet, and there are only a few of us pootling around.

We visit the French Bakery, famous because John and Yoko used to pop in daily during their Karuizawa retreats, and sit in to share a lovely cream bun and a melon pan. It’s odd to picture Lennon buying his bread here, and yet it feels entirely natural.

They’re strict about no photos, but I win because on the way out I take a snap through the glass door, and the angle lines up with the huge photo so it looks like he’s inside, staring back at me.

We pop into a few fun shops like Denim Rilakkuma and Miffy Bakery, then walk up to the top, where there’s a Bashō memorial and brief glimpses of classic big resort houses and mossy gardens between the trees. Tired, and getting colder by the minute, we head back down and catch the bus to the station.

Geri told me all about how much she’d loved it here on her solo visit, and I can feel it too. The town’s marketing asks visitors to “Feel Karuizawa,” and I do—I feel it too. I’ll return.

From the Shinkansen, we see Mount Fuji looming large against a spectacular sunset to our right as we near Tokyo.

We’re tired but fancy a treat, and we head across rush hour Tokyo via two trains to popular Curry Bondy, where we join a long queue winding up the narrow stairs.

Bondy has dealt with its popularity by printing signage to manage it, and it’s a slick operation designed to get you in and out ASAP. It’s like they’re trying to feed the entire world from one restaurant within an hour. The queue ordering is so efficient you get your food and the bill before you’ve even taken your coat off (really).

Back at the subway, I buy Geri a small bouquet from Aoyama Flower Market, because she loves it and I love her.

Today was our tenth straight day on the go, from morning till night. After feeling consistently strong and positive throughout, my arthritis and muscle aches are kicking in now. Perhaps the cold of Karuizawa has settled into my bones. Five more full days to come.

If you enjoyed this post covering days 1–5 of our 2026 trip, check out Part one (days 1–5), and Part three (days 11–15). I also wrote about the music I bought. Previous trips are tagged Japan 2016 and Japan 2018, and there’s a general Japan tag.

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I’ve split my summary across three posts, and this roundup details the first five days. Highlights included lots of sumo, a studio session, and getting to know Ryōgoku.

This is Part one, days 1–5. See also Part two, days 6–10, and Part three, days 11–15.

General notes

Aside from two days in the mountains, we stayed in Tokyo rather than worry about revisiting other cities. It was also my first January trip, and I loved it—cold but bright and sunny, the air crisp and fresh. It never even threatened to rain in Tokyo (just after we came home, epic snow blanketed the capital). The popular areas had tourists, yes, but nothing as suffocating as the spring overload I’d experienced on previous trips.

Outfits matter more to me as I get older, and style always matters in Japan. It’s good to reflect local trends and staples rather than look like a typical tourist, and I was happy on this trip (I had minor regrets on previous visits). I also have to keep up with Geri, who always looks completely put together. Dark denim with a green parka or grey tweed jacket and lots of orange detailing—socks, scarves and hat; watch strap; tote or sling logos—paired with clean white Adidas or lived-in Clarks worked well. Can’t go wrong with a few Beams, Carhartt and Uniqlo staples. And Rototo make the best socks in the world.

I kept daily notes, but fleshing them out would be overwhelming and possibly unnecessary. So some days will feel detailed and others have little more than basic reminders. I may expand a few things into separate posts.

Arrival

I think the phrase “long-arse journey” describes 14-hour flights pretty well. This one was very long on the arse, with no sleep. We enjoy a complimentary taxi from Haneda to Geri’s regular budget hotel and immediately pop back out to the nearest kombini (oh how I’ve missed kombinis). We stock the fridge and, arrange a few essentials in our tiny room, and neck Pocari Sweat while watching some bonkers TV. I sleep like a baby.

Day one, Wednesday 21st January

We wake in historic Ryōgoku, our base for this trip. Geri visits Tokyo two or three times a year and almost always stays at the budget hotel here. Our room is small but we’re making it work, and the hotel has a good vibe. Crucially, it’s near to lots of things we like.

We enjoy a sunny walk to Lattest, about a mile away. I only know their original Omotesando branch—this is a newer, bigger spot adjoining a climbing centre by the river, the Skytree looming overhead. Our friend Yumi is working, and it’s lovely to get such a warm welcome. We enjoy flat whites and the most wonderful (I don’t mean to brag, I don’t mean to boast...) French toast. Refreshed, we wander over to the Skytree Town Solamachi mall to warm up our shopping brains.

Early afternoon, we wander over to the Kokugikan and watch top division rikishi arrive for the day’s action. I get my first feel for the home of sumo—I’d previously only been to the Osaka tournament in 2018 and last year’s London jungyo. It’s great to see the copper roof and nobori flags, and to feel the buzz of fans mingling outside. Mostly, I enjoy seeing Geri in her element.

I was excited to top up my 2016 Suica card, and surprised that the unused money from 2018 (¥3,100) hadn’t evaporated.

We take the subway to Ginza for a quick look around the shops and to collect coveted ringside sumo tickets from Geri’s contact for tomorrow’s bouts. We then head to Shinjuku for food at the always reliable and affordable Muji Cafe—they now do an incredibly refreshing yuzu squash.

We swing by Tenjin Ramen, as seen on the cover of Rod Modell & Taka Noda’s ambient masterpiece Glow World. (Hat tip to my old friend Patrick Lauke for sharing this location.)

Then comes the first of several Ryuichi Sakamoto moments: we’d prebooked a screening of the 4K restoration of the 1984 profile Tokyo Melody at 109 Cinema—a luxury theatre with sound design by the professor himself. Before the film, we check out the pop-up in the foyer and examine his Fairlight CMI closely. The film is only an hour long, but it’s a wonderful 1980s time capsule. My highlights: the scene where he exits the subway following a man with silver hair and glasses who looks like his future self; him playing piano with his then-wife Akiko Yano; his Fairlight explainers; the sheer joy of the Yoyogi Park dancing and the wider portrait of the city. There are unique versions of his songs throughout, including a perfect piano rendition of Self Portrait.

Day two, Thursday 22nd January

I already like Ryōgoku. It’s a neighbourhood characterised by its proximity to both the river and the home of sumo and several stables—a quiet, pleasant area with several parks. And although it’s January, there are flowers blooming everywhere.

We head to the Kokugikan for my first full tournament day. We have ringside ‘seats’ (thin cushions on the floor) and tea house hospitality, which is a huge privilege and hard to come by for most foreigners. We eat bento in the chanko hall and skip the queue thanks to our tea house status. We pop out to the side entrance sun trap a few times to watch rikishi enter, which is a lot of fun.

Sitting ringside makes the action feel visceral, but it calls for more neutral observance, and I often wish I could shout and cheer like you can elsewhere in the arena, without having to be so well behaved. We enjoy some excellent Makuuchi bouts, notably my fave wrestler Takayasu vs struggling Yokozuna Onosato.

It’s fun wandering around this fabled venue, especially with Geri. A journalist waits to pounce and interview her (they’d been tipped off she’d be here), and two fans she met in London seek her out. I love that people know who she is from her illustration, tanmono designs, and online activities. I also meet the recently retired Hokotofuji.

I’m in pieces from sitting on the floor for hours with only brief breaks, but we walk to Mongolian restaurant Ulaan Baatar for lots of meat and a threat of salad. We then take a slow, brutally cold walk home. I get straight into the tiny bath green from sachets of healing salts, and finally crawl into our tiny bed.

Day three, Friday 23rd January

We’re up frighteningly early and head to watch sumo practice at Takasago stable, home to sekitori Asanoyama, Asahakuryū, and Asakōryū, and it’s a good experience that might only be better if I had some coffee in my system. There are lots of tourists, most looking well-off, with what I can only describe as US tech founder vibes: neat slacks and tasteful yachting knitwear. I’m convinced that they all get their leisure outfits from the same subscription clothing start-up or AI conference.

Then back to the Kokugikan, where we share a box (four thin cushions with a bar around them) with two others. It’s a long day, 10:30 till 6, but it suits me far better than ringside: still tight, but you can lean back and stretch your legs a bit, see the ring clearly, and eat and drink. It’s more social too: you can chat, cheer, shout, and wave towels. Fewer rules = more fun.

Again, we pop outside to watch the rikishi arrive and meet Geri’s friends, Mie and Tomoya. I love how bemused onlookers look when Geri speaks fluent Japanese.

We head for dinner at Ryoma’s (he’s a former wrestler and lovely bloke) with Tamoya and eat amazing mackerel, cow cheek, steak, and nori tempura dishes. Back at the hotel, we see ourselves on the TV coverage of the day’s sumo action.

Day four, Saturday 24th January

A rare “me on my own, out and about in Tokyo” day, which means music stuff. I walk to Asakusa, take the Ginza line to Omotesando, then head to Harajuku for a flat white and “croffle” with ice cream at the minimal and serene dotcom space.

I then wander to Studio Noah, where I’ve booked a tiny music studio for the afternoon. I love any opportunity to play a real piano, and there’s a Yamaha YU-11 and mixer. I’ve brought my own RØDE mics and other portable kit, and I spend the time re-recording piano parts for the album, taking a few breaks to devour onigiri.

After that, I walk to Shibuya. There are smaller record shops to dig into later, but first it’s Tower Records for a proper rummage. There’s way more vinyl than last time and I spend nearly two hours in there. Todays haul: Ryuichi Sakamoto: Opus 4 x LP box (Japanese 2024 edition), Async, Thousand Knives of. YMO, YMO, Solid State Survivor. Toshiki Kadomatsu, Touch and Go. Radiohead, Kid A (XL obi edition). See separate post Tokyo music haul for details of all records bought on this trip.

Knackered, with heavy bags, I take the long subway ride home.

Day five, Sunday 25th January

It’s the final day of the January sumo tournament, and my third visit in five days. Outside, we meet two illustrators that Geri knows, Inunco and her husband, Chanky Matsumoto. The mascots are scurrying around being weird, and the red one clearly fancies me.

We take it easy in the venue. We have cheap seats, which is a comedown after ringside and a box, but a normal seat is quite welcome for my arse. Still, it’s great: back row, amazing view. Mostly we potter around the venue. We serendipitously meet Mongolian ironman Tamawashi’s parents, and Geri gives them a drawing of their son and they lose their minds. Yokozuna Hōshōryū beats Onosato. Ukrainian sensation Aonishiki wins the tournament via an exciting playoff with Atamifuji. We get chills watching the national anthem from on high.

And that’s the end of day five. We enjoy an easy night, eating snacks and washing our smalls in the basement laundry room. Ten more packed days to come...

If you enjoyed this post covering days 1–5 of our 2026 trip, check out Part two (days 6–10), and Part three (days 11–15). I also wrote about the music I bought. Previous trips are tagged Japan 2016 and Japan 2018, and there’s a general Japan tag.

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Another time-consuming but deeply rewarding home repair. I love my 43-year-old Technics SU-Z15 amplifier far too much to replace it, and I’ve no excuse when there’s a detailed YouTube video of a Turkish chap repairing the very same amp. I came close to despair with the weird as hell input switches, but I bloody did it.

For anyone interested, oxidised contacts were causing crackling when adjusting the volume and input selection, often resulting in intermittent stereo, with one channel frequently dropping out. I had to do a partial breakdown, completely disassemble the switches and faders, remove dirt and oxides with DeoxIT D5 and a razor blade, then lubricate with FaderLube F5. Frustrating at times, but often strangely calming.

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The great memory of that January afternoon will be the stillness—the way time seemed to slow as I sat reading in that cosy corner of the Sakamoto Library, legs stretched out, a blanket over my knees, the gentle scent of coffee in the air.

The small room preserving Ryuichi Sakamoto’s personal book collection accommodates eight people at a time, with three sessions per week—booked two months in advance. I’d secured a reservation for Wednesday afternoon.

I’m not allowed to share details about the library’s location, appearance, or contents. But I need to document the experience as it brought me closer to an artist who has become a hugely important influence on my work and life. That’s why I’ve written this post and marked it private.

The library was designed and curated under Sakamoto’s direction before his death and it’s a modest, beautiful space that gives new life to his old books. I spent the first hour browsing, swapping my wooden book dummy for a variety of publications, searching for his page folds, underlines and marginalia.

The first book I reached for was Andrei Tarkovsky’s Sculpting in Time (“the great Russian filmmaker discusses his art”). I was drawn to it because it sat in clear view, propped on a stand, but also because of Sakamoto’s thoughts in the documentary Coda and because Tarkovsky features so prominently in his work—most notably as inspiration for the album Async.

He only left seven masterpieces, and I have watched them again and again throughout my life, but recently I like his films more than before, maybe because of age, maybe the disease. His films are full of poetry. There’s one, very biographic movie called Mirror. It’s very poetic and there’s almost no story, but it’s all about his imagination and his memories.

Tarkovsky’s films are known for their striking imagery and evocative field recordings. They’re also immensely challenging, offering no easy answers. You watch a Tarkovsky film as you might admire a landscape.

I leafed through many books—mostly in English, a few in Japanese—before deciding to settle in with the first one I’d picked up. I ordered a drip coffee, chose a nook, and made myself comfortable in a lovely leather chair. The room was cold, so I draped a blanket over my legs and wrapped my scarf around my neck. My coffee arrived in a white Sakamoto Library mug, placed on a small fake tree stump side table. With gentle music playing and the scent of coffee in the air, I began to read Tarkovsky’s thoughts, pausing only to make notes.

Once again, it felt like Sakamoto was gently guiding me. I’m nearing completion of my album, and it’s so ambitious in concept that I’m almost paralysed with doubt. The process has taken long enough that I’ve frequently managed to “go the ten extra miles to find something and dispense with everything else” (a Thom Yorke quote I love). Recently, I discarded a dozen scene-setting spoken lines from the intro song—lines I’d held onto for two years and always expected to use—after arriving at one beautiful line that trusts the listener and serves as the perfect invitation.

And so, it felt significant to discover this from Tarkovsky as I sat reading:

All creative work strives for simplicity, perfectly simple expression. The most painful part of creative work is finding the shortest path between what you want to say or express and its ultimate reproduction in the finished image. The struggle for simplicity is the painful search for a form adequate to the truth you have grasped.

In another section of the book, Tarkovsky urged artists not to make their methods discernible—to avoid playing “give-away” or making the work “too easy to read”. He cited a fantastic example from “the genius” Akira Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood: instead of showing the protagonists looking confused in mist, Kurosawa centred the scene around a memorable tree. They circle it three times, and it gently dawns on you that they are lost. This also resonated strongly, as my album shines light on characters and situations that were initially quite obvious, but are feeling much stronger as abstracted clues to decode and connect.

Everything aligned as I sat there, with some lovely moments. For example, while writing about The Mirror, Tarkovsky presents the poem Life, Life, written by his father, Arseny—and when I finished reading it, I looked to my left and noticed the Sakamoto book, LIFE, L I F E, on the shelf. And everything connects: there’s a beautiful track on Async called Life, Life where David Sylvian reads lines of Tarkovsky senior’s poetry.

To one side from ourselves, to one side from the world / Wave follows wave to break on the shore, / On each wave is a star, a person, a bird, / Dreams, reality, death—on wave after wave.

I could write so much more, but what matters is that I’ve found a way to capture why those few hours will mean so much to me.

It felt like a gift to quietly read a book I knew Sakamoto cherished, to discover his margin notes and underlines, to trace the thoughts that moved him. In that room, surrounded by his collection, I found truth. Not just in Tarkovsky’s words, but in the act itself. The reverence of it. The connection across time.

I left the library with greater confidence in the purpose and approach of my project—as a better artist and as a better human being.

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I focused on my fave 70s/80s city pop artists and YMO/Sakamoto, but couldn’t resist the 1978 Japan pressing of The Kick Inside, a 1985 Hounds of Love tape, and that Kid A obi variant.

Group 1: Non-Japanese artists, clockwise: Japan, Tin Drum; David Sylvian, Brilliant Trees; Rockin’ On, Radiohead cover; Fleet Foxes, Crack-Up; Kate Bush, Hounds of Love; Kate Bush, The Kick Inside, 1978 Japan pressing; Radiohead, Kid A with obi.

Group 2: City Pop: Toshiki Kadomatsu, Touch & Go; Tatsuro Yamashita, Ride on Time; Mariya Takeuchi, Request; Akiko Yano, Oh Hisse Oh Hisse; Akiko Yano, Ai Ga Nakuchane; Shigeru Suzuki, Band Wagon; Tatsuro Yamashita, Circus Town.

Group 3: Ryuichi Sakamoto, L-R: Thousand Knives of, Async, Opus 4 x LP box set, 2024 Japanese edition; two magazine specials.

Group 4: Yellow Magic Orchestra, L-R: debut album, Japanese edition; Solid State Survivor; Public Pressure.

I visited Coconuts Disk, Ella Records, Flash Disk Ranch, Siam Time, Waltz and Tower Vinyl. I skipped Disk Union and Kankyo this time because I’d already exceeded my packing (and spending) limit.

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Appreciate these roundups?

I work on this roundup all year, and the final post takes several days. If you wish to show your appreciation, you can buy my music or buy me a coffee. Thanks :)

Check out all yearlies or go directly to 2024, 2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018, 2017, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005, or 2004.

To listen while you read, shuffle my vast and unedited 2025 Faves (240 songs), or play the more focused 2025 Top Fifty Tracks. Both Apple Music.

Some changes to the roundup this year:

• No Spotify playlists – Apple only. I’m also removing per-album links; you all know how to search your preferred platform or use a record shop.
• No definitive rankings. The top ten order is about right, but without time to properly absorb some fine albums, numbered ranking would be arbitrary.
• Mixes and Remixes: It’s been a solid year, so these now have their own section.

Ok, let’s go...

Albums EPs & sub-30 Live, reissues, scores, comps Mixes & Remixes Tracks Notables Playlists Shows Stats Notes

Top albums

• 

  Under Tangled Silence

  Djrum

  Multi-talented Felix Manuel has matured to a point where his music leans less on samples and more on organic, introspective piano sketches. The first half is outstanding, its beauty punctuated with quieter pauses, while the final four long, mind-bogglingly percussive tracks reward patience — each eventually offering a gear change and remarkable passages of light.

• 

  Stochastic Drift

  Barker

  Tied for top spot: while Djrum’s album is painterly, fluid and liberated from the grid, Barker brings rigour and structure to this calculated but equally warm and engaging work. His often beatless techno thrives on tension between icy precision and random instrumentation. I love the ambient moments, and the loose and jazzy track Fluid Mechanics.

• 

  Antigone

  Eiko Ishibashi

  Ishibashi returns to song with a distinct 70s/80s tone (hints of Yumi Arai and Akiko Yano in its simple charm). You might dismiss it on first listen, but repeat spins reveal darkened worldliness. The Model is 8 minutes of electro-prog reaching Spirit of Eden-levels of sprawling ambition, drawn with Kid A-like unquantifiable timbres.

• 

  Lux

  Rosalía

  Yes, Rosalía. This multilingual classical‑pop opera analysing a breakup through the lens of female saints is an audacious gear change that hits like something fellow polymath Björk might make. The thunderous Berghain and beautiful fado Memória are contrasting standouts. Bonus: the LSO and Caroline Shaw's involvement really flusters classical-music dinosaurs.

• 

  In a Fugue State

  Paul Cousins & Joe Harvey-Whyte

  Slide guitar with Cousins’ trademark tape dropouts and echoes exploring themes of loss and memory. This beautiful work was a comfort while I cleared my late Mum’s house. Spend time with it and more beauty reveals itself. For me, it sits somewhere between KLF’s Chill Out and Modell & Moda’s Glow World.

• 

  Landscape from Memory

  Rival Consoles

  Assembled from old sketches and that’s probably why, despite the evocative title, it doesn’t seem to say anything. But it doesn’t have to, because it sounds so good. Catherine is a standout, and I love the tape-saturated Coda. Check out his recent Ableton video interview; it’s great.

• 

  Swallow

  Steve Queralt

  I loved early RIDE but never gave the bassist a thought. Thirty years later, he’s made one of my favourite records of 2025. It excels when it moves beyond by-numbers shoegaze to experiment with sound and samples; closer Motor Boats is stunning. Sadly, the album disappeared from Apple Music and is yet to return.

• 

  Iconoclasts

  Anna von Hausswolff

  I’d loved Dead Magic and the Montreux live album, but this is another level. It’s as though she’s wailing six inches from my face. When something this loud and confident arrives, even when it misfires (for me, dear old Iggy’s vocal breaks the spell) or goes on a bit, it’s so refreshing. Struggle With The Beast is massive, and Stardust makes my top five.

• 

  Netherfield Lagoons

  Brown Fang

  The first of two Delia releases here sees John and Henry soundtrack unsung edgelands on my side of town. I initially found the production too pristine for the gritty Sneinton and Colwick I know, but these intricate instrumentals soon won me over. A Fixed Point shines brightest, and Life on Ice typifies the eerie beauty of the quieter moments.

• 

  Iris Silver Mist

  Jenny Hval

  Another brilliant avant-garde diary entry from Norway’s finest. I love the use of spoken word to temper beauty. The highlight is I don’t know what free is — a song that, if it were a reel, would have “WAIT FOR IT” typed over it, because it’s at 2:50, when the drums arrive, that it transforms into one of 2025’s best tracks.

• 

  Gaiaphilia

  Yumiko Morioka & Takashi Kokubo

  Lovely nature-minded ambient work where veteran Morioka’s graceful piano meets Kokubo’s immersive field recordings and atmospheric synths. The title track is gorgeous, as is Veil of the Night. Birds of Borneo is a lovely meditative collage of melodic birdsong. Another excellent release from Metron.

• 

  Living Room

  Andrea

  Another fine release from this under-the-radar Italian producer. Conceptually, the idea is that the room you’re in is alive, and you’re everywhere, in Zen-like communion with your surroundings. This painterly ambient techno will satisfy anyone who loves the intricacy of fellow Ilian Tape artists like the superb Skee Mask.

• 

  Desert Window

  Lucy Gooch

  I loved her earlier, dreamy and expressionist EPs Rain’s Break and Rushing, and was excited about a debut album. Whilst it doesn’t quite meet my high expectations, there’s much to love — not least opening song Like Clay, with it’s Enya-like ethereal beauty. I also love the more experimental, dissonant moments. Immersive and transportive.

• 

  Tremor

  Daniel Avery

  A grower. I loved his previous album, Ultra Truth, but nearly moved on from this collab project featuring eight or nine guests (of which I only knew shoegazers bdrmm and Alison Mosshart). But, I’m glad I returned. The first few songs are incredibly strong — Rapture in Blue (feat. Cecile Believe) is the highlight — but it tails off a little halfway.

• 

  Critical Thinking

  Manic Street Preachers

  Still comforted by James Dean Bradfield effortlessly nailing those melodies. Still adore those crystalline guitar solos. Still the only band writing songs about painters and paintings. My Brave Friend, Brushstrokes of Reunion, and People Ruin Paintings are as big and bold as anything before. Still love them.

• 

  Steady Weather

  Torn Sail

  Delia Recordings co-founder Huw Costin’s contribution to Nottingham’s music scene — through his own songs, as a member of several bands, and as a promoter — is significant. A songwriter with admirable patience and purpose, his latest oozes an integrity evident in Bright Blue Day’s deeply personal lyrics, Mud People’s hypnotic guitar and Nutshell’s lengthy silences.

• 

  Sonor

  Enji

  I’ve previously listed her Ulaan album, and written about her show in London last year. Her latest is quieter but no less beautiful. As a cultural nomad, she blends her influences seamlessly, singing in her native Mongolian, plus German and English. Her gorgeous reworking of folk song Eejiinhee Hairaar is a real highlight.

• 

  Perverts / Willoughby Tucker...

  Ethel Cain

  Fascinating artist. Perverts is a lengthy, droning challenge to her pop fans, but there are gorgeous songs within. Willoughby Tucker is a more accessible soundtrack to growing up in the dusty deep south, with a strict religious upbringing. It’s Lynchian, like a side mission in Twin Peaks or a rural X-Files episode.

• 

  Joseph, What Have You Done?

  Rainy Miller

  Space Afrika’s Honest Labour led me to several north-west artists diarising gritty small-town claustrophobia. In his bravest yet, Miller shifts away from autotune to yield more human storytelling from multiple voices. The Fable / The Release and Chrome, Hallowed Be are highlights of this honest, beautiful album.

• 

  Works in Metal

  Lamin Fofana

  These percussive and often melodic works use sound archives and field recordings to investigate the welding and shaping of metals. Fofana’s responding to feminist activist Suzanne Césaire’s assertions about colonial politics within such industrial processes and although I found the reasoning a little difficult to grasp, it’s a compelling listen.

• 

  Vesper Sparrow

  JJJJJerome Ellis

  In 2021, I was moved by The Clearing from this “other-abled” musician compelled to investigate his stutter on record. Born out of the connection to Black religious tradition and inheritance, this powerful new chapter continues the artist’s study of music, sound, stuttering, and Blackness through time’s lens.

• 

  Tranquilizer

  Oneohtrix Point Never

  I’d never understood why so many fawned over his music, so a new album made from old sample packs seemed best avoided. But this is like a watercolour. It’s interesting, coherent, sonically creative and washes right over me. Fear of Symmetry brings sonic play to an Endtroducing mood, feeling deeply nostalgic for a time not so long ago.

• 

  Cloud Time

  Emily A. Sprague

  During her first visit to Japan, the Florist singer recorded ambient improv jams inspired by the country’s renowned environmental music. The often long-drawn pieces lack sonic evidence of the places or performance spaces visited and feel interchangeable, but they’re painted with texture and are, for the most part, deeply soothing.

• 

  The Rising Wave

  Light-Space Modulator

  Vocalist Marlene Ribeiro (Negra Branca, GNOD) and producer Shackleton combine on this spacious, ethereal album with 90s trip-hop tones. It takes a while to find its stride but does so with the closing tracks, notably These Things and The Long Buried Hope, which echo something of Martina and Tricky’s Maxinquaye in mood.

• 

  In Transit

  Lia Kohl & Zander Raymond

  Kohl’s captivating The Ceiling Reposes charted high on my 2023 list, and the experimental cellist had a busy 2025. This collab with interdisciplinary visual artist Raymond typifies her use of found sound, built around field recordings from spaces of transit blended with cello, accordion and modular synth textures.

Top EPs and sub-30-minute albums

• 

  Open Window EP

  Kuniyuki Takahashi

  Legendary DJ, producer and Mule Musiq stalwart whose work dates back to the 1980s (I bought his excellent Early Tape Works albums, released by Music From Memory, a few years ago). He’s equally at home DJing the world’s clubs or following a jazz mood at the piano. Beautiful examples of the latter, these two patient works are gorgeous.

• 

  Comafields / Imaginary Festival EP

  Burial

  Two tracks, 22 minutes. Yet more genius for the ever-growing playlist. Comafields pulses neon like an ’80s sci-fi thriller, building to a stunning chord change at 3:25. The track unfolds through three distinct sections: part two arrives at 4:55, a spacious arp and angelic vocal passage at 9:40, then from 10:43, truly beautiful — almost heavenly.

• 

  I’ll Be Waving As You Drive Away

  Hayden Pedigo

  I can draw a line to my love of fingerpicker Daniel Bachman, though that’s more about his collage, textures, politics and dread. Pedigo’s sound is more pristine and less directly about anything, but no less fascinating. I was struck by Smoked, a song underpinned with the same mellotron choir as Radiohead’s Exit Music (for a Film).

• 

  Belly Up

  Moin

  I loved last year’s You Never End album, and this companion release is another collage of diverse collabs and contrasts. There’s more spoken word from Sophia Al-Maria, more jazzy textures, more tangents, and more fluid drumming from the great Valentina Magaletti to drive the whole album and create astonishing space.

• 

  Peace Portal EP

  Khotin

  I really liked the way Canadian musician Dylan Khotin-Foote used field recordings and family voices throughout 2023’s excellent Release Spirit album, and this is another spacious and patient set of wobbly, bubbling ambient. You Made My Weekend Wonderful is a lovely opener, and HP1 is the perfect unhurried follow-up.

• 

  Thank You Kirin Kiki EP

  Rindert Lammers

  The Dutch musician weaves personal narratives and cinematic imagery into ambient jazz inspired by Kore-eda’s superb Shoplifters, a film that helped him overcome personal trauma. The songs unfold like a short film and also pay homage to the great environmental music pioneer Hiroshi Yoshimura. See also his Live Credits EP.

• 

  Dancing Shoes EP

  Nilüfer Yanya

  Written after touring last year’s excellent My Method Actor, these songs aren’t especially striking, but its the layering of textures and distortion and how her voice is woven into and around them that really get me. There’s just something about her sound. Where To Look and rhythmic Cold Heart are standouts.

• 

  Corridors EP

  Peter Gregson

  A celebrated cellist who always makes good use of electronic accompaniment. I loved his 2021 album Patina and this year’s self-titled album. This EP only just arrived and features music for Garrett Smith’s ballet. The recording highlights his cello alongside solo violin and synths, expanding the sonic world.

• 

  LF27 / The Dark Tower

  Veryan

  Using source recordings from the demolishing of St. Helen’s Tower in London, this innovative 18-minute track develops its rhythms from construction sounds and the whole piece is drenched in reverb to evoke the building’s emptiness, whilst scratching and echoing sounds create a palpable uneasiness.

• 

  Question Mark EP

  Batu

  The Bristol-based Timedance label owner Batu also makes intelligent, innovative music that sits well alongside Djrum, Barker, Skee Mask, Andrea et al. His terrific Opal album placed highly on my 2022 list, and this is another strong collection of thoughtful techno soundscapes in which to lose yourself.

Live, reissues, compilations, scores

• 

  Glow World (Repress)

  Rod Modell & Taka Noda

  Limited repress of a classic nighttime album. All the tracks are similar but what a vibe. It’s a bit “Bladerunner ambient” because it fizzes like that rain-soaked market where Deckard eats noodles. Tokyo graces the cover, but the static and hum feels more Osaka. It’s still not streaming, so try Bandcamp or YouTubbs.

• 

  Hail to the Thief (Live Recordings 2003-2009)

  Radiohead

  Often dismissed, I’ve always loved HTTT — even more so after reading Brad Osborn’s academic Everything In Its Right Place book. The band are on fire and the live mix is outstanding. 2 + 2 = 5 kicks in hard, Sail To The Moon glistens, and Where I End And You Begin stuns with its modular synth climax.

• 

  7 O'Clock in Tokyo (Remaster)

  Akiko Yano

  Often labelled “the Japanese Kate Bush” (even though she predates her), Yano toured the world with YMO and married Ryuichi Sakamoto. This joyous 1979 live album features all three YMO members and City Pop king Tatsuro Yamashita and encapsulates the togetherness of the late-1970s Tokyo music scene.

• 

  Sakura (2025 Remaster)

  Susumu Yokata

  Lauded ambient outlier from the famed house DJ, with notable samples: Kodomotachi is built around an eerie Joni Mitchell snippet, and Azukiiro No Kaori uses Chick Corea’s brilliant Sometime Ago/La Fiesta. It’s great to finally own a copy, but I’m angry that they replaced the original cover with what looks like AI wank.

• 

  Pocket Music (2025 Edition)

  Tatsuro Yamashita

  The notoriously streaming-phobic, quality-obsessed City Pop legend is reissuing all his classic albums, and this 1986 gem is one of my faves. In the lengthy liner notes, he details a torturous “going digital” process and bemoans the end result, but for us fans it remains a melodic classic.

• 

  Telepathic Fish: Trawling The Early 90s Ambient Underground

  Various

  Celebrating the influential South London underground ambient parties frequented by DJ Food, Nightmares on Wax, Aphex Twin et al, this chill comp reminds me of last year’s excellent Virtual Dreams II: Ambient Explorations in the House & Techno Age, Japan 1993-1999.

• 

  Live God

  Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

  Regulars know I blow hot and cold with Cave. Ghosteen was my 2019 number one, but I disliked Carnage and Wild God. However, a catalogue-spanning comp always works for me, and this live set is terrific: his voice is less strained than recent releases, there's plenty of Ghosteen, heavenly backing vocalists, Colin Greenwood on bass and Tupelo is outstanding.

• 

  Takkuuk

  Bicep

  I like Bicep because they’re curious and keep evolving. This year’s Chroma 000 compilation is solid, if a little too club‑minded for me, but Takkuuk, created with support from charity In Place of War, is excellent: a cohesive, varied soundtrack to an immersive installation, sharing indigenous Arctic stories through collaborations and powerful vocal contributions.

• 

  Best of The Other Sides

  Kate Bush

  Previously only available with a box set, this comp gathers B-sides and rarities. It’s a mixed bag: Experiment IV is superb and Running Up That Hill B-side Under The Ivy is a top-ten track. But I’d forgotten how much I disliked the reggae-tinged Rocket Man cover. Still, it’s more music from Kate Bush — and even when she’s not brilliant, she’s... well, she’s always brilliant.

• 

  Nebraska ’82: Expanded Edition

  Bruce Springsteen

  I respect Springsteen but I’m not a fan, as such. But Nebraska always cut through, partly because of others covering the songs, and in recent years because it’s recorded on a Portastudio and sounds like it, so I find it sonically valuable. And the remote, snowy landscape on the cover is perfect. It’s an outlier and that’s why I love it.

Mixes and Remixes

• 

  Anjunachill Mix: Nature In Motion

  Mark Barrott

  Apple Music exclusive DJ mix. A stunningly beautiful and comforting selection featuring spacious songs from Floating Points, Nils Frahm, Talk Talk, Mark Hollis, Stars of the Lid, Brian McBride, A Winged Victory For The Sullen, Bark Psychosis, Susumu Yokata and Barrott himself.

• 

  Bleep Mix #308 - O Is For Orange 2025

  DJ Food

  Essential for Boards of Canada fans. I love Everything You Do Is A Balloon with Bomb The Bass’ One To One Religion, and the ending with Spooky’s Orange Coloured Liquid and Dream 2 Science’s My Love Turns To Liquid is joyously beautiful. There's a fantastic video version on YouTubbs.

• 

  NTS & BBC mixes

  Djrum

  I loved the eclectic selections from his huge record collection for both NTS and 6 Music’s Freak Zone Acoustic Playlist, but it was the mind-boggling three-deck, sixty-track superset for Radio 1’s Essential Mix that really blew my mind. I discovered so many interesting artists via his immersive mixes.

• 

  Bleep Mix #300

  Barker

  A melodic and tactile set mixed at home entirely from vinyl, this gets deep into his methodology and influences, featuring Kenyan rhythms, wonky gamelan, drumless trance and plenty of his favourite uptempo ambient including Caribou, Future Sound of London and Koreless. Beautifully crafted.

• 

  Don't Get Me Started (James Holden Remix)

  The Smile

  This is exactly what I’d want Holden to do with The Smile. Foregrounding off-kilter percussion reminiscent of Radiohead’s Bloom, with slowed vocals, dozens of bubbling polyrhythms, chirping oscillators and Floyd-esque textures, this is deeply layered and trippy as fuck.

• 

  Mixes of a Lost World

  The Cure

  Hit and miss, as you’d expect, but Endsong (Orbital Remix), And Nothing Is Forever (Danny Briottet & Rico Conning Remix), Warsong (Daybreakers Remix), Alone (Four Tet remix), I Can Never Say Goodbye (Mental Overdrive Remix), and A Fragile Thing (Sally C Remix) are all worthy.

• 

  Dreamstate (yunè pinku mix) / Rise (Or:la mix)

  Kelly Lee Owens

  I loved her self‑titled debut album and follow‑up, Inner Song, but the last two records, especially pop‑leaning Dreamstate, I just couldn’t connect with. However, I love these recent reworks from yunè and Or:la, which reveal something I’d missed in the originals.

• 

  Into Dust (Still Falling)

  Four Tet

  Ah, yes. Kieran takes us back to the ’90s with this remix, apparently a popular one from his global megasets. That Mazzy Star album was great and still stands up; everyone was obsessed with Fade Into You, but Into Dust is superb. Download Kieran’s version to your Windows PC after tonight’s X-Files episode.

• 

  I’m In Love… (Justin Robertson Remixes)

  Andy Bell, Dot Allison & Michael Rother

  Another ex-RIDE member making consistently interesting music (when he’s not on tour with Oasis). His recent Pinball Wanderer album almost made my top 25, and his I’m In Love with A German Film Star cover is superb, as are these remixes.

• 

  Blossoming Ache (Pinklogik's Mix)

  Critical Objects

  My favourite remix of my favourite track from collaborating electronic musicians Veryan and Pinklogik. Releasing three vocal-led songs this year, each EP has an interesting format featuring the song and a complementary extended remix from each of them.

Top tracks

As usual, one per artist; no mixes, covers or reissues. Playlist on Apple.

• 

  A Tune For Us

  Djrum

  The Under Tangled Silence opener has been my fave since February. This intricate piece, intended to sound like a live recording, stems from a long piano improv during the pandemic. The beat came later, but because he’d played so freely, there was no clear bar structure, so a non-repetitive beat was carefully programmed. A deft balance of analog and digital.

• 

  Stardust

  Anna Von Hausswolff

  “Oh, I’m breaking up with language, in search of something bigger than this,” she wails like the most furious banshee. But what could be bigger than this? These songs are HUGE. The killer bassline hooked me from the opening bars, and the sax solo surges. Utterly brilliant and hypnotic, and always threatening to boil over and consume the entire earth.

• 

  Fluid Mechanics

  Barker

  Towards the end of this incredible album, the sound loosens and Barker gets jazzy. This standout track, described perfectly by its title, balances understated drums with wonky synths and gorgeous piano motifs. The groove hypnotises, each measure surging forth as the previous one concludes. A skilled and chilled dubby masterpiece.

• 

  Berghain

  Rosalía

  Absolutely bonkers — as is the video, in which our heroine arrives home to do the chores surrounded by the entire London Symphony Orchestra and twenty-strong choir. They all get on the bus too, and attend some appointments. Then, while she cavorts with a robin, Björk pipes up with wisdom before Yves Tumor NSFW-quotes Tyson. The complete opposite of boring.

• 

  Comafields

  Burial

  It pulses neon like the opening of an ’80s sci-fi thriller, building to a stunning chord change and drop at 3:25, repeated at 4:26. The track has at least three sections, with the similar part two starting at 4:55, and a more spacious arp and angelic vocal passage from 9:40. And from 10:43, with that unquantized vocal sample, it’s truly beautiful, almost heavenly.

6. Daniel Avery, Rapture in Blue
7. Jenny Hval, I don’t know what free is
8. Hayden Pedigo, Smoked
9. Lucy Gooch, Like Clay
10. Rival Consoles, Catherine
11. Ethel Cain, Nettles
12. Steve Queralt, Motor Boats
13. Eiko Ishibashi, Coma
14. Doves, Lean Into The Wind
15. Brown Fang, A Fixed Point
16. Light-Space Modulator, The Long Buried Hope
17. Lucid Express, Something Blue
18. Manic Street Preachers, My Brave Friend
19. Oneohtrix Point Never, Fear of Symmetry
20. Matt Berninger, Bonnet of Pins
21. Andrea, Olderback
22. Blood Orange, Mind Loaded (feat. Caroline Polachek, Lorde & Mustafa)
23. Torn Sail, Mud People
24. Khotin, You Made My Weekend Wonderful
25. Suede, Disintegrate
26. Enji, Ulbar, Eejiinhee Hairaar
27. Pulp, Spike Island
28. Yumiko Morioka & Takashi Kokubo, Gaiaphilia
29. Rainy Miller, The Fable / The Release
30. Nilüfer Yanya, Where To Look
31. Joe Harvey-Whyte & Paul Cousins, Lift
32. Kuniyuki Takahashi, Tobira
33. Bicep, Dárbbuo (feat. Katarina Barruk)
34. Destroyer, Bologna (feat. Fiver)
35. Ólafur Arnalds & Talos, Bedrock
36. Andy Bell, pinball wanderer
37. No Joy, Garbage Dream House
38. SUSS & Six Missing, Old Mission
39. Oli XL & Valeria Litvakov, Conspiracy Girl
40. Cate Le Bon, Is It Worth It (Happy Birthday)?
41. The Twilight Sad, Waiting for the Phone Call
42. Lamin Fofana, Obscure Light (Recomposition)
43. Emily A. Sprague, Tokyo 1
44. Mark Barrott, I Am The Sun, You Are The Moon
45. Skullcrusher, Exhale
46. Charli xcx & John Cale, House
47. caroline & Caroline Polachek, Tell me I never knew that
48. JJJJJerome Ellis, Vesper Sparrow
49. Moin, See (feat. Sophia Al-Maria & Ben Vince)
50. Billow Observatory, Systol Nightshade

Notables

Here are some notable releases that didn’t quite make my main lists:

• Albums: Matt Berninger, Get Sunk / Meitei, Sen’nyū / Pulp, More / Flur, Plunge / Suede, Antidepressants / Cate Le Bon, Michelangelo Dying / Maria Somerville, Luster / Ólafur Arnalds & Talos, A Dawning / Peter Gregson, Peter Gregson / Andy Bell, pinball wanderer / Joshua Bonnetta, The Pines / Yui Onodera, Kiso Three Rivers / Duval Timothy, wishful thinking / John Glacier, Like a Ribbon / Deathbed Convert, Music For Wave States / Sarathy Korwar, There Is Beauty, There Already / Big Thief, Double Infinity / bdrmm, Microtonic / William Tyler, Sound Indefinite / Doves, Constellations For The Lonely / Youth Lagoon, Rarely Do I Dream / caroline caroline 2 / Billow Observatory, The Glass Curtain / Blood Orange, Essex Honey
• EPs & sub-30: DJ Python, i was put on this earth EP / Doves, Cally/Lean Into The Wind RSD 10" / Oli XL, Lick The Lens – Pt.1
• Live, reissue, comp, score: Autechre, Quaristice / Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here 50 / Nala Sinephro, The Smashing Machine OST / Jonny Greenwood, One Battle After Another OST / Floating Points, Lazarus (Adult Swim Original Series OST) / Meitei, The Deepest Space In Us OST / Adrienne Lenker, Live at Revolution Hall / Hiroshi Yoshimura, Flora / Depeche Mode, Memento Mori: Mexico City
• Mixes & Remixes: Dawn Chorus and the Infallible Sea, Vale (Interpretation) / Mark Barrott, Looking Through the Mirror of the Soul (Nailah Hunter Remix) / Arooj Aftab, raat ki rani (Khruangbin Remix) / Gwenno, Utopia (Remixes)

Playlists and previous

Need an Apple playlist? Shuffle my vast and unedited 2025 Faves (240 songs, 20 hours), or play the more focused 2025 Top Fifty Tracks (4 hours).

I also add the top songs from each year to all-encompassing decades playlists. Check out my Top tracks of 2004–2009, 2010–2019 and 2020–2029 playlists.

Check out all yearly posts or go directly to 2024, 2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018, 2017, 2016, 2015, 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005, or 2004.

Shows

I didn’t buy tickets for some shows because of daft prices, which proved fortunate when I suddenly had to drop a shitload on Radiohead VIPs. Plus, if I avoid gig audiences, I don't get so annoyed by the ways some people behave around others. Thankfully, these shows were all great.

Each links to a review or note (and setlist, if available) on my site.

1. Radiohead, O2 Arena, London
2. Akiko Yano & Kosuke Mine, EFG London Jazz Festival, The Barbican, London
3. Origamibiro, Hexaphonia & Torn Sail, Delia’s Sixth Happening, St John’s Church, Carrington, Nottingham
4. This Is What You Get, Radiohead exhibition, The Ashmolean, Oxford
5. Shape+, Cafe Oto, London

Listening stats

I continue to document my listening stats. My streaming service is Apple, and I gathered my Replay stats on 19th December. I’d listened to 5,090 songs (down from last year’s 5,779 ) and 655 albums (up from 636) from 916 artists (down from last year’s 1,216). My top genres were alternative, electronic and rock, and I’d reached 67,772 minutes of listening.

My top artist was Radiohead (4,732 minutes), followed by Manic Street Preachers (Top 500 listener), Djrum (Top 100), Kate Bush, Barker (Top 500), The Cure, Thom Yorke, Rival Consoles, Fleet Foxes and Ryuichi Sakamoto. Per month: Jan, Aug and Sep: Radiohead; Feb and Mar: Manics; Apr and May: Djrum; Jun: The Beach Boys; Jul: Kate Bush; Oct: Chick Corea (I discovered his Return to Forever album).

My top album was Barker’s Stochastic Drift (937 minutes), followed by Djrum’s Under Tangled Silence, Rival Consoles’ Landscape from Memory, Eiko Ishibashi’s Antigone and the Manics’ 2004 album Lifeblood.

Top song was Djrum’s A Tune for Us, followed by Barker’s Fluid Mechanics, Djrum’s Waxcap, Radiohead’s How To Disappear Completely and Lucy Gooch’s Like Clay.

It’s not a true reflection of my wider interests, because I often hit the same old playlists while driving or at the gym, and I tend to play music we both like on AppleTV. And, of course, all stats exclude Bandcamp, YouTube and vinyl.

Notes

In terms of volume, this year has been ridiculous. It’s like panning for gold — a few nuggets amidst a pile of grit. I should learn to let things pass me by instead of trying to listen to everything. Perhaps if I stop trawling so meticulously, I can detach and be more like a normal person. But I never want to miss something valuable.

There were many disappointments or average offerings, especially from bands and artists I’ve featured previously. And, since people often message asking if I’ve heard certain records, I’ll note a few I didn’t connect with despite repeat listens — but I won’t say anything negative because I know it stings: yes, I did listen to Turnstile, Geese, These New Puritans, the new Stereolab, the latest Aya, Oklou, Wednesday, Dave and both Twigs. If you loved any of those, brilliant.

A reminder

At this point, I always remind readers that I work on this roundup throughout the year, and the final post takes several days to complete. As an example of the ongoing effort, here’s what my Notion page for this roundup looked like in August — bearing in mind that I’d already discarded quite a few disappointing releases by then:

If this annual roundup helps you to discover new music and you wish to show your appreciation, you can buy my music or buy me a coffee. Ta :)

Oh, and my music?

No new releases from Site Nonsite this year, but it was significant in terms of improving my piano playing and expanding my production skills. I also spent the summer focused on several projects thanks to ACE funding.

I’m two years (and a lifetime, really) into the debut album, with twenty or so exciting demos and a dozen songs at varying levels of production. I’ve noticeably matured as a musician and writer, and it’s all going much better than I could’ve dreamed. However, it’s a complex project aiming to satisfy all sorts of interests, issues, and loose ends, and I won’t be rushed. One more year, I reckon…

That’s it!

Thanks, everyone. See you again next year!

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The next morning, we enjoyed the Hyakkō 100+ Makers at Japan House. I’ve long been drawn to Japanese craft aesthetics, and the display showcased many things I particularly love: modest ceramics, simple homeware and urushi lacquerware. I’m as moved by the precise duplication of stacked wooden plates or nested lacquer bowls as I am by an asymmetrical, irregular Bizen ware pot.

Sometimes a humble object is so steeped in skill, patience, place, nature, respect, history, function and unassuming beauty that I get a bit emotional. Often the maker invites the owner to continue the process by adding character through repeated use, and it kills me that I can’t hold these pieces or follow them through time.

Clockwise from top-left: Geri at Session Arts Club, earthenware by Kumagai Yukiharu, lacquerware by Tokeshi Ai and woodwork by Tokeshi Hiroyuki, crockery by Matsumoto Yuki, wooden plates by Tomii Takashi, lacquer nested bowls by Ninjō Ikkei, ceramic pots by Samejima Minami, leather forms by Jōji Yoshimichi.

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I never expected to see Akiko Yano play live, let alone meet her and get an album signed. In case you don’t know, she’s “the Japanese Kate Bush” who predates Kate Bush. She released her debut in 1976, toured the world with Yellow Magic Orchestra, and married Ryuichi Sakamoto. She’s a legend.

It was our good fortune to discover that the closing night of the London Jazz Festival was happening at The Barbican the day after the Radiohead gig, so we extended our stay in London.

My two fave Akiko Yano studio albums are Ai Ga Nakuchane (recorded in London with the band Japan) and Iroha Ni Kompeito. I also adore her joyous 1979 live album 7 O’Clock in Tokyo, recorded with an all-star band including all three members of YMO and City Pop king Tatsuro Yamashita. It perfectly encapsulates the togetherness of the late 1970s Japanese music scene.

Akiko shuffled her Barbican setlist around, starting with YMO’s Tong Poo and also playing Harusaki Kobeni, Rose Garden, Gohan Ga Dekitayo, Hitotsudake and How Can I Be Sure. I occasionally closed my eyes and listened to her sing and play, and with the auditorium reverb it felt almost like being transported back in time to the 7 O’Clock shows.

Her set was followed by a fierce headline quintet made up of tenor sax legend Kosuke Mine, pianist Fumio Itabashi, drummer Takeo Moriyama, bassist Takashi Sugawa and the alto sax of Miyuki Moriya. We bought the reissue of Kosuke Mine’s First a few years ago, and it was exciting to hear a couple of tracks from that alongside other raucous jazz freakouts. Top night.

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From one of the best seats in the entire arena, I watched my favourite band for the fourth time. Within minutes, I knew this would be my all-time favourite gig.

Obviously, skip this if you don’t appreciate Radiohead; I wrote it for myself and other fans. And if the band’s touring history prompts you to message me about Israel’s apartheid against Palestinians, note that I reference this in the footnotes.

Last year, we got together to rehearse, just for the hell of it. After a seven year pause, it felt really good to play the songs again and reconnect with a musical identity that has become lodged deep inside all five of us. It also made us want to play some shows together, so we hope you can make it to one of the upcoming dates. For now, it will just be these ones but who knows where this will all lead.

When these somewhat surprising residencies were announced, I pledged that whatever it took, I would be there. To thwart touts, an initial lottery was announced, and as the results arrived, it seemed that most friends were getting rejection emails. I feared the worst, but with minutes to go, Geri received a code. We agreed (along with friends Jon and Leigh) that if all we could get was pricey VIP tickets, we’d stump up without regret.

As it turned out, we secured front-row seats, and I’d been buzzing for two months. But, me being me, I worried about everything: some people had their orders cancelled; would ours be ok? Would the band bring enough energy? Would Thom be grumpy?^[1] And what about the talk of boycotts and threats of protests?^[2]

I need not have worried. So here are two reasons why these shows feel different.

Firstly, they’re different for me because I care about this band far more than I used to (and I always cared a lot) because in recent years I’ve come to lean on them almost like tutors as I’ve worked to improve my approach to writing and producing music. Books like Brad Osborn’s mind-frazzlingly academic Everything In Its Right Place and video breakdowns from YouTubers like Ixi have taken me deep into the finer details, and I’ve started to appreciate their music at increasingly macro levels. So whilst I always loved these songs, I wasn’t sure why. Now, I find myself in that slightly embarrassing position of talking a bit too much about Radiohead — I’ve transcended to superfan status. And that’s OK, because it’s never wrong to move closer to what you love.

And secondly, the shows are different for everyone because we’re used to a certain kind of format. I’ve seen Radiohead three times previously: Glastonbury 1997, Nottingham 2003, and Manchester 2017. In each case, they were very far away — nice and safe, with a cavernous stage dead-ending the arena, as is the norm. The typical big rock show. For this tour, they’re in the round: a small circular stage in the middle of the arena.^[3]

Once the cage that supports the video screens lifts, it’s just them and their instruments — exposed, surrounded. The setup is similar to the From The Basement sessions, except that they’re facing not each other, but us. It serves to make an enormous arena show feel more intimate, because you can always see your fellow audience members behind the band — everyone swept up into something special together. I know that for some on the floor it’s been occasionally frustrating when band members are out of sight (they do move around, though), but for any of us in seats (and friends in the nosebleeds agree), it’s thrillingly perfect, even if the entire band is rarely in view at once.

Our front row seats elevated us to stage level, and closest to Jonny and Thom’s primary stations, so when the band tore into something boisterous like Bodysnatchers or Optimistic and I’d see them giving their all in this improbable format, my brain would scream SIMON, THAT’S FUCKING RADIOHEAD! because I was in disbelief at the way it was happening. It was visceral and breathtaking in a way that no other big-show format is. I’ll also add that this is the first time I’ve ever been to a gig in London that wasn’t ruined by idiots talking throughout. I know we were seated, but I could see the standing punters clearly and I think all 20,000 people were utterly captivated.

I’d monitored emerging setlist patterns and the approximate A/B variants Radiohead are working with. 2 + 2 = 5, EIIRP, Weird Fishes/Arpeggi, Paranoid Android and Let Down (the new Creep, thanks to TikTok) are staples, whilst others tend to appear on alternate evenings. I was right to expect several of my favourites such as Nude, Reckoner, Pyramid Song, and The Daily Mail.

My absolute favourite moments were, possibly in order: being possessed by the intertwining offset grooves of Weird Fishes, the pin-drop silence during Nude, a blistering Bodysnatchers, Jonny doing his Paranoid Android violence right in front of me, and every single shiver-inducing moment of Exit Music (For a Film).

Some songs remind us what a powerful, tight garage rock band they were and still can be: the energy they bring to Jigsaw, Bodysnatchers, and Optimistic is genuinely exciting, especially with this stage format. And they seem to be — in a Radiohead kind of way — enjoying themselves and rediscovering a sense of pride in these songs, surprisingly excited to crank out nineties guitar stuff like The Bends, or reassuringly proud of something deeply of its time like Street Spirit.

I don’t really have any gripes about the show. They’ve rehearsed around 65 songs, and I’d hoped to hear How To Disappear Completely — possibly my favourite track — but it’s only had a couple of airings so far this tour. The setlists have been biased towards OK Computer, Hail To The Thief and In Rainbows, which is wonderful, but we’re getting sparse offerings from Kid A, Amnesiac, The King of Limbs and A Moon Shaped Pool. And of course I’d have loved Fake Plastic Trees and There, There. And Karma Police would always be my perfect closer. To be honest, I’d sit through their entire discography (well, only Creep from Pablo Honey, thanks).

And, you know, some songs don’t really work that well live sometimes, like Idioteque (it always sounded good live in the 2000s, but not here for some reason), and maybe Paranoid Android was a little disjointed here and there, and Jonny’s Kaoss Pad wasn’t really audible during EIIRP.

But really, I’ve barely any negatives to dwell on. I’d almost given up on ever seeing them tour again, so this all feels a bit miraculous, not least because Radiohead seem to be... having fun?! And I’m incredibly grateful to be part of it, not sat at home looking in from the outside at setlists and reading reviews with a deep sigh.^[4] Radiohead are back — on stage, at least — and I was there. Unexpectedly, and in a brilliant way, this is really happening.

Footnotes

1. I’m somewhat haunted by their gig at Nottingham Arena in 2003, when Thom was clearly not in the mood and a flat crowd didn’t help. “Don’t worry, Stereophonics will be here next week,” he sneered, referencing the unfeasibly popular but perennially boring Welsh band. ↩︎
2. I won’t get into this deeply here because I fully understand my sensitivity to important global issues and know when to act. I’ve left social networks, switched music platforms, and washed my hands of several bands and artists. If you need context in this case, read this recent interview and go from there. What I will say is this: I remain deeply upset by the dehumanising of Palestinians, and while I do think Radiohead (and Jonny) have made missteps on the issue, the band’s overall political worldview aligns with my own in more ways than not. And they despise Netanyahu’s regime. Based on everything I know, I do not consider Radiohead “Zionist traitors”. ↩︎
3. I read that for their recent tour, Nine Inch Nails used a small circular stage for more intimate songs, and that may have influenced Radiohead. My only previous experience of an in-the-round (and, on that occasion, spinning) stage was Beastie Boys at Wembley Arena, and that wild night has lived long in my memory. The place went nuts. ↩︎
4. I do realise that might be salt in a wound. I think with this post I’m attempting to present my delight as a way of saying, “I know I’m fortunate, so rest assured I channelled the energy of all my friends who couldn’t be there and enthused for all of us.” ↩︎

Setlist

Saturday 22nd November, 2025
O2 Arena, London

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I appreciate pretty much everything Ethan writes and could highlight many posts, but The line and the stream really needs to be embraced, archived and revisited — not least for its determined positivity and quiet hope.

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It was a shock to learn that Mani had died suddenly. I’ll be forever grateful that my teens aligned with the rise of The Stone Roses in 1988–90, when the future was ours.

Much like Hooky in New Order (the band that had transformed my listening habits a year or two earlier), Mani was no supporting act. Those basslines really cut through, his love of Northern Soul and funk giving the band a groove that brought dance kids to indie nights. Listen to his driving intro to She Bangs The Drums, the sinister underbelly of I Wanna Be Adored, or his famous bassline from I Am The Resurrection. And, of course, there’s him and Reni — the best rhythm section of that generation — propelling all 9 minutes and 53 seconds of Fools Gold.

Here’s a love letter to the band and those times that I wrote back in 2012.

I also saw him play with Primal Scream many times, and much of what matters on their best album from that period, XTRMNTR, is down to him.

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I’ve been drawing comfort from the way established artists will typically vanish for a while and suddenly re-appear with a fully-formed new body of work.

By established artists, I mean those with the freedom to work without constant pressure to create content. Some musicians, for example, face demands from record labels to maintain a social media presence, and I recognise that many artists rely on platforms to reach audiences or support their practice. The artists I’m thinking of are typically more financially secure or supported by thoughtful patrons or labels.

Unlike “content creators” whose primary motivation is constant sharing, established artists typically present work only when it’s complete: resolved, coherent, and finished. A visual artist emerges from isolation to announce an exhibition; a musician returns with a new album. They might also present a book or video documenting their process or offering context, but only once the work is done.

I find it inspiring that in the time between idea and completion, they don’t waste energy on “engagement.” Few dilute their focus by leaving the primary headspace to stitch together reels or strategise social media posts. Beyond a certain level of experience, you don’t hear demos or see preliminary sketches. They don’t spend a week scripting and filming a YouTube episode (which means your soul isn’t crushed by hearing them remind you to like or subscribe).

They stay focused, they do the work, they trust themselves to follow the process and arrive at the thing.

If there is any in-progress material, it tends to follow after the main work has launched. You might only see photos of their studio during interviews. There are exceptions, of course — among the people I follow it’s primarily visual artists — who share ideas and process almost daily, which can be truly delightful. But what’s key is that they don’t feel obligated to do this. When they do share, it’s on their own terms, at their own pace, and because they derive genuine value from it — it nourishes their creative process in some meaningful way. I don’t get any sense of craving attention or bumping stats.

This has been on my mind as I’ve been working on multiple things over the last year, including lots of visual art strands alongside my music projects. I’m incredibly excited about how it’s all going, but I’ve shared barely anything anywhere.

Over the past year or so, I’ve found comfort in realising that it’s OK to just shut myself away from the Internet and get stuff done. It’s encouraging me to return to how I worked in the ’90s: staying focused and largely private, journaling primarily for myself, and simply doing the work. If something meaningful happens, I can share it when everything’s truly ready.

Thinking about my approach to design and music, I’ve developed some unconventional approaches to bringing ideas to life, devising processes that others might find fascinating. I’ve often considered making YouTube videos or setting up a Patreon or Bandcamp subscription tier, but I know these would divert precious time and energy from my actual creative work. (There are other reasons not to do it, which I won’t delve into now.)

As I’ve noted on several occasions, I’m thoroughly worn out by social networks and have been for many years now. I occasionally find myself keen to share something, and when I do, I almost immediately regret it, feeling that nobody saw it or cared; I tend to feel that I’m out on some weird limb, frustrating those who followed me for CSS workarounds twenty years ago. And so I retreat again.

And it’s probably just as well. If I start viewing my art and music work as “content,” I’ll lose my way. I might miss opportunities, but what would they really be? I don’t want to be dictated to by a record label; it’s better to remain independent and in control of every detail rather than trade autonomy for reach. And as much as I enjoy performing live, I don’t seek invites to play shows right now. And I don’t desire to inflate any metrics. That said, I’d absolutely love to compose a soundtrack, and there’s always that nagging feeling that it is worth sharing things because you never know who might see them.

While drafting this, I read an interview with artist KMRU on the always excellent Ableton blog, which digs into lots of related issues. I especially liked the intro:

“Sharing music comes with a certain kind of vulnerability. When we release our work, we put our creative judgment on the line, opening ourselves to scrutiny, interpretation, and critique… what if music, for you, is something quieter, more inward-facing, a slow and uncertain process grounded in emotion, or a simple need to make sense of the world? / In today’s era of constant content, that tension can be especially acute. Sharing music often means navigating an online ecosystem that rewards consistency, visibility, and momentum, qualities that don’t always align with the texture of the work itself.”

The texture of the work. Wow.

So, anyway. I have learned that I simply cannot grift. At least, not while work is in progress. I’ll continue posting things here, when it helps me — I recently shared reflections on my summer activity and a deep interview about field recording, and I have something more specific about the work to publish soon — but I’ll share on my terms, not as part of a strategy. I like to write about my process because composing my thoughts helps me understand it, but I prefer to keep the work itself private until it’s ready.

Few will care about any of this, and that’s fine because this is me being me, for myself, like I was pre-Internet. Pre social media. Pre “content,” pre metrics.

When my next project is complete, I’ll give it the public support it needs: accompanying material, a book, deep explanations and so on. Until then, I’ll have my head down — exploring, expanding, and doing the work.

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Musician Henry Claude asked me some questions for his field recording research project, and was kind enough to let me archive my detailed responses here.

Regarding field recording for use in electroacoustic music

Field recordings often require processing for use in electroacoustic compositions such as basic EQ treatment, filtering or compression. Do you believe this to be a reductive or an additive process and why?

It’s probably worth noting upfront that, with an art college education and thirty-plus years as a creative professional (predominantly in graphic and digital design), I have come to loathe the limitations and opportunities for gatekeeping that come with rigid processes. The idea that there is only one right way to do something has always infuriated me to the point that even if it is right, I still want to look at the alternatives, because they could be ripe with opportunities for fresh approaches.

To answer this first question directly: I am less interested in the quality of a field recording than its value as a signifier of place and/or experience. I’m very adept with EQ and compression and will aim to refine a recording or target specific sounds at the expense of others, but I’d never immediately throw out a recording due to poor quality. I like the democratisation of creative pursuits and like to think something can be interesting and valuable whether captured on an iPhone or via an expensive shotgun rig. If we judge creativity only on quality, we block a lot of people from the space or dismiss their work for the wrong reasons. That’s not how I feel about something like painting, where I’m quite opinionated about the quality of brushwork and mark-making, but in terms of music and sound art I care less about quality or evidence of trained skill and think more in terms of emotional connection or evidence of meaning. I guess, like most humans, I’m full of contradictions.

My initial EPs concerning experiences in several Japanese cities (made and released between 2021-23 and which I consider to be my musical apprenticeship, full of mistakes) lean on field recordings I captured during two earlier trips, recorded using my phone, a binaural headset and Tascam DR-40. These recordings are all over the place in terms of quality, and that never concerned me because they acted as narrative guidelines and evidence of place and experience; in this sense, they ooze integrity.

A good example would be the two girls singing at the end of my song Institute for Nature Study, which leans heavily on field recordings throughout. As the music fades, we leave the green oasis and cut to the busy streets of Meguro, Tokyo and the two girls under a bus shelter, harmonising a popular song. The recording was unplanned, captured on my iPhone (TapeIt app, which I love) and it’s very noisy and shrill, and whilst I did reduce some background noise and focus on the singing, it’s of very low quality. However, the importance of that moment to the song, to the place and to capturing the memory meant it was always going to be a dominant feature. In the end, I used it isolated with no music to obscure or disguise its flaws.

So, I don’t have a strong opinion about processing being additive or reductive, because in my opinion it’s about being true to the material, improving it if/where necessary and ensuring the final result has integrity. How another artist gets to that final result and how true it is to their initial idea is up to that artist and whether they’re prepared to manipulate it beyond a certain point. We all use artistic license to some degree, and we each have different ideas of what constitutes truth in art.

In the documentary Cinema For My Ears (2000) by Uli Aumüller, French composer Francis Dhomont likens field recording to fly fishing. Do you resonate with this analogy and what do you infer from this statement?

I’m not familiar with the documentary or composer, but taking the analogy as it is, I can appreciate it. I infer the idea that whilst one can prepare for many possibilities and conditions, and have specific targets, there’s no guarantee that the day’s catch will meet expectations — and that’s OK because it’s largely about the process, the hunt, and about occasionally being pleasantly surprised or thrilled.

Above all, I feel that fly fishing and field recording have a higher value regarding personal experience, understanding geography and conditions, and offering us a deeper way to connect with a specific place. There is also the fetishisation of equipment. If the process of field recording is of greatest importance to the person in the field, having that experience in that place at that time (and potentially escaping something that happens somewhere else), then it is all about the process and being on one’s own in a way that fly fishing absolutely is. Perhaps I infer that the experience and/or process is more important on a personal level than the resulting art.

In Treatise on Musical Objects: An Essay across Disciplines (trans 2017), Pierre Schaeffer offers the notion that ‘the advances in recording machines have all been about fidelity to the signal and have revealed nothing about the powers of the ear’. To what degree, if at all, do you believe the fidelity of field recording to be important when used in electroacoustic composition and why?

I haven’t read that text but am of course familiar with Schaeffer and Musique Concrète. I think my answers to your first question can be relevant here also, as I care less about fidelity than evidence and integrity. Personally, I value the advances but more for the connectivity and compatibility (e.g. allowing me to connect tape machines and lots of mics or strange input devices in the field) and portability. I do think it’s helpful to capture a wide stereo field and broad range of frequencies rather than have too little during production. But am I relying on the machines to tell me what I’m hearing? Do I hear more in the studio than I did in the field? If anything, I think that at times I hear more with my own ears than I capture, because my ears ‘experience’ the world in ways the machine does not. I can hear the wind but I can also feel it, or I sense the bird flying from behind me before I hear it. And that’s me; what about the listener who encounters a piece of music I’ve assembled? What do they make of the field recordings? What are they hearing and what are they being given?

Maybe I’m jumping around a bit here as things occur to me, but perhaps to answer the question: I’m not sure what is to be gained by poor quality. I’d say that capturing high-quality source material is favourable, even when, like me, you push against perfection in the studio. However, another contradiction:

I am drawn to using tape in the field, typically my old 4-track powered by USB, recording the environment via DR-40 or other mics to 1/8” tape, sometimes four mics (connected via very long extensions) into the four channels. The resulting recording loses some highs, compresses things, and is generally reductive. And yet, it has a sense of ‘grain’ that I value as a signifier of memory, that sense of direct contact with a recording medium, with magnetic tape. It’s a tangible document in a way a digital file is not, and for me, this adds more than is taken away. But for the ear? Maybe I’m keeping the real experience for myself and offering the listener a reduced experience, but I think the idea that the final piece feels like a memory in some way is more important. The listener never really knows what they’re not experiencing, that the actual frequency spectrum was wider or whatever. I think it’s as simple as: we feel something, or we do not, when we listen to the final piece.

Many instances of experiencing field recordings in music come without visual or previously acquired knowledge of the causation. How would you articulate this diminishing of contextual artefacts affects our relationship with the recording?

I agree with this to an extent and lament the lack of care for album art and liner notes, or an awareness of connected research and intentions. However, I often find and interact with field recording releases (and music that utilises them) via Bandcamp, articles (good online mags, the Ableton blog’s excellent interviews, etc.) or books (e.g. Ben Murphy's Ears To The Ground), so I’m often armed with context and things to listen for. I also buy a lot of old vinyl, such as decades-old Japanese field recording and library albums from Idle Moments, and often the liner notes are incredibly detailed, like you’re actually buying an audible field guide.

I think of my own releases as though artist’s multiples, with the EPs packaged to include diary entries, maps, and location data. As a whole, each release brings experiences to life and helps represent the place in a different form and time (this is largely why I use the moniker Site Nonsite). I could not imagine releasing anything without providing digital or printed material to contextualise it and help justify some of the thousands of decisions I make during production.

I also think there is a responsibility for the listener, should their interest be piqued, to learn more about a place or topic they might first encounter as a digital or streamed audio file. Your curiosity requires you to do a little work. If you listened to a documentary album of field recordings about, I don’t know, the Thames estuary or something, you can use the internet to find out more about the place, its history or ecology, and the artist. I like to provide a lot of material, but too often we unnecessarily task artists with providing context or explaining their work. It can be just as important to open a space into which listeners can offer their own understanding without being fed specific information. In this way, I can listen to that work about the Thames and think of a river closer to home (and my experiences of that river) or a mountain or person, if I prefer.

Field recordings are captured in uncontrolled environments and often yield unpredictable outcomes. What implications does this have on the compositional process or do you believe this surrender of control to inform musical decisions at all?

For me, unpredictability is a feature, not a bug. I welcome passersby and vocal contributions, the way a car on a nearby road might help describe the stereo distance, or the reality of a passenger jet overhead. A good example is Deathbed Convert’s album Inverse Field Vol.1 – Inishowen, which features field recordings and overdubbed environmental sound. At the end of the song Malin Head, an unplanned conversation with a curious passerby allows the artist to extract further context from the stranger (we’re asked perhaps to consider whether he/Ireland is more approving of church music and ‘real’ instruments rather than the artist’s laptop) and explain a little about the work; sharing this benefits everyone who listens. I also love the barking dog and his response at the end of 55°13'37.0"N 7°28'27.7"W.

My work is increasingly about wild locations such as open moorland and high plateau, and if I’m up on Kinder Scout, the reality is that I am also recording evidence of Manchester Airport, over-tourism, wildlife loss and a changing climate. This suits me as my current project investigates modern landscapes, not some sort of idyllic bucolic bygone world where all we hear is birdsong.

Of course, I edit the true experience when I enter the studio, looking for highlights or evidence to suit a bias or condense an experience into something simpler. We edit our use of field recordings much as we edit our lives for social media. I talk about integrity and truth to experience, but I’m as guilty as anyone of editing and manipulating in the studio. But then again, field recordings also have an integrity as straightforward material in the way musical drones and textures do, and I can splice field recordings together as though arranging musical notes. I want to be true to the place and experience, but I also have a vision for how I’d like the resulting compositions to sound.

I include a lot of macro field recording in my practice, weird textures captured via hydrophone or contact mic, and life’s too short to treat these with respect when I’m looking to create unique textural layers. Serendipity and chance have a very positive role in offering interesting material for use in production.

What are your personal motivations as a composer for including field recordings in your work?

I’ve collected material my entire life. As a kid, I collected maps and leaflets, I’d draw maps to document day trips, and I’d keep bird logs. As a visual artist, I was drawn to document my experiences in landscapes. In my adult life I embraced online tools for diarising and documenting my life. Field recording is an extension of that obsession.

I collected field recordings before I had any outlet for them. I was simply drawn to collect sound as documentary evidence the way we might collect photos. In spring 2016 and 2018, I wandered around Japan collecting sounds because I knew sound was a fundamental layer and helped describe and explain the city and transport, and I was interested in what I would collect. It was two years later that I started making music and realised I had hours of recordings from those Japan trips. I like what I make to have purpose, and decided that a series of narrative-driven EPs built around and inspired by the field recordings would focus my practice. Over the next couple of years I identified several signature components in my music, with field recordings being a fundamental component.

I think there is an anthropological angle, the desire to truly understand a place before you try to describe or represent it through art. I welcomed sound artist and musician Emeka Ogboh’s thoughts here when I, at one point, wondered if my Japan-themed work when leaning a little on pentatonic scales and shakuhachi, etc., might be accused of appropriation. Ogboh said:

I see field recordings more like an anthropological thing – digging into a place to know a place. The music could help you do that because maybe in the process of making the music, you spend a lot of time actively listening, trying to identify and pick out sounds. In that way, you’re taking an anthropological dive to understand the place. That’s not exoticising.

It’s also important to me that an artist is evident in the work, which acts against the idea that field recordings should be pristine, perfect. A snapped twig, crunched leaves or a my breath is a reason to keep the recording, not delete it. I mean, I am there, standing, recording, present. I’m activating the place by being there and in that sense I am welcome. Why put distance between myself and the place? I like Toshiya Tsunoda’s thoughts on this, and I’m a huge fan of his work Landscape and Voice where he is clearly present, inserting his voice into the recording in a truly unique and captivating way:

I want to know how to fix the experience of landscape. / The awareness of space changes with one’s intentionality. / I have been exploring how I can establish a subjective relationship with an environment, rather than seeing it merely as an object to be recorded.

I guess that ultimately my work is about intimacy, not distance. It’s about being in direct contact with a place rather than viewing it from a distance. I use field recordings to help involve the listener and bring them with me, to offer them a sense of contact, and also to share my experiences, so that my memories and expressions of those memories might also resonate with them, and trigger something emotional within them. Perhaps my documentary can also become yours.

I release music as Site Nonsite. Henry Claude is a singer, synthesist, and guitarist who releases music as Never Ending Birthdays. He’s also one half of Brown Fang (Fang Jr) and a sometime collaborator with Huw Costin and Torn Sail. His music has been released by Delia Recordings, NuNorthern Soul and other labels. My responses support research for his dissertation on composing acousmatic music for multi-speaker arrays.

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My parents bought their modest semi in 1970, five years into their marriage, for just under £4,000. I moved in three years later as a baby. Through many happy times and several difficult chapters, it was our family home.

Those walls hold a lifetime of memories. My favourite is the three of us enjoying every minute of Live Aid with the windows wide open on that hot July day in 1985. There was always music in the house.

I left home in the ’90s, but home never left me. It was there throughout my adult life — summers back from university, Christmases when single. The year my Dad was dying. Passing groceries over the gate during the pandemic. I loved that whatever the reason, it was always the same house. Not once did staying over mean searching for light switches or opening every cupboard to find a mug.

My Mam passed last spring, and I put the house on sale a few months later, initiating a year-long process that has been expensive and fraught. A weird market, a neighbouring saboteur, frustrating structural surveys, buyer withdrawals, a shrinking sale price, rolling bills and unsympathetic authorities. Oh, and weeds — lots of brutal weeds.

Today, after a tough week clearing the place to meet a short-notice exchange deadline, I handed over the keys. After more than five decades, No. 11 is no longer ours. My heart breaks, but my memories are forever.

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The value of art is not how much it costs and how little effort it requires, it’s how much would you risk to be in its presence? You know, what would you do to be in the presence of Starry Night at Musee d’Orsay? Would you go to Paris? Yes? Would you stand in line for three hours? Yes? And then you’d have five minutes in which you’ll be monumentally moved by that. You know? So how much would people pay for those screensavers? Are they going to make them cry because they lost a son, a mother, because they misspent their youth? Fuck no. It’s not going to happen.

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After a decade as a sumo fan and a year of anticipation for the London event I was almost tearful watching the opening moments of day one on iPlayer. Seeing familiar sumo rituals performed at possibly the most beautiful venue in the world is something else.

Geri’s fully weedled her way into sumo over the last few years and befriended several top-division rikishi. She designed a stunning fabric for veteran Tamawashi, which made quite an impact this summer when numerous wrestlers wore it as yukata (she wore one herself at the recent Tokyo tournament and again yesterday). As soon as she returned from her latest trip, she was off to London, helping some of them see the sights, including a photoshoot at Abbey Road that’s had tens of thousands of views and been shared by the Mayor of London. She also sat ringside on day four.

Unexpected commitments forced me to reduce a planned few days in London to just a few hours — long enough to join Geri for the final day’s action. Our seats were up in the Gods, but what a treat to see sumo at the Royal Albert Hall. The fighting across the five days was exhibition-level at times, but then it was technically a touring event where nobody wants to risk injury (and possible demotion) between the main bashos. None of this mattered because it was still fun and it’s all about the show as a whole. It’s been wonderful having them all here. For all of us who care about this sport and all its brilliant details, it’s been quite a week.

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A funding award enabled me to dedicate three months solely to developing my artistic practice — something I’ve been reflecting on these past few weeks.

Finding a rhythm

The first week, spent in a residential environment with other artists, was very productive. But on my return, I found that many day-to-day issues I struggle with persisted, and it took a long time to establish a positive schedule. Going in, I intened to embrace various ways of enjoying each day and make time for some simple things that I should do more often but sometimes find inexplicably anxiety-inducing. I had envisioned all this personal time ahead and the opportunity to live differently for a while, but I fell into (and, in some cases, couldn’t avoid) familiar patterns.

I now realise it wasn’t so much that I needed a break from work, but rather from some ongoing struggles and the many aspects of daily survival and world catastrophe that cause me stress.

Maintaining momentum

And yet, it was a summer packed with positives, and my artistic practice expanded considerably. My short residency at Camp in the Pyrenees was the transformative highlight that came right away, and I preserved a little time each day to reflect and write about that; here’s everything tagged Camp France.

I also documented several other highlights, including my field skills session with Marcus Leadley, and trips to Edale and Northumberland. All related activities are tagged ACE Summer.

I’ve decided to maintain my creative momentum as if the funding period were still ongoing, despite having used all the allocated funds and time. As I’ve always done, I’ll balance client work to finance the activities I'm passionate about. This approach enables me to continue pursuing my creative interests and build upon all the projects I’ve initiated.

I realise this is lengthy and of little interest to many, but it’ll save some effort if I simply share what I wrote for my final funding report. Here, minus the forensic spending breakdown, is that report.

Final activity report form

What was the activity you undertook?

My project focused on expanding my musical practice by developing sound artworks through experimental field recording and performance art. The period spanned three months, during which I explored emerging themes, notably the relationship between sound, place, distance and time.

Core activities included:

• A residency at Camp Studios in the Pyrenees, where I documented experiences in the landscape through sound experiments and demo compositions.
• Tape machine experiments in my garden, a controlled environment for testing
• Field work in the Peak District with focus on themes relating to place and time
• Field work in Northumberland with portable rigs in different environments
• One-to-one training with sound artist Prof. Marcus Leadley
• Day trips to gather field recordings and develop site-specific approaches
• Studio sessions to process material and explore ways to present the work

The project largely followed my plan, but there were changes along the way. Garden experiments became more significant, providing a testing ground for ideas before applying them in remote locations. This also made up for adverse weather during field trips. The Camp residency proved very productive, shifting some focus toward demo recordings and exploratory performance.

I developed several key research strands:

• Straight & Loop Time: temporal perceptions through layered recordings
• Displace & Echo: how sound can be dislocated from its source
• Perimeters & Area: sound to map and measure a designated space
• Tape Length Walks: journeys dictated by magnetic tape length
• Exposure: degrading magnetic tape in outdoor settings
• Place Tapes: physical material capturing the essence of locations

Throughout these activities, I maintained detailed documentation with notebooks, wiki tools, maps, photos, and audio, which will form the basis for future presentations of the work.

What have you learned?

This period has been transformative. I’ve gained a deeper understanding of how to integrate field recording techniques with conceptual art frameworks, devising test works that engage with philosophical ideas about place and time.

Key learnings:

1. Technical development: greatly improved recording skills, particularly capturing environmental and electromagnetic sounds using new devices. Creating multi-track audio works. Working with magnetic tape as a physical art material.
2. Conceptual growth: developed clearer artistic themes around distance, time and presence. I’ve moved from disparate ideas toward cohesive frameworks that can sustain long-term investigation. Themes of dislocated time emerged as a strong thread, connecting many experiments.
3. Confidence: greater confidence in following intuition and affording time to think. Used my time with other artists to be brave about sharing unfinished ideas, which started conversations that I think will lead to future collaborations.

Areas that could have worked better include time management. I spread myself too thinly across multiple locations, which wasted some time on planning. Learning to focus deeply on fewer sites yielded better results. Additionally, some tech challenges in remote locations taught me to better prepare redundancy systems. For example, I learned the hard way that I need contingency for awful weather.

Sessions with Marcus Leadley were very valuable, though I realised it would have been beneficial to schedule sessions throughout the entire project.

The most significant outcome was the emergence of performance as an element of my practice. What began as documentation methods evolved into performative works, where the act of recording and being audibly present became as important as the resulting audio. This has opened entirely new directions for my practice that I hadn’t anticipated.

What do you think will happen as a result of this period?

This period has fundamentally reshaped my practice and created many paths. The long-term impact will continue in key areas:

1. Identity and direction: establishing a clearer artistic voice and methodology. Focus on sound, distance and time is merging into a distinct approach. I’ll build upon these foundations with each new work.
2. Technical capabilities: skills developed in field recording, tape manipulation and sound composition expanded my toolbox. These techniques will help me realise more ambitious and technically accomplished works.
3. Conceptual framework: themes explored provide rich conceptual territory, ideas substantive enough to sustain long-term investigation.

The development period has directly created several concrete opportunities:

• I’ve spoken with two spaces about potential exhibitions once the work is ready.
• I’ve been invited to lead a workshop on experimental recording techniques.
• I’ve spoken with a publisher about short-run publication.
• I’ve made connections with other artists creating possibilities for future collabs.

Beyond these opportunities, I also have a clear methodology to reference when applying for further residential opportunities.

And it’s helped me develop a sustainable practice that integrates well with my life. The rhythms I’ve established (alternating between field work, studio time, reflection, and presentation) provide a good template that feels sustainable around my day job.

The works begun will continue to evolve as I’ll develop these concepts further, potentially expanding into installations or performance. I also look forward to mining the many hours of field recordings to use in more straightforward music projects. Site Nonsite is a much broader project with greater potential to engage others because of all this activity.

My summer was supported by Arts Council England’s Developing Your Creative Practice Award.

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We lost something along the way in pursuit of efficiency and this idea of saving time for productivity. We lost something in the helicopter parenting that we ourselves didn’t have but want for our own children. We lost something in the blandness of homogenized sameness and conformity. We lost something when everything became instantly accessible. And now we’re losing the most in favor of automation and agents that are the fever dream of AI hype cycles and an industry propping it up to create an “inevitability” because humans aren’t worth investing in.

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Before I start, a note about the images. Some people find Saville’s work disturbing. With respect for this, I’m predominantly using details to illustrate the painting techniques I love, with a handful of complete images at the end.

In the early 1990s, I would occasionally buy The Times, because it had the best arts supplement. It was there that I first encountered Jenny Saville, photographed with her monumental degree show painting Propped.

I think most people encountering her work just saw these raw, honest paintings of large women, and of course I saw them too. But what really struck me was the exceptional quality of the brushwork. At that time, this figurative work embodied everything I sought in abstract painting; it just happened to be contained and shaped by the human form. I became a Saville fan from that moment, primarily because of her brilliant mark-making at scale. I saw her as a painter’s painter.

As James Putnam notes in his essay, The Art-Music Connection and The Album Cover as Art, that same Times supplement also caught the attention of Richey Edwards and Nicky Wire from Manic Street Preachers, who were searching for something to represent the raw and anguished themes of their forthcoming third album:

“…they were inspired by Saville’s paintings, which they saw featured in a newspaper supplement. Although Saville was initially reluctant for her art to be used as a record cover, she relented after having a phone conversation with Edwards about anorexia and reading his related lyrics to the song 4st 7lb. She then agreed for him to use her image of the triptych, Strategy (South Face/Front Face/North Face), which depicts an obese woman in underwear. By painting this raw, unflattering image of a body at such a monumental scale, Saville questions societal norms about beauty and the traditional idealised representations of the female form in art. Like the album’s music, it challenges the viewer, or listener, to confront upsetting realities about the human condition. The band went on to use another Saville painting, Stare, for their album Journal for Plague Lovers (2009). This provoked controversy as it depicted a child’s face with red marks on it that some retailers thought to be potentially disturbing, so they censored it by packaging it in a plain slipcase.”

I don’t want this to be about the two paintings made famous by Manic Street Preachers, but it’s an interesting connection. Not only did we both discover her work in the same supplement, but it was The Holy Bible that shifted my attention from Saville’s technical ability to the subject matter, giving substance to the themes she was exploring. A couple of years later, I finally saw Propped at the controversial Sensation (Charles Saatchi’s ‘shock of the new’ collection — Hirst’s shark, Quinn’s blood, Emin’s tent, Harvey’s Myra and so on) in 1997. Living in London at the time, I witnessed the explosion of YBAs, some of whom frequented the same bars as us.

Jenny Saville: The Anatomy of Painting is a major retrospective at the prestigious National Portrait Gallery, presenting three decades of Saville’s work in chronological order. Her paintings represent an ongoing dialogue with the history of figurative art while delivering the thrill of seeing and feeling something entirely new. The show has been immensely popular — most days booked up well in advance — and on my visit, the accompanying catalogue was completely sold out.

The first painting is Hyphen, depicting Saville and her sister in extreme, almost fisheye closeup, seamlessly connected. Immediately, the quality drew me inches from the canvas — perfect expressive brushstrokes and bold interjections (she used a huge scraper, nothing so subtle as a palette knife at this scale). The sharp lines are reminiscent of Euan Uglow’s geometric style, the first of many great painters I’d be reminded of during my visit.

Standing really close, the paintings become great fleshy landscapes. This is most evident in Trace, a close-up of a back where the bra strap indentation marks resemble tracks or paths describing contours — echoing the exhibition notes for Hyphen that refer to “landscapes of the flesh.” Trace reminds me of how I approached painting mountains at art school — as if viewed from low-flying drones hovering so close that the land’s edges disappeared from view. My tutors frowned upon anything related to landscape and dismissed my approach, but looking back, I realise I was onto something. I digress, but then again, it felt like I was looking at these paintings as that younger, wide-eyed version of myself.

Saville typically paints eyes and hair with a flat technique, reserving the expressive thickness and sensual bold gestures for flesh and facial features. This approach is particularly striking in the Red Stare Head studies II and IV. Up close, mouths transform into pure abstraction, and everything becomes an abstract expressionist landscape. With any painting, I could frame a portion with my phone and evoke everything I love about a great Peter Lanyon painting. Here’s a quick example comparing a section of Lanyon’s Thermal with a detail from Saville’s Red Stare IV.

The main Stare, the one on the cover of Journal for Plague Lovers, is stunning. Bolder, more confident; that jade background. More brutal, perhaps? But it’s not a painting about abuse; the young woman has a port-wine birthmark. One eye holds me, while the other is glassy and glazed, looking slightly off into the distance. There’s a haunted quality to her expression, but it’s not trauma; she’s just a young girl with a birthmark. I know this, but I also know that when an artist presents such an image with ambiguity, they intentionally invite multiple interpretations.

The next room shifted tone, featuring mostly drawings in charcoal and pastel. The layers of iterative drawing were breathtaking, with some composed of swirling loops that reminded me of Cy Twombly’s rhythmic, expressive style.

More recent work in the last two rooms challenged me. I struggled with the traumatic Aleppo, not because of its subject but because of its pastel and charcoal blur reminiscent of Francis Bacon (an artist I’ve never liked). And I didn’t connect with the religious iconography and formal figure drawing of Pietà 1.

The final room delivered a shock of ultra-saturated colour — though this seems a natural evolution when you consider how many years Saville has spent looking at fleshy pinks. I noticed a wide variety of styles, including compositions that used a collage-like approach. Several intimate head portraits seemed similar to one another, each featuring what appeared to be oversized eyes, pixie noses and full lips (but this may accurately reflect the sitters).

On closer inspection, three of these paintings offered more. Chasah has featured in several press reviews, but up close, I discovered something that reproductions had not revealed — the dark skin is rendered with many small, almost impressionist marks in an array of colours. I then read the accompanying description and learned that during this period, Saville had drawn inspiration from Monet. I also better appreciated neighbouring pastel work Prism, with its orange marks buzzing like neon. And Messenger features a stunning rainbow of colour pouring from the cheek that made me wonder if Messenger was actually Prism.

Another work I struggled with was Drift, one of the poster images for the show. It seems to lack the qualities I love; the face composition feels almost amateur in its strange unreality. While it appears vibrant at first glance, closer inspection reveals the colour is almost muddy, with small and less engaging marks. I felt similarly about Rupture, though its painterly strokes were much more exciting and expressive, reminiscent of Arshile Gorky (a noted influence).

Of course, this is all down to taste. I’ve always been very particular about the kind of painting and styles of application and mark-making that matter to me. Saville rightly explores her influences and seeks to expand and evolve her practice. While a few paintings here don’t quite do it for me, the vast majority most certainly do.

Two women nearby were enthusiastically discussing the exhibition when they suddenly engaged me, perhaps noticing how intently I was studying the surfaces. “All the women here today are so excited about this!” they told me. “These are real women!” I’d been wondering about this and remain curious about how different women feel about Saville’s representation of women. One of them mentioned the male gaze in art, but I was prepared and told them I’d first learned about that from Cindy Sherman — and with that we were all briefly best friends. I reassured them that many of us men appreciate Saville’s work, and they reassured me that they knew that. We all agreed about how impressive the paintings are up close.

As we parted, I told them Saville has been my favourite modern painter for thirty years, and smiled to myself — grateful that I still feel something when I spend a little time with extraordinary paintings.

Jenny Saville: The Anatomy of Painting was at the National Portrait Gallery, London, from 20th June to 7th September 2025. All photos of Saville’s work in this post are my own, taken at the exhibition.

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There’s something really beautiful about using your life as raw material and making it into something that, if you do it right, it’s like a thing that’s there forever and people can access it and it will do something for them.

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Across several rooms, This Is What You Get explores the collaborative relationship between Thom Yorke and Stanley Donwood and the visual material they’ve created for Radiohead, Yorke’s solo albums and The Smile. It’s not everyone’s idea of “good art”^[1] and this show doesn’t attempt to frame it as such — instead, it offers a window into an experimental process often wrestling with creative block, uncertainty and the search for meaning. We see how setting constraints, relinquishing control and responding to external pressure can sharpen focus. Many of the most compelling images emerge from their willingness to embrace being amateurs — consistently trying new things and flailing around in the hope that something interesting will emerge.

It’s all refreshingly down-to-earth. We learn that good things often happened by chance, Yorke and Donwood always downplaying their abilities and keen to emphasise that “we had no idea what we were doing”. A reassurance for me, considering my own working methods, is how the pair combine seemingly unrelated sources to find a direction, or discover something in a single poem, painting, place or process that will act as a wayfinder.

When multiple elements align perfectly, an album can impact some of us so profoundly that we’ll live our lives enriched by the belief that everything about it — the music, yes, but also the material that contextualises and expands it — holds the highest creative value. And music moves with us in such a way that if you’re sensitive to it as a measure of your life, it can forever intertwine with memories in ways painting or sculpture rarely does. In Radiohead’s case, each body of work becomes an instantly recognisable cultural touchpoint, capturing the moods, anxieties and technologies of its time while resonating with millions of people. In my world, this qualifies as very good art.

I spent today reading the essays and interviews in the accompanying catalogue, and it’s worth buying if you love this stuff. As is often the case, the book covers more ground than the show and allows for a deeper dive at a slower pace.

It was a lovely day trip to Oxford. We had coffee at New Ground, strolled along Broad Street and browsed the Tardis-like Blackwell’s bookshop. As it was Geri’s first time in the city, we ambled around The Bodleian Library, Radcliffe Camera and a few old lanes. We also met up with Jon and Leigh Hicks (and their daughter, ’Mantha) at The Ashmolean as they also love Radiohead and live nearby. It’s always fun to hang out with them and we had a good catchup over drinks and tapas at Al Andalus before the long drive home.

1. With reference to this review and the critic’s fixation on whether the artwork, when separated from the music, qualifies as “good art”. ↩︎

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I fell for land art while at art school in the early ’90s, and several key artists had a huge impact on me, notably those able to present work as both transient in the landscape (often documented through photos, video or maps) and more permanent in a gallery space. Two great examples are Richard Long and Andy Goldsworthy.

I kept Goldsworthy close for many years before gradually drifting away. However, as soon as I heard about this bold new exhibition, I booked tickets and we planned our trip up North around it.

To mark fifty years of his work, National Galleries of Scotland invited Goldsworthy to devise new installations in response to the Royal Scottish Academy building. The show also features a limited retrospective of his work dating back to his 1970s formative explorations.

Goldsworthy is not an artist to namedrop and impress people with. His work is hugely popular across the world, and that’s largely because it looks good and is, on the face of it, easy to read. A lot of his works make great postcards and there are many coffee table books. Thousands of people will book in advance and tell their friends they went to see this show and that it was great.

And that’s good. But Goldsworthy matters to me because his work, while aesthetically engaging, represents far more than an attractive collaboration with nature. He loves nature but doesn’t (and probably couldn’t) romanticise it. While some works embrace natural beauty, others remind us that nature can be hostile and dangerous. Deeply rooted in rural graft and an understanding of natural materials, his work scratches beneath the surface to reveal truths about the land, farm labour, livestock, access, land histories, life, death and everything in between. The work is, if you want it to be, deeply conceptual.

The visual language of land and environmental art has evolved through the work of many artists: Julie Brook, Hamish Fulton, Chris Drury, Roni Horn, James Turrell, Nancy Holt, John Newling and Tacita Dean, to name just a few of my favourites.

Goldsworthy both explores and extends this language, helping us make sense of our direct contact with the landscape and deepening our understanding of what it represents. Richard Long’s influence on him is evident. In turn, Goldsworthy’s impact on subsequent generations has been profound, with artists like Olafur Eliasson using some of his concepts as starting points.

The work is very often about transformation, and two works exemplify how Goldsworthy transforms death into fleeting beauty. With Feathers from Dead Heron, Cumbria 1982, Goldsworthy plucks the dead bird he found, and transforms it into material, creating a rhythmic monochromatic arrangement. With Fallen Elm, he uses vibrant leaves to highlight the cracks and wounds the tree suffered as it fell. Each work presents one death as a symbol of the wider threat to nature, and offers the artist a means to make sense of grief. This underlines that for Goldsworthy, art is less about expression and more a way of understanding the world.

That need to understand by doing is evident in Goldsworthy’s construction, with most works created carefully and rich with a profound sense of integrity. An old exhibition catalogue titled Nature as Material represents his philosophy — a commitment to honesty of construction and truth to natural materials.

I’m always interested in the act of bringing the work to life. With Goldsworthy, there’s an inherent performance quality to his process, yet it’s not staged for us or any audience. So much of this work is about how it’s made, but in this show we only get occasional video or process photos, and little for the big new installations. There’s lots of behind-the-scenes stuff on the artist’s website and the venue’s YouTube, but I wish there was more of the process in the exhibition itself.

Earlier, I suggested the retrospective is limited, and it is. Only in the gift shop do we find evidence of his deeply significant work with cairns, sheep pens and dry-stone walls — key aspects of his dialogue with recreational and working landscapes. I’d love to have seen more in the show itself.

Still, this exhibition reassures us that Goldsworthy’s work continues to evolve while maintaining its core essence. And it shows us that environmental art remains vital because it creates a necessary dialogue between humanity and nature, between permanence and impermanence. Goldsworthy's work invites us not merely to observe nature, but to participate in its cycles, to understand its processes, and to recognise our place within it. His ways of seeing and feeling our world resonate more profoundly now than ever before.

Photos from downstairs

All photos above are of the newer installations upstairs. To conclude, here are my photos from downstairs — mostly archive projects and details I appreciate.

Downstairs

Andy Goldsworthy: Fifty Years is at Royal Scottish Academy, Edinburgh until 2nd November, 2025. All photos in this post are my own, taken at the Fifty Years show.

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Today marks eighty years since the devastating atomic bombing of Hiroshima. My song Paper Cranes documents an emotional visit to the peace museum and my encounter with a survivor. Every August 6th, I donate any Bandcamp profits to a Hibakusha charity.

Last year, Tokyo-born, Berlin-based artist Tot Onyx included Paper Cranes in her deeply moving Hiroshima/Nagasaki mix on NTS — an hour of “Nuclear Age” music remembering the devastating events of August 1945 while also contemplating the present.

Making this mix gave me a quality of time to reflect the ongoing genocide and atrocities that are taking place right now. It proved to me that sometimes music can tell stories better than the language.

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It’s becoming a habit that we head up North each Summer. This time we spent a few days in remote Northumberland, before heading to Edinburgh, Glasgow and Motherwell.

Kielder

It took six hours to travel the 210 miles to our isolated cottage just past Kielder Water, with its own two acres of land leading down to the modest winding waters of the North Tyne and views across marshy moorland towards the Scottish border a few hundred metres beyond.

The bright pink of Fireweed was everywhere, including the cottage garden, and the Swallows nesting in the neighbouring barn swooped and strafed all day long. We enjoyed a gorgeous first night with golden hour sunlight, until the midges came out and we hurried indoors. After dark, Tawny Owl calls echoed through the valley.

We made this short trip for several reasons. A major factor was the location, which suited more ACE-funded activities, and I conducted several field recording sessions with different experimental setups — some in the garden, one on a grassy pathway, others right by the river. For one session, I waded through waist-high reeds to reach a table-like tree stump, but had to speedily abort when an army of ants took an interest in me and my kit. Over the three days I acquired quite a few stings and bites.

We walked along a gravel track winding through the trees to reach James Turrell’s Skyspace, perched high on Black Fell, just below the Kielder Observatory. We love his Deer Shelter at YSP, so made sure to visit this one. And we got lucky as we pretty much had the place to ourselves for an hour, watching as sunshine and blue sky arrived to transform the space. I saw lots of good birds throughout our stay, and the highlight was a pair of Spotted Flycatchers seen on our walk back down the track. The wild flowers were good too, notably Common Spotted Orchid and the fiery Fox-and-Cubs.

The following day, we went to Kielder Water Birds of Prey Centre, to wander around and meet the residents. Highlights included Little Red the tiny falcon across from Milly the enormous White-Tailed Sea Eagle, getting up close with a saucy Black Kite (aka Tombi), and admiring all the owls. We also loved watching tame chaffinches hop around the tethered predators, seemingly oblivious to the danger. A little later, we enjoyed flying demos featuring five birds: Barn Owl, Eurasian Eagle Owl, the saucy Black Kite, Ashy-faced Owl, and Common Kestrel, and our wise-cracking hosts ensured everyone got a go with the glove.

Midweek in the remoteness of Northumberland, it often feels like there’s nobody for miles — vast open landscape, empty roads and surprisingly few holidaymakers. So it feels a bit odd to drive up two-miles of winding, tree-flanked gravel track to the top of a bleak fell at 9pm on a dark, wet Thursday evening, to find another 30 or so people sat in their cars, waiting to be ushered into a strange structure for a sold-out astronomy lecture.

Having braved midges and drizzle, we received a warm welcome into the long thin Kielder Observatory, its square entrance drawn in sci-fi red light. The evening’s team greeted each visitor personally — a thoughtful touch that typified the warmth and intimacy of the event.

The event was great, with three talks in different spaces. We received an intro about measuring the scale of the universe in light years. Next, a talk about rocks where we held a 4.6 billion-year-old meteorite. Lastly, we gathered around the huge telescope to learn about its 16“ mirror and hand-cranked positioning. The unplanned highlight came at the end of the event as everyone left the building to find that, despite the rain still drizzling down, the sky had finally cleared, allowing guide Liam to give an impromptu tour of the night sky, using a super-powerful handheld laser to accurately point out stars, constellations and nebulae.

Leaving the observatory, we seized our opportunity to revisit the Skyspace. Since the track is only open during observatory events, and as ours was the second-to-last car to leave, we drove a little further downhill and parked right outside. The installation can be accessed 24 hours a day, but to visit after midnight in total darkness felt excitingly illicit. (There’s usually a subtle interior light show designed to enhance the after-dark experience, but apparently it’s been out of action for a while.)

We entered cautiously at 00:15 and stayed only five minutes, just in case someone shut the barrier at the bottom of the hill. It was incredible to experience the space alone in the dark — a perfect circle of night sky directly above with only the sound of a few drips for company. A profound sense of peace came over me, before I grew unnerved by the possibility that something — a bird, a bat, or some unseen presence — might shatter the silence.

Edinburgh

Early the next morning, we packed and set off on a mostly scenic two-hour drive to Edinburgh. Upon arrival, we headed straight to Lannan Bakery for a lunchtime treat.

Lannan is always Geri’s main reason to come here, but this time mine was the major new Andy Goldsworthy exhibition, which I’ve detailed in a separate post.

The following morning, we walked back to Stockbridge and joined a much longer line at Lannan. After queuing for 95 minutes in a sun trap, we finally reached the door. It’s always worth the wait, though. We took our hard-earned pastries and two coffees (each) to Princes Street Gardens, then spent a few hours calmly navigating through thousands of tourists and Fringe leafleteers in beautiful sunshine.

Glasgow & Motherwell

In the late afternoon, we drove to Glasgow for an overnight by the quay, and very early the next morning, we headed to the 3rd Scottish Sumo Championships at the enormous Ravenscraig Sports Facility in Motherwell, where Geri exhibited her sumo illustrations alongside other market vendors.

It was a long day, the event overran considerably and the market fizzled out, so we packed up at 6pm. Even with my foot down and only a couple of brief stops, the drive still took six hours. We were home by midnight and slept very well.

Our short trip took place from 29th July to 3rd August.

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Neither of us had ridden before, and I found the experience unnerving at first. Duke is a big (16.3 hands) old Irish Cob, and from the saddle, the ground seemed very far away and his slightest movement made me feel as though I’d fall off. Initially, he seemed agitated by something (our guide kept looking for a fly, but it was probably me), shaking and twitching constantly, and I feared he might spook (hence this post’s silly title).

But gradually, we both relaxed. My posture improved and I learned how to use the reins to minimise his desire to dart for blackberries, and we settled into a pleasant walk along old bridleways.

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