The debut album "Mountains Bubble Under - The summoning and naming of parts 1-3" by Under Mother Bungalow is now available - click here for purchase details

MOUNTAINS BUBBLE UNDER
by Under Mother Bungalow
The latest Armchair Astronaut Super-group set out as they mean to continue by mashing every rule in the book to bring us this white- knuckle adventure of fucked- up music, beauty and noise. Transcendental – deviation, theory and practise.
click here to purchase
UK: £8.00 + p&p
Full Armchair Astronaut Catalogue

Under Mother Bungalow is made up of Richard Miles [Guitarist and a walking sound librarian], Marcus Ripley [human drum machine] , Ben Abbo [keyboard scientist], Paul Harrison [mad professor gadget inventor] and Darius Akashic [Sound Wizard] - Base Camp: Brighton UK

Dreams locked in attics, and the sickly peel of wallpaper. The decay of a life spent behind curtains. The gatherings of dust into corners and triangles, and the softly humming paint. Shuttered against the light, the windows stare unseeing and past caring. Cracks in the wall like lines in the hand trace the untold stories. The walls of thought that tumble. Marcus Ripley

The Debut Album "Mountains Bubble Under" by Under Mother Bungalow on the Armchair Astronaut label

The Gonzoid filth and excellence of Under Mother Bungalow is thoroughly demonstrated on the absolutely bonkers ‘Mountains Bubble Under’ [The summoning and naming of parts 1-3].
It’s a delicate balance between music and open brain surgery, beauty and terror. Once hooked, it becomes highly addictive, not one for the timid. Intrepid explorers are welcome.
Bungalow says ‘if you leave enough space for the impossible to happen: It probably will’. Enough from Bungalow, listen to the snippets- We’d love to give you more- but this is like music as a drug or medicine or something, and besides, we're still running the tests! Full prescription available from our catalogue.

A mountain has its roots in the ground and aven-ues that pass it. The bungalow sits on shift-ing sands and points its roof at the sky. The stairs go downwards only, a spiral twisting-like helix, continually unravelling with no discernible intent. You could mistake the walls for silence, silence that speaks volumes. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the trees.