#28 Feat. Banner in Ambient / Experimental

Since 2015, Olof Cornéer has maintained a parallel practice alongside Night Gestalts album releases, pressing B-sides from singles onto one-off vinyl records and burying them in the ground. Each disc is unique. The audio doesnt appear on the album proper, isnt uploaded to platforms, and wont be reissued. After cutting, the files are deleted from his hard drive. Only rough coordinates are shared publicly—one single physical copy on Earth. To date, thirteen records have been planted in different parts of the world. The outcomes vary. Some have been found and exhumed; others remain in place, drifting from precise memory into rumour. The locations are intentionally imprecise—close enough to prompt a search, vague enough to let chance, terrain, and time play a role. Cornéer frames the series as archiving in reverse: instead of maximising access, it narrows it to a point, testing what music becomes when scarcity is absolute and discovery is contingent. I love how a future civilisation—even after all our knowledge is lost—could find these and play them, he says. The scenario is speculative and physical at once: vinyl survives in soil; a turntable, now or later, might exist; context might not. The fragility is part of the design. One listener reported reaching the posted coordinates only to find a new motorway laid over the site. For Cornéer, that counted as a successful outcome—the record is still there, entombed by infrastructure, folded into the landscapes next layer. As Night Gestalt, Cornéer works in ambient, electronics‑only modes; under his own name, he composes contemporary classical music and creates sound art. The burial practice sits between these lines: a piece of distribution logic treated as artwork, a small counter‑gesture to algorithmic circulation. For documentation and broader work: www.olofcorneer.com.

Night Gestalt

#28 Feat. New Releases in Ambient / Experimental

Since 2015, Olof Cornéer has maintained a parallel practice alongside Night Gestalts album releases, pressing B-sides from singles onto one-off vinyl records and burying them in the ground. Each disc is unique. The audio doesnt appear on the album proper, isnt uploaded to platforms, and wont be reissued. After cutting, the files are deleted from his hard drive. Only rough coordinates are shared publicly—one single physical copy on Earth. To date, thirteen records have been planted in different parts of the world. The outcomes vary. Some have been found and exhumed; others remain in place, drifting from precise memory into rumour. The locations are intentionally imprecise—close enough to prompt a search, vague enough to let chance, terrain, and time play a role. Cornéer frames the series as archiving in reverse: instead of maximising access, it narrows it to a point, testing what music becomes when scarcity is absolute and discovery is contingent. I love how a future civilisation—even after all our knowledge is lost—could find these and play them, he says. The scenario is speculative and physical at once: vinyl survives in soil; a turntable, now or later, might exist; context might not. The fragility is part of the design. One listener reported reaching the posted coordinates only to find a new motorway laid over the site. For Cornéer, that counted as a successful outcome—the record is still there, entombed by infrastructure, folded into the landscapes next layer. As Night Gestalt, Cornéer works in ambient, electronics‑only modes; under his own name, he composes contemporary classical music and creates sound art. The burial practice sits between these lines: a piece of distribution logic treated as artwork, a small counter‑gesture to algorithmic circulation. For documentation and broader work: www.olofcorneer.com.

Night Gestalt