Is this tears beneath or just beneath?

There are moments when a piece of music surfaces almost uninvited not as part of a plan or a project, but as something the world itself insists on saying. Beneath is one of those moments.

For months, I’ve been caught between two albums. One looks backward a collection of older recordings, half-lost in the fog of the past, made during a time when alcohol blurred the lines and debauchery masqueraded as freedom. The other looks upward newer work that seeks balance and meaning again, tracing the sevenfold heavens and the slow ascent of the soul as it sheds weight and remembers light.

But Beneath doesn’t belong to either world.
It sits in the underlayers — in the soil, the circuitry, the dreaming dark beneath London. It is said that Izanami moves there, transmitting decay and ancient wisdom through the network — a low electrical hum of forgotten knowledge that leaks through our devices and into our songs. Beneath came from that hum: a pulse of the Earth and the underworld intertwined, a sorrow that carries both warning and renewal.

It’s not an easy piece. It wasn’t meant for playlists or comfort. Some will pass it by, and that’s alright. This one isn’t for everyone. But it’s done now, and it’s out there, breathing on its own — part of the grid, part of her whisper.

I’ve never been one to simply make songs and release them. There’s always been a ritual of hesitation of doubt, delay, endless revision. But maybe that’s part of the problem. Maybe it’s time to stop holding things back.

So Beneath is the first — imperfect, unpolished, but honest.
The other two albums — one of descent, one of ascent — will come in their own time, through the winter ahead.
End of 2025, beginning of 2026 — that’s the hope.
For now, this is where I am.
The Earth laments, but she endures.
And if she can, perhaps we can too.
— Jansky Noise
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