"Prisma" is a sonic journey that explores the interplay of light and darkness, breaking down the many shades of drum and bass into a vibrant palette of transformative sound. Inspired by the way a prism disperses light, each track unveils a distinct dimension, from bursts of high energy to more introspective soundscapes.

On a spiritual level, "Prisma" symbolises clarity, balance, and personal transformation. Just as a prism transforms white light into a multicoloured spectrum, this album seeks to transform the listener's emotions and experiences into a deep immersion, covering all the colours of the soul. Driving basslines and immersive atmospheres guide the listener through a journey of purification, balance, and connection, creating a harmonious space where the divine and the earthly meet.

Each track reflects the diversity of sound and the ability of music to convey both light and shadow, always maintaining a perfect balance between the ethereal and the raw, the melodic and the visceral.

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Prisma

Pulse

Available here

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.            “It’s not like I’m using,” Case heard someone say, as he shouldered his way through the crowd around the door of the Chat. “It’s like my body’s developed this massive drug deficiency.” It was a Sprawl voice and a Sprawl joke. The Chatsubo was a bar for professional expatriates; you could drink there for a week and never hear two words in Japanese.            Ratz was tending bar, h is prosthetic arm jerking monotonously as he filled a tray of glasses with draft Kirin. He saw Case and smiled, his teeth a webwork of East European steel and brown decay. Case found a place at the bar, between the unlikely tan on one of Lonny Zone’s whores and the crisp naval uniform of a tall African whose cheekbones were ridged with precise rows of tribal scars. “Wage was in her early, with two joeboys,” Ratz said, shoving a draft across the bar with his good hand. “Maybe some business with you, Case?”            Case shrugged. The girl to his right giggled and nudged him.            The bartender’s smile widened. His ugliness was the stuff of legend. In an age of affordable beauty, there was something heraldic about his lack of it. The antique arm whined as he reached for another mug. It was a Russian military prosthesis, a seven-function force-feedback manipulator, cased in grubby pink plastic. “You are too much the artiste, Herr Case.” Ratz grunted; the sound served him as laughter. He scratched his overhang of white-shirted belly with the pink claw. “You are the artiste of the slightly funny deal.”            “Sure,” Case said, and sipped his beer. “Somebody’s gotta be funny around here. Sure the fuck isn’t you.”            The whore’s giggle went up an octave.            “Isn’t you either, sister. So you vanish, okay? Zone, he’s a close personal friend of mine.”            She looked Case in the eye and made the softest possible spitting sound, her lips barely moving. But she left.            “Jesus,” Case said, “what kinda creepjoint you running here? Man can’t have a drink?”            “Ha,” Ratz said, swabbing the scarred wood with a rag, “Zone shows a percentage. You I let work here for entertainment value.”            As Case was picking up his beer, one of those strange instants of silence descended, as though a hundred unrelated conversations had simultaneously arrived at the same pause. Then the whore’s giggle rang out, tinged with certain hysteria.            Ratz grunted. “An angel has passed.”            “The Chinese,” bellowed a drunken Australian, “Chinese bloody invented nerve-splicing. Give me the mainland for a nerve job any day. Fix you right, mate…;”            “Now that,” Case said to his glass, all his bitterness suddenly rising in him like bile, “that is so much bullshit.”             The Japanese had already forgotten more neurosurgery than the Chinese had ever known. The black clinics of Chiba were the cutting edge, whole bodies of technique supplanted monthly, and still they couldn’t repair the damage he’d suffered in that Memphis hotel.            A year here and he still dreamed of cyberspace, hope fading nightly. All the speed he took, all the turns he’d taken and the corners he’d cut in Night City, and still he’d see the matrix in his sleep, bright lattices of logic unfolding across that colorless void…;The Sprawl was a long strange way home over the Pacific now, and he was no console man, no cyberspace cowboy. Just another hustler, trying to make it through. But the dreams came on in the Japanese night like livewire voodoo, and he’d cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands clawed into the bedslab, temperfoam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn’t there.             “I saw your girl last night,” Ratz said, passing Case his second Kirin.            “I don’t have one,” he said, and drank.            “Miss Linda Lee.”            Case shook his head.            “No girl? Nothing? Only biz, friend artiste? Dedication to commerce?” The bartender’s small brown eyes were nested deep in wrinkled flesh. “I think I liked you better, with her. You laughed more. Now, some night, you get maybe too artistic; you wind up in the clinic tanks, spare parts.”            “You’re breaking my heart, Ratz.” He finished his beer, paid and left, high narrow shoulders hunched beneath the rainstained khaki nylon of his windbreaker. Threading his way through the Ninsei crowds, he could smell his own stale sweat.             Case was twenty-four. At twenty-two, he’d been a cowboy, a rustler, one of the best in the Sprawl. He’d been trained by the best, by McCoy Pauley and Bobby Quine, legends in the biz. He’d operated on an almost permanent adrenaline high, a byproduct of youth and proficiency, jacked into a custom cyberspace deck hat projected his disembodied consciousness into the consensual hallucination that was the matrix. A their, he’d worked for other, wealthier thieves, employers who provided the exotic software required to penetrate the bright walls of corporate systems, opening windows into rich fields of data.            He’s made the classic mistake, the one he’s sworn he’d never make. He stole from his employers. He kept something for himself and tried to move it through a fence in Amsterdam. He still wasn’t sure how he’d been discovered, not that it mattered now. He’d expected to die, then but they only smiled. Of course he was welcome, they told him, welcome to the money. And he was going to need it. Because––still smiling––they were going to make sure he never worked again.            They damaged his nervous system with a wartime Russian mycotoxin.            Strapped to a bed in a Memphis hotel, his talent burning out micron by micron, he hallucinated for thirty hours.            The damage was minute, subtle, and utterly effective.            For Case, who’d lived for the bodiless exultation of cyberspace, it was the Fall. In the bars he’d frequented as a cowboy hotshot, the elite stance involved a certain relaxed contempt for the flesh. The body was meat. Case fell into the prison of his own flesh.             His total assets were quickly converted to New Yen, a fat sheaf of the old paper currency that circulated endlessly through the closed circuit of the world’s black markets like the seashells of the Trobriand islanders. It was difficult to transact legitimate business with cash in the Sprawl; in Japan, it was already illegal.            In Japan, he’d known with a clenched and absolute certainty, he’d find his cure. In Chiba. Either in a registered clinic or in the shadowland of black medicine. Synonymous with implants, nerve-splicing, and microbionics, Chiba was a magnet for the Sprawl’s techno-criminal subcultures.            In Chiba, he’d watched his New Yen vanish in a two-month round of examinations and consultations. The men in the black clinics, his last hope, had admired the expertise with which he’d been maimed, and then slowly shaken their heads.            Now he slept in the cheapest coffins, the ones nearest the port, beneath the quartz-halogen floods that lit the docks all night like vast stages; where you couldn’t see the lights of Tokyo for the glare of the television sky, not even the towering hologram logo of the Fuji Electric Company, and the Tokyo Bay was a black expanse where gulls wheeled above drifting shoals of white styrofoam. Behind the port lay the city, factory domes dominated by the vast cubes of corporate arcologies. Port and city were divided by a narrow borderland of older streets, an area with no official name. Night City, with Ninsei its heart. By day, the bars down Ninsei were shuttered and featureless, the neon dead, the holograms inert, waiting, under the poisoned silver sky. --Reprinted from Neuromancer by William Gibson by permission of Berkley, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright © 1984, William Gibson. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. 
Hooked on the rush from each time i play in front of magical people.
Deep minimalist.

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Ant TC1 along with Hidden Agenda founded Dispatch Recordings back in 2001, Ant originally helped out with the management side of the label before finding his feet within the realms of production; which was a natural progression for him having DJ’d on pirate radio and in clubs from the age of 14 (since 1992).  His first release alongside frequent production partner Stress Level appeared on Dispatch after almost 3 years of hard work getting their collective sound where they felt it needed to be before even thinking about turning on a DAT recorder.  After their first release hit the stores they quickly picked up a wealth of DJ support across their early material and went on to release for a who’s who list of established Drum & Bass record labels including the likes of Renegade, CIA, Advanced, Critical Records Integral, Liquid V, Commercial Suicide, Good Looking Records, Bingo Beats and Samurai Music.

By demand remix work started to feature heavily within their output and the duo went on to remix for the likes of Hidden Agenda, Chris SU, Artificial Intelligence, Kabuki, Total Science, Optical & Ryme Time (Jagged Edge), Atlantic Connection, Tactile & DJ Marky.  Branching out and working with other producers such as Survival, DLR & Philth has only furthered experience Ant’s skills at the controls over the years, Ant has also released his own solo material more recently on top of remixing for the likes of Lomax on Integral Records.  In 2014 Ant realised a lifetime ambition, securing his first ever release for the legendary Metalheadz label “Hungry For Atmosphere” alongside Mako, DLR & Villem with further releases for the label and counting going into 2024.

Ant’s production output has featured on a mass of compilations and mix CD’s compiled by the likes of Shy FX, LTJ Bukem, Total Science, AI, Spectrasoul, Klute and Brian G.  Additionally his work has featured very heavily within the radio shows of Friction, Grooverider, Fabio, Goldie, Bailey & Rene LaVice on their respective BBC Radio 1 slots over the years as well as BBC 1Xtra where Ant once hosted his own one-off 4 hour show, he has since additionally made 2 guest DJ appearances for DJ Friction on his Radio 1 show.  His DJ’ing work has seen him play all over the globe from Adelaide to Los Angeles, from Hong Kong to Sarajevo, Vancouver to Bangkok and last but by no means least regularly UK and EU wide. Additionally for the most part of the decade beyond 2010 Ant also worked as the Artist Manager for both Outlook and Dimensions Festival in Croatia, leading up the booking process, budgets and travel aspects for the festival.

Fast forward through to 2024; Ant is now responsible for the lead label management roles of both Metalheadz & Dispatch Recordings and is based in Thailand, with a purpose built studio room recently finished the plan (alongside managing a mass of planned record label releases) is to get back to focusing on writing music more consistently than he ever has previously.

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Dispatch Recs | Ant TC1