Midnight
Radio

Painting is incredibly hard.

Why do some encounters alter our perception while others leave no trace?

Chanting and humming until language becomes a holy tone.

I’ve had more conversations about the human soul in the past six months than the rest of my life combined.

I'm interested in my dreams because this is where I can hear myself think.

"I guess the real question is: Does God believe in Himself?"

Create routines so they can be abandoned.

Art, life, and death in a very special (and fun) episode with Candy Chang.

Practicing the lectio divina with a deep winter chug.

On spite, lost futures, and the playlist as communion—with a Very Special Guest

Three songs that possess the righteously serene energy I fantasize about cultivating in the first minutes of a new year.

Robot love and the glory of reverb

Egg foo young, tornados, suffering, and short-circuiting the algorithm.

An ode to Michael Clayton and the giddy illusion of renewal before death.

Notes on time and strangeness, plus an hour-long soundtrack for Grace Wang’s photography exhibition.

Revelations and mental rearrangements only seem to occur when I’m not paying attention.

A chromatic megamix so glossy it’s nearly lacquered—plus notes on the Mariana Trench and unbearable weather.

Let’s focus on the new.

Twenty-three minutes of chatter that drifts in and out of focus, echoing and looping like dreams tend to do.

Hunting for freedom through repetition.

You can feel the geography shift when you see all that 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.

There’s something within me that will never be satisfied or understood—and this is how it should be.

The first gods were probably born in dreams.

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 my favorite songs down to a crawl.

Dedicated to the great American tradition of speaking to the heavens through car-wreck calendars and junkyard rockets.

Some wobbly loops from T. Rex and Roxy Music, a static-ridden visitation from Nancy Sinatra, and other moments of holy imperfection.

Five joyous classics from Chicago, Detroit, and Berlin. 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 several unpleasant possible futures, here are five of the most reassuring songs I know.

A soundtrack for Candy Chang to paint to.

Embrace speed. Groove on distraction. Let my thoughts get garbled and strange. Find god in the liquid crystal glow.

Analog media is better for hauntings.

Anything worthwhile rests on a knife’s edge like the delicate art of falling asleep.

Slowing down my favorite songs has become a spiritual practice.

I feel a bit better each day, even though the world feels a little more insane.

It’s tempting to classify Death Prom as mere nostalgia, but it is a complicated haunting.

Five songs that work best during a heatwave.