Con ”Spelonk”, uscito per la portoghese Crónica Records, Rutger Zuydervelt – mente e orecchio dietro Machinefabriek – torna a una modalità creativa più istintiva e personale, lontana dalle consuete commissioni per film, danza e progetti multimediali.
Il disco, composto da tre lunghe tracce (”Spelonk” I, II, III), nasce infatti da rapide sessioni di “hardware jams” realizzate con un setup essenziale: oscillatori, pedali, piccoli dispositivi elettronici e varie registrazioni sovrapposte.
La prima impressione è quella di entrare in un ambiente sotterraneo, una cavità sonora che giustifica pienamente il titolo: Spelonk, che in olandese richiama la parola “spelonca”, “grotta”.
Machinefabriek costruisce paesaggi che sembrano emergere spontaneamente dal materiale stesso, più scoperti che progettati. Questa sensazione è intenzionale: Zuydervelt descrive questi lavori come già presenti dentro di lui, pronti a uscire una volta avviato il processo creativo.
Ciò che rende ”Spelonk” affascinante è la sua natura semi‑improvvisata. Le tracce si sviluppano come organismi viventi: nascono da un nucleo semplice e si espandono attraverso sovrapposizioni e combinazioni che l’artista stesso descrive come momenti magici e imprevedibili. Il risultato è un suono che oscilla tra drone, minimalismo e astrazione elettronica.
”Spelonk I” (6:13) introduce l’ambiente: un ingresso, un primo respiro dell’oscurità. ”Spelonk II” (17:57) si dilata invece in un territorio più ipnotico e stratificato, mentre ”Spelonk III” (18:00) affonda in un’eco più rarefatta, come raggiungere il punto più profondo della caverna.
Nonostante la durata significativa delle ultime due sezioni, il flusso mantiene un equilibrio naturale: non c’è desiderio di guidare l’ascoltatore, ma piuttosto di lasciarlo esplorare. ”Spelonk” non è infatti un album narrativo né immediato: è più simile a un ambiente, un luogo alternativo in cui trascorrere del tempo. È anche un ritorno a una modalità creativa spontanea, simile a quella del suo precedente album ”Omval” (del 2004), come lo stesso autore riconosce.
Machinefabriek firma qui uno dei suoi lavori più intimi e al tempo stesso più alieni. ”Spelonk” è un invito all’ascolto attivo, alla sospensione del giudizio, alla meraviglia. Un disco che non si spiega: si attraversa. (Andrea Rossi)
Nederlander Rutger Zuydervelt maakt tegenwoordig vooral muziek in opdracht voor film, dans of andere projecten. Hoewel hij van die jobs houdt, moet hij er zich af en toe ook even van losmaken en iets puur voor zichzelf maken, onder zijn alias Machinefabriek. Zo was er in 2004 zijn album Omval, nu gevolgd door Spelonk. “Deze projecten maak ik altijd in korte periodes; zodra ik begin, vallen de dingen snel op hun plek, alsof de ideeën er (onbewust) al waren en er alleen maar uit moesten”, vertelt hij daarover.
De titels zijn eenvoudig, want met drie tracks neemt hij ons mee door drie spelonken, opgebouwd uit hardware jams die hij live opnam. De spelonken die hij hands-on creëert, met effectpedalen, een oscillator en elektronische gadgets zitten vol magie door de verschillende opnames die hij als laagjes over mekaar legt, tot ze een buitenaards sonisch landschap worden. Die landschappen zijn boeiend om te verkennen. Steeds opnieuw, liefst met je ogen dicht.
Spelonk I is een ware stiltetrack, waarbij je aanvankelijk de rust in jezelf opzoekt om geluiden van de stilte te onderscheiden. Triggerende losse percussie-elementen duiken op in een steeds duidelijker wordende elektronische ruis, die overgaat in een walmende galm. Bevreemdende sonische golven overspoelen de – bijna angstaanjagende – stille soundtrack, waarbij je na meer dan zes minuten bijna vergat dat de tijd verder tikte tijdens het luisteren.
Ook Spelonk II lijkt aanvankelijk een veilige stiltehaven. Tot scherpe soundscapes de lucht verzwaren. Steeds luider en sterker aanwezig. Steeds met meer, omringen de klankwasems ons, met verzengend fluisterende elektronische ademhalingen. Er worden repetitief zachte ritmes gewekt door donkerder wordende soundscapes, die opgetrokken worden naar hogere tonen, hogere sferen… waar plots verstorende blieps en beeps opduiken. De stilte en rust wordt naar het einde toe opnieuw teruggevonden en die lijkt naadloos over te gaan in Spelonk III, waarin elektronische druppels vallen, uit mekaar ketsen op een buitenaards meertje. In deze spelonk wordt het donkerder, gevuld met een snerpende boventoon, als een ruis tussen stalactieten. Een ruis waarbinnen leven wellicht onmogelijk is, want op het einde is het stil…
Deze tracks zijn amper muziek te noemen, doch erg filmisch. En dat is een compliment, want het lijkt bij elke Spelonk alsof je een klankmuseum binnenstapt, waar je in elke hoek iets nieuws ontdekt. (Nel Mertens)
Rutger Zuydervelt, auch bekannt als Machinefabriek, ist so beschäftigt, dass ich mich manchmal frage, ob er überhaupt schläft. Er hat eigene Projekte, macht Bühnenmusiken für Ballette, Filmmusik, ist Produzent und kümmert sich um Mixing und Mastering. Es ist unglaublich, wo er überall seine Hände im Spiel hat. Nun ist Spelonk auf Crońica erschienen. Seine Musik entwickelt sich allmählich: Zunächst dominieren Clicks and Cuts, doch später verändert sich das zunehmend. Die „Räume” verändern sich, es wird langsam unheimlich und ich frage mich, was als Nächstes passiert. Das wenige, das passiert, hat eine Wirkung, eine Ausstrahlung. Und laut Machinefabriek ist das nur eine Art „Fingerübung”, ein Ausloten der Möglichkeiten der eigenen Erfahrungen. Ich mag es und empfehle es gern weiter.
There are albums that flirt with darkness, and then there are albums that brew it slowly, like a dubious tincture simmering in a back room where the light never quite arrives. “Vinum Sabbati, In the Dawn of Science Fiction” belongs to the latter. Durán Vázquez and Kloob don’t just reference Arthur Machen’s unsettling “Novel of the White Powder” – they distill it, inhale the fumes, and then calmly invite the listener to do the same, warning label already peeled off.
Both artists come with long electronic pedigrees, but this is not a nostalgic handshake between veterans. Vázquez, long associated with Crónica’s austere and conceptually sharp catalog, brings a rigorously hands-on approach to sound: no generative tricks, no algorithmic safety nets, just legacy software pushed until it starts behaving like a nervous system. Kloob, whose path runs from subterranean dance music to a more rarefied ambient practice, supplies an instinct for atmosphere that knows when to envelop and when to withdraw. Together, they operate less like collaborators and more like accomplices.
The Machen reference is crucial, not as literary garnish but as structural DNA. In the original text, “Vinum Sabbati” is a substance that alters its subjects from the inside out, turning latent corruption into something grotesquely visible. The music mirrors this process with unnerving patience. Sounds rarely arrive fully formed; they seep in, coagulate, and mutate. Drones curdle. Textures itch. Rhythms appear briefly, only to be swallowed by something thicker and less cooperative.
The opening “Prelude to Dreadful Confessions by a Doctor” establishes the album’s clinical tone: a cold, observational distance that paradoxically heightens the horror. By the time tracks like “Devil’s Pharmacy” and “The Rotten Limb” unfold, the sound design has become almost corporeal – less electronic music than a study in sonic pathology. There’s a dry humor lurking here too, in the refusal to dramatize. The titles scream Grand Guignol; the music responds with a raised eyebrow and a scalpel.
What makes the record particularly effective is its sense of restraint. Even at its most oppressive, it avoids the temptation to overwhelm. Dynamic range is treated as a moral issue: silences feel complicit, low frequencies feel invasive, and sudden shifts in density land like unwanted diagnoses. “Ominous Remedy – Transcending Human Condition” stretches this tension beautifully, balancing slow-burning dread with a strange, almost ritualistic calm, as if transcendence were just another side effect listed in small print.
By the closing “Scientific Horror”, the album has completed its transformation. Fear here is not theatrical but procedural – administered carefully, observed closely, and left unresolved. The dedication, “In memory of those who did not survive the medicine”, stops being metaphorical and starts feeling uncomfortably precise.
“Vinum Sabbati, In the Dawn of Science Fiction” is not an easy listen, nor does it pretend to be. It’s an album that understands horror as a process rather than an event, and science fiction as an emotional condition before it ever became a genre. Durán Vázquez and Kloob don’t offer catharsis; they offer exposure. Drink at your own risk. Vito Camarretta
We’re super proud to announce the first release of 2026, Machinefabriek’s new album, “Spelonk”. This album presents three tracks build with “hardware jams” recorded with his live setup. It’s all quite hands-on, with effects pedals, an oscillator, and electronic gadgets. The magic happens when combining different recordings, layering them, and hearing what happens. Listening is always a favorite moment in the process, with a welcome element of surprise. It’s all about creating alien landscapes — alien also to me too — that are exciting to explore.
Rutger Zuydervelt (also known as Machinefabriek) combines elements of ambient, noise, minimalism, drone, field recordings and electro-acoustic experiments. The music can be heard as an attempt to create sonic environments for the listener to dwell in. Finding tension in texture, tone and timing, the result can be very minimalistic at first glance, but reveals its depth upon closer listening. The devil is in the details.
Zuydervelt was born in 1978 in Apeldoorn (The Netherlands) and now resides in Schiedam. He started recording as Machinefabriek in 2004. Since then, Zuydervelt released a steady stream of music on labels such as Western Vinyl, Type, Important, 12K, Entr’acte, Miasmah, Consouling Sounds, Western Vinyl Eilean and Edition Wandelweiser. He also composed for dance performances and films, and collaborated with various artists, like Michel Banabila, Gareth Davis, Steven Hess, Sylvain Chauveau, Aaron Martin, Dirk Serries, Dead Neanderthals, and many more.
“Spelonk” is available as a limited-release CD or a download from Crónica.
Am 20. Januar erscheint mit “Spelonk” ein neues Album von Machinefabriek, dem langjährigen Projekt des niederländischen Komponisten und Soundkünstlers Rutger Zuydervelt, bei Crónica. Der Titel bedeutet im Niederländischen, ähnlich dem deutschen Wort Spelunke, Höhle. Das Werk besteht aus drei Stücken, die auf improvisierten Aufnahmen mit einem Live-Setup basieren, zum Einsatz kamen dabei unter anderem Effektpedale, ein Oszillator und verschiedene elektronische Geräte, wobei das Zusammenführen und Überlagern einzelner Aufnahmen Zuydervelt zufolge eine zentrale Rolle spielte. Der Künstler hebt hervor, dass das wiederholte Hören und die dabei entstehenden unerwarteten Ergebnisse ein wesentlicher Bestandteil des Arbeitsprozesses seien. Ziel sei es gewesen, für ihn selbst ungewohnte und offene Strukturen zu erzeugen, ohne diese vorab festzulegen. Das Album erscheint als CD und zum Download.
“Most of the music I make nowadays is commissioned for film, dance, or other projects. And I love it — it’s the best job in the world! — but sometimes I have to pull myself away from it, and make something purely for myself. My 2004 release Omval was one of these works, as is now Spelonk. These projects are always made in short bursts; once I start creating, things fall into place quickly, as if the ideas were (unknowingly) already there and just needed to get out of my system. The three tracks that comprise Spelonk (simply titled I, II, III) are built with “hardware jams” that I recorded with my live setup. It’s all quite hands-on, with effects pedals, an oscillator, and electronic gadgets. The magic happens when combining different recordings, layering them, and hearing what happens. Listening is always a favorite moment in the process, with a welcome element of surprise. I guess it’s all about creating alien landscapes — alien also to me too — that are exciting to explore. I hesitate to say much more about these tracks as colouring the listener’s experience would be an unwelcome distraction. Eyes closed… enjoy the ride. (Rutger Zuydervelt) via African Paper
“Vinum Sabbati, In the Dawn of Science Fiction”, uscito per la portoghese Crónica Records, è il nuovo album di Durán Vázquez, musicista sperimentale di lungo corso in campo elettronico e acusmatico.
Insieme a lui troviamo Dani “Kloob”, producer di grande esperienza e figura molto legata alla musica ambient più scura e cinematografica.
Il disco si ispira a “Novel of the White Powder” di Arthur Machen, autore solitamente considerato tra i precursori della narrativa sci-fi e horror.
L’obiettivo dichiarato dell’album è quello di creare una sorta di colonna sonora non ufficiale dell’opera letteraria, con otto brani privi di forme e schemi tradizionali e segnati da una incessante evoluzione di rumori bianchi, soluzioni drone, texture ed elementi sintetici elaborati sempre e rigorosamente manualmente.
Muovendo da queste premesse, “Vinum Sabbati, In the Dawn of Science Fiction” esplora diverse atmosfere: l’opener “Prelude to Dreadful Confessions by a Doctor”, immersa in ambientazioni cupe ma segnata da un incedere vagamente narrativo, sembra suggerire l’idea di un viaggio che è anche, e forse prima di tutto, psicologico, mentre episodi come “Ambience of Suspicion” insistono su soluzioni più statiche e alimentano anche un senso di sospensione e attesa, oltre che di sospetto come evocato dal titolo.
“Ominous Remedy – Transcending Human Condition”, però, è il cuore pulsante dell’opera, il luogo in cui è custodita la maggior parte della tensione che permea l’intero album: un brano segnato dall’ossessività dei pattern musicali e da un climax di saturazione che finisce per trasformare i minuti finali in un’esperienza quasi claustrofobica.
“Vinum Sabbati, In the Dawn of Science Fiction” è un lavoro stratificato e complesso, scritto con un linguaggio volutamente di nicchia e molto vicino alla sound art: l’esperienza complessiva è piacevole per la sua intensità e la sua ricerca, oltre a essere materiale prezioso per gli appassionati di dark ambient. (Piergiuseppe Lippolis)
As time passes, our tastes change. For some, they narrow and become more cemented, more deeply entrenched. There’s a broad acceptance that people become more conservative as they grow older – which may explain why, with our ageing population, we – that’s the western world – has become more in favour of conservative values, such as low tax and a belief that the past was a golden age in which hard work was rewarded, and of course, music was better. There is certainly more than a grain of truth in the boomer stereotype. And as a Gen X-er, I’ve observed people I grew up with, and /or have known for many years become set in their ways and their listening habits, locked in the 90s in their musical tastes, and becoming increasingly churlish about the youth of today and the like.
I consider myself fortunate to be surrounded by friends and acquaintances, both in real life and in the virtual world, who are deeply invested in new music. The fact I get sent new music of all kinds from around the globe is only half of the story, as it would be so easy to sweep vast swathes of it aside to listen to, and review, nothing but goth, contemporary iterations of post-punk and new wave, grunge, and reissues. In fact, I could devote my entire listening time and run a website dedicated to nothing but reissues and still be incredibly busy. It would probably garner a huge readership, too. But no: I am constantly encouraged to listen to new music, and the fact of the matter is that I thrive on it, and never fail to get a buzz from new discoveries. As such, since I began this journey as a music writer, my horizons have broadened beyond a range I would have ever imagined.
A measure of this is that my first encounter with the music of Rutger Zuydervelt, back in 2014, was marked by a most unimpressed four-star review, in which I said that Stay Tuned was ‘a bit of a drag’. While I don’t feel particularly inspired to revisit it now alongside my writing of this review, I feel I would likely have been more receptive to its longform minimalism now.
Spelonk is not quite as long in form – three compositions spanning a total of forty-two minutes, and sees Zuydervelt taking some time out from his dayjob to indulge in the act of creating for pleasure – or, perhaps, more accurately, creating out of the need to experience freedom, to feel that metaphorical – and perhaps literal – sigh of release.
As he explains, ‘Most of the music I make nowadays is commissioned for film, dance, or other projects. And I love it — it’s the best job in the world! — but sometimes I have to pull myself away from it, and make something purely for myself. My 2004 release Omval was one of these works, as is now Spelonk. These projects are always made in short bursts; once I start creating, things fall into place quickly, as if the ideas were (unknowingly) already there and just needed to get out of my system.
The three tracks that comprise Spelonk (simply titled I, II, III) are built with “hardware jams” that I recorded with my live setup. It’s all quite hands-on, with effects pedals, an oscillator, and electronic gadgets. The magic happens when combining different recordings, layering them, and hearing what happens. Listening is always a favorite moment in the process, with a welcome element of surprise. I guess it’s all about creating alien landscapes — alien also to me too — that are exciting to explore.’
‘Alien landscapes’ is a fair description of these sparse works, constructed with layers of ominous drone. On ‘Spelonk II’, there are chittering sounds which scratch like guitar string scraping against a fret, or perhaps a ragged bow dragging against a worn string, but by the same token, untranslatable voices come to mind. The drones are eerie, ethereal, and hang low like mist or dry ice: it’s not nor merely an example of dark ambient work – there is very much a 70s sci-fi feel to it, hints of BBC Radiophonic Workshop emerge between every surge and crackle as slow pulsations reverberate among the unsettling abstraction. Over the course of the track’s eighteen minutes, there is movement, evolution, and just past the midpoint, there is a shift, where trilling organ-like notes and digital bleeps emerge, evoking recordings from space travel, and, as rippling laser sounds begin to burst forth, vintage sci-fi movies and 70s TV.
There are moments of near silence as ‘Spelonk II’ drifts into ‘Spelonk III’, also eighteen minutes in duration. Here, clanks and bleeps bubble and bounce and echo erratically, unpredictably, over a backdrop of low hums and reverberations. The low-end vibrates subtly but perceptibly, and while the experience is not one which instils tension, the cave-like digital drips and sense of space, as well as darkness, is not relaxing. You find yourself looking around, wondering what’s around the corner, what’s in the shadows. And while there’s no grand reveal, no jump fright here, the second half of ‘Spelonk III’ grows increasingly murky and increasingly squelchy and unsettling.
Over the album’s duration, Spelonk grows in depth and darkness, becoming increasingly dark, strange, and unsettling. Rutger Zuydervelt makes a lot out of very little, to subtle but strong effect. Christopher Nosnibor
Here’s a real nice one by Bruno Duplant. Everyone knows that we can hear the voices of dead people on tapes, cylinders, and records, and Écouter les Fantômes (CRÓNICA 221-2024) is a fanciful take on this fascinating supernatural phenomenon, which has been popularised to an inch of its life with movies like White Noise and EVP.
Most of us had never heard of Friedrich Jürgenson until Mike Harding released that From The Studio For Audioscopic Research record in 2000, not unrelated to the Ghost Orchid item from the previous year. Jürgenson always seemed to me rather a boring fellow; in a staid, stodgy manner he laboured to convince the world of the scientific “truth” of what he thought he’d discovered. He wanted us to believe that unattended tape recordings could capture the presence of ghosts. Bruno Duplant, on today’s record, is doing quite the opposite; he’s writing a fiction in sound, and openly admits to it; he expresses “the aim of trying to transcribe a phantasmagorical, ancestral and secret universe which has always been fascinated and/or frightened us.” I think that’s what appeals to me too; the idea of secrets, the idea of finding ways to understand and explore the past, and the fact that we like to be frightened as well as fascinated by the unknown. It’s a very human compulsion.
Accordingly, distorted and treated voices drift in and out of the sonic “ectoplasm” he weaves on these two long compositions, and the effect is strangely beautiful and eerie; almost recognisable as human speech, or song, or something else that is totally unknown to us. There’s also the occasional bump and knock as these ghosts and spirits knock over another antique lamp or crash into your wooden oak furnishings. Duplant also did the sleeve photos which are brilliant re-stagings of 19th-century séance photographs, and such like; arms and faces of ethereal entities trying to break through from the “other side” and reach us with their phantom limbs.
Duplant has turned in some ultra-minimal offerings heard by us in previous years, but this one has more exciting content per square inch, and is more accessible than some of his delightful but impenetrable sonic riddles. Ed Pinsent
