First of all, a quick geographical classification, which seems altogether necessary because the artist’s name is Akira Umeda. We find ourselves in Brazil, not in Japan. In São Paulo, to be precise, in Umeda’s house, where the cassettes that make up the madness that is »Akira Umeda (1988-2018)« can be found circulating. Producing any other authoritative statements would be difficult. Akira Umeda was a busy man, and the musical and non-musical material collected here speaks volumes. Because: well, what is it? It’s pretty much everything. At least a glimpse into the mind of a collector, but at the same time so much more: sound archive, atmospheric distillate, contemporary document, diary, shoebox, file chaos. You are welcomed to this experience by distorted house and then sent on a journey through a thousand miniature doors, you witness a paper economy, you get the feeling of living and having lived another life, you are in many different places at the same time, condensed into one in this archive mania. It’s like looking into a room where cartoons are playing on a broken video cassette, hanging, winding, while the doorbell rings incessantly in the echoes of a dream, a beat coming from somewhere, undulating, loose. Soup kitchens, phone calls from ghosts. The sound of a Gameboy can be heard, then sex noises, then something like Brazilian grunge, everything gets lost in the jumble of tape, in the glitch, before voice recordings dissolve into a codeine session in the machine room. A drum solo. Blade Runner. Enter the Void. Here, someone is hovering over his own body, which has been broken three times.