After presenting an extensive online edition in May Rewire returns to The Hague with an intimate offline edition in September. The four day event will be providing a taste of it’s regular festival, with the program offering a snapshot of the full Rewire experience

with : 

Ben Bertrand Ensemble Following a recorded solo set for the online edition, Ben Bertrand ensemblefeaturing Bertrand on bass clarinet accompanied by cello, viola, percussion, flute and violin, will perform music from his forthcoming album live in The Hague

Farida Amadou & Floris Vanhoof: One of the most exciting young voices in the European free improvisation and experimental music scene Farida Amadou will also be performing with multidisciplinary artist and instrument builder Floris Vanhoof.

Geoffrey Burton & Sarah Yu Zeebroek: Guitarist Geoffrey Burton and artist Sarah Yu Zeebroek collaborate to investigate how Burton's unruly guitar music can merge with Zeebroek's surreal visual language of form.

full line-up is HERE

Farida Amadou (born 1989) is a self-taught bassist based in Liège, Belgium. As an autodidact, Amadou draws the most exciting sounds from her bass without losing sight of the musicality. During her short musical career, she gained recognition nationally through stimulating collaborations with people such as Peter Brötzmann, Thurston Moore, Mette Rasmussen and Julien Desprez. 


More information:


arcades KBR

Free admission, limited seating available

‘This has more to do with improvisation and its allied possibilities of transcendence and failure than running up and down 12-bar schemes at lightning speed.’ The Wire 

Ignatz is the alter-ego of Bram Devens. With an acoustic guitar and a few effects, he creates his very own style of improvisation-inspired Euro blues. In 1910, the illustrator George Herriman created the Krazy Kat comic strip. Ignatz, a vicious mouse, was Krazy Kat’s arch enemy, and his favourite pastime was to throw bricks at Krazy Kat’s head (who misinterpreted the mouse’s actions as declarations of love). Belgian artist Bram Devens uses Ignatz as his alter-ego, and comes armed with his own pile of bricks; sparse, emotive songs born of the human condition, wrapped in effects, corroded by tape, driven forth by improvisation and spontaneity. Ignatz’s songs stem from a familiar stripped folk framework, with Devens’ delivery recalling the louche primitivism of V.U. or Henry Flynt – but these songs sound inverted, cast adrift, their cool touch belying a stymied heat beneath the surface. Where Devens’ fretwork is adorned, it is executed with a refined coarseness. Autonomous loops entwine each other. Songs brush past percussion, bass notes, or a scant keyboard motif. A voice recedes from the heart of the song into a dislocated, cracked drawl.


Seefeel are a British band that emerged in the fertile period of the early ‘90s when more readily available electronic music-making equipment and home recording technologies expanded the horizons of what was musically possible. Yet even within this Cambrian explosion of creativity, Seefeel stood alone, pulling threads from the fabric of dub, rock, ambient, idm, and elsewhere to synthesize a sonic landscape wholly their own. Hot on the heels of a slew of reissues replete with previously unheard tracks from that definitive era, Emily Wirthlin spoke to Seefeel members Sarah Peacock (vocals, guitars) and Mark Clifford (guitars, treatments) on May 25, 2021 to talk about the band’s dynamic history, their unique approach to realizing music, and the secret to a really good vegan simmer. 

Emily Wirthlin: Thanks so much for being so generous with your time with all these recent interviews! As a long-time fan of the band it’s been great to hear so many nice, human anecdotes behind this totally singular musical world you’ve created.

Sarah Peacock: (laughs). Well I hope so! Occasionally I’ve thought, “Is this really throwing too much light on magic?” (laughter). Mark cares about that a little bit more than I do, but I do wonder.

Right, it’s always a little different when you know how the sausage is made.

Mark Clifford: That’s a good analogy.

Where are you both now?

Mark Clifford: I live— do you know Brighton? 


Mark Clifford: So I live just outside of Brighton; it’s called Hassocks. I don’t know if that means anything to you whatsoever.

No (laughs).

Mark Clifford: I doubt it; it’s not well known. Nothing happens here (laughs).

Sarah: I’m in London, Southeast London.

I ask because I find “place” interesting to talk about since it dictates so much of our experience of the world, which has a way of coming out in the music. And with a band as sonically singular as Seefeel, it’s maybe helpful to explore that in order to distill the elements that make up the band. So with that in mind, where did you both grow up?

Mark Clifford: I was born in Birmingham, in Midlands, and I grew up mostly in a place called Stourbridge, which is— do you know the geography of the Midlands very well? 

Only a little bit.

Mark Clifford: So it’s called the Black Country—it’s an old industrial area of the West Midlands. So I grew up in a place called Stourbridge, which is mostly known musically for bands like Pop Will Eat Itself and The Wonder Stuff.

Sarah Peacock: And there’s Clint Mansell, the famous film composer.

Mark Clifford: Yeah, yeah. And then I moved to London—I went to Goldsmiths College—and basically never looked back. I lived in London for about 10, 12 years, and then moved to Brighton. So I’m definitely in the South now.


Myriam Gendron's new album is coming out this fall on digital/cd/cassette & somewhat later on vinyl. On Feeding Tube & les albums claus 



  • Myriam Gendron

photos by Laurent Orseau

  • Tanz Mein Herz
  • Tanz Mein Herz
  • Tanz Mein Herz

photos by Laurent Orseau

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In a recent, and excellent, article in The Quietus, Brad Sanders analysed the subtle move, artistically and atmospherically, of Black Metal away from the snow-dampened forests and dark rural landscapes that characterised it in the early nineties, and into a sound more redolent of cramped and claustrophobic urban spaces. It’s a compelling analysis, and it shows that even genres as monolithic as the more extreme forms of metal can evolve and cover new ground.

But if this evolution has crept into metal in the last decade, I’d argue - not as a contradiction of Brad's piece, but rather as an extension of the consideration of the varying of atmospheres in modern music between the rural and the urban - that it has been happening in drone music for even longer and with, to my mind, more exciting and varied results.

Not that it's a fair comparison, of course, given the gradual development of drone, from ancient tribal music (Tibet, Scotland) to the seemingly most-loved of all the underground genres. But, throughout its evolution through the 60s experimental scene to the halcyon days of kosmische German music, it retained, bar the occasional left-field experimentation of guys like Tony Conrad and John Cale, either a decidedly pastoral vibe, or something more 'tantric', designed to elevate the listener to new fields of consciousness; even in the hands of masters such as LaMonte Young, Eliane Radigue, Pauline Oliveros, Cluster and Popol Vuh. There was a sense that drone music could connect modern listeners either to their less cluttered past, or to something even greater and more spiritual.

But the darkly urban strains of Conrad and Cale never went away, especially as the latter took his approach to The Velvet Underground, therefore striking a still-unending chord in the psyche of music-lovers across the globe. And this less airy use of drone would resonate most powerfully in the industrial punk of the late seventies and early eighties, through the clanking, clanging sounds of Throbbing Gristle, Maurizio Bianchi and SPK, and never truly went away. Drone, like rock, changed in that period, and suddenly the cosmos, lost rural civilisations and Eastern rites were no longer the main focus of drone artists. Instead, the encroaching, pervasive, claustrophobic atmosphere of mankind's effortlessly dominant cityscapes had taken in root in the minds of many drone musicians and composers, never to leave again.


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Tom Weber’s job was to take care of the most famous electric guitar in rock ‘n’ roll. 

Since 2006, Weber, 63, was Eddie Van Halen’s personal guitar tech, tending to the hard-rock titan’s red, white and black “Frankenstrat,” which sired the riffs to “Eruption,” “Runnin’ With the Devil” and “Panama,” among countless classic headbangers. The Kentucky-based Weber kept it humming through the band’s final tour in 2015, and worked with Eddie until his death last October. Weber had big gigs lined up for Reba McEntire and Journey that year, and a planned run of stadium shows with Poison, Mötley Crüe and Def Leppard.

Fifteen months into the pandemic, though, Weber hasn’t found any significant work — in guitars or otherwise — to tide him over. He admits that he’s soon likely to lose his home, his guitar repair shop and everything he’s built over decades in rock without consistent tours to return to.

“I put my house into forbearance because there’s no way we’re going back to work soon,” Weber said. “No one is hiring a 63-year-old guitar tech after this. I know people who have killed themselves, who are losing homes, families, everything. I’ve heard colleagues say that with life insurance, they’re more valuable to their families dead than alive.”