Renegade Hardware are thrilled to announce the third instalment of the 'From The Vaults' series.

'From The Vaults' is a tribute to Renegade Hardware's 30 year history and ongoing influence in the Drum and Bass scene. Each instalment in this series showcases standout remixes of classic tracks, bringing a fresh perspective and modern twist to the label's iconic sound.

The third instalment features four exceptional remixes that promise to captivate both long-time fans and new listeners alike. The EP opens with a powerful remix by Taelimb, delivering an innovative take on Chase & Status’ ‘Ten Tonne’. The second track sees Kolectiv offering a high-energy rendition of Konflict’s ‘Maelstrom’, blending contemporary elements with the original's timeless essence. On the third track, Ben Kei pushes the boundaries with a bold reinterpretation of Loxy & Dylan’s ‘ Death March’, while the final track, remixed by Dushi, closes the EP with a dynamic and engaging version of Raiden’s timeless classic, ‘Fallin’.

Renegade Hardware continues to be a cornerstone of the Drum and Bass community, renowned for its commitment to quality and its influence on the genre. The 'From The Vaults' series is a testament to the label's enduring impact, showcasing both the rich legacy and the innovative future of drum and bass music.

With two more parts to come before the full album release in August, 'From The Vaults' is set to be a landmark series that celebrates the past, present, and future of Renegade Hardware.

From The Vaults

From The Vaults EP 1

Konflict - Maelstrom (Kolectiv Remix)

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

✧･°☁︎ 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢 𝚍𝚓 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚗𝚋 ☁︎*:･✧


𝚒'𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚙, 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚝  

ﾟ+ 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 @𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚗𝚊𝚙_𝚒𝚒  

ﾟ+ 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 @𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚘

🇩🇪
Hi, I'm a producer, DJ from Europe.


Co-founder at TransFrequency Recordings



i make goth drum n bass

Bachelor of Arts with Honours in Combined Awards                               (English Literature & Publishing)

poetry is the warm feeling in my belly. 

https://missjean6.wordpress.com


art


another track wrapped up, a couple more and i can start thinking about some sick artwork and a name for the release <3 <3















when this drops, it's game over

how emotional pain numbs the body, numbs the brain, the soul in molasses, sinking fast in the quicksand of desperation. 

I'm on a roll and the tracks are coming in. Definitely a release for me this year. Long overdue. These tunes are truly inspired and heavily influenced by early 80s post punk, new wave and goth bands, especially The Cure. Back to my roots. Thank you to Sephia and Skynet for the endless support, feedback and knowledge. 


walking into the woods
deeper and deeper
conversations
different moods
high above clouds 
good enough to bite
the shadow of your body
feeling the ground
nature astound 
we stumble and we laugh
the forgetting of time
sunlight appears on your face
here in this magic forest
a bit of suffering
a bit of peace
as we lay things to rest







creativity is a battle
it's the tallest trees that get the lightening

made a drum n bass track in 3 hours last night, been a long time. proper atmospheric Cure sounding

watching the rain through my window
another closure, another withdraw
the flowers tried and failed to mimic life
all along paying the ultimate price
a small sacrifice for a lost cause
and a name never to be disclosed

too thick to understand the beauty of poetry
too thin to have the guts to be something

she gets up
dusts herself
just another day
silence is company
she counts the flowers on her body
time passes
she daydreams
the mouth of ghosts
softly breathing
whispers and prayers
all around her
in the middle of nowhere
the wait is over
the flowers
how herself...

the roots of the problem run so deep
same old trap, still falling for it
til the end of the day
til the end of the day
till the end

I'm reading Baudelaire again after all these years. Fuck me, dude was so hardcore. You can't beat the quality of his writing, savage mode. 

the lament of the mirror
here comes the haunting hour
l'important c'est d'espérer
a muffled voice tells a story
my quiet eyes, my silent ears
is it my body, my length of service
i'll figure it out piece by piece
young, puzzling, hoping
timeframe of fleeting moments
the face of a boy
drowning  in forgotten dreams
the ocean entering my body
swallowing me
the silence
it had to stop
it had to st...




oestrogen boost. now i understand. my whole body is screaming, the intensity of it. this is a journey. upping the dose slowly, 8 mg soon

human nature i guess. when people are successful, we resent them, we get a bit jealous of them, we secretly wish for them to fail and when they fall, we applaud, we criticize them, we spit on them... lord, pass me the sick bag, i want to leave this planet.


this revolting journey
through this hell that stinks
of desperation 
cheap highs 
and fornication
close to nothing
and everything 
in between





death breathes into this heart
to bring new ideas at night
it's a stubborn feeling
against the toughest will
a black river into darkness
the deprived body
running out of time
that stands in the rain
that can't take more pain
consumed by regrets
making one last wish

mental notes
choosing silence
choosing distance
standing on the riverbank
staring at the water
my colourless life
tasteless harmless lie
i did all the talking
all the walking
all the bluffing
putting up with it
no more concealing
no more betraying
just wasted occasions
to find new reasons
and new directions
before it all fades
into oblivion



from birth to death
the blur of days
crawling in obscurity
triumph of tragedy
sorrow shores
with underscores
no witness
just night sweats
the world gets smaller
everyone's a stranger
life's always fair
as lovely as regret
play the game
one last claim



Magazine Article:

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







https://soundcloud.com/transfrequencies-label
https://soundcloud.com/transvalue27
https://soundcloud.com/jazlu
https://soundcloud.com/sephiadnb
https://soundcloud.com/shar-worrell
https://soundcloud.com/neko-26
https://soundcloud.com/deluxe-83
https://soundcloud.com/officialdrumad
https://soundcloud.com/all172things
https://soundcloud.com/talisa_dnb
https://soundcloud.com/drum_pusher_audio_entropy
https://soundcloud.com/mia-sky-395009199
https://soundcloud.com/melinki
https://soundcloud.com/norealitymusic
https://soundcloud.com/catnapaudio
https://soundcloud.com/ame_chaos
https://soundcloud.com/geleeroyal
https://soundcloud.com/chid-aruma
https://soundcloud.com/brian-grimmlin
https://soundcloud.com/durability-dnb
https://soundcloud.com/urphdnb
https://soundcloud.com/rollyax
https://soundcloud.com/cyber_wuruhi
https://soundcloud.com/jane-doe-drum-n-bass
https://soundcloud.com/ninery
https://soundcloud.com/nitro_b
https://soundcloud.com/danny-jenk
https://soundcloud.com/orlan732
https://soundcloud.com/user-475721223
https://soundcloud.com/dj-willsyboy
https://soundcloud.com/diversepressure
https://soundcloud.com/sekhmetdnb
https://soundcloud.com/dnbtonic
https://soundcloud.com/rinor-hajdari
https://soundcloud.com/drophead303
https://soundcloud.com/kodekadnb
https://soundcloud.com/the_shrike
https://soundcloud.com/paramether
https://soundcloud.com/skynetaudio
https://soundcloud.com/goldrumz
https://soundcloud.com/e-leee
https://soundcloud.com/warnodnb
https://soundcloud.com/bankz91
https://soundcloud.com/entradnb
https://soundcloud.com/mastrotitta
https://soundcloud.com/ghostemane
https://soundcloud.com/user-610836157
https://soundcloud.com/dubudnb
https://soundcloud.com/timmi-c
https://soundcloud.com/h20-dnb
https://soundcloud.com/standbyexperience
https://soundcloud.com/bhelixmusic
https://soundcloud.com/shark-boy-31290690
https://soundcloud.com/torzx
https://soundcloud.com/mella_man
https://soundcloud.com/tim-e-aka-current-value
https://soundcloud.com/arleighdnb

entries:

some classic writing tropes:

Hero's journey, protagonist
Alternate universes
Detective
Chosen one
Quest/treasure hunt
Creating monsters
Forbidden love/triangle
Science-Fiction
Damsel in distress
to name but a few.
It really is all there.
It's crazy.
Just have to put everything together
with a strong narrative voice.
This is gonna take time.

Have you been stealing the attention again? Probably :) Shine bright

Drum & Bass, Neurofunk

Dj / Producer 

Founder & Label Manager at Neurosense Audio

Contact:
NatorMusic@outlook.com
Neurosenseaudio@outlook.com

Drum and Bass, Jungle, Deep, Dark & Techy
Side account for @lightningandthunder

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.