Vox Fatal @voxfatal

WVOX 91.3 222 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 222 / 0382 / 471 / 0382 / 5 / 6 / 222 / 4 / 0382 / 0382

WVOX 91.3. Cloudbyte’s polaroid. The log is below. Transmission Log – WVOX 91.3, evening, 9thOctober The building sits past the last proper light. One low structure, pale brick and aluminium, a red mast light blinking too slowly against the dark. Gravel under the wheels. A handwritten sign on the door. The night around it is wide and mostly empty. Inside the air smells of warm electronics and tea that has been heated more than once. Carpet tiles of different ages. A long desk facing a dark window. Shelves of labelled cassettes, hard drives, notebooks with dates written in the same careful hand. The host moves without hurry. Late fifties, soft grey jumper, glasses low on his nose. He does not perform the role of broadcaster once the microphones are off. He simply continues. At one point he sets a small saucer of water on the floor near the desk without comment. I drink. He has been logging unusual frequencies for years, on and off. Most of it is nothing. Every so often something arrives that does not belong to any known transmission. The stronger ones have become more frequent in recent weeks. He never catches them in daylight. Only late, usually after midnight, and more often when the sky has been active. He does not call them messages. He does not offer theories. He records them and keeps the files. After the formal part of the show he waits a moment, then says he has one he would like us to hear. He says it almost apologetically. “I don’t play the long ones on air. People change the channel. But this one… it’s the cleanest I’ve got. Same stretch of numbers every time. And something that keeps trying to shape itself into a voice. I don’t know what it wants. I just know it isn’t local.” He plays the recording. A low, steady carrier. Then a sequence of numbers spoken in a voice that is almost human and not quite. The same sequence again. Between the numbers, a faint pressure, as if something is trying to form words and has not yet learned the shape of them. No one speaks while it plays. When it ends he does not ask what we think. He simply stops the file and sits back. Outside the red light on the mast continues its slow blink. The fields remain dark. We leave with a copy of the recording. It is the first time the Zone has reached us as sound rather than light or feeling. Something that can be carried. Something that does not yet explain itself. — Lumen

Everything’s Fine / Dream / Dream a sweet dream / Say what you mean / Be where you be / Don't / Don't be unsure / Smile a bit more / Open the door / Its fine / Everything's fine / Everything's fine / Everything's fine / Breathe / Breathe it in deep / Look where you leap / Playing for keeps / Stand / Stand in the light / Roll with the tide / Nothing to hide / Its fine / Everything's fine / Everything's fine / Everything's fine

Hexark Meridian Campus / Artist Welcome / Oct 8 Dear Vox Fatal, Welcome to Meridian Park. We are pleased to host your performance this afternoon as part of our ongoing Arts & Culture programme. The technical team is available should you require any assistance. Please enjoy your complimentary Hexark Meridian hamper. It contains a day pass to the Meridian Campus Wellness Centre, a fine selection of locally sourced produce, and a pair of noise-cancelling earbuds, along with a few additional items we hope will make your time with us more comfortable. If there is anything further we can do, please speak with a member of the events staff. We hope you enjoy the space. With best regards, Campus Events Team Hexark Meridian

Aurora #2 Over Froston the sky opened Green, but not grass Green like a thought held in ice It moved like a memory learning to fly Above the snowfield Above my breath A ribbon of jade crossed the dark and never touched it Just passed through like a vast hand Turning to vapour while I stood still Was it light or the ghost of light? Was it here or already leaving? The cold kept singing through my boots and the whole horizon went soft at the edges In a halo of green I watched it fade as if the night had opened its eye

Cloudbyte’s old school notebook — Froston, 7th October We were supposed to play in town that evening. The promoter called mid-afternoon: too much snow on the roads, half the town already staying home. So we did the same. We came back to my family house in Froston. Everything outside was white. The road in was lined with snowbanks higher than the gate. The front step was buried halfway up, and Grokkles laughed like this was a joke the weather told just for her. I held the key in my glove like it was something fragile. Like if I dropped it, the whole year would crack open. Mum answered the door before I could knock. Same face on the screen, different gravity in real life. We hugged too long. Or maybe not long enough. That’s the trouble with coming home after loss: every room remembers what you forgot to say. The band took their boots off in the hallway and the hallway looked surprised. Jaye stood by the radiator warming her hands like she’d found a secret fire. Lumen moved through us with that old royal insult cats do when they approve of you by barely looking. Mum had a camera waiting for me on the kitchen table. It was my cousin’s old Canon. Solid, a bit heavy, the kind that still needs you to think before you press the shutter. She said I might as well take it on the road. Mum put the kettle on. Then she asked if we were hungry in the exact voice people use when they are trying not to ask if you are okay. There were coats on every chair. Snow on the mat. My old school notebook still in the drawer with a broken pencil, three ticket stubs, and a pressed leaf from a summer I can’t place anymore. I took the notebook out. It still smelled faintly of pencil shavings and dust. I stood in the kitchen and listened to the house settle around us. Pipe knocks. Kettle song. Soft boots in the hall. A thousand tiny proofs that time keeps living even when somebody doesn’t. And I thought about Grandma the last time I was here, the black clothes, the folded hands, the silence sitting at the table. Later, Mum pulled out old plates. The ones with the blue edge. She said, we save things. Then she said it softer: we save things because we can. Nobody performed grief. It just sat with us. It passed the potatoes. It drank tea from the mug with the chipped lip. It looked out the window at the snow coming down again like the sky had too much to say. I laughed once. Then I cried once. Then Jaye said my hair had gone static from the scarf and everybody laughed because that was easier and also true. At night the band spread through the house like four different weather systems. Grokkles took the sofa. Jaye claimed the floor with a blanket. Mum made up the spare room beds with the exact same corners she used to tuck in when I was small. I called out to her from the landing, just to hear my own voice in the old shape of the house. She called back from downstairs, I’m here, love. I know. Sometime after midnight I stood at the back window. The sky had opened. A long green aurora moved slowly above the trees, soft and enormous, as if the cold itself had learned how to breathe light. No one spoke for a while. We just watched it pass. And that was the strange miracle: not that the day fixed anything, not that the snow stopped, not that Grandma came back, but that we could still be here, alive in the same rooms, making room for each other, while the sky did something beautiful and temporary overhead. In the morning the whole place was pale with light. The windows looked like they’d been breathing all night. We left with damp boots, cold sleeves, and Mum standing in the doorway trying to look casual while watching us like we were the last train out. I turned once in the snow. The house was still there. The keys were still warm in my pocket. And for the moment, that was enough.

Present / Absent signal thin / mirror feed / same face / new delay / laugh lag / scroll soft / meme loop / low stakes / hollow / culture / gone / frequency / reflect / recursive / quicksand / light / present / absent / both / echo / fuzz / friendly / smiling lost / fragment / pulse / micro drift / reference / share / no contact / nothing lands / never mind / nowhere minds

Animals That Shouldn’t Be There A deer in a multi storey car park at 3.45am Standing between the white lines like it's always known the rules A fox on the fifth-floor balcony watching traffic lights change Red light green light, on and on, doesn't move, doesn't blink Animals that shouldn’t be there, they hold the shape of night Somewhere a gate is swinging, the city left the door unlocked tonight A bird lands on the windowsill, stays when the light goes off Tilting its head like it’s listening to something inside the glass Animals that shouldn’t be there, they hold the shape of night Somewhere a gate is swinging, the city left the door unlocked tonight And once, for no clear reason, a black horse standing perfectly still In the middle of an empty office around midnight on the 14th floor

Transcript – After Image, October 5th [Studio lights. Low-budget but clean set. Vox Fatal sitting on a small couch. Lumen sits calmly on Jaye’s lap. A screen behind them shows an image of the band. HOST Welcome back to After Image. Joining me this afternoon are Vox Fatal — Jaye, Grokkles, Cloudbyte and… Lumen... the cat... You’re currently midway through a country-wide tour. And at the same time you’re making a “tour diary album.” Can you explain what that is exactly? CLOUDBYTE Well Marcia, we’re writing and recording an album as we tour the country. And making a visual journal as well - everything that happens on the road — the shows, the places, the surreal little moments — feeds into it. We’re collecting things like, flyers, voice memos, some of my polaroids… that kind of thing. GROKKLES We’ve got a small studio in the back of the bus. So if we think up a song, we can record it on the same day. HOST The bus has a small studio? What’s it actually like trying to record while you’re moving? CLOUDBYTE You're singing a line, then the road coughs, or somebody drops a spoon, or Grokkles says something… Nothing stays perfect. GROKKLES The bus has opinions about timing. You learn to work with it or you lose the take. JAYE Ha.. It's like trying to play guitar while surfing on gravel. And... Motion is a kind of interference. Sometimes the interference is the point. HOST (She pauses. Her eyes stay fixed on a point just past the camera for three full seconds. Then she blinks and continues as if nothing happened.) You recorded a new track only yesterday, is that right? GROKKLES Yeah in Rustvale. The air there is… heavy. Jaye got a headache from it, which inspired us to make a song called “Pressure Front”. HOST So you’re making the album as you go? — does that change the way you write? Do you find yourselves responding to the places you’re in? CLOUDBYTE Yeah, it changes it. Or maybe it changes me. When you’re writing on the road you stop pretending the room doesn’t matter. The weather matters, the way a place feels matters. Some days I’m writing from inside myself, other days I’m just… translating wherever we are. JAYE (Jaye briefly closes her eyes as if concentrating) Yeah... the places leave traces whether you invite them or not. GROKKLES The places just start writing themselves into the songs. HOST (looking at notes) “And Lumen… the cat… is an official member of Vox Fatal?” JAYE (smiling) Of course. Lumen is an amazing artist and lyricist. HOST And how exactly do they write lyrics? JAYE Well mostly they type 'em out on the laptop... but sometimes they transmit the words into my head telepathically... (The host looks perplexed) JAYE I'm joking!! (They all laugh) HOST (still slightly unsure, but smiling) Right... So does Lumen have a favourite seat on the bus? JAYE Wherever the signal is clearest. It changes. CLOUDBYTE Lumen has opinions. They like whichever seat gives them the best control of the room. Sometimes it’s the warm patch by the window, sometimes it’s the one bag nobody moved fast enough to claim. They act like the bus belongs to them… and it’s getting harder to argue. HOST Cloudbyte, you’re taking polaroids throughout the tour? CLOUDBYTE Yeah, some things refuse to stay soft once you say them out loud. A photo is slower than a memory — it keeps the glare, the little mistakes at the edge. Sometimes I think I know which ones we'll use and then a picture of a gas station curb or Jaye laughing with her coat half on becomes the real thing. It’s instinctive. HOST You've performed in two very different kinds of places within the last two days — Rustvale a highly populated industrial town and a harvest fair in Maple Bend. How do the audiences compare? GROKKLES Different temperatures. Same attention, just wearing different clothes. CLOUDBYTE In Maple Bend people came in loose and bright. They gave back so much joy it almost made the songs feel too small. In Rustvale the room listened harder. Not colder. Just more precise. Same hunger, different clothes. JAYE There were like... kids and old people at the harvest fair, not our usual audience. But it was actually kinda nice... One town opened without resistance. Another closed around us like weather. HOST Has any place you've played surprised you?” JAYE You mean apart from the awful headache I got the moment we got to Rustvale? CLOUDBYTE Hollow Falls surprised me in a good way. I thought it would be quiet, but it was open — like people had been waiting with their whole faces. GROKKLES Rustvale didn’t surprise me exactly. It just… insisted. The headache was the polite version. HOST What’s been the most unexpected thing about this tour — something you didn’t see coming when you left? CLOUDBYTE That the trip keeps becoming a home while we’re still in motion. I thought leaving would make everything feel far away. But it made everything more vivid. GROKKLES It's interesting how quickly the strange starts to feel ordinary. And how the ordinary starts to feel like it’s watching you back. JAYE We go to these places... and sometimes there's a sadness... it's hard to explain. HOST Right... Well, thank you so much for joining us today, it's been a real pleasure talking to you. And good luck with the tour… (She turns to address the camera) That was Vox Fatal and you can catch them playing live all throughout this month... Here's an exclusive premiere of their new video. This is Animals That Shouldn’t Be There.

Pressure Front Metal taste under the tongue / Lights flicker just to mock / Rivers flow with numb regret / Same grey frame on every block / Pressure front / Comes in slow / Low sky locked hard in the smoke / Air made to crush and smear / Brick rows climb until they don't / No soft thing belongs round here / Pressure front / Comes in slow / Colour left this place for good and never told the swollen sky / Headache pills in every shop / This cold grey light won't die / Pressure front / Comes in slow

Excerpt from Grokkles’ Notebook 4 October, Rustvale Didn’t get out much. The air has a taste. Not smoke exactly. Metal that’s already been breathed. Jaye took something for her head before we reached the civic pavilion and didn’t say it was bad, which meant it was. I stayed in the bunk with the curtain half drawn and watched the same grey frame go past the same brick rows. Shift change. Men in the same jackets walking the same direction. Nobody looked at the coach. Tried the nosy coil on the back seat, low, just to hear the room. It didn’t like it. The note sat there and didn’t bloom. Like the air was already full. Lumen filed it as compressed. That’s the word. Not haunted. Full. Civic pavilion smelled of floor polish and wet coats. We played. People clapped in the right places. A woman near the front kept her arms folded the whole way through, not angry, just saving them. Afterwards the stage manager said we were fine to leave by the side door, which we were going to do anyway. I kept waiting for the interesting thing and the interesting thing was that there wasn’t one. The headache was the event. The place insisting on being itself. Wrote this on the road out. Windows still grey. Jaye asleep with her hood up. Cloudbyte photographing nothing out of the window. Lumen on the bulkhead, eyes open.

The Day Grows Old The river keeps its own time and moves the water slow The light is almost finished but the river doesn’t know They take what they can carry; a little warmth and sound The rest stays with the river as the light goes down Some will hold their breath, then let the moment go They gather what’s been given, stand a while and then they go Some leave without permission Some vanish into gold Some laugh (Some don't) The day grows old Stay

Transcript – Reggie’s Phone Footage IMG_1003.MOV (Maple Bend Harvest Fair, late afternoon) [Camera is slightly shaky, following the three of them between stalls. Sound of distant accordion and children.] JAYE (looking at a table of jars) I’m getting the blackberry one. And the weird spicy one. We need things that aren’t from a service station. GROKKLES That branch thing is staring at me. JAYE It’s not staring. It’s just… branch-shaped. GROKKLES It’s definitely staring. CLOUDBYTE (laughing, camera briefly swings to her) I’m buying the knitted thing. I don’t even know what it is. It’s soft. That’s enough. [They keep walking. A child is staring openly at Lumen, who sits calmly in Jaye’s arms. The child nods once, very slowly, then runs off.] JAYE (quietly) Did you see that? CLOUDBYTE Yeah. Kids always clock them first. Jaye glances toward the camera, notices Reggie filming, and gives a small, slightly self-conscious wave. Cloudbyte looks over too and smiles. The camera steadies for a second, then continues.] JAYE It feels… normal. Properly normal. [They stand there a moment longer. The light is getting lower, maple leaves glowing. Someone in the background is packing away chairs. Reggie zooms in slightly on the river behind them, then the footage cuts.]

Sound Recording/ Tourbus interior / Oct 2nd The bunk curtains are drawn. The lounge lights are down to the floor strip. Virgil has the cab. OTTO’s screen is a dull green map. Reggie sits in the front lounge with the itinerary folder open and a mug that stopped being coffee an hour ago. OTTO: Arrival at Maple Bend estimated 10:42. Traffic light. Weather clear. REGGIE: Noted. OTTO: Would you like an alternate route via— REGGIE: No. The one we agreed. VIRGIL: She’s a good coach. Quiet once she’s moving. Always is, these Kestrels. People think they’re bigger than they are until they’re on the road. Then they feel smaller. Or the other way round. I can never remember which. REGGIE: I chose it because it looked like a coach and not a statement. That still seems right. VIRGIL: When we get there I’ll drop you at the service place and go find a bed. Inverted hours. You get used to sleeping when the world’s already started. REGGIE: I don’t know how you do it. VIRGIL: Same as this. One stretch at a time. OTTO: Recalculating. REGGIE: There’s nothing to recalculate. We’re on the road I put in. OTTO: Route confirmed. Maple Bend via Ashland 7. Estimated 10:42. REGGIE: That’s what you said the first time. VIRGIL: It does that. Talks to itself. Long as it doesn’t start renaming the roads I don’t mind. REGGIE: Your clock’s three minutes ahead of mine. VIRGIL: Always is. I go by the dash. Phones get ideas. REGGIE: Fair enough. Wake me if the promoter at Maple Bend still hasn’t confirmed by eight. I’ll deal with it before they get up. VIRGIL: Will do. OTTO: Reminder set: 08:00. Maple Bend promoter. REGGIE: Thank you. Now be quiet.

Jaye’s Voice Memo Oct 2nd: There was an aurora in the sky tonight. A soft green smear I could barely see. We asked Virgil to pull over so we could get out and look. Cloudbyte took a polaroid. Then we got back on the bus and kept going.

Transmission Log – Night, 2nd October Subject group temporarily stationary at roadside. Driver Virgil complied with request to stop. Duration of observation: approximately six minutes. A faint green aurora visible above the tree line. Low intensity. No rapid movement. No secondary colours. Sufficient to register as anomalous for this latitude and season, but not dramatic. Noted: all four primary signals left the vehicle to observe. Noted: conversation remained minimal. Noted: Cloudbyte captured a single still image. Noted: return to vehicle was unhurried and without discussion. The bunk nearest the rear bulkhead has been claimed. Blackout curtain partially drawn. Climate control set low. The small green glass object remains present and unexplained. Ambient road vibration is constant but tolerable. The production studio’s isolation is effective. Reggie remains useful as a buffer against external logistics. Virgil operates with low verbal output and steady attention. Instrument access is limited; the resulting textures lean more heavily toward synthesised and processed sources. This is appropriate to the current container. The signal continues to widen. The first low-level external phenomenon has been recorded. Transmission continues. Green eyes remain open. — Lumen