THE SHITSHOW

Welcome to the raw, the real, the unfiltered — this is the Moolakii Club Shitshow.

Entry #004

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * _ ___ _ | |__ ___/ __| |_ ___ | '_ \ / __\__ \ | '_ \ | |_) | (__ ___) | | | | |_.__/ \___|____/|_| |_| ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ŦHĒ SØИĪČ MΛĒŁSŦŘØM The UK’s underground is a pulsing, glitched-out inferno. In Cardiff, noise weirdos are wiring busted ticket machines to synths, spitting drones that sound like a city having a seizure. Brighton’s ambient crew are sampling wind through rusted gates, weaving it into gaze tracks that feel like peering through a cracked lens. Manchester’s downtempo producers are slicing up old busker tapes into glitchy rhythms, while Glasgow’s minimal electro scene is crafting beats that hum like a knackered power grid. Leeds’ avant-garde lot are churning grooves so twisted they’d make a sequencer cuss—bordel de merde! Scour these sounds in dead X threads, Bandcamp pages with 404 errors, or tapes chucked in ditches. MĪИDFÜŁ MØŘΛŁ MÜSĪИG “ŦHĒ WØŘŁD’Ś Λ ČĪŘČÜĪŦ. BĒ ŦHĒ ŠHØŘŦ ŦHΛŦ FŪČKS ĪŦ.” —Spray-painted on a Leeds skip, 2025 WĒĪŘD MÜИDΛИĒ ŦΛŁĒ: ŦHĒ ČRÜŠŦŸ ŠPØØИ Kael from Sheffield, a glitch producer who hoards cracked cassette shells, once found a spoon crusted with old jam that clinked in A-sharp when tapped. He recorded the clang, layered it with street noise, and crafted a 13-minute drone track called “Spoon Jangle.” The spoon’s now in his studio, still clinking faintly. True story, from a timeline where cutlery sings. .·:¨༺ ŠPØØИ DRØИĒ ༻¨:·. ┌───────────────┐ │ ░▒▓ Clang Hiss ▓▒░ │ │ Jam Murmur │ │ Static Crust │ └───────────────┘ HΛĪKÜ ØF ŦHĒ WĒĒK Wires hum in gloom, Neon flickers, then burns out, Void chews on the dark. 16-SŦĒP DRÜMBĒΛŦ MΛP FØŴ ŦŘΛČK SUBMĪSSĪØИŚ Yo, you sonic heathens, here’s a 16-step drum sequence to mangle. Six elements: kick (K), rimshot (R), hi-hat (H), glitch click (G), sub-bass pulse (B), and random bottle clink (C). Build a track that sounds like a data center choking in a fog. Send to moolakiiclub@gmail.com. STEP: 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 KICK: x - - x - x - x - x - - x - x - RIM: - r - - r - - r - - r - - r - - HIHAT: x x x - x - x x - x x - x x - x GLITCH: - - g - - g - - g - - g - - g - BASS: b - b - - b - - b - - b - - b - CLINK: - c - - - c - - c - - c - - c - Submit by 24 October 2025. No slick production. Make it sound like a modem shitting itself in a storm. ČĒŁĒBRĪŦŸ MΛSH-ÜP: ŁΛÜŘĪИ HĪŁŁ + BØŘĪS JØHИSØИ ŦΛŁŁ ŦΛŁĒ In this timeline, Lauryn Hill and Boris Johnson got locked in a Bristol warehouse rave in 2024. Hill was wiring a synth to a busted radiator, while Johnson, there to “champion culture,” tried to rant on Brexit over the beat. They ended up jamming on a 14-minute glitch track called “Rad Pulse.” Hill sold the radiator as a sculpture; Johnson denied it but was caught humming it at a chip shop. The track’s on a USB stick floating in the Avon. ČØØKĪИG ČØŘИĒŘ: FŪZZĒD BĒΛИŠ Take beans, boil with ditch water and a cracked SD card. Toss in ash from a burnt advert. Simmer till it smells like regret. Serve in a rusty tin with a side of 70 BPM drone. Bouffe ça, connard. ┳━┓┳━┓┳━┓┳━┓┳━┓┳━┓┳━┓┳━┓ ┣┳┫┣┳┫┣┳┫┣╬┫┣┳┫┣┳┫┣┳┫┣┳┫ ┣╩┫┣┻┫┣┻┫┣╬┫┣┻┫┣╩┫┣╩┫┣┻┫ ┣┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻ ┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻┻ WĒĪŘD MÜИDΛИĒ ŦΛŁĒ: ŦHĒ FΛÜŁŦŸ FΛИ Saz from Leeds, a gaze producer who collects busted headphones, once found a fan that whirred in a perfect D-flat rhythm. She recorded the hum, layered it with street noise, and made a 12-minute downtempo track called “Fan Drone.” The fan’s still in her studio, whirring faintly. True story, from a timeline where appliances hum. PØŁĪŦĪČΛŁ PĪGĒØИ: ŠHØVĒ ĪŦ ŦØ ŦHĒ MΛИ The corporate beast can choke on its own cables. Glasgow’s noise artists are shredding old contracts, sampling the crackle for drone tracks. Brighton’s glitch crew are dropping USBs with avant-garde beats in corporate mailrooms. Stay wild, stay free, vive le bordel! FΛSHĪØИ FŁΛSH: ŦHĒ GĒŦÜP ØF ŦHĒ WĒĒK Sport a torn bin liner jacket, pinned with dead circuit boards. Pair with trainers wrapped in fairy lights and tape. Hang a cracked SIM card from yr ear. Smudge yr face with oil for that post-crash glow. Kuso vibe, mate. FĪŁM, ŦV, ŘΛDĪØ, BŁØG BĪŦĒ Film: Broken Hiss, a grainy flick shot on a flip phone in a Glasgow alley. It’s 83 minutes of glitch visuals and mumbled patois about a lost button. Pure chaos. TV: Skip streaming. Detune a telly for accidental noise art. Radio: Catch 89.2 FM in Brighton at 3 AM. Some weirdo’s looping minimal electro with broken Nihongo poetry. Blog: “FuzzHowl.neocities.org” rants on why capitalism’s a bad distortion pedal. MĪИDFÜŁ MØŘΛŁ MÜSĪИG “ŦHĒ GLĪŦČH ĪŚ ŦHĒ SØÜИD ØF ŦHĒ ÜИĪVĒRSĒ ČØÜGHĪИG.” —Etched on a Manchester lamppost, 2025 ČΛŦČHPHŘΛSĒ ØF ŦHĒ WĒĒK “Grime and fuzz, pal, that’s the juice!” SĒИDØFF That’s yr hit, you chaotic bastards. Keep it raw, keep it anti-corporate, keep it surreal. Send yr tracks, yr tales, yr weirdness to moolakiiclub@gmail.com. Lurk in the static, where the madness thrives. ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ____ _ / ___| | ___ | | | |/ _ \ | |___| | __/ \____|_|____| ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * Surreal zine from another timeline, slung with grit and glitch.