Tone Glow 172: Wojciech Rusin
An interview with the Polish composer about working in theater, his interest in evoking memories, and his new LP 'Honey for the Ants', the third album in his "alchemical trilogy.
Wojciech Rusin
Wojciech Rusin (b. 1978) is a Polish composer based in London. Early in his career, Rusin made synthpop music under the moniker Katapulto, but he has since spent the past six years releasing works under his own name. These endeavors initially began from his work with The National Theatre in Wales on a production called We’re Still Here. This, along with a commission from Glasgow’s Radiophrenia encouraged him to create works that were rooted in choral music, gnostic texts, field recordings, radio plays, and more. He also makes his own instruments with 3D-modeling technologies, primarily reworking ancient instrument designs. His “new” debut album, The Funnel, arrived in 2019 on Akashic Records. He followed it with AD 93’s Syphon (2022). The third album in his trilogy is out now on the same label, and is called Honey for the Ants (2025). Joshua Minsoo Kim spoke with Rusin on December 19th, 2024 via Zoom to discuss Holger Hiller, the Theatre of the Absurd, merging the beautiful and the ugly, and more.
Joshua Minsoo Kim: How are you doing today?
Wojciech Rusin: I’m fine, thank you. It’s a bit of a sunny day in London, which always feels good.
I know you were born in Poland. Where specifically in Poland were you born?
I was born in a place called Rzeszów in the southeast of Poland, not too far from the Ukrainian border, and not too far from Kraków. So obviously, it’s quite a significant point in the military actions in Ukraine.
Could you paint a picture for me of growing up there?
Well, I lived in Rzeszów until I was about 10, and then we moved to West Germany, then came back to Poland after three years. That was during the systemic transformation of Poland from communism to wild and unregulated capitalism in the beginning of the ’90s. So, you know… (laughter). I lived through quite a lot… martial law, the Solidarność movement, and then the end of communism. I didn’t really experience this in Poland because I was in Germany, but I came back with my parents to a different sort of system. It was quite interesting to observe all of this. The ’90s in Poland weren’t very optimistic, if you can imagine it—a sort of beginning of capitalism in the Eastern Bloc, where certain policies were being introduced quite drastically. Suddenly things that were once taken for granted are now taken away, and other things are appearing on the horizon. It was quite a hard introduction to capitalism. It wasn’t a gradual, evolving process like in Western European countries.
Just to get a sense of things, what year were you born?
In January 1978.
That makes sense. Did you have a lot of experiences playing or engaging with music when you were a child? Was this something you were involved with when you were young?
I didn’t have any formal training. It seemed like there was a tradition of playing music in my house and my grandparents’ house, but none of my grandparents or parents engaged in this. There was a room with a grand piano, which was slowly falling apart. I was about four years old, and I remember climbing into it and discovering the sounds it was making. I always found these furniture-sized instruments quite fascinating because they were just there. There wasn’t really a culture of practicing music in my family, so I was exposed to instruments, but I wasn’t pushed into music-making. It was very much my own fascination.
And then when I was around 13, I remember getting obsessed with the Atari computer and the very primitive sequences that it had. It could only do beeps and it had a very primitive palette of sounds, but you could play with counterpoint and harmony and some polyphony too. Nobody told me about polyphony, but I was researching how the relationships between sounds were interesting, not just the sounds themselves.
Were you specifically composing songs yourself, or were you just experimenting with the Atari and seeing what was possible?
It was this naive way of exploring the possibilities of this technology. Perhaps I was unconsciously imitating electronic music that I was listening to at the time. To be honest, I wasn’t exposed to the most cutting-edge stuff at the time. I think it was Jean-Michel Jarre and Roxette (laughs). But just the tool in itself was quite inspiring and informative, my fiddling around with it and my experiments.
Was there encouragement from people around you—be it people in your household or your friends—that made you want to pursue the arts, or was this more of a solitary effort?
I’ve thought about this recently, observing how other parents push kids in certain directions. I remember making pencil drawings in the bathroom because the toilet didn’t have any tiles on the walls, so I was making drawings there. I don’t think anyone particularly discouraged me, they were just leaving me to do things by myself. It seems like I had quite a lot of freedom for what I was doing.
Was there a particular point at which you recognized that music was something you wanted to pursue more seriously? I still remember the music you made as Katapulto. The first thing that I heard was Powerflex, because I was following Olde English Spelling Bee at the time.
Oh yeah, this sounds completely embarrassing, but I need to tell you this. I watched Europe’s “The Final Countdown” (laughter). I was 12 and thought it was the pinnacle of rock ‘n’ roll (laughs). I was thinking, wow it would be really cool to do stuff like this, these guys are so cool. But also, that was when I was already in Poland, and the MTV aesthetic was very attractive for a lot of adolescents, especially the sort of hair metal and this kind of naive rock music that is very appealing to men of a certain age (laughter).
Yeah, it exudes a certain idea of masculinity. You just see all of this and you’re like, “Oh, I guess this is what it means to be a man who’s able to do anything creative, or have a sense of freedom.”
Yeah, also these guys were probably wearing quite tight leggings (laughter). The hair was serious. In my childhood, I never really thought of having a career in music, but there were moments that were clarifying because music gave me a lot of pleasure. I’d always thought that the visual arts gave me quite a lot of pleasure—I do video essays and other visually-oriented work—but because of the physicality of music, it always made me feel much more. I found it much more satisfying, it touches some kind of primordial string within you where you’re dealing with vibrations or something much more primal than the visual.
With Powerflex, I was doing silly electronic music with some vocals, very much informed by the German new wave and what came out of that. People like Holger Hiller or Felix Kubin, who were drawing from that sort of culture. I think this mechanical music with a lot of absurdity was really appealing to me, and it was quite fast-paced and maniacal. A couple of years ago, I was diagnosed with ADHD, so now I understand my tendency to gravitate towards fast rhythms and mania and an oversaturation of sounds. This was in my 20s and 30s, and then suddenly I think the chemistry of my brain slightly changed (laughter) and I was enjoying slower stuff.
I was exploring my voice for the first time with Powerflex. I didn’t know how to record my voice and I didn’t know how to sing—it was very strange just to record your voice and listen back to it because it sounded like something else. I wasn’t very confident about this when I was recording all these songs. That’s why I prefer working with vocalists who are comfortable with their voice, and to write music for certain voices and for the specific vocal ranges of my friends. I love the human voice, it adds so much more to the whole experience of listening to music. Again, it touches on something very human.
I think you being into German new wave and mentioning Holger Hiller makes so much sense. I’m thinking of Ein Bündel Fäulnis in der Grube (1983), for example, and I understand what you mentioned earlier with the physicality of music. These artists were making industrial and new wave music that was very sample-based. You can really feel the weight—not just of the instruments, but of the technology they’re using. And there’s a pronounced sense of humor to what they’re doing. I’m curious how much humor matters to you. Is that something that you value or strive for in your own works?
This is interesting because I think it might be a subconscious byproduct of the whole thing, which just appears on the surface. With Holger Hiller, it probably relates to the tradition of absurdist theater in the ’60s, what they were trying to do with humor and the absurd as a sort of political force. But I think on the personal level of constructing an album, what’s going on consciously is that I would like to have a balance of the more serious and the more absurd stuff. Absurd is a better word for it than surreal. There’s certain elements which don’t fit together, and there’s some experiments with vocal processing that I was doing which are definitely weird sounding. I’m thinking, “Is this too ridiculous? Are we just doing experiments here?”
But I find certain things quite fascinating. For example, there’s a lot of humor in early Renaissance music, where they’re using incredibly complex vocal techniques. But then if you try to sing it in the shower it’s obvious (imitates Renaissance-era singing). I’m not a trained singer, but if you sing it to Melodyne and you hard-tune the hell out of this, it becomes almost like mechanical music. It brings a layer of absurdity to the whole thing, where you use AutoTune to recreate a centuries-old aesthetic. We have a very particular idea of how vocals should sound—apart from extended techniques and free improv—and this is the kind of thing that people understand. But then if you start doing weird stuff with old music, like AutoTuning it, there’s not many reference points to this whole operation, and so weirdness starts happening. Like, “What is this? How do I make it work?” And sometimes it takes quite a lot of time.
With certain musical gestures, what I find a little disappointing is the predictability. Sometimes, being slapped in the face is a good thing because it wakes you up from the trance of listening. Thinking of what I was using on the last album [Syphon (2022)], there are some dark moments and elements that are counteracting it and lifting it in a completely different direction. It’s quite satisfying how all these elements work together in one album, because there’s so much work that is one-dimensional. I’m always scared to go in one direction, to have it be predictable and to fall into a track of emotional homogeneity.
I’m thinking about this notion of humor and the absurdity in your music, and how this comes from a desire to make sure that people are attentively listening. You think about someone like Pauline Oliveros and deep listening. But if you inject left turns, it forces the listener to be like, “Hold on, what’s happening here?” It keeps them on their toes, and that’s another way to ensure thoughtful engagement.
Yeah. I don’t want to make grandiose statements, but if art reflects life, isn’t life itself a complex thing? It’s made out of these moments of comfort and confusion and fear and absolute terror. The ambition is perhaps to try to get it all while maintaining an aesthetic frame so there’s coherence. There’s perhaps a world that may not be explainable but on an intuitive level makes sense. My biggest challenge is to incorporate contradictory and contrasting elements, to make a coherent whole out of this somehow.
Earlier, you mentioned the Theatre of the Absurd dramatists. These figures like Harold Pinter, Samuel Beckett, and Jean Genet—how do they inform your work? You have a theater background and experience in that world, but I’m curious how these older artists influence your ideas.
Well, maybe it’s indirect. When I was about four years old, I would visit my uncle, who was a stage designer for a theater. I would hang out in the theater looking at costumes, and my parents would go to fancy dress parties, and they would get, for example, two Napoleon outfits from the theater wardrobe—which was probably illegal to do—and then my uncle and dad would paint their faces pink for some reason. So it would be like two mad Napoleons (laughter). I was curled up in this quite absurdist but playful environment where I was also curious about the mechanics of theater. My uncle would make these miniature models out of gypsum, which is this white powder used for sculptures that could turn hard. I would try to sculpt with it while it was soft.
And then later, when I was living in Poland, we were reading Eugène Ionesco, Tadeusz Kantor, Witold Gombrowicz, and Witkacy, and all the Polish avant-garde playwrights. It was interesting literature. With some of the Kantor books, for example, you have this psychedelic boundary-dissolving between script, stage direction, and something else—all in one text. It was very psychedelic writing, but also sharp and political. I was reading about the late ’90s in Poland, where capitalism was, as I mentioned, wild and people were just getting a grip on life. That post-war literature really resonated. There’s a sort of revival… we tend to read things which came out in a political moment, and they are suddenly relevant 30 or 40 years later because reality is so confusing. The only art which can decode it is also quite complex and absurd. When reality doesn’t make sense on a rational level, you tend to reach for something that also doesn’t make sense on a rational level. That’s why I was obsessed a couple years ago with the general revival of the occult. In the 19th century in England, there was all this occult stuff, with Madame Blavatsky and Aleister Crowley. And later you have American writers like Gary Lachman writing about Trump and magic and stuff like this.
How did you decide to release music under your own name? Of course the first album, The Funnel (2019), was different from your previous work and an outgrowth of what you were doing with the National Theatre Wales for the We’re Still Here (2017) production. What made you decide to use your own name for your releases now, and not go under the Katapulto moniker?
The style of the music changed completely. I think I was done with hysterical electronic pop music (laughter). I was tired of doing it and listening to it. But The Funnel came out from this radio commission from Radiophrenia, which was an art radio station in Glasgow. They commissioned me to do some work which came with no suggestions, really. I did think about it for quite a while like, “Wow, this is a great pretext to slightly rewire your brain and do something slightly different.” At the time, I was working with the theater on this big production in a factory, and the palette of sounds I was interested in was strings, industrial, early electronic sounds. And then because the Radiophrenia radio commission came out under my name, and Oli [Pitt] from Akashic Records asked me to release it, I just released it under my own name so as to not confuse things. And suddenly it completely made sense that I was going to work under my own name.
Can you talk to me about your experiences working in theater and on the radio commission? Were you catering to these mediums in specific ways? I’m thinking about how The Funnel is an album released as a physical product despite having its origins in something else.
I’m very grateful for Radiophrenia to ask for this work because it rewired something in my brain. I did not think this was going to come out as an album or a CD. I was allowing myself to do things like field recordings, which were quite long, to juxtapose the strings. I had it in my mind that, “This is the radio, it doesn’t have to be danceable, it can be loose, it can be nonchalant and quite confusing.” Then suddenly, a new style for me just sprang into existence. I didn’t really think this would work as an album, but then I realized that this was the most exciting thing—I was opening something for myself that would probably take three albums to fully explore.
But if you’re asking about the elements which informed The Funnel, I think that it was a coincidence that I was listening to a lot of Terence McKenna and his way of talking about things—making connections between alchemy, ethnobotany, Finnegans Wake (1939) and James Joyce—he was definitely a guy who had a broad view on a lot of things. That is the way his brain works, which is quite satisfying. I was reading Hermes Trismegistus and the Hermetic corpus, as a kind of interesting piece of literature and the misunderstanding of it in the Western tradition, how they would translate him in Florence before Plato was translated.
I visited the Port Talbot Steelworks, which was quite overwhelming. Seriously, it was a cathedral of matter transmutation—you could see some ancient stuff going on at an industrial scale. There was this gold and silvery dust everywhere, and there were men who were taking care of the flux. They would throw these big pieces into the molten lava, and they would have to be refined in this big bucket that was the size of a house. There’s an interesting story there, because they refine the steel by adding chemical compounds to it. So they have microphones, and then they look at the sound waves and the frequencies. Through listening to the flame, they can determine what is needed to refine the steel. That’s already quite interesting if you’re working with sounds. But before that, there was a Welsh guy sitting on the chair and listening to the flame and determining, “What do we need, do we have to match the sulfur there, and do we have to burn it out?” So he would instruct people to add 100 kilos of, I imagine, wood or something. It completely blew my mind.
This is all super interesting. I wanted to first go back to the notion of making something for radio, since you said there were specific expectations that you had for what a radio broadcast might sound like. At the time, what made sense for radio, and was this informed by your own experience of listening to the radio when growing up?
Well, I didn’t have much experience at this point of listening to pieces specifically composed for radio. But I had the assumption that you could come away with a sort of fantasy. Every year, Radiophrenia would broadcast for 24 hours all month, so the program was quite dense. You could tune into it in the middle of the night and some weird stuff was happening. There were pieces where you have an AM and an FM radio, and if you tuned them, you could listen to a piece that had different material in both of those frequencies.
I was also listening to a lot of radio plays when I was a child, and I remember there was a lot of stuff on vinyl, and I would listen and close my eyes and imagine things. The sound design could really tickle a child’s imagination. And then you have the German hörspiel. I speak German, so I was quite fascinated by the work the Bayerische Rundfunk radio station was commissioning. They have serious budgets for stuff like this. So when Felix Kubin was doing stuff with them, for example, you have well rehearsed, super well-mixed pieces for radio, with proper script and sound design and music. I love that stuff, it’s a form in itself and I think Germans understand this quite well with their funding for it.
I love this notion of listening to these radio plays and closing your eyes and imagining the visuals. Is that something that you want your music to do, for it to have certain characteristics so that people can create their own visuals?
Yeah, definitely. I think that there are particular pieces on those albums which play a particular role. There was this English author, Brian Catling, who started writing this fantasy late in his life. And I’m not very keen on fantasy, but from the images that he draws, you can see that he’s coming from a visual arts perspective. I was in those places and imagining them. For some of the pieces, the more abstract pieces, the “non-songs,” I was imagining gardens or undefined fantasy spaces where I like to find myself. Maybe it has to do with a childhood fantasy of escapism, or of dreaming of a kind of alternative, more complex, dream-like reality.
This is quite naive stuff, but I’m obsessed with the idea that if I record the forest, and then if I add certain sounds to it which sound like the forest but are not the forest, that I could evoke a sense of place or space. In sonic art, we were discussing the difference between “space” and “place” and place is a concrete thing where you can imagine yourself walking through.
I went to Venice for the first time about two years ago and I was completely blown away. I thought, “How is this even possible? This is a city which should exist in literature, not in the real world.” I was transported into a fantasy world. I was sort of dreaming out this soundtrack. We went there to see the Biennale, and the Biennale was all about art and people are sort of showing off. It was great, but walking through those sites and streets and discovering those amazing buildings, walking into them, and then just being there and sucking up the atmosphere of the periphery of the Grand Canal… I want you to know that it was very inspiring. It sounds cheesy, but I wanted to imagine music for it, and I wanted to preserve this very subjective impression I had of that place because I knew that I’d be going [back] to London, where there’s a different vibe (laughter).
You mention all these experiences you’ve had in Venice and at the steelworks, but also talk about fantasies and trying to capture places with these different musical styles. How is it to evoke a sense of place in this manner versus more direct means, like with regular field recordings?
I was never really interested in doing unprocessed field recordings, although there’s a massive tradition of doing this. There are different goals. I’m less about capturing, and more about evoking a certain memory. Venice and the steelworks in Wales are such different places, but they both have incredible senses of poetry. There are all these kinds of potentialities in those spaces which you bounce off, and then you take them as sort of set designs in your heads, and then you rearrange this somehow in your head and then you add or imagine some sounds that would work in those spaces.
To be honest, I did some sound recordings in the steelworks and in Venice, and when I was listening back to them, I was so disappointed. I thought, “This sounds like nothing.” Maybe you have to open your imagination and I need more stimulation, but my brain is constructed in a way where I need to aestheticize these places, these memories. I wanted to come up with something which only slightly relates to these experiences, where maybe only I could find connections between the music and these spaces to transport there. Well not even the spaces, but to the memories of these spaces. What I remember from going to Port Talbot is that it was 6 in the morning, I took a train, and I had to put on this weird outfit—these are only just flashes of memory. I came out of this balcony and looked down and suddenly there’s a train coming with this molten lava from the blast furnace. The whole thing is just twisting. It’s like a film—you remember certain shots and then you reconstruct it again in your head. And then I’m basically doing a soundtrack to that.
That’s beautiful. This notion of you being disappointed by the recordings is amazing. You’re honoring the memories you have and the way they linger in your mind. You’re honoring the deep emotional feelings you had.
Yeah, it’s all very subjective. I think this is what’s interesting about art. Maybe this is a truism or something very obvious, but art doesn’t surrender to rules. It seemed like the album and the radio play as these two formats worked quite well for me. Because it is a fantasy and it is abstract, but they’re also songs, and also something very easy, humane, and understandable.
With this new album, you have songs like “Magus” and “Gifts for the Surgeon” that feature the voice. I’m curious if you could tell me how your approach to utilizing vocals have evolved across these three albums. What sorts of things do you feel like you’re trying to do here that maybe you weren’t exactly doing previously? Or what sorts of things were you honing or refining?
I think that The Funnel was a very naive attempt to recreate early Renaissance vocal music and sacred Christian music. With the AutoTune, some pitches were pitched up quite ridiculously. You can hear the serious form of certain songs and then there’s this absurdity about the high-pitched voice, which shouldn’t really work. And then on Syphon, I made friends with Eden Girma. We were studying at Goldsmiths in London, and then I realized that she has this amazing, trained soprano voice. She is really into jazz and R&B and makes her own music, so I could tell her, “Hey, can you improvise a motet?” It’s a very old form, but she’s very used to improvising, so she would just (imitates improvisation). I was overlaying this with editing, picking certain things, but the form was emerging from very playful improvisation, recreating clichés of old music. In editing, these operatic vocals threaded the whole album. At the same time, I was recording my own vocals, which sounded like cattle or some kind of strange baritone. I love the ambiguity about that stuff, where it’s sort of terrible but then this trained voice is so refined.
On Honey for the Ants (2025), there was a departure from trained voices. Jo Hellier and Lara Agar have very different voices. They are not operatic voices—they’re untrained—but they have so much character in them. And I put a little bit of my vocals in the album very shyly at the end (laughter). It’s like, “This is the proper stuff, this is the stuff I want to show, and then I’m going to sing at the end a little bit.” (laughter). I think you can see that it’s a journey of exploring different timbres. I wanted to incorporate the beautiful and the ugly. But there’s definitely something going on with allowing myself to add this feminine element into this industrial aesthetic, which sometimes is very dark and cold. It makes it much richer.
You’re not just thinking about texture and timbre, but you’re also thinking about the history of what these specific sounds are rooted in, whether it’s with voices, Renaissance music, or radio plays. I’m wondering how much you’re thinking about your music in the context of the current time period. You’re pulling from all this music that is, in a way, making the listener think about the past, but it also feels contemporary because you’re mixing them together.
As I mentioned to you before, I wasn’t studying music. My interest in Renaissance music is very playful. I was very curious why that material, which is incredibly rich and also completely ridiculous, wasn’t being explored. It’s this oversaturation of the body and of the voice at the edge of performance—these are athletes of vocals. People have different takes on old music, and people have a lot of opinions about folk music and how it continues and evolves. I can imagine that it does exist in the so-called “new music,” and I’m always very curious if I can hear something which resembles something from [the past]. There’s definitely artists who are doing interesting stuff with this, incorporating improvisation into those old forms. But I find it fascinating to pull these things from the past and somehow make them so ridiculous that they sound like they’re maybe from the future.
Just as an intellectual exercise, let’s imagine 300 years from now—or maybe 1000 years from now—that there’s some kind of database failure and that people only have these fragments of music. They’re trying to reconstruct the past, and they do it incorrectly. We do this with history all the time, we make assumptions that lead to error. Like, people may believe for 300 years that people built a castle in a specific way, but then there will be research that shows it couldn’t have been done. I love the idea of misunderstanding and questioning the rational methodologies of Enlightenment as well. Maybe that’s what this comes to.
A person from a classical music magazine once asked me, “Are you studying those motets? Are you really studying those old forms?” I said, “I don’t think I need to study those because I’m not really interested in the architecture of those forms. I am interested in something else.” If you’re painting a house, you’re interested in how the light sits on the facade, for example. You’re not necessarily going to think about the physics of the floorboards or the structure. If you study classical music, you really need to know all of it. But if you’re coming from the visual arts in general, you can pull certain things in a much more naive way, and I find that this works for me. It’s not just about making statements or doing historical research—it’s about a certain exercise in imagination. I’m just using old music as a tool, as a source material.
A lot of what you’re saying makes sense because I think in general, a lot of innovation in music is a result of ignorance.
Exactly. I think you’ve summed up my methods (laughter).
This is a bit random but I was thinking about it earlier. There’s this track you have called “Kittens Meet Puppies For the First Time.” When I first heard it, it sounded like it’d be something for a theater production because the way it’s mixed. But then, there’s that one instrument that sounds like it’s sort of bobbing around. It sounds like Samuel Beckett’s Quad (1981). Have you ever seen that?
Oh, I saw it at the South Bank two weeks ago!
With the people moving around?
Yeah, with people walking around with those hoods, and they avoided the light which was in the middle.
Yeah it’s so funny because the soundtrack sounds just like that moment in “Kittens Meet Puppies.”
Oh right! So you’re talking about the TV production?
I’m talking about the TV production, yeah.
The sound in South Bank was much more minimal—I think they reinterpreted the sounds. But I’m going to look at the TV production.
You’re billing this album as the third in a trilogy. Do you see it as the end of an arc of works?
I think I had this in the back of [my mind]. When I made The Funnel, I thought that I would love to explore this as a sort of three-album [series]. I just imagined three because maybe that would be realistic to do within three or four years. But the ambition was to do something you can immerse yourself into for two and a half hours. When you listen to Karlheinz Stockhausen’s Licht (1977-2003), you have four hours of opera. This is demanding stuff, how long would it take to do three hours of music? Ten years? So this is a really slow and painful process of doing something which could be seen as one piece of work. But they also function separately. I like to have the three together because I can see connections there, even if they don’t make much sense (laughter).
Is there anything else that we didn’t talk about today that you’d like to talk about?
I think you have nailed it. We have approached the subject from every angle, and I’ve never thought about my work as much as in this time (laughter), which is good for me as well.
I do end my interviews all with the same question, and I wanted to ask this question to you. Do you mind sharing one thing you love about yourself?
Oh god. You know what, I was reading a few of your interviews and I was like, “Oh god, I forgot about this. He’s always asking this [question]!” (laughter). This is the preparation that I didn’t do. What I love about myself… you know, I sometimes have these moments, not very often, in which I do something ridiculous enough to make me laugh. And then you think that maybe it’s worth doing more of that. Sometimes the work emerges in a lot of pain, but if you accidentally manage to surprise yourself in some tiny little absurd moment… then I don’t know, but I guess you know what I mean (laughter). I just enjoy the moments where something emerges from experimentation. I love the moments when you let yourself go, where you don’t care anymore about anybody else or anything else and you just do something for the fun of it. And I love when I can find those moments where your imagination goes completely wild, and sometimes it arrives in a place where it produces something that makes you happy, where you laugh.
Wojciech Rusin’s Honey for the Ants is out now via AD 93. You can purchase the album at Bandcamp and at the record label’s website. More information about Rusin can be found at his website.
Thank you for reading the 172nd issue of Tone Glow. Field recording purists in shambles.
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