Brooklyn based independent record label, established 2007 A.D. 

Mister Failure are a 3 piece hailing from the unknown nether regions of eastern PA, a country enclave of sorts known for its Pennsylvanian Dutch and Amish heritage, dairy farms, as well as its absolute boredom.

Mister Failure is a subsidiary of Mr. Profit Industries. Test subjects that have been mandated to record an anthology's worth of music in as short a time as possible while situated in the heart of hex country. Three moronic minds, waves of neuroses, beats slowly drifting off the mark. Just one whiff and yer hooked. These are anthems for the dulled age. If you can't use it, flush it.

Members of Mr Failure have arisen from the embers of some big name bands in the Industry we fail to acknowledge at this juncture.

Cate Le Bon is an artist hailing from Carmarthenshire, rural West Wales. Be it on her more minimalist, acoustic-leaning 2009 debut album Me Oh My or critically acclaimed, liquid-riffed 2013 LP Mug Museum as well as 2016s Crab Day and the Mercury Award nominated Reward, Cate Le Bon’s solo work — and indeed also her production work, such as that carried out on the recent John Grant album, Boy From Michigan, or  Deerhunter's Why Hasn’t Everything Already Disappeared?  (4AD, January 2019) — has always resisted pigeonholing, walking the tightrope between krautrock aloofness and heartbreaking tenderness; deadpan served with a twinkle in the eye, a flick of the fringe and a lick of the Telecaster.

New album Pompeii bears a storied title summoning apocalypse, but the metaphor eclipses any “dissection of immediacy,” says Le Bon. Sonically minimal in parts, its lyrics jog between self-reflection and direct address. Written primarily on bass and composed entirely alone in an “uninterrupted vacuum,” Le Bon plays every instrument (except drums and saxophones) and recorded the album largely by herself with long-term collaborator and co-producer Samur Khouja in Cardiff, Wales.

The songs of Pompeii feel suspended in time, both of the moment and instant but reactionary and Dada-esque in their insistence to be playful, satirical, and surreal. From the spirited, strutting bass fretwork of “Moderation”, to the sax-swagger of “Running Away”; a tale exquisite in nature but ultimately doomed (The fountain that empties the world / Too beautiful to hold), escapism lives as a foil to the outside world. Pompeii’s audacious tribute to memory, compassion, and mortal salience is here to stay.

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