J:Rover lands on SINE Audio with the 'Adrenaline EP'.

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J:Rover - Hold On

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.

booking : jakubxbooking@gmail.com

IG : https://www.instagram.com/jakubpaksi/

member of Organic Beatz crew 

IG : https://www.instagram.com/organic.beatz/

"Niemand ist mehr Sklave, als der sich für frei hält, ohne es zu sein."

J.W. Goethe

Electronic music producer from the west of France who mainly makes Drum & Bass. DarKYYComet is attracted by future and experimental breaks but tends to say his music is the link between old, mid and new school, blends underground with mainstream musical genres to give his sound a unique approach. He's been producing for about four years now and listening to D&B since the age of 19 years old, released his first two tracks on Nu Venture Records in 2021 and now very excited to release for 2023-2025 on PZYCCO Recs., Vahana Records, Subplate Recordings, Stoic Music, C Recordings, Riot Records, Interstellar Audio, Influenza Media and Outer Edge Audio. The 17/12/2025 marks a new turn in the producers musical career by making his upcoming self-releases available on all streaming platforms. Don't forget to check out his free downloads exclusive to SoundCloud!
One last thing... "Bass, Bass, Bass... and even more Bass!"

https://ffm.bio/darkyycomet

Releases on:
@outeredgeaudio
@celsiusrecordings (Influenza Media)
@interstellar_audio
@riotrecsuk
@crecs
@stoicmusicberlin
@vahanarecords
@subplate
@pzycco
@nuventurerecords

Premieres on:
@ledgednb
@datatransmissiondnb
@dnbspread
@all172things
@officialdrumad

Birmingham based Drum and Bass producer and DJ, focusing on deep, dark and funky sounds. 

Releases on Delta9, Rebel Music, Midas Touch, Co-Lab, Liquid Lab, Lost the Plot, Transparent Audio, Deeper DNB, Sine Audio and Incurzion Optics.

Contact me at: Polarized.dnb@gmail.com

I post dnb 🥁


Lover of deep/dark/minimal 🥁


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Disconnect from chaos. Disrupt the mundane. Explore the unknown. Support the underground.

Co-founder at TransFrequency Recordings



drum n bass alchemist
 


@transfrequencies-label
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@shar-worrell

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dnb/sci fi (from 90's to now, what happened?)

essential listening:

Dillinja (Silver Blade)
Matrix (Destiny)
Nico No U Turn (Droid)
Skynet & Stakka (9000 Series)
Dom & Roland (Deckers Theme)
Doc Scott (Machines)
Foul Play (Artificial Intelligence) Moving Shadows
Bad Company UK (Colonies)
Ed Rush & Optical (Mystery Machine)
Dave Shichman (The Running Man)
LTJ Buckem (Horizons) and GLR
Dunk & Black Opps (Bang Bang)
Ram Trilogy (Human Future)
A Guy Called Gerald
Metalheadz/Goldie
Adam F (Metropolis)
Johnny L (Piper)
Tech Itch (The Real)
Teebee (Behind The Sun)
Trace/Nico (The Mutant)
Current Value (Cybernetic Future)
Noisia (Stigma)
Photek (Rings Around Saturn)
Audio (Point of No Return)
Roni Size (Destination)
Krust (True Stories)
Die (Clear Skyz)
Cause 4 Concern (Future Shock)
Planet V
Fabio and Grooverider

electronic music producer and DJ with over a decade of experience crafting hard-hitting, emotionally resonant soundscapes. After ten years of exploring music production and performance, Subsonance is now stepping forward with renewed focus—launching a local brand aimed at pushing sonic boundaries and building a platform that uplifts the next generation of artists.

Having studied DJing and studio music production, Subsonance brings both technical expertise and raw creative energy to every project. With hands-on experience in the DAW, Subsonance has built a diverse catalog spanning drum and bass, dubstep, and other bass-driven genres. Drops on ;Norman Foreman, Burna Records, Society Recordings, Badman Sound, and Rudde Studios, with live performances across Christchurch, Dunedin, Timaru, and Greymouth under collectives like Badman Sound, General Waste Audio, and more..

A familiar face at weekly Open Decks at Galaxy Bar, and with radio hosting experience under their belt, Subsonance is committed to consistent output, community engagement, and knowledge-sharing. Beyond the decks, they’re now expanding into recording live bands, singer-songwriters, rappers, vocalists, and spoken word artists, creating a collaborative space that bridges electronic and organic sounds.

Driven by connection, collaboration, and constant evolution, Subsonance is on a mission to mentor up-and-coming artists, contribute meaningfully to the underground scene, and lead by example—building something powerful, sustainable, and deeply personal.

Causing mischief in every form possible, Grimmlin searches high and low for sounds forgotten and unheard. Weaving his way through crunchy snares, soul-sucking subs, and all the dark mutations present in dnb, it makes for a deep and intense journey that is as alien as it is familiar. 

Catch him tilting windmills and ripping beats from the underground every other Wednesday on Bassfreq Radio, and throughout southern California in various venues and formats.