Crate Classics are a Grammy-nominated duo composed of London-based musicians Jamie Rodigan and Aaron Horn, who’ve been making music together under the moniker since 2019. The pair’s multi-faceted, genre-spanning approach to releasing music in this day and age is refreshing to say the least! Ghost Mode’ is their latest collaboration with fellow Londoner & songstress Catching Cairo, who was recently heralded as Rebecca Judd’s ‘Ascending Artist’ for 2022. This marks the first collaboration between the trio.

 “I met Cairo purely by chance in Peckham outside a bar,” Jamie told us. “We have a mutual friend who introduced us. We’re big fans of her work so when the chance meeting happened, we jumped at the opportunity to work with her. It’s a magical track and it’s been really fun working together on the project”. 

‘Ghost Mode’ gets going with chopped & screwed vocals coupled with luscious keys and pitched-up sub-bass.  This is followed by a swinging, staccato break and Catching Cairo’s haunting tones. The wistful delivery perfectly matches the disappointment of our narrator who is sick of being left out in the cold again. 

Whether you picture Boo or Casper, come and grab the hauntingly good ‘Ghost Mode’ landing in all good stores on Friday the 18th of March.

Ghost Mode

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Crate Classics & Catching Cairo - Ghost Mode

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

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uuh WHA-Uh,”ChchChchCh,” “pshhhhhhhhhh,” “btr btr btr btr,” “wha-uh whha-uuh WHA-Uh,”“Doot doot do“Doot doot doot,” “rhtrthrthrthrth,” “buh! Buh!” “Sksksksk,” “ChchChchCh,” “pshhhhhhhhhh,” “btr btr btr btr,” “wha-uh whha-uuh WHA-Uh,”ChchChchCh,” “pshhhhhhhhhh,” “btr btr btr btr,” “wha-uh whha-uuh WHA-Uh,”“Doot doot doot,” “rhtrthrthrthrth,” “buh! Buh!” “Sksksksk,” “ChchChchCh,” “pshhhhhhhhhh,” “btr btr btr btr,” “wha-uh whha-uuh WHA-Uh,”ChchChchCh,” “pshhhhhhhhhh,” “btr btr btr btr,” “wha-uh whha-uuh WHA-Uh,”

Vocalist, Dj and Songwriter, Chez has tracks released on Koba Audio, Hungry Hill Records, Gorilla Warfare, DeVice and XJAK Audio. She has performed at festivals and club nights across the UK & Europe including Snowbombing, Boomtown, Nozstock, St Pauls Carnival and Run All Day and received radio support from BBC Introducing, Ray Keith and Mollie Collins at Kiss FM. With guest mixes on stations Kool FM and SWU FM, Chez has shared stages with pioneering artists DJ Dazee, Randall, Voltage, Jamie Rodigan, DJ Hype, Kenny Ken, Aries and represents Bristol born label Ruffneck Ting.

For all bookings & enquiries - Chez.bookings@gmail.com

￼ I started and/or been a Dj since 1985, back then I used to be knowing, as ￼eclipse. With yours truly Di Walter, Dj  Carlos Hernandez and Dj José González. I love to play and mix music like techno, freestyle, Rock en español’ Rockabilly, rap, hip-hop, and many others.  ￼ One of my favorite  club used to be "La Fuente" at the Embarcadero center in San Francisco CA. also "City Nights", "STEPS" where I met the mother of my kids: Joanna, Stephanie, Natalie, Stacey and my beloved son Christopher R.I.P.  Also club “Sound Factory” where I play with DJ Tony O. ￼

East London based independent record label established in 2014.

Submit demos to: http://soulventrecords.label-engine.com/demos

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Crate Classics & Catching Cairo - Ghost Mode

Soulvent Records