If we imagine "Dark Glove Recordings" as a hypothetical mixed-media entity, its history could align with underground media creation, possibly emerging in the late 20th or early 21st century. It may have originated as a passion project by a small collective to fill the time between beginning and end. It could have started as a platform to archive experimental crap, or a conduit to display audible trash. The entity might have just began with the need to shout recklessly into the void. Or maybe not. Without more specifics, I can’t pinpoint an exact explanation. Dark Glove Recordings is less a company than a slow-moving shadow that gathers the restless and the disillusioned, a place where sound becomes a form of confession and every note is heavy with the weight of inevitability. Their releases feel like transmissions from the end of the world, whispered through cracked speakers in rooms that have long since been abandoned. Each project they bring into the light seems to carry a trace of something lost—an echo of a memory you’re not entirely sure is your own, a voice calling from somewhere you can’t return to. There is no comfort here, only the quiet understanding that creation itself is an act of decay.
