Not that many of these on stock, we're afraid to say... and we will not be able to get any more of these once they're gone! The label tried to press a decent sized run of 300 copies, but less than half of those made their way into circulation for reasons that seemed to be lost in translation. This strange bit of record-release self-immolation is almost fitting for this strange piece of outsider audio collage. Embudagonn 108 is the work of the hermetic Wataru Kasahara, who smashes field recordings and subconsciously selected radio transitions together into a quivering mass of phased patterns that latch onto the antiquated, syrupy sentiment of forgotten big band arrangements and jitterbug jazz that Leyland Kirby might submerge within his hauntological ambience. But Kasahara punctures the mood with the deadpan delivery of newscasters, hurricane force drones, and unsettled screams. With everything roughly cut and spliced to and from cassettes, there's plenty of hiss to go around; but the effect is hardly the dreamtime din of a Phillip Jeck recording. It's much closer to the Dada discombobulation of Walter Ruttmann's 1930 radiophonic classic "Weekend." Kasahara describes the album thusly, "those tracks have flowed into and merged with the shit-cawing crimson shitbirds that circle endlessly around the mountain of shit on my skull peak." He's bundled the whole thing with a hand fabricated book with pornographic collages, scrawled drawings, and wood block prints. A disturbingly, visionary piece of work!