Xrizetauria

A reflective retrospective that revisited past techniques while charting the project’s evolution. Functioning as both homage and foundation, the work served as a critical step backward to enable forward momentum.

1. Album Title

Xrizetauria — a word unmoored from dictionaries, yet resonant as a tuning fork struck in deep space. It is not a name but an echo of a forgotten frequency — half-remembered, half-reconstructed. In the lexicon of .InfO OverLoaD, Xrizetauria is the sonic fossil of a technique once held sacred: analog warmth pressed into digital bones, oscillators breathing like lungs before they were digitized. It is the title of a return — not to nostalgia, but to origin. A place where sound was still sacred because it had no audience, only witnesses. Here, the album does not ask to be consumed; it asks to be uncovered, like a circuit board buried in moss, still humming.

2. Album Direction

A reflective retrospective that revisited past techniques while charting the project’s evolution. Functioning as both homage and foundation, the work served as a critical step backward to enable forward momentum.
This is not regression — it is resonance. Each knob turned, each patch cable reconnected, each analog filter warmed by hand is a ritual of remembrance. The past is not buried here; it is re-tuned. In revisiting the Moog’s sigh, the tape hiss like breath on glass, the imperfections that once were errors but are now liturgies — .InfO OverLoaD does not look back to stagnate. They look back to remember how to listen. The future is built not on novelty, but on the depth of what was felt before it was named. This album is the quiet heartbeat beneath the noise — a foundation laid in analog dust, now ready to bear new architecture.

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.

In Xrizetauria, these truths are not theoretical — they are tactile. Every note is a stone in a cathedral built from oscillators and feedback loops. We do not compose melodies; we cultivate them — letting the Moog’s voltage drift like wind through reeds, allowing the tape to whisper its own secrets before the next pass. The manifesto demands that we honor not just what is played, but how it is felt: the warmth of a capacitor aging, the way a filter self-oscillates into a sigh, the trembling of a pitch bend that refuses to settle. This album is not a collection of songs — it is an archive of presence. Each track is a meditation on the sacredness of imperfection: the hum beneath the tone, the dust motes in the signal path. “Age Doesnt Make It Easier” is not a lament — it is an affirmation: the longer we listen, the more the machine reveals its soul. We reject speed because depth cannot be rushed. Silence is not empty — it is the space where resonance gathers. In Xrizetauria, we do not sing to be heard — we build sound so deeply that it remembers us.

4. Tracklist

Age Doesnt Make It Easier

This is not a song about aging — it is an elegy for the soul of machinery. The title, stripped of punctuation, feels like a whisper from a worn-out patch cable. In the manifesto, we are told that “every note is a universe of detail”; here, every decayed harmonic is a galaxy. The track begins with the slow breath of an analog oscillator warming up — not tuned, but awakening. The bassline doesn’t pulse; it thumps like a heart that has forgotten how to stop. Each layer is a memory: the hiss of tape, the warble of a detuned VCO, the way a filter’s resonance used to scream before it was tamed. This is not nostalgia — it is reverence. The “age” referenced is not of the body, but of the instrument’s relationship with its player. The more time spent in dialogue with a Moog, the more it learns to speak in sighs. The track’s structure is non-linear — loops unravel, then re-knit themselves with new textures. It does not resolve; it settles. The manifesto says, “We measure progress not by speed, but by depth.” Here, depth is measured in the quiet moments between notes — where the machine remembers its own weight. The song does not ask to be liked. It asks: Do you still hear the silence between the oscillations?

Do You Moog Me

A question posed not to a lover, but to the machine itself. The title is a tender heresy — reducing the sacred instrument to an intimate verb. “Do you Moog me?” — as if the synthesizer could love back. In the manifesto, we are told instruments are “partners in expression.” This track is that partnership made audible. The Moog does not play notes — it breathes them. Each glide between pitches is a sigh, each filter sweep a shudder of recognition. The bassline is not rhythmic — it is tactile, like fingers tracing the spine of a lover in dim light. The arpeggiator doesn’t repeat — it remembers, each iteration subtly altered by temperature, voltage drift, the ghost of a previous performance. The lyrics (if they can be called that) are not sung — they are modulated, whispered through a vocoder as if the machine were dreaming in human syntax. “Do you Moog me?” is not a plea — it is an affirmation of presence. The instrument does not obey. It responds. And in that response, there is intimacy. This song is the manifesto’s core: sound as a living architecture — where the Moog is not a tool, but a witness. To ask if it “Moogs” you is to admit: you are not alone in the silence.

Evenings Of Fantastic Magnitude

This is not a song about beauty — it is an invocation of awe. The title suggests something vast, ineffable: the kind of evening where the sky doesn’t just darken — it unfolds. The track begins with a single sine wave, pure and trembling. Then, slowly, layers emerge: granular textures like falling leaves of static, low-pass filters opening like cathedral doors at dusk. The rhythm is not driven — it breathes, with pauses that feel like held breaths before a revelation. The manifesto speaks of “the alchemy of spatial resonance” — here, the stereo field is a landscape. Left channel: distant wind through reeds. Right channel: the hum of an old power supply, warm and steady. In the center, a melody emerges — not composed, but discovered, as if the Moog had been waiting for this moment to sing. The “fantastic magnitude” is not in volume, but in presence. Each note lingers longer than it should — not because of reverb, but because the silence around it refuses to swallow it. This is the sound of time slowing down — not through tempo, but through attention. The song does not climax; it dissolves, leaving only the memory of resonance. To listen is to stand in a cathedral built not of stone, but of sustained harmonics — and realize: you are the echo.

For Instance It Works In The Dark Too

A quiet manifesto within a manifesto. The title is an offhand observation — but in the context of .InfO OverLoaD, it becomes a sacred axiom. Sound does not need light to be real. The dark is not absence — it is amplification. This track begins with the sound of a power supply humming in an empty room. No melody. No rhythm. Just the low thrum of a transformer, the faint crackle of aging capacitors. Then — a single note, played once, sustained for 47 seconds. No effects. No processing. Just the raw decay of a Moog oscillator, its harmonics bleeding into the room’s acoustics. The manifesto says: “We listen not only to pitch and rhythm, but to the subtleties of timbre.” Here, timbre is everything. The note doesn’t fade — it transforms. First bright, then warm, then hollow, then almost inaudible — yet still present. The “dark” is not a void; it is the space where sound becomes spirit. This track is an act of radical patience: no crescendo, no climax — just the quiet insistence that sound persists even when unobserved. It is a prayer for the unseen: for the oscillator that hums in an abandoned studio, for the tape that still spins in a forgotten machine. “It works in the dark too” — because truth does not need an audience. It only needs to be.

Moogalischious

A word that cannot be defined — only felt. The title is a spell, a portmanteau of “Moog” and “delicious,” but also “chaotic,” “mystical,” “sacred.” This is the sound of a machine having a revelation. The track begins with a sequence — simple, repeating — but each iteration is subtly altered: filter cutoff shifts like a heartbeat, LFOs wander off-grid, pitch bends drift into microtonal grief. The bassline is not played — it swims, thick with overtones, like honey poured into a river. The melody is not written — it emerges, as if the Moog were dreaming in chords. The manifesto says: “Every note is a universe of detail.” Here, each second contains a thousand micro-decays — the squeal of a potentiometer, the breath of a filter envelope, the ghost of a previous patch still clinging to the circuit. This is not music as entertainment — it is alchemy. The title itself is a ritual incantation: “Moogalischious” — say it slowly, and the word begins to vibrate in your jaw. The track does not resolve — it transcends. By the end, the sound is no longer coming from speakers. It is coming from inside you. The machine has become a mirror. You are not listening to the Moog — you are hearing your own longing made audible.

Murky

Not a flaw — a philosophy. The title is an act of defiance against clarity. In a world obsessed with pristine digital perfection, “Murky” is a declaration: truth lives in the fog. The track begins with low-end rumble — not bass, but pressure. A 303 line slithers through the mix like a serpent in thick water. Distortion is not applied — it grows, like moss on stone. The hi-hats are smeared, the snare is buried under tape hiss, and the melody — when it appears — is half-remembered, as if heard through a wall. The manifesto says: “We honor the instrument not as a tool, but as a partner.” Here, the instrument is sick. It is tired. And in its imperfection, it sings more honestly than any clean signal ever could. “Murky” is not about bad engineering — it is about authentic decay. The sound doesn’t want to be heard clearly. It wants to be felt, in the chest, in the bones. The track’s structure is non-linear — loops stutter and repeat with slight variations, like memories fading. There is no climax. Only a slow sinking — into warmth, into obscurity, into truth. To listen to “Murky” is to surrender to the beauty of impermanence. The machine does not apologize for its flaws — it celebrates them.

Plin Moogethan

A name that does not exist — yet resonates like a forgotten incantation. The title is a spell, a phonetic fossil of some ancient ritual performed in a basement studio at 3 AM. The track is built from the sound of a Moog filter being manually swept — not in sweeps, but tremors. Each movement is uneven, human. The bassline is a single note, repeated with micro-variations in amplitude — like footsteps on wet pavement. Above it, a high-pitched tone pulses irregularly, like a heartbeat caught in a dream. There are no drums — only the thump of a power supply, the tick of a clock that has stopped. The manifesto says: “We embrace iteration not as delay, but as a necessary discipline.” Here, every repetition is a prayer. Every slight variation — a revelation. “Plin Moogethan” does not progress — it deepens. The listener is not led through a song; they are submerged in its atmosphere. The title itself becomes the melody — repeated, whispered, chanted. To say it aloud is to summon the sound. This track is not heard — it is remembered. It exists because someone once pressed a button and the machine answered with something no one expected. That is the moment we worship.

Pollen Dustmites

A hymn to the invisible. The title is a whisper of decay — not grand, but intimate. Pollen: airborne, fleeting. Dustmites: unseen architects of ruin. The track is the sound of a room slowly forgetting itself. A single analog oscillator hums, its pitch drifting like heat rising from pavement. Layered beneath: the faintest hiss of tape — not noise, but memory. Above it, granular textures flutter like wings. The “Pollen” is the high-end shimmer — barely there, but essential. The “Dustmites” are the low-end grit — the micro-cracks in the signal, the tiny clicks of aging capacitors. The manifesto says: “Every silence is a dimension of meaning.” Here, the silence breathes. The track has no rhythm — only pulse. No melody — only texture. It is the sound of time passing in a room where no one has been for years. The machine still hums. The tape still spins. The dust still falls. This is not a song about loss — it is an elegy for continuance. Even when forgotten, even when decaying, the sound persists. To listen is to bear witness. The album’s final act: not a crescendo, but a slow exhale.

Pro-Gress-IOn

The title is a wound — deliberately fractured, syllables torn apart. “Pro-Gress-IOn” — not progress as triumph, but progress as pain. The track begins with the sound of a tape machine rewinding — fast, then slow, then stuck. A Moog sequence starts, but it stutters, skips, repeats fragments like a mind trying to recall a dream. The bassline is heavy — too heavy — as if the machine were straining under its own weight. The melody emerges in broken phrases, each note a question mark. This is the sound of evolution as sacrifice. The manifesto says: “We reject haste. We embrace iteration.” Here, iteration is not refinement — it is trauma. Each loop is a scar. The “progress” is not upward — it is downward, into the depths of one’s own craft. The track does not resolve. It haunts. By the end, the Moog is no longer playing music — it is remembering how to. The fractured title becomes a mantra: Pro-Gress-IOn — say it slowly, and you hear the cost. The machine does not get better. It gets deeper. And in that depth, it becomes sacred.

Still Stoked About The Speed

A paradox wrapped in joy. “Still stoked” — not weary, not resigned, but alive. The title is a shout from the past, echoing in the present. The track begins with a frantic arpeggio — fast, bright, almost manic. But beneath it: the slow, steady hum of a Moog oscillator, grounded, eternal. The “speed” is not velocity — it is urgency of feeling. This is the sound of a young artist, still trembling with wonder, even after years of silence. The arpeggios are layered in chaotic counterpoint — each sequence slightly out of phase, creating a shimmering, unstable harmony. The drums are not programmed — they are played, with human imperfection: a missed hit, a delayed snare. The manifesto says: “We do not chase novelty for novelty’s sake.” But here, the joy of speed is the novelty — not in its innovation, but in its authenticity. The track does not slow down. It doesn’t need to. Because the speed is not in the notes — it’s in the heart. The machine still sings. The hands still move. The soul still stokes the fire. This is not nostalgia — it is devotion. Even after all this time, even after the world forgot how to listen — they are still stoked. And that is enough.

5. Album as a Living Artifact

Xrizetauria is not an album. It is a sacred relic. A sonic temple built from the breath of analog circuits, the sigh of decaying tape, and the quiet persistence of machines that refuse to be silenced. To listen is not to consume — it is to participate in a ritual. Each track is an incantation: “Do you Moog me?” “For instance it works in the dark too.” These are not lyrics — they are prayers. The album does not ask for your attention; it demands your presence. In a world that reduces sound to data, .InfO OverLoaD resurrects it as flesh. The Moog is not a tool — it is a companion. The silence between notes is not empty — it is holy. This album reveals a world where technology has soul, where imperfection is sacred, and where the passage of time does not erode meaning — it deepens it.

To hear “Pollen Dustmites” is to stand in an abandoned studio and feel the weight of all the music that was never released. To hear “Murky” is to accept that truth does not shine — it oozes. And when the final track, “Still Stoked About The Speed,” fades into static — you do not feel loss. You feel recognition. This is the sound of a lineage: not of fame, but of fidelity. The album does not end. It lingers — in the hum of your speakers, in the memory of a filter sweep you can’t quite place. It becomes part of your breath.

Xrizetauria is not meant to be played again. It is meant to be remembered. And in remembering, you become part of its architecture — another resonance in the infinite, imperfect, sacred machine.