A writer and designer in the Middle West who makes midnight mix tapes and writes about faith in the digital age.
Notes on surviving the 21st century and a mixtape delivered 'round midnight on the 1st and 15th of the month.
Sink into this plush couch while Strange Days plays on mute and somebody talks about the Information Superhighway.
Ruminations on being enchanted, disenchanted, and hopefully back again—featuring a very special theological meditation.
A dedication to the Richie Hawtin's Concept records where an offset snare becomes high drama.
Inspirational music and a pair of slow-motion bangers from '82 in an episode about art and death.
Slow grain pulse and dub that strips the world down to studs while we practice the lectio divina with a deep winter chug.
Glittery future-shock goth-punk for these days of intense digital pleasure that masks a psychosocial collapse.
hurchy drone and astronaut music with the serene energy I fantasize about cultivating in the first minutes of a new year.
Vocal workouts and hopeful classics with notes on robot spouses and the future of friction.
Slow motion Breakfast Club anthems served with tornados, egg foo young, and trashed algorithms.
An ode to Michael Clayton and the giddy illusion of renewal before death.
Notes on time and strangeness paried with an hour-long soundtrack for a photography exhibition
Last night I dreamt my mother was alive and serving a delicious tea brewed from stones.
Nothing but the Chromatics in a megamix so glossy it's nearly lacquered—plus notes on the Mariana Trench and unbearable weather.
Five new favorite songs that make these days feel worthwhile.
Late-night chatter mixed with low-key classics that drift in and out of focus like dreams do.
Hunting for freedom through repetition.
Forty minutes of marine-themed dub techno surrounded by big pine and cold water.
Here I am, astral projecting in 1983 to bring you five sun-bleached slabs of summertime music.
At some point the screen became the world and now we're haunting it.
The ghosts of old standards, summoned for whatever comes next.
Heavyweight dub and the horror of insatiable desire.
The first gods were probably born in dreams.
Goma ritual chants, tape hiss, static, and reverb—an offering of static and fire.
Bad fortunes are tied to a rack while a Buddhist chant bleeds through my favorite song of the year.
High walls surround the Confucian temple because you must work for the knowledge within.
Broadcasting from somewhere between the bells of a temple and the heat of a night market.
A tribute to David Lynch that roams through ruined ballads and slow-motion noir.
Where the reverb is heavy and the souls are haunted.
I'm returning to my spiritual practice of slowing techno down to a crawl.
Dedicated to the American tradition of talking to God through car-wreck calendars and junkyard rockets.
The first day of a new year, and I'm thinking about accidental laughter and holy imperfection.
Sing along: "If snow was black, I'd wear black shades and drive a black car."
A Very Kind Listener requested a soundtrack to accommodate a slowly breaking heart.
Because true freedom is not thinking about the president every day.
As we teeter on the edge of an unpleasant future, here are five of the most reassuring songs I know.
A soundtrack for C. to paint to. She likes synthesizers that tilt toward the tragic but has no patience for treacle.
A half-speed electronic classic from 1994. Embrace speed. Groove on distraction. Find god in the liquid crystal glow.
Analog media is better for hauntings.
Anything worthwhile rests on a knife's edge. I like to think of this zone as the Tannhäuser Gate.
Pitched-down electric classics circa 1998. Slowing down my favorite songs has become a spiritual practice.
Some songs for a midnight drive like neon washing across your hood.
It's tempting to classify Death Prom as nostalgia but it is a haunting.
Kicking off with a stone summertime classic and mountains of glorious reverb.
Notes on surviving the 21st century and a mixtape delivered ’round midnight on the 1st and 15th of the month.