New release from Kodex on TransFrequency Rec !!!

The Dreamer

Juno

Kodex - Babylon (TFR033c Out Now On TransFrequency Recordings)

In '99 I bought my first Cassettes of Jungle to an "illegal seller" on the pavement in Camden Town. I felt immediatly addicted. They tried to cure me with Techno, in vain. Worst... I started mixing  music 20 years later. I'm  starting producing . I post mashup ,mini mixes and mixes and my first tracks.. I'm a DnB Jungle Junkie and my life is a dream! I don't sell my drug, I give it to YOU! ENJOY

Special THANKS A LOT TO

PROJET VORTEX who created my Funckin'L logo and to RED ALFA who designed it and offered me the challenge to mix his last album "State of being"

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

DRUM & BASS TOGETHER

TransFrequency Recordings is a multimedia platform focusing on Drum & Bass through a combination of different content forms such as audio release, podcast, text, publishing, graphic design, video, entertainment and creative business ideas. The platform offers a service for data streaming and transmission between artists and listeners wherever and whenever it is needed. 

Our aim is to explore, promote and develop the global cultural relevance of Drum & Bass by supporting artists, DJ's, producers and visionaries with funding, online visibility and accessibility. 

To this day, we have helped many producers and artists all over the world to effectively communicate their art to wider audiences by offering them an inclusive, permissive and free thinking platform which is a great vehicle for successful outcomes.

If you feel we could help you to get your message across, get in touch!

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TransFrequency Recordings is:

Miss Jean Lerossignol:  https://soundcloud.com/extime
Ramon Vermeulen:  https://soundcloud.com/sephiadnb
Jasmine Shar Worrell: https://soundcloud.com/shar-worrell 
(social media coordinator)

angalardub@gmail.com
https://www.facebook.com/angalardub

ceol dord cochallach as corcaigh /
belligerent bass music from the boglands
https://angalardub.bandcamp.com/follow_me

all tracks available for download: https://angalardub.bandcamp.com/music
mix by @arleighdnb - https://on.soundcloud.com/snHGG
d.i.y. video [craiceann]: https://www.facebook.com/angalardub/videos/1274983646821142
latest mix: https://www.mixcloud.com/angalardub/dub-ta-peel-spuds-ta/
live @ trench town electric picnic 2016. https://www.mixcloud.com/angalardub/an-galar-dub-trench-town-electric-picnic-mix-2016/
live @ the friary pub cork city 2015. https://www.mixcloud.com/angalardub/an-galar-dub-dub-inna-pub-mix-the-friary-pub-cork-city-21-03-2015/
bog mongrels [ancient irish history blog] http://bogmongrels.blogspot.com/
poems: https://www.facebook.com/angalardub/posts/pfbid02Pe8N9BA2x54eGKjf276kWLy2xvRXnNEYbKhKktkLYxFzq5K84nRM8hg1ah1nF9w5l

If your going through hell, keep going.
I also forgot my notebook, so you will have to take notes for me.

Deep n dark/glitch brasses, atmospheric syths n melodies or tuneful vocals driven by powerful basslines and broken beats. These are the main reasons why Mr Q Mantra lost his mind to electronic music after years of  being a lead vocal n 2nd  guitarist in alternative rock band. Join group < The Tuneful Side of Drum and Bass > on Facebook for dayly dose of your favorite music and follow Mr Q Mantra on all platforms to join his journey! #flyhigh #havefun #oneLove #Respect!

Contact: mrqmantra@gmail.com

Please be very careful what you wish for maybe it will come true!!
There are terrible temptations in this world and it takes a lot of strength and courage to pursue them!

It's been 27 years since I first shot the cutoff knob of a synthesizer. 
This day was like too open a door to another galaxy .
Since that day I stick to the cable like a junkie to the needle.
Cubase user