DJ Chirish734 and Brad Spliff moved like ghosts through the misty countryside of Japan, chasing frequencies no one else could hear. By day, they drifted through sleepy villages and overgrown shrines, riding slow trains past rice paddies and into towns time had nearly erased. At night, they slipped into haunted dive bars tucked down narrow alleyways—dim places lit by red lanterns and sorrow, where the air was thick with cigarette smoke and old soul records spun on warped turntables behind the bar. These weren’t tourist stops. These were spaces where memory clung to the walls, where drunk locals swore they’d seen spirits in the back rooms, and where the jukebox seemed to choose songs based on your mood.

In these places, Brad Spliff scribbled bars in the margins of old pachinko flyers while DJ Chirish dug through forgotten crates of vinyl behind bars and under counters. They found dusty jazz records from the ‘70s, bootleg boom bap tapes labeled in faded kanji, and entire worlds locked inside broken Walkmans rescued from lost-and-founds. Some were still loaded with mixtapes—ghost playlists from salarymen long gone, lovers never reunited, and kids who once dreamed in pixels and punchlines.

When they hit Shibuya, it was like stepping into a neon fever dream. They wandered the electric backstreets, climbed into shuttered arcades where screens still glowed faintly and prize machines sat full, untouched for years. In one, Chirish found a cassette jammed inside an old karaoke booth—recorded live, off-key, raw emotion crackling through analog tape. It ended up becoming the backbone of a track called “BitCrushed Lovers.”

They weren’t just traveling—they were collecting hauntings, sampling sorrow, and stitching together an album from the memories the world forgot. A spiritual dig through the static. Liminal. Vapor. Funked out. Sacred.