in august 2013, following the release of group KILLSTREAK’s debut album Janus, tony the scribe moved to japan for five months. the details are hazy now, obscured by neon signs and bullet train breakdowns; what is left is the work. isolated in a bedroom outside nagoya for hours every day, tony spent his exile sinking into murakami novels and honing his writing to a bitter edge. out of that bedroom came something altogether different than what went into it—something both softer and harsher.
a little more than two years later, we find tony the scribe snowed in at a house in northeast minneapolis, frantically working to reconstruct the last few years in sixteen bar segments. this is what implosion sounds like—half-sung harmonies wind around snares like broken glass, keys dissolve into a cacophony of reverb and delays. the roadmaps and designs for what he is building are lost; what is left is the work. what is left is fourteen minutes and fifty-four seconds of dark, cerebral, boom bap. what is left is mixed blood.