Born in Canada, nursed in Germany and reared in South Africa, MYSTPHACE is a thing with no nationality, no genre, no easily-defined pigeonhole labels or trademarks. It is the schizophrenic sound of two minds in one grotesque body, struggling to stay sane in the face of modern art, technology and society. MYSTPHACE has no colleagues, no peers. It stalks the Mean Club scene in isolation, preying upon the lost, marginalized and disenchanted fans of dark electronic music, searching in vain for a new


MYSTPHACE gladly accepts, enveloping those who hear it in beautiful riddles, offering sanctuary from the vapid bleeps and beeps of the dance club. MYSTPHACE is the sound of philosophy wrecked in a car crash, stereo still blasting as paramedics try desperately to save the poet at the wheel, bleeding from the head, ranting and railing. It is a sound you may have heard before; not from the stacks of your friendly neighbourhood sound system, but from the darkest and quietest corners of your mind when the lights go out and, maddeningly, no one is listening. MYSTPHACE is the soundtrack to a think-group gone awry. John Frusciante, Richard D. James, Moby and Charles Bukowski sneaking into a rave, obliterated on the finest wines this side of the Rhine, fanatically arguing about the mysteries of the mind, the degradation of humanity in modern times.

MYSTPHACE is the result of two years of collaboration, two years flying in the face of what it takes to “be a band”, two years defying the laws of time and space and travelling back and forth through both.


MYSTPHACE-how to lift an obelisk 2012