Paul Mike - Nocturne for Anima Nox

The Orpheus Big Karmic Trip  

On one hand, it's Orpheus' descent into the underworld of Hades—a realm filled with chitinous crunches, crystalline screeches, divine unsettling choirs, whispers and murmurs, fragments of memory from lost souls.  
On the other, it's a journey into the afterlife of cold cosmic voids, boundless karmic spaces where the only landmarks are abandoned stations, alien tribes, swarms of cannibals, and empty mining tunnels on industrial asteroids.  

A double Bardo.  
I love telling stories through my mixes. It's like a soundtrack to a non-existent film, where the same hero, in different realities, embarks on a desperate journey in hopes of rebirth and metamorphosis.  

Funny how even the track titles align with the theme—a whimsical coincidence that isn’t a coincidence at all.



Doozer aka Zahadoom | Nocturnal sounds of Holmgard | #09

Pulsating Void — The One Who Dances with the Abyss
In a city trembling on the edge of the swamps and reality, where houses stand on rotting stilts and streets vanish into the mist, lives Pulsating Void—a shaman of rhythm, an explorer of shadows, a guide into the very heart of the Grey Zone.  
Here, where the borders of the world are blurred, he finds sounds no one should hear.  

The Voice of the Swamp
Since childhood, he felt the pulse of this land—slow, deep, endless. The swamp water carried the whispers of ancient spirits, and the abandoned stations vibrated with the echoes of lost signals.  
While others feared the darkness and the damp, he listened to it.  
He learned from the old shamans, those who still remembered how to speak with the local spirits through the rhythm of drums and the wail of pipes. But Pulsating Void went further—he fused shamanism with machines, replaced the bones of rituals with mechanisms, turned magic into frequency.  
His music is not just sound. It is a dialogue with the abyss.  

Explorer of the Grey Zone 
Beyond the city stretches the Grey Zone—a place where meaning dissolves, and space shifts. No one ventures there except the desperate and the cursed.  
But Pulsating Void goes there every night. 
He collects sounds that do not belong to this world—the electric moans of abandoned generators, the flickers of unheard frequencies, the echoes of voices trapped between realities. He returns with them, weaving them into his tracks, transforming them into rituals.  
Those who listen to his sets don’t just dance. They feel the tremor beneath their feet, the breath of unseen forces, the heartbeat of something vast and ancient beneath the water’s surface.

The One Who Leads Through Darkness
They say his tracks contain encoded pathways through the Twilight Swamps. 
They say he knows how to venture deep into the Grey Zone and return without losing his sanity.  
They say his sets can open the eyes of those ready to see the true face of this world. 

Some claim that Pulsating Void never fully returned from the Grey Zone—that a part of him remains there, within the rhythm, the hum, the eternal dance with the abyss.  
And when you hear his music, when the frequencies begin to vibrate inside you, you are not just listening—you are stepping closer to the threshold.  
And the only question is: do you dare to cross it? 

@1ecpsbdijyva

Pulsating Void | Nocturnal sounds of Holmgard | #11

Tete — The Heart of the Machine
They say that at the dawn of the fall, while the last lights of the old world were still flickering, one man survived in a subterranean capsule — a man more connected to rhythm than to breath. His name was Tete.

His journey began long before the catastrophe, in an age when sound was an art, not a weapon. Back then, he was a master of mixing, an architect of vibration, and a wanderer across genres now forgotten by most. But even as the world crumbled, Tete remained loyal to the sound. He didn’t just survive — he adapted music to the new laws of a broken world.

Now he roams between stations and shelters, carrying techno as knowledge and sound as salvation. His many years as a musician and sound engineer allow him to extract rhythm from shattered panels and broken machines. His sets are precise sonic surgery, where each transition seems to awaken the sleeping.

Tete doesn’t speak much. His voice is the pulse of low frequencies, the shimmer of synths, the breath of old drum machines. Some call him The Heart of the Machine, others — The Last Tuner, but everyone knows: if you hear his set in the wastelands, then somewhere nearby, life still lingers.

Tete | Nocturnal sounds of Holmgard | #12

MNQA — The One Who Listens to Ashes
He was born in the final year before the Collapse — in a world where cities rotted from within, and music still tried to make a difference. As the system crumbled, he stood on stage — the shriek of guitar fusing with the roar of the crowd, and no one knew it was a farewell chord.

After the Fall, MNQA vanished. Legends said he survived the fire but burned his past within it. Years later, he was found among the ruins of a concert complex, collecting old gear, carving chains from scrap metal, tuning disfigured speakers as if building a shrine for a new sonic religion.

Now he plays in dead zones — places devoid of life, inhabited only by shadows. His set is a pulse beneath the ash, a hypnotic rhythm forged from pain. There is no hope in his sound, only movement — slow, inevitable, like the collapse of empty skies.

MNQA does not speak. He wires broken machines, connects cables to the remains of forgotten devices, and releases sound. He does not seek light — he works with what’s left in the dark. His music does not heal. It summons what was buried beneath the skin. Those who’ve heard him sometimes never return. Others come back... changed.

He is an archive of pain, translated into rhythm. His guitar has become a conduit. His body — a vessel for residual energy of a ruined world. Where MNQA appears, the air grows heavier, and even the walls begin to listen.

He doesn’t resurrect the past. He melts it into new metal.

MNQA | Nocturnal sounds of Holmgard | #13

His real name has long been forgotten — erased from archives, burned in old clubs, drowned in the wastewater of underground dancefloors. All that remains is an echo: stilstilstilstilstil. Like a jammed loop in a broken drum machine.

He hails from one of the last cities where the underground didn’t just live — it breathed smog, pulsed with current, and pounded at 170 BPM. There was no day there — only neon streaks, rusted corridors, and a rhythm that gripped even your dreams. He grew up among vibrations, nights without windows or walls, beneath the hiss of ventilation and the screech of aging generators.

In his youth, stilstilstilstilstil went deeper — to the levels where music no longer entertained, but poured madness and the will to survive straight into the bloodstream. His sound became a fusion of relentless rhythm and psychedelic pressure — the kind that shatters the walls of consciousness.

He has no interest in stages. He plays in places the living no longer visit — mines, basements, abandoned factories, where workers have long since vanished, leaving only the echo of faded years. His set is no performance — it’s an invasion. When he turns on the sound, the space begins to moan, melt, and breathe with him.

They say he hears the city — not like others do. He communes with concrete slabs, rusted pipes, and charred columns. stilstilstilstilstil isn’t an artist. He’s a protocol — the ignition sequence for machines inside a human shell. A movement through debris, toward the core of a black mechanical heart.

@stilstilstilstilstil
@psai-518289486

стилстилстилстилстил | Nocturnal sounds of Holmgard | #14

When the great cities dissolved into digital dust and their streets grew over with moss and wires, he emerged from the remnants of the Northern Hive — now known only as Cluster Zone P-21. His name hums across frequencies like static in a dying signal: Nicko Shuo.

Born in what was once a cold metropolis, he began as a sonic explorer. His path wove through genre-chaos, like a wanderer crossing radioactive wastelands. He listened to echoes of the past — experimenting with noise, beats, digital relics. But the pull came from deeper, darker places — Raw, Hypnotic, Sci-fi techno: as precise as an ancient protocol and as dry as the air in forgotten underground vaults.

Shuo collected rhythms like artifacts. Catalogs from vanished civilizations — SIGNAL, Dosis, TMM, [R]3volution, DarkForest... He wasn’t just releasing music — he was sending signals into the void, leaving traces on vinyl and across fragmented data streams, pulsing through club-crypts and broadcasting mixes for scattered techno enclaves around the world.

Every performance is a ritual of hypnosis. Not music, but a connection algorithm. His BPM is the frequency of machine memory recovery. He doesn’t play — he activates. He dives into pulsating structures and breathes life into them. In a world where bodies no longer dance and only the ghosts of the Net remain, Nicko Shuo becomes the mediator between iron and shadow.

He is the archivist of a forgotten future. A sound that resonates through the skin of a broken world.

Тracklist:
Torsion - Misgivings
Toxido Mask - Void
Biorc - Dimensional
Biorc - No Evasion 
Biorc - Penumbra 
Drucal - Bohemio
Drucal - Viernes Santo
Divide & Oisel - AD5
Divide & Oisel - AD6 
Divide & Oisel - AD3
BRÄLLE + Atisbo - Psychosomatic
Pyramidal Decode - Destino
Julieta Kopp - Rigel 
Nicko Shuo - Singularium (Russ Remix)
Lakej - Blocked
Lakej - Requisition
Michel Lauriola - Body, Mind and Soul
Michel Lauriola - Fierce Drill
PWCCA -  Conducta 
PWCCA - Simbolo
PWCCA - Expresión
PWCCA - Back to Reality
Nicko Shuo - Sarkama
Nicko Shuo - Above Target
Møntero - Slow Mechanism
Avox25 - SUBX010
Avox25 - SUBX006
Oscar Mulero - Outside the Time Zone 
Oscar Mulero - Further Away
Oscar Mulero - Cosmic Glasses
Vegim - Hermetically sealed 
NECTAR EXPERIENCE - Ferroatlantica



@nickoshuo
@mehanizam7425
@biorc
@drucal1
@pyramidal-track
@julietakopp
@lakej
@michellauriola
@oscarmulero
@Vegim

Nicko Shuo | Nocturnal sounds of Holmgard | #15

Far beyond the inhabited sectors, in a place where even machines lose logic and the network becomes a whispering nightmare, lies the Fog Void. It isn’t a landscape — it’s a collapse. A region where reality can no longer withstand the pressure of thought. That’s where he lives.
Or what remains of him.

Toyfog — a name found scribbled on a tape fragment, pulled from a decayed skull still wired into an ancient audio module. They say he was once human — a seeker of frequencies, a sound engineer, an alchemist of audio. Until he heard The Note — a sound that did not belong to this world.

After that, he vanished — burned alive at an old broadcast tower along with the equipment. But years later, across multiple dead zones, sounds began to emerge. Unexplainable. Distorted fragments of tone that caused panic, laughter, seizures, and madness. First thought to be audio interference, it was soon clear: these were Toyfog’s transmissions.

His darkpsy isn’t music — it’s infection. His sets hold no rhythm — only vibration, a pulsing chaos of dream-fragments, mechanical spasms, and voices no one recorded. He doesn’t perform — he splits open perception, whispers into the fractures of the mind, and extracts what makes you human.

Toyfog’s performances are banned in the cities. His signal streams are isolated — but always too late. Those who fall under his influence return... different. Faceless. Memoryless. Eyes black and buzzing with light.

Toyfog is a glitch given form.
An alien frequency in human flesh.
He does not create — he relays an invasion.

To hear him is to be contaminated.
If you feel bass in silence, hear whispers in your pulse, or sense a rhythm twisting in your chest —
He is near.

ToyFog | Nocturnal sounds of Holmgard | #16

OTB — The Reassembly Station
When the Great Split tore the world’s frequencies apart and the ether filled with the tremble of dead waves, a signal sparked in the void. Not everyone could catch it — only those whose minds could still listen beyond the noise. That’s when OTB was born.

He’s not bound to a single body. He is a reboot protocol, encrypted in pulses of energy. They say he was once an engineer of the ether, working deep within the frequency nodes of the old world. But when the systems fell, he didn’t vanish — he rebooted, transforming himself into a current. That current is now called Selektra.

Selektra is not an organization, not a cult, not a broadcasting station. It is a mental network, growing through the ruins of civilization. It resonates like a crystalline brain: receiving, transmitting, reprogramming. No rules — only pure vibration. A gradient of rhythms that shifts perception.

OTB is its heartbeat. His arrival is a surge — the ignition of a space where body and mind fracture and reassemble. He doesn’t perform — he short-circuits your inner wiring. He’s not a DJ — he is a conduit to the reassembly station.

Those who enter the Selektra field never return the same. Their eyes burn with post-glitch light. Their speech flickers like broken code. They cannot explain what happened. Only one name keeps surfacing:

OTB.


@YeKEy8FYYD2FlqOGIS

OTB | Nocturnal sounds of Holmgard | #17

He emerged long before the Great Collapse. They say his voice was etched onto the first magnetic waves, and his hands spun records before the world even learned how to dance. But Slava didn’t just survive the fall of civilization — he became its chronicler.

When the frequencies of the world shattered into dust and the airwaves fell silent, he alone remembered what real sound was. His gear outlived dozens of collapses, thousands of apocalypses — and still hums like the engine of an ancient shuttle. People call him the Pilot of Ages: he doesn't travel through time — he rewires it with rhythm.

Over the years, he didn’t fade into the past. On the contrary — he became an anchor, a steady sine wave amidst noise and chaos. Young techno warriors seek his guidance, psy navigators archive his sets like ancient scrolls. And those who’ve heard him live claim that Finist’s music heals the mind.

Everything he touches gains weight and light. In his backpack — artifacts from the pre-digital age. In his eyes — a tired kindness. In his hands — the pulse of all surviving culture. You’ll often find him by the fires at post-techno gatherings, telling stories that seem to never end.

Slava Finist isn’t just a legend. He’s a guide through temporal storms. A beacon for weary minds. And he’s still here — to light the way when the power fades.
@slavafinist

@spekkiwebu
@feral_music
@woodyninetytwo
thx for inspiration guys. <3

Slava Finist | Nocturnal sounds of Holmgard | #18

Darkness plays its nocturne to the light.

@holmgardnocturne