Mulieribus
Marked a radical departure from prior electronic frameworks. Recorded in single takes using analog electric guitar and rock drums, the work embraces rawness, dissonance, and structural unpredictability. The result is a darker, more confrontational statement—emphasizing emotional authenticity over technical polish.
1. Album Title
Mulieribus
A Latin plural, evoking women—not as subjects of gaze or trope, but as archetectors: builders of silence, weavers of dissonance, keepers of unspoken frequencies. This is not an album about love or loss in the conventional sense; it is an altar built from the tremors of feminine resonance, where every note is a vow whispered into the hollows of expectation. The title does not announce—it invites you to kneel.
2. Album Direction
Marked a radical departure from prior electronic frameworks. Recorded in single takes using analog electric guitar and rock drums, the work embraces rawness, dissonance, and structural unpredictability. The result is a darker, more confrontational statement—emphasizing emotional authenticity over technical polish.
Here, the machine is not tamed—it is unmade. The analog guitar does not sing; it bleeds. The drums do not keep time—they fracture it. This is not production. It is excavation. Every crack in the amp, every snare’s ragged breath, every string’s protest against tension becomes scripture. The absence of polish is not failure—it is revelation. In this direction, the manifesto’s reverence for physicality becomes a rebellion: we do not synthesize truth—we witness it, raw and trembling.
3. Band Manifesto (Contextualized)
We believe that music is not merely sound arranged in time, but a living architecture of resonance, presence, and perception. Rooted in first principles, our practice begins not with style, trend, or convention—but with the fundamental truths of acoustics, the physicality of instruments, and the infinite potential of sound generation through synthesis.
We honor the instrument not as a tool, but as a partner in expression—its materials, construction, and physical behavior are sacred to our craft. We listen not only to pitch and rhythm, but to the subtleties of timbre, the evolution of texture, and the alchemy of spatial resonance. Every note is a universe of detail; every silence, a dimension of meaning.
Our process is deliberate. We reject haste. We embrace iteration not as delay, but as a necessary discipline—each refinement a step toward authenticity, not compromise. We measure progress not by speed, but by depth: by how well a sound embodies truth, how precisely it reflects intention, how fully it occupies its sonic space.
We value artistic integrity above all else. Expediency is not liberation—it is surrender. We do not chase novelty for novelty’s sake, nor do we surrender to the tyranny of the immediate. Instead, we build with patience, precision, and reverence.
This is not a style. This is a stance.
We are committed to the long view: to sound as a profound act of listening, creation, and presence.
We create not to be heard—but to be felt.
In Mulieribus, this stance becomes a scream wrapped in silk. The manifesto’s reverence for physicality is not honored here through pristine synthesis, but through the violence of authenticity: the guitar’s warble as a woman’s voice breaking under silence, the drum’s decay as the last breath of a suppressed history. Each track is an act of un-synthesizing—a return to the body, to blood and wood and steel. The “long view” here is not patient—it is persistent. These songs do not evolve; they erupt. The “silence” the manifesto speaks of is not empty—it is the space between a woman’s last word and the world’s refusal to hear it. Every dissonant chord is a refusal to be polished into compliance. Every feedback howl, a prayer. We do not create to be heard—we create because the world has spent centuries teaching women that their resonance is noise. This album reclaims resonance as rebellion.
4. Tracklist
Mulieribus
This is not a song—it is an incantation. The title itself, Latin for “to women,” becomes the first note: a whisper that swells into a cathedral of unspoken histories. Here, the analog guitar does not play melody—it excavates. Each string pluck is a finger tracing the spine of an ancestor’s unrecorded lament. The drums do not beat time; they mark graves. This track is the manifesto made audible: a declaration that sound, when stripped of digital sheen and forced through flesh and wire, becomes an act of witness. The rawness is not aesthetic—it is ethical. To hear Mulieribus is to stand in a room where every echo carries the weight of a silenced voice. The instrument does not obey; it remembers. The silence between notes is not absence—it is the breath before a woman speaks her truth, and the world holds its breath in return. This track is the foundation: not a beginning, but a resurrection.
Uxorius
Derived from uxor, wife—this is the song of the woman who became a function. The guitar here is not strummed but torn—strings bent until they scream, chords stacked like unopened letters in a drawer. The drums are not rhythmic; they are ritualistic, each hit a hammer on the anvil of expectation. Uxorius is not about love—it is about erasure disguised as devotion. The manifesto’s emphasis on “presence” becomes a curse here: she is present, but only as an echo of what was demanded. The timbre of the guitar mimics a sigh trapped in a throat; the feedback is not accidental—it is the sound of her voice being absorbed into the walls. Every note is a question: How long must you be quiet before they call it peace? The song does not resolve. It lingers, trembling—not because it lacks closure, but because the silence after is louder than any chord. This is not music for comfort. It is a mirror held to the altar of domesticity, where devotion has been weaponized into silence.
Loquax
The loquacious one. The one who spoke too much. The one they called “too loud.” This track is the manifesto’s rebellion incarnate: a sonic explosion of texture where every note is a word, and every word is a weapon. The guitar does not play chords—it spits syllables. The drums are not percussion; they are the stomps of feet trying to drown her out. Yet she speaks louder. The distortion is not noise—it is clarity. Each sustained note is a sentence refused to be erased. In the manifesto, “every silence is a dimension of meaning”—here, silence is murdered. The track begins with a single sustained tone, trembling like a voice before it breaks—and then, without warning, it fractures into a thousand shards of feedback. This is not chaos. It is catharsis. The “alchemy of spatial resonance” becomes the echo in a hallway where her voice bounces off walls that refuse to absorb it. She is not asking to be heard. She is demanding the architecture itself remember her voice. This song is the antithesis of surrender.
Irreligatus
Unconsecrated. Unblessed. Unbound. The guitar here is not tuned—it is cursed. Strings are detuned by hand, each note a prayer rejected by the altar. The drums are not played—they are pounded, like fists against a church door. This is the sound of faith turned to ash, and the woman who walks through it barefoot. The manifesto speaks of “reverence”—but here, reverence is not given. It is seized. Every dissonant chord is a hymn torn from the pages of scripture and stitched into skin. The timbre is not beautiful—it is necessary. This track does not seek harmony; it seeks liberation from the sacred lies that demand silence in exchange for salvation. The space between notes is not empty—it is holy ground where the divine was buried under dogma. To listen is to kneel not before God, but before her: the one who refused to be sanctified by silence. The guitar weeps in frequencies only the broken can hear.
Erus
Betrothed. Engaged. Bound by vow, not choice. The guitar here is gentle—too gentle. Each note is a caress that feels like a constraint. The drums are slow, deliberate, almost tender—like the weight of a wedding ring pressed into flesh. This is not love song. It is elegy for the self before it was named “wife.” The manifesto’s insistence on “intention” becomes a knife here: every note is placed with precision, not to please, but to expose. The resonance of the strings mimics a heartbeat slowing—not from peace, but from resignation. The silence between phrases is not absence—it is the space where her name used to be. She does not scream here. She hums. And in that hum, the entire manifesto collapses: if sound is architecture, then Erus is the foundation of a prison built with velvet. The beauty is the trap.
Rixa
Strife. Brawl. The tearing of silk into shreds. This is the manifesto’s fury made audible: no synthesis, no polish—just the raw collision of instrument and will. The guitar is not played—it is attacked. Strings snap mid-note, feedback howls like a wounded animal. The drums are not rhythms—they are war cries. This track is the sound of a woman refusing to be contained by harmony, by grace, by expectation. The “alchemy of spatial resonance” here is the echo in a room after the window has been shattered. Every note is a fist raised. Every decay, a breath taken before the next blow. The manifesto speaks of “deliberate process”—but Rixa is not deliberate. It is inevitable. This is the sound of a body saying “no” in every frequency it can muster. There is no resolution. Only the aftermath: a broken guitar, a bleeding knuckle, and the silence that follows because even the air is afraid to move.
Isto
“This.” Not “she,” not “her”—just this. The sound. The vibration. The trembling in the air after the last note has died. This track is pure resonance stripped of narrative, of identity, of pronoun. The guitar hums a single tone for three minutes—slowly decaying, slowly warping. No drums. No melody. Just the physicality of wood and wire surrendering to gravity, to time, to entropy. The manifesto’s claim that “every note is a universe of detail” finds its purest expression here: in the decay, not the attack. The listener is forced to sit with the aftermath—to feel the weight of what was, and how it fades. This is not music to be consumed. It is a meditation on impermanence. The woman who sang this does not need to be named. Her voice lingers in the tremor of the strings, and that is enough. To hear Isto is to witness the quiet death of a sound—and in that death, its eternal presence.
Bustuarius
Of the funeral pyre. Of the one who tends the fire after the body is gone. The guitar here is charred—strings rusted, pickups humming with the ghost of heat. The drums are slow, heavy, like footsteps on ash. This is not mourning—it is ritual. The manifesto’s reverence for physicality becomes sacred here: the instrument does not play music. It performs burial. Each note is a handful of earth thrown onto the pyre. The feedback is not noise—it is the last sigh escaping the flames. This track does not seek to honor the dead; it seeks to become the grave. The resonance is not beautiful—it is necessary, like smoke curling into a sky that refuses to remember. To listen is to stand beside the fire, hands empty, heart full of ash. The song ends not with silence—but with the smell of burning wood.
Ulcerosus
Ulcerous. Rotting from within. The guitar is not played—it is wounded. Strings are bent until they bleed tone, the amp distorts as if infected. The drums are erratic—like a heart struggling to beat through scar tissue. This is the sound of internal collapse made audible: the manifesto’s “truth” not as purity, but as decay. Every note is a wound reopening. The timbre is not textured—it is tissue. This track does not build; it erodes. The “alchemy of spatial resonance” here is the echo in a hollow chest, where love turned to poison and silence became the only medicine. The woman who made this does not scream—she bleeds in frequencies. There is no catharsis here, only the slow unraveling of self. The manifesto speaks of “authenticity”—but Ulcerosus asks: what if the truth is not beautiful? What if it is a festering thing, whispering in the dark? To hear this song is to feel your own insides begin to ache.
Sanguis
Blood. Not metaphor. Not symbol. Sanguis. The guitar here is not played—it is bled upon. Strings are soaked in sweat and rust, the amp hums with the warmth of a body still alive. The drums are not struck—they are pounded from within, like fists against a ribcage. This is the manifesto’s final truth: sound is not arranged—it is extracted. Every note is a drop of blood pressed from the soul. There is no technique here—only survival. The resonance is not spatial—it is visceral. You do not hear this song. You taste it. Iron. Salt. Warmth. The silence between notes is the moment before the next wound opens. This track does not end. It bleeds out. And in its final breath, it whispers: We do not sing to be heard. We sing because silence is the first lie they taught us. And blood remembers.
5. Album as a Living Artifact
Mulieribus is not an album to be played. It is an altar to be approached. To listen is to enter a temple built from the wreckage of expectations—where every dissonant chord is a prayer, every feedback howl a confession, and every decaying note an act of resurrection. This is not entertainment. It is exorcism. The analog guitar, the unpolished drums, the raw takes—they are not stylistic choices; they are sacraments. Each track is a liturgy for the silenced, a hymn for the unrecorded, a ritual to reclaim resonance from the architecture of erasure. The listener does not consume this work—they are consumed by it. In the space between notes, you feel the weight of centuries of women told to be quiet. In the distortion, you hear their rage. In the decay, their grief. And in the final silence of Sanguis, you feel it: the truth that sound, when stripped to its bones, is not an art form—it is a survival mechanism. To hear Mulieribus is to be unmade, then remade in the image of those who refused to vanish. This album does not change your mood—it changes your bones. It teaches you that authenticity is not polished. It is bloody. It is raw. And it does not ask for your applause—it demands your witness.
6. Bonus: Visual Metaphor for Cover Art
A single guitar, half-buried in ash, its strings still trembling with the last echo of a voice that refused to be silenced.