Timnah

Mix of the Blank. I grow old. Listen. Catalogue. Repeat. Forget. Re-discover. 

When music can be stored away so easily, what’s really saved? Only the sharpest memories stay, and even they alter. The rest are parked for future reference, to be forgotten or fade into obscurity. 

Musically, I sleepwalked through winter. A commitment to resist algorithmic recommendations, coupled with a fear that Discogs speedruns were hacking my brain, effectively neutered my music consumption. My diet of music journalism—a tired parade of overtheorised philosophical takes on dance music culture, and many too many pieces on Geese—did little to help. 

A brief aside on: to what extent is the proliferation of music journalism pieces that focus on everything surrounding the music itself an expression of some desire to be understood? The reality of KKR’s investment portfolio, or Chaotic Good’s skullduggeries, are verifiable, unshakeable. Meanwhile, questions like, “which of Drake’s newest albums will eclipse the other two?”, or the perennially important, “which local artists deserve more attention?”, are capable of reasonable, irresolvable disagreement. In algorithmically geared media environments, the thinkpiece calibrated for the median voter-cum-Substacker’s confirmation bias seems to become ascendant.

Truth of the Blank. In May 2026, Timnah Sommerfeldt recorded a mix at her house in Switzerland – shared with the other members of the Amenthia Recordings crew (Agonis, Garçon and Varuna)—for Zara’s Kinesis Recordings. In that magic hour, time seems to slow down. Long reverb tails stretch and cross into shifting meditative registers. Thoughts run wildly, but sounds blossom with a purposeful sense of calm. Across a wide, seemingly boundless plain, we float. After half an hour, deep kicks and bass emerge, carving the sonic field in two. Elements start to assume sharper forms, crystallising with Lucid Dreams’ ‘Black Tar’. Then comes Burial, sweet Burial, calling you back home. The noises grow distant again. The centre disappears. The edges blur. It’s like you’re losing consciousness—falling asleep, or perhaps returning to a dream. 

The mix ends. For its hazy atmosphere, it stays sharply in mind. Listened. Catalogued. To be repeated. Not to be forgotten. 

Jo Negrine

1 September 2026