Welded Lanterns by Cincture

# WELDED LANTERNS

We spent two years tracking this one, mostly in that abandoned automat on Verna Street where the rain hits the tin roof just right. Something different about Lammock these days—wires where there weren't any before, strange lights behind windows that used to stay dark. The old Pact feels stretched thin.

*Welded Lanterns* started as field recordings: tram signals, coded knocks on back doors, the weird electrical hum from those new terminals they installed down by the docks. The Witness couldn't sleep for a month, kept hearing patterns in it all.

This is our densest material yet—we let the baritone sax breathe more, pushed the tremolo guitar into those spaces where the notes almost break apart. The Minder insisted on using only brushes and mallet work for the first half of the album, said it matched the way people walk differently at night now, cautious about what might be listening.

The Ledgerist found this old organ in a flooded basement, still works but only if you don't mind the delay between hitting the key and hearing the note. That ghostly lag became our backbone on "Sodium Stitch" and "Glass Ledger." Some accidents you don't fix.

"Switch Coil" marks the turning point—our first track that actually builds instead of dissolving. The Cipher recorded it running his guitar through the Coil Torch itself, rigged up some contraption where the flickering light feeds back into the signal. Took seventeen takes to get it right, but something happened in that room when we locked into the pattern. For once, it felt like Lammock was pushing back.

Maybe that's what this record is about—not just surveillance and shadow, but finding those moments where hope flickers through despite it all. We tracked the final cuts during that week when the eastside grid kept failing, rolling blackouts every few hours. Had to play by flashlight, time our takes between the power cycles. Limitations became textures.

The rain still falls. The Tallybook still counts. But something's shifting in the sodium glow and coded glances. We're not saying Lammock's saved—just that maybe there's still room for human signals between the static.

Listen with good headphones. There's tape hiss we left in deliberately—whispers beneath the noise.

Midnight streets where brass and smoke collide. Live-captured melancholy from forgotten corners – every note hanging like unfinished confessions between rain-slick pavements. We play what silence leaves behind.