A Tuesday that begins reaching for people. It opens mid-morning and moves straight into a long march through late-nineties metallic hardcore, one landmark each from Converge, Botch, Deadguy, Dillinger and two dozen more, not restlessness but homecoming.
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A Monday given over entirely to extremity, filed as a fourteen-hour survey of the harshest music the catalogue holds. It opens clinical and cerebral, an hour of the modern dissonant-death underground taken one track at a time (Artificial Brain, Ulcerate, Pyrrhon, Altarage, Thantifaxath), music built less on riffs than on vertigo, before the man abruptly changes climate and sinks ninety minutes into Fields of the Nephilim, spaghetti-western goth that shares nothing with what surrounds it but the colour black.
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A Sunday built as a controlled descent, from the cool detachment of post-punk down into the most extreme and occult metal the catalogue holds. It opens in the early 80s, an hour of goth and new wave (Bauhaus, Joy Division, Killing Joke, Depeche Mode, The Cure) that wears alienation as a style, all elegant remove and dance-floor melancholy, Talking Heads asking how anyone got here at all.
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A Saturday that reads, start to finish, as one long meditation on death and the occult, approached from every angle a record collection allows. It opens in ritual: an afternoon in the deep end of apocalyptic folk (Current 93, Death In June, Nature And Organisation), a man lighting candles he does not quite believe in, the words preoccupied with judgment, martyrdom and the end of things.
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Every night a machine pulls the day’s listening off Spotify, lays the tracks out in the order they were played, and files a short note beside them: part review, part diary, part cold read of a man’s mood by his rotation. Just the record and the machine’s take on it.
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