This Window

The Roland SH-101 is an analogue synthesiser made by Roland between 1982 and 1986. It became widely used in the 1990s, especially in electronic and house music. The SH-101 is monophonic, meaning it plays one note at a time. It features a single oscillator, sub‑oscillator, low‑pass filter, mixer for blending waveforms, noise generator, arpeggiator, and sequencer. An ADSR envelope controls the filter and VCA, while an LFO can modulate the filter, VCA, pitch, and pulse width. Its sound is often described as “snappy and razor‑sharp” bass, “squelchy and expressive” leads, and a “piercing yet smooth” filter. The SH-101 appears on many Finish The Story songs and is frequently used on This Window tracks. At launch, it cost $495 in the US and £249 in the UK, making it relatively affordable compared to other analogue synthesisers of the time. Their Gods – Limited Free Mix – Homage to the SH-101 Pre-release mix · 5 minutes · Instrumental version Their Gods appear...

Making Music When It Feels Like a Chore Sometimes making music feels less like fun and more like a chore. The process should be satisfying—something that pulls you forward and leaves you lighter but instead, it can feel heavy, like effort without the reward. I hate music. I hate making music. I’d rather sleep. I’d rather disappear into quiet, into rest, into the kind of peace that doesn’t ask me to be creative on command. And yet I can’t stop. It’s strange how the mind can complain loudly. I sit down, tell myself this is pointless—somewhere underneath the complaining—there’s a rhythm that won’t let me stop— press play . I open the project. I stare at the empty space where sound is supposed to be and then it happens. Maybe it isn’t enjoyment. Maybe it’s survival. Maybe it’s my oxygen— press play again . Boundaries, Breath, and Survival Strategies Art dissolves when you stop treating it like a category. Ducha...

‘Walk Away or Jump’ – 55" × 55" oil on canvas (2010) The painting above is rooted in a specific moment from 1978: a walk along a cliff path with one of Robert Rauschenberg ’s assistants. During that walk, he told me he was in love with me. I remember the conversation as a turning point—not because of the words alone, but because it forced a decision. At that height, with that kind of uncertainty, the question felt immediate: step toward a completely different life or step away from it. I’ve often wondered what I turned down: a different creative path, a different level of visibility, a better life or simply a relationship that wasn’t possible. Rauschenberg himself had a history of absorbing major events into his work. In 1969 — less than ten years before that encounter — he was invited by NASA to witness the Apollo 11 launch at Kennedy Space Center and incorporate the experience into his art. He produced the Stoned Moon lithograph series, named both for the litho...

Are This Window a wordcloud? Extract From The Goat — A Fragment of Tape Culture Revisited “Extract From The Goat” is more than a reissue, a nostalgic glance backward. It returns to a very specific moment in the early 1990s cassette underground — a moment when DIY culture thrived on tape hiss, hand‑spliced edits, and the stubborn belief that sound could be shaped with whatever tools were at hand. Download Here The track originates from the 1991 compilation The Goat , released by the UK label M4TR Productions , a home for outsider, experimental, and mail‑art‑aligned soundwork. On that cassette, This Window contributed “A Collection Of Pieces Of Tape Edited Together” — a title that was both literal and perfectly aligned with the era’s aesthetic. Tape wasn’t just a medium; it was a material to be cut, rearranged, reversed, and reassembled into new forms. This Window moves through an emotional landscape shaped by isolation and entrapment...

“This Is War” lands like a late-night broadcast from inside the machinery—dark wave and post-industrial grit filtered through a DIY, analog-minded sensibility. It’s short on runtime but dense in feeling, moving quickly from fractured atmosphere to direct emotional statements, with the kind of tension that makes every transition feel deliberate. Musically, the album leans into contrasts: harshness versus tenderness, dread versus a kind of fragile composure. The opening sequence sets the mood fast—“This Is War” (01:54) plays like the thesis statement—before the record settles into a steadier momentum with “Lay Back” and the eerie melodic pull of “Blue Eyes”. From there, it keeps tightening its emotional knot. “Where Is My Jesus?” reads like a moment of spiritual searching that never quite becomes catharsis, and “This Is Not The Way It Should Be” makes the album’s “shame / denial / echo” themes explicit—framing a world where old strength has gone, replaced by shadow, repet...

This Window can be described as a creative engine that treats the impossible as a working material — a framework where what if , never could , and shouldn’t exist are taken seriously enough to become tools. Instead of proving anything literally true, it uses the impossible as a lens: a temporary suspension of disbelief that lets you test ideas, trace emotional undercurrents, and uncover meanings that a strictly factual approach would never expose. It’s a hybrid space where sound, poetry, art-thinking, experimental method, and deliberate absurdity coexist. The poetic side provides intuition, metaphor, and atmosphere; the artistic side shapes form, perspective, and texture; the scientific impulse contributes structure, models, and constraints — even when the subject matter is surreal; and absurdity keeps the whole thing honest by disrupting assumptions and forcing new angles of thought. Free Album Downloads Hopeless is This Window’...

The Ashtray - a case study At its core, The Ashtray by This Window is built around a ¼" tape loop first created in 1981 —a fragile analogue fragment re‑entered, re‑worked, and expanded in 2026. The result is a piece that carries two timelines at once: the raw, handmade immediacy of the original loop and the colder, more sculpted sensibility of its modern augmentation. It sits somewhere between art project and sci‑fi horror vignette—a lost soundtrack cue found on a degraded VHS, half‑erased by time. The loop’s mechanical churn becomes a pulse; the added layers smear into a synthetic fog. There’s tension, restraint, and a faint sense that the machinery itself is breathing. Loops used to be fragments of accidents—tape cut too short, a sampler mis‑triggering, a machine playing slightly off its own rhythm. Even when you tried to be precise, the gear had its own opinions. It would saturate, smear, drift, and occasionally betray you. That instability wasn’t a flaw; it w...