"The CD is scratched.” A saying from the early millennium, it describes the phenomenon of skipping music on a damaged CD, the locked, repetitive groove. For nearly a decade, Fossilized Wilderness has been experimenting with a peculiar modification to CDJ equipment, birthed by long hours sorting through promotional CDs sent to a radio station. In embracing choppiness, a body of abrasive but bright ambient work has been constructed from the refuse of musical commodification.

The CD skip is both rhythm and tone on this LP, but if you expect the monotonous motions of a concept album, don’t: The moods here are just as granular. The six tracks shift from digital euphoria to shoegazing sentimentalism, a balanced mix of terror, plaintiveness, and joy, an impressive feat considering that the scratch of a CD produces potent nostalgia as well as Pavlovian irritation for many—a drive to eject the thing and fix the problem.

For those not growing up with it, the scratched CD is a relic phenomenon, something that happened with an artifact format. But just because it’s an artifact doesn’t mean it’s obsolete. On this LP, Fossilized Wilderness uses a sonic palette of subtly-shifting broken loops to create something new: delirious spectres rising from an ocean of plastic.

edition of 25



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