🌑 THE NIGHT‑BORN CANTICLE
A small ritual for those who listen in the dark

In the hour when shadows forget their names,
a slow pulse rises from the sand —
a circle of four chords, turning like an old lantern,
calling the wanderer into the quiet ceremony.

Guitars whisper in tremolo,
threads of silver pulled through the night air.
A bassline coils beneath them,
warm, patient, ominous,
as if guarding a secret no one remembers.

Percussion appears only when the spirits allow it:
🥁 a palm on stretched skin,
🔨 a wooden click,
🌑 a low pulse echoing under the ribs.
Nothing marches. Everything breathes.

Above, the temple hums:
🕸️ organ‑drones like distant constellations,
🌫️ detuned harmonics bending like incense smoke,
📼 tape‑warps drifting in and out of time
— the sound of an ancient room exhaling.

And then the voice:
a wind‑carried murmur,
half‑chant, half‑shadow,
never asking to be understood,
only to be followed.

This is not a song.
It is a threshold.
A small door in the desert night.
A ritual that opens only for those who walk slowly.

Mario‑core.
Collettivo‑dark‑core.
A vibration carved in the dark.

mementi in frazioni A side

tra sogno e vibrazione

Don t dream it Lve it B side

traini modesti su leve alterate

esposizioni mediane

let my time to let it be

mementi in frazioni B side

ostacoli in frazioni sparse

1. “Braci del Nord” 🔥

Si racconta che, nelle notti più lunghe dell’anno, quando il cielo sembra un tamburo rovesciato e il respiro si congela prima ancora di uscire, un piccolo fuoco rimane acceso.
Non è un fuoco normale: è un tizzone che canta.
Ogni volta che il vento lo sfiora, vibra come una corda di chitarra consumata, e chiunque gli si avvicini sente un blues antico, un lamento caldo che scioglie il ghiaccio nelle ossa.

I viandanti del Collettivo dicono che quel tizzone è vivo, che custodisce la memoria dei primi strumenti costruiti con le mani nude, e che ascoltarlo significa ricordarsi di essere umani.
Support the ritual on Ko‑fi: ☕️

    glowing ember groove

    icy‑wind slide guitar

    nomadic heartbeat percussion

2. “un portale duecento dimensioni  Police Go Away” 🚪

Nel cuore del labirinto sonoro del Collettivo esiste un corridoio che nessuno ha mai finito di percorrere.
Duecento porte, tutte diverse, tutte vive.
Dietro ognuna c’è una versione possibile di te: quella che hai dimenticato, quella che hai temuto, quella che hai sognato.

Eppure, quando le apri, la voce che ti chiama è sempre la stessa.
Una voce che non appartiene a nessuno e a tutti: la voce del ritmo che ti riconosce.
È un canto che ti riporta al centro, al punto dove tutte le identità si sciolgono in un’unica vibrazione.
Support the ritual on Ko‑fi: ☕️

    echoing mantra vocals

    ethno‑rock pulse

    dust‑and‑starlight bassline

3. “impossibile fumare al polo  -- Siamo nella merda   ” ❄️

Si dice che al Polo Nord, quando la notte dura troppo e la mente comincia a inventare colori che non esistono, qualcuno accenda una sigaretta impossibile.
Il fumo non sale: danza.
Disegna spirali, figure, animali, ricordi.
E ogni spirale è un ritmo, ogni figura un colpo di tamburo, ogni animale un coro.

Il Collettivo racconta che quel fumo è un messaggero: porta notizie da mondi che non abbiamo ancora immaginato. E la verità è che siamo nella merda !
E chi lo guarda troppo a lungo finisce per ridere, perché capisce che la musica non è mai stata un suono, ma un modo di vedere nel buio.
Support the ritual on Ko‑fi: ☕️



    frost‑bitten harmonics

    lo‑fi ritual stomp

    warm‑breath chorus

Siamo nella merda

Askatasúna 

I don’t want your graphs.
📊
I don’t want your laws.
📜
I don’t want your banks.
🏦
I don’t want your kings.
👑
I don’t want your servants.
🧎
I don’t want your passwords.
🔐
I don’t want your cloud.
☁️
I don’t want your bridge.
🌉
I don’t want your archive.
🗂️
I don’t want your algorithm.
🧠
I don’t want your goddamn candle.
🕯️

I want a joint on Monkey Island.
🌴
No money in my pocket.
💸
But a pack of friends around me.
👥
That’s it.

You live your way.
I live mine.
And we make sure everyone lives theirs.
That’s community.
Not control.
Not guilt.
Not “you should’ve known better.”

You steer the boat?
Then yeah — it’s your fault.
⛵
No conspiracy.
No second meaning.
No philosopher in a turtleneck.
🧣
Just truth.
Old.
Simple.
Ugly.
Beautiful.

We grew up in the outskirts.
📸
We saw Genoa.
We slept in squats.
We wrote about contradictions.
We lived them.

And now we’ve got this bug in our heads.
🐛
This question:

What if I don’t want to live like you?
What if happiness is a cheap beer and a stupid laugh?
🍺😆
What if I never asked for your system?
What if you never asked me?

And now that you’ve globalized everything…
🌍
Why don’t you want it anymore?

You tried to stop violence.
🚫
But you couldn’t.
Because violence has no flag.
🏴
No color.
Just black.
It eats.
It distorts.
It never gives back.

We don’t judge.
We just ask.

And yeah —
this is satire.
This is irony.
This is a middle finger with a smile.
🖕🙂

Cammino lento, tra i rami e le antenne,

🜄 Shamanic Version — Collettivo Undersound

🌍 This album does not begin — it returns.  
It rises from old recordings gathered during a wandering pilgrimage, when Mario walked the world like a sound‑diviner, following vibrations instead of roads.

🌫️ In the swamps of New Orleans, where branches look like hands and the air hums with ghosts, Swampy Blues was born.
There, in the thick breath of the marsh, the only true revelation was simple and absolute:
“The mosquitoes were way too big.”  
A prophecy disguised as a joke — the kind of truth that only the swamp can whisper.

🔥 Five tracks, five directions of the ritual circle.

    The first opens with a crooked country‑rap, a limping step that becomes a trance.

    The second slips into jazz, where a choir falls into minor while the lead voice insists on major — two spirits crossing without touching.

    The third is Swampy Blues: the original recording was too deep, too alive.
    It refused to be tamed.
    It became a mantra, repeated until it started breathing on its own.

    The fourth, Looking for the Light, is a luminous contradiction — a mirror of our broken, shining world.

    The fifth carries the wound:
    “And she screams, says I ruined her life…”  
    Not a lyric — a scar.
    A drum hit to the chest.
    A confession offered to the fire.

🎷 Throughout the album, the arrangements lean toward a mutated luk thung,
where guitars and saxophones are fused like ancient metals to summon a sound older than memory, older than travel.

🜂 To listen is to enter the circle.  
🜁 To breathe it is to remember.  
🜄 To repeat it is to transform.

Swampy Shadows huge bugs

“After all these years I realized something simple: if I had started vibrating with my music earlier — just vibrating, nothing else — I would have lived even more unpredictable, incredible experiences than the ones I already have. So I told myself: why not now? After all… I’m not that bad. LOL.”

Swampy Shadows huge bugs

Undersound Label