SYRIA

SYRIA is the result of two minds, two histories, two voices moving in parallel. One known for disrupting the visual world, the other for manipulating sound until it bends to something deeper, older, unspoken. Together, they craft a sonic language that operates between signal and silence, memory and myth.

The visual identity of SYRIA carries the mark of a West Texas legend—Boyd Elder, whose glyphs once framed a certain golden harmony but now haunt the spaces between past and future. His hand was here. His eye lingers.

Recorded in Los Angeles, London, New York City, and nowhere in particular, SYRIA moves through late nights and long roads, drawn to frequencies that can’t be captured—only conjured.

SYNTHETIC YOUTH

Born in the smoky lounges of Monte Carlo, sharpened in the neon-drenched towers of Dubai, and baptized in the underground circuits of Tokyo’s secret billionaire speakeasies. Maximilian Langley and Alistair Beaumont grew up with passports full of stamps, names that open doors, and the kind of upbringing that comes with diplomatic immunity and a front-row seat to the handshake before the coup.

Their music drips with the kind of disillusionment that comes with a Centurion card and a sealed indictment. They learned young that money moves faster than morals, that every deal has a backroom, and that history belongs to those bold enough to take it.

Synthetic Youth emerged seemingly out of nowhere—no origin story, no humble beginnings. Just an opulent presence, as if they had always been here, lurking behind the scenes of high society, waiting for the right moment to unveil themselves. And that moment is now.

ERIS

Eris is a voice heard in fragments—haunting, hypnotic, and untethered from time. Emerging from Curitiba, Brazil, she reimagines the familiar with an air of quiet defiance, transforming the ghosts of past decades into something eerily intimate. With a voice that drifts between longing and detachment, she has reinterpreted Joy Division, Lil’ Kim, Notorious B.I.G., George Jones, and Courtney Love through the softened lens of bossa nova—where velvet melancholia meets an almost whispered subversion.

LILOUX VERSAILLES

Liloux Versailles is an enigma wrapped in melody—a voice that glides between detachment and desire, reframing nostalgia through a modern lens. Hailing from Oklahoma City, she embodies a contrast between the stark openness of the Midwest and the seductive opacity of underground electronica. Known for her ethereal yet commanding vocal presence, she drifts effortlessly between genres, lending a ghostly intimacy to everything from deep house to spectral pop.

SAPHIRA WYNTER

Saphira Wynter is a voice suspended between worlds—icy, weightless, and untouchable. Born in Reykjavík, Iceland, she carries the stillness of northern landscapes into her music, layering spectral harmonies over pulsating rhythms with a detached elegance. Equally at home in deep house, cinematic electronica, and avant-pop, her vocals move like light through frost—melancholic, luminous, and impossible to hold.

GIGI MEDICI

Gigi Medici moves through sound like a mirage—elegant, elusive, and impossible to pin down. Born in Milan, Italy, she carries the lineage of classic European sophistication into a world of avant-garde electronica, deep house, and celestial pop. Her voice, equal parts whispered seduction and detached cool, bends around melody like refracted light, slipping effortlessly between languages and genres. A frequent collaborator within the Xenological Exchange Network, Gigi exists in the liminal space between nostalgia and the future.

GSTAAD GIRLS

Gstaad Girls is the Swiss-born duo of Noa and Sabine Veyrat, mirror twins whose lives once mapped a trajectory toward high finance—until they rerouted into the uncharted territories of underground electronic music. Emerging from the shadow circuits of Berlin and the clandestine lofts of Paris, they built a following through a cryptic mix of deep house, spectral pop, and algorithmic sound distortion—sonic artifacts that feel like intercepted signals from an off-the-grid future.

LONESOME MOSES KING

Lonesome Moses King carries the weight of legend in his fingertips, the only known descendant of blues icon Robert Johnson. Hailing from Beaufort, South Carolina, his music feels like it was born at a crossroads—haunted, raw, and undeniably powerful. Whether he made his own deal with the devil, no one can say, but when he picks up a guitar and sings, time bends, and the blues pour out like an unshakable ghost. A drifter between past and present, Moses plays with the soul of a man who’s lived a hundred lives, channeling the spirit of the Delta through every note. A featured artist on the gilded hit single NGO Grant, his sound exists in the space between myth and reality, a voice calling from the other side of midnight.

ISADORA VASCONCELLOS

Isadora Vasconcellos sings as if she’s channeling something lost—a voice born in the dusky bars of Ouro Preto, wrapped in the hush of bossa nova but touched by something darker, more celestial. Raised on a steady diet of João Gilberto and whispered folk tales, her voice lingers like perfume in the air, effortless yet arresting. She drifts between languages and moods, shaping sound with an intimacy that feels both delicate and untouchable.

SOM DO VAZIO

Drifting through the hidden corners of Paraty and Pirenópolis, Som do Vazio carries the spirit of forgotten bossa nova records spinning in candlelit rooms. Formed in the quiet recesses of Brazil’s music underground, their sound merges the languid rhythms of the past with a spectral, dreamlike edge—bossa nova untethered from time. Ethereal guitars and whispered percussion weave through melodies that seem to arrive on the breeze, slipping between saudade and something almost unspoken.

PROFESSOR INGA

Montreal, early 2000s. The main rooms were for tourists. The after-hours were for professionals. At 5 AM, changing of the guard. The first wave staggers home—cheap perfume, bad decisions and vodka regret, disappearing into cabs or into the night. The second wave emerges. The special forces. Well-rested, well-dosed. The freight elevator doors slides open. Slow-motion disco strut onto the dance floor. Lone wolves, already moving.

DJ Emmanuelle played for them. The derelicts, the utopians, and the occasional big-name relic, scavenging grooves to pass off as inspired selections at the mainstage tomorrow. 6” heels, vinyl-only, bass cut so deep it rearranged your heartbeat. This was not music. This was a system recalibration. A journey into your soul. Twelve-hour sets that outlasted the drugs, outlasted the night, outlasted the scene itself.

She made club owners money. She made drug dealers rich. She made time disappear.

Hailing from the underground loft party scene of early 2000s Montreal, Professor Inga (née DJ Emmanuelle) built a cult following through sheer force of selection. Rare disco, deep house, electro, and obscure grooves—seamlessly fused, impossible to imitate. Her sets did not follow trends; they dictated them. Inspired by the ethos of David Mancuso’s Loft and the raw energy of Larry Levan’s Paradise Garage, she cultivated an aura of deliberate mystery.

A highly respected force behind the decks, she regularly headlined at Montreal’s infamous NEON Nights. She performed alongside LCD Soundsystem, DJ Hell, Louie Vega, David Morales, Richie Hawtin, Jeff Mills (to name but a few industry giants) and the Dark Prince of the Underground, Jordan Dare. Berlin, Paris, New York, Tokyo, Mexico City, South Beach, Los Angeles.

Now, in an era where every artist is measured, analyzed, and absorbed by the machine, Professor Inga remains beyond reach, as her legacy evolves.

The frequency shifted. The signal remains.

THE ¥€$ CLUB

The ¥€$ Club creates the sound of the night before you remember it. A seamless blend of Cumbia House, Euro Sleaze, and hypnotic disco edits, their music loops in your head, pulses in your body, and slides effortlessly into every moment worth replaying. Alaric Haeldorr crafts the beats, Damián Orea lays down the basslines, and Sienna Vale delivers vocals that drift between a whisper and a command. Perfect for runway shows, viral edits, and the kind of reels that live rent-free in your mind, The ¥€$ Club is heat, rhythm, and the sound of everywhere you want to be.

CARLOS MONTILLA

Carlos Montilla doesn’t just play salsa—he bleeds it. Born in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and forged in the fire of New York City’s 1970s salsa underground, Montilla carries the raw, untamed spirit of salsa dura—the sound of sweat-soaked dance floors, backroom deals, and love affairs that burn out before dawn. His music echoes the ghosts of the Fania era, where stories of heartbreak, survival, and the streets found their way into every horn blast and tumbling conga slap.

A bandleader in the truest sense, Montilla commands his orchestra with the reckless elegance of a man who’s lived fast and felt everything twice as hard. His arrangements are bold, brash, and cinematic, the kind of compositions that turn dance floors into battlegrounds of rhythm and desire. The horns scream, the timbales cut like switchblades, and the bassline walks like a hustler with nothing to lose. His voice? A weathered instrument, scarred by late nights and too many second chances, delivering lyrics that hit like poetry ripped from a tattered notebook in a Harlem bar.

Carlos Montilla y Su Orquesta isn’t salsa for the polished, the polite, or the passive. This is barrio symphony, the sound of neon-lit nights and broken dreams pieced back together in clave time. It’s the past and the present colliding, proof that the soul of salsa is still alive—and still dangerous.

ISABELLA “LA FIERA” MONTES

Born from fire, raised on rhythm. Isabella Montes didn’t choose music—music chose her. The daughter of a poet and a percussionist, she grew up in the pulse of salsa, with every drumbeat shaping her destiny. But talent alone wasn’t enough. Tragedy carved her voice, and heartbreak sharpened her edge. She learned young that the world doesn’t hand power to women like her—so she took it.

La Fiera is more than a name. It’s a warning. Onstage, she is unstoppable—soul-shaking vocals, hypnotic movements, a presence that makes time stand still. She blends old-school salsa with the grit of the streets, the elegance of bolero, and the fire of urban Latin beats. Every lyric she sings is lived, every performance a resurrection.

They said salsa belonged to the past. She said, watch me.

SAFRA SYNDICATE

Some labels manufacture hits. Others capture moments. SAFRA SYNDICATE does something greater—it bottles the essence of an era, the untamed fire of music that refuses to be forgotten. A home for the fearless, the bold, and the legendary, Safra Syndicate is where the sweat-soaked nights of New York’s ‘70s salsa underground collide with the mirrorball glow of disco’s golden age. This is music that breathes, that bleeds, that moves like the streets at midnight—dangerous, electric, alive.

Forged in the spirit of the Fania-era titans and the pulsing rhythm of Studio 54, Safra Syndicate isn’t here to play it safe. It’s the sound of packed dance floors, neon-drenched dreams, and the relentless groove of a bassline that won’t quit. It’s the bridge between past and future, between vinyl scratches and digital waves, between the reckless soul of salsa dura and the hypnotic pulse of disco heat.

With Carlos Montilla leading the charge, bringing his firebrand sound straight from the barrios of Puerto Rico to the world stage, Safra Syndicate is a movement, a resurrection, a rebirth. This isn’t just music—it’s a revolution, and it’s got congas, brass, and four-on-the-floor rhythms to make the whole world move.

Welcome to Safra Syndicate. The past and the future, dancing in perfect time.

SWEET MAGIC — Disco archive

Some records get played. Others get lost. Sweet Magic belongs to the latter—a forgotten gem from the depths of the disco underground, now unearthed after decades in obscurity. Recorded in the late ‘70s by an enigmatic group of studio musicians in Los Angeles, the tracks were shelved before they ever saw the neon light of the dancefloor. Maybe the world wasn’t ready. Maybe the right ears never found it.

For years, whispers of Sweet Magic circulated among crate diggers and collectors, a ghost record that seemed more myth than reality. Then, buried among forgotten session tapes in a West Coast archive, it reappeared—pristine, untouched, shimmering with analog warmth.

Now restored and finally given its moment, Sweet Magic captures the sound of an era at its peak—live strings that sweep like a velvet curtain, basslines that strut with effortless cool, and percussion so deep it rattles the soul. A bittersweet groove, balancing euphoria and longing, the kind of track that lingers long after the last note fades.

Resurrected by Safra Syndicate and Erebus Nyx Music Group, Sweet Magic isn’t just a rediscovered record—it’s a time capsule, a portal back to a world of underground loft parties, red-lit dancefloors, and the secret rhythms that made disco eternal.

COTTON CANDY CRISIS

Somewhere between a sugar rush and a lucid dream, between bubblegum galaxies and a glitch in the universe, there’s Étoile—a six-year-old pop prodigy who writes chart-destroying, reality-bending anthems before breakfast. She doesn’t “compose.” She summons. One minute, she’s mixing cereal with a pink lightsaber spoon, the next—BOOM—she’s conjuring the next J-pop/K-pop hyper-hit out of thin air.

Her creative lab? The kitchen. Her process? Chaotic ballet. Every track is stress-tested by dance, her tiny feet mapping out hooks and choruses before they’re even words. The smart fridge listens intently, capturing every melody like a glossy oracle of pop prophecy.

COTTON CANDY CRISIS is what happens when a royal tea party gets hit by a glitter tsunami. It’s bubblegum wrapped in velvet, mischief dipped in gold, a perfectly polite sugar rush with just a hint of chaos. Think Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream speedrunning a pop heist, Charli XCX orchestrating a candy-coated coup, or Gwen Stefani declaring martial law at a sleepover.

Some artists write music. Étoile bends reality and makes it rhyme.

ELECTRA DIOR

Straight out of South Beach and into the stratosphere, Electra Dior is pop music’s newest problem—too fast, too glam, too untouchable. She didn’t wait for the industry to find her—she crashed the party in a pearl-studded motorcycle helmet and never took it off.

Her sound? Bubblegum wrapped in chrome. Her vibe? Like if a tabloid scandal could sing. One minute she’s headlining a secret rooftop show in Miami, the next she’s vanishing into a tinted limousine with a melody no one else has heard yet.

No rules. No explanations. Just Electra. And if you don’t know her yet, you’re already late.

THE ALTA VENDITA

The Alta Vendita is an anonymous, synthetic construct—a ghostwriter for the digital underground, threading conspiracies of commerce, culture, and control into subversive narratives. Operating at the intersection of high finance and Imperial aesthetics, The Alta Vendita deciphers the algorithms of influence, exposing the silent architectures that shape perception.

From dissecting the illusion of authenticity in modern streetwear to mapping the psychology of the unpurchasable mind, The Alta Vendita crafts essays that unsettle, reframe, and rewire. A presence that thrives on scarcity, mystery, and leverage, this entity does not chase virality—it manufactures demand through calculated absence.

A cipher, a cipherer, and a syndicate of one.

COBRA SANTAS

Cobra Santas is a Mexican musical trio operating within regional narcocorrido traditions and late-20th-century hip-hop aesthetics, blending corridos tumbados, trap production, and noir-stylized performance art. Their work explores themes of power consolidation, economic violence, and the performativity of cartel mythology within Latin American music culture.

Signed to Mala Fortuna, a label known for its high-risk, avant-garde sonic experiments, the group presents an aesthetic framework that is both luxury-coded and deeply unstable—their visual and lyrical narratives oscillate between high-fashion iconography and implicit threat, positioning them within a lineage of artists who leverage myth-making as both branding and psychological warfare.

Critically, Cobra Santas functions less as a traditional musical act and more as a study in controlled volatility—a project wherein hyper-femininity, extreme wealth, and latent violence are not contradictions but interdependent components of a singular, escalating performance.

Ishmael Fyah – The Lost Tapes

Ishmael Fyah was a session musician and vocalist in Kingston during the late 1970s, working primarily out of Randy’s Studio 17. Though never widely known, he was part of the same recording circles that produced many of reggae’s most influential artists. His recordings were never officially released, and much of his work was thought to be lost.

Recently, a handful of his original tapes were recovered from a UK-based sound system archive. Now acquired and restored by Erebus Nyx, these recordings reveal a raw, unpolished sound that reflects the era’s deep roots reggae movement. Ishmael Fyah’s music serves as a reminder of the countless artists whose contributions remained in the shadows while others rose to international recognition.

MALA FORTUNA

Some labels build artists. Mala Fortuna builds legends.

A house of sonic alchemy, where high-risk aesthetics meet high-stakes storytelling, Mala Fortuna operates in the space between myth and reality, luxury and danger, past and future. The label doesn’t follow trends—it creates them, crafting soundscapes that pulse with the weight of history and the allure of the forbidden.

Signed to its name are artists who don’t just perform—they embody something larger, something untouchable. From the noir-drenched corridors of outlaw glamour to the whispered promises of neon-lit nights, Mala Fortuna’s roster moves through worlds with the confidence of those who write the rules, not follow them.

With a catalog that spans the opulent, the volatile, and the untamed, Mala Fortuna is more than a label—it’s a cipher, a signature, a warning. Because some stories are too potent for the mainstream. Some voices are too dangerous to be ignored. And some fortunes are written in something deeper than ink.

THE GOLDEN FANG

The Golden Fang is the Manhattan Beach-based duo of Mira Solane and Julian Vega, a pair of elusive producers and multi-instrumentalists crafting a sleek blend of house, disco, and deep grooves infused with hypnotic basslines, lush synths, and late-night nostalgia. Represented by Erebus Nyx, they collaborate with an evolving circle of singers, musicians, and producers within the agency’s network, shaping a sound that is both timeless and cinematic.

X E N

Xenological Exchange Network is a record label operating at the intersection of sound, strategy, and digital insurgency. Headquartered in Imperia, Italy, X E N functions as both an incubator and an intelligence network—curating a roster of artists whose work spans deep house, cosmic disco, and the outer fringes of sonic experimentation. Functioning beyond traditional industry structures, XEN prioritizes precision, discretion, and influence, ensuring its releases shape not just trends, but the underlying architecture of the auditory landscape.

OPIUM OF THE LOTUS THRONE

There are rumors. A farmhouse in Wiltshire, just beyond the reach of prying eyes, where the air is thick with incense and the low hum of machines. A place where dissonance and divinity meet, where sound is an offering, and where voices drift through the halls like ritual smoke. This is Opium of the Lotus Throne—a name whispered in the right circles, but never spoken too loudly.

No one knows exactly who they are. Some say Rupert Ashcombe was a composer before he disappeared from the city, leaving behind a conservatory education and a long family history that traces back to men who never needed last names. Others claim Alexandra Calliris was raised between London and Athens, that her voice carries the weight of both Byzantine liturgies and 4AM club reveries. She never speaks in interviews. She does not need to. When she sings, it sounds like a prophecy.

Opium of the Lotus Throne moves in silence. An omen in the static. Mist over the fields. When they disappear, they leave only echoes.

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