It was in 1889 that the first record label, the Columbia Phonograph Company (later Columbia Records), was established, marking the early beginnings of the modern music industry. Since then, the industry has undergone seismic changes. While record labels continue to play an important role in music selection and distribution, their function has evolved dramatically, particularly with the advent of digital technology, which has redefined the very concept of what a record label can be.
Years ago, I came across an interview with Brian Eno where he shared his personal reasons for joining Warp Records. Given the recognizability of his name and his lack of a practical need to sign with any label, Eno’s decision carried a symbolic weight. For him, as he put it, being part of Warp signified belonging to a broader community of like-minded musicians passionate about exploring innovative approaches to electronic music. This perspective struck me as indicative of a broader shift in the dynamics between artists and labels. However, even then, this focus on community and independence wasn’t entirely new. Since the 1980s, movements within the punk and electronic music scenes have cultivated a vibrant DIY culture and spawned numerous artist-run initiatives. By the 2010s, with the rise of digital platforms like streaming services and Bandcamp, combined with increased access to media production tools, record labels continued to adapt, finding new ways to redefine their role in a rapidly changing industry.
As an artist, and a life-long music fan, I am fascinated by the turns and twists that propel the artform forward in the face of all the challenges that come with inevitable cultural and economic shifts. This leads to a simple question with a rather multi-faceted response—what does it actually mean to run a record label in today’s world. To explore this further, and expanding on our tradition of Bandcamp Friday articles, we’re launching a new series: Label Spotlight. In this series, we’ll talk with the people behind independent record labels to learn about their views on the music industry and sound culture, their personal stories, and their approaches to curation.
Our first feature focuses on Psychic Liberation (PL), a Miami-born, New York-grown, and Berlin-based venture led by Nick Klein. PL’s roster showcases a diverse array of music, ranging from the leftfield electronica of Wilted Woman to the noise-rock psychedelia of BRAK to the minimalist, self-built electronic sounds of Makoto Oshiro—and much more. Without further ado, let's get started.
An Interview with Nick Klein of Psychic Liberation
Eldar Tagi: Can you tell us about yourself, what you do now, and how you started with music and art?
Nick Klein: Sure. I work across a mix of disciplines, especially in sound and DIY infrastructure on an international level. My start came as a kid playing in bands. Both my mom and dad were dancers, so I grew up in a dance studio where music was always loud, ever-present, and super important. Music was a physical part of my life as I was growing up.
When I was around 14, I started booking shows, mostly punk and noise-leaning events. What was available in my small town of West Palm Beach was mostly generic, corporate punk, so I took inspiration from people in Miami, which was just 45 minutes south, and we started organizing DIY events at the dance studio. That really set the framework, so that now, at 37, I'm still in touch with people I met during that period.
ET: A central project in your portfolio is the Psychic Liberation label. Can you tell us about its origins?
NK: So, I had met my best pal, Miguel Alvarino, in art school during undergrad. I didn’t get to stay there very long due to whatever personal circumstances. I ended up eventually moving to New York. Miguel followed not long after. We had both been—you know, I was part of a group that had this squat gallery in Miami, and Miguel got his BFA in painting. We were very active, or as active as we could be, in the Miami contemporary art scene for our early twenties. We were pretty young.
In 2012, I moved to New York for the second time because I just couldn’t really do Miami anymore. I had hit a kind of ceiling at a very young age, so I moved away. Miguel followed, and we didn’t have any of the space the way we had in Miami. You know, in Miami, everyone was just giving away warehouses or chunks of warehouses for artists to use, and then they would develop those neighborhoods, and some of those places now would be inaccessible if I went back.
When we got to New York, both Miguel and I were still making visual art, but it was kind of an impenetrable environment. The class issues in art both in Miami and New York were exhausting, so we started going clubbing more, like we had in Miami. We started going to Bossa Nova Civic Club in New York and just started making electronic music. For me, it was an immediate, easy shift from what I liked about sculpture. What I didn’t like about sculpture and contemporary art at large, was all solved with electronic music at the time.
So, that’s kind of the framework for how it starts. I wanted to do something new, make music, and New York is such a competitive environment. We were inspired by the East Coast noise scene, like the International Noise Conference down in Miami. People from the Northeast and North Carolina would come down and play, all these really dynamic groups with their own labels, so our first release was Miguel’s tape. I think he made, like, 14 copies to bring down to the International Noise Conference one February, and that was the very first release.
We started the label because we wanted our own niche, our own lane, as New York wasn’t handing those out. So, very naively and modestly, we started making tapes. I got hurt at work and was on workers’ compensation, so with that money, I rented a small shipping container, and we opened a shop there. We started putting out more tapes, dubbing them in the shop, buying stuff from other friends’ labels, and recording people inside the shop. All of this became a hub for us for a few months. That moment, around 2013–2014, plus the warehouse we lived in at 538 Johnson, all coalesced. We had our own place to do shows and distribute our music in a modest, humble way, and that’s how it all got started.
The label started out as Primitive Languages, run by me, Miguel, and a third member, Alex Suarez, who had a project called CIENFUEGOS—one of our first releases. Alex taught us Ableton, helped me mix my first record, digitized my work from a four-track, and was a key part of it all. When I moved to Europe, Miguel and I stopped doing the label together, but I wanted to keep the PL acronym because of this obsession I had with the weird asymmetry of it, like PIL from Public Image Ltd. I wanted to keep it, so I changed it to Psychic Liberation. Now, the label is at a new pivotal moment again.
ET: It sounds like the label for you is like a dynamic identity that changes over time, and you articulated these transformative periods by a new name.
NK: Yeah, that’s right. For me, I always wanted the label to have a kind of non-routine, anti-corporate fluidity. I didn’t want it to become a fixed brand or idea. People have often told me that the graphic design for PL is all over the place yet somehow cohesive, and whenever it starts to feel locked in as a certain brand or idea, I feel it’s time to reevaluate or pivot. It’s like a life form that needs to keep moving.
ET: What are your thoughts on the role of labels now, especially in the DIY space, compared to their original business-oriented role?
NK: When we started the label, it was about creating space for ourselves and our friends, people who didn’t have representation or didn’t fit into the established systems. It wasn’t about having a “great idea” but more about finding people along the way who resonated with our approach. People like Wilted Woman, Lucy Lewis, and others we met on the road—just folks we played shows with or who had similar goals. We’d drive city to city, stopping in places like Philly, Baltimore, Richmond, North Carolina, meeting new people, sharing scenes, and making these connections. The label documents those friendships. Every artist on PL is someone I know personally, someone I could call up. It’s about creating a space that feels right and documenting these friendships and musical communities. There’s no strict aesthetic to it; it’s more about relationships and the organic evolution of the label.
[Above: Miguel Alvarino and Nick Klein; photo credit Jane Chardiet]
ET: You mentioned earlier that the aesthetic aspect of the label wasn’t necessarily a priority, but at the same time, it feels like the visual identity of your label plays a big role. How do you view the connection between visual art and music in your work?
NK: That’s a great question—and honestly, it’s something that gets me emotional. The aesthetic aspect of the label has developed organically over time. At the core, I’ve always told the artists they can have the artwork however they want it, as long as it fits within our financial realities. Over 12 years, what might seem disparate starts to form a cohesive patchwork—a quilt of visual information that complements the music. People often comment on it, and while Miguel and I didn’t initially have some grand visionary aesthetic in mind, our choices—like stretching Arial fonts or making “ugly” design decisions—ended up resonating. Interestingly, some of those “ugly” design trends have become pretty popular now.
The label’s visual identity has also been shaped by a few key people throughout its history. Miguel, my co-founder, was integral in the beginning—he handled a lot of the design when I didn’t even know how to use Photoshop. Later, Robin van der Heiden took over during a crucial time when I moved to Europe, and in the past couple of years, Dominique Saiegh has contributed significantly to the label’s graphic design. And, of course, Lazaro Rodriguez—Miguel and I’s best friend, who sadly passed away—was a vital part of our visual language. He designed our shirts, logos, and more. Each of these people brought their own style and energy, shaping the label’s aesthetic through different chapters.
ET: It seems like many of the artists on the label come from art-related backgrounds. How do you see the relationship between music and visual art? Do you think they’re inherently connected?
NK: I think they’ve always been interconnected—especially for us. A lot of the artists on the label have formal training in visual arts, failed art school, or work as art handlers. There’s always been this adjacency to the art world. For me, the separation between music and art feels increasingly irrelevant. I see more and more artists working in “gray zones,” blending mediums.
We’re in a moment where the dichotomy between music and art doesn’t hold up as much. Look at people like Dean Blunt or Lolina—they create music, but the totality of their aesthetic is just as important. The way PL functions has always been to give artists the space to communicate their ideas through multiple lanes. Some of the label’s early artists, like my friend Jay with his project Balloon Monument, are great examples. Jay was an incredible visual artist, but at some point, he decided to stop calling himself that. He’s just making noise now, but his perspective as an artist still informs everything he does.
ET: How does this philosophy reflect your own artistic practice?
NK: The label and my own practice share the same agenda: to embrace freedom and fluidity. Over time, I think I’ve gotten better at connecting the dots for people—helping them see how seemingly unrelated things can coexist. It’s taken years, but people are starting to understand that you can make a techno EP one day, do free improv the next, and then create paintings with your friends. You don’t have to limit yourself. That’s the beauty of this era—you can dictate your own terms and create your own trajectory.
[Above: Primitive Languages store in Brooklyn]
ET: What's your perception of formats? Do you have a particular fondness for any of them, and how do you see their role in your work?
NK: This is such a foundational question for me. The ritual of a stereo, for example, is deeply ingrained in my life and, I think, for many people of my generation and geographical context. Even in middle school, I remember "normies" having stereos and buying CDs. It wasn’t just a punk or music-nerd thing—it was universal. Going to someone’s house and seeing their stereo setup felt so important.
The physicality of music—holding a tangible, tactile vessel of sound—has always carried this potential energy that shaped my life. I remember the first 7-inch record I got. That one purchase set off a whole chain of events: I had to go to a thrift store to find a record player, then get an amplifier. It changed everything for me. I was privileged to be able to do that, even though I grew up in a relatively cash poor environment.
The punk and hardcore scene I came up in was intensely tactile. Everything was handmade: screen-printed covers, hand-numbered editions, limited releases with unique characteristics. Bands would release 150 copies of a 7-inch with splattered paint on the covers or back side of the records, and if you didn’t grab one, you’d never have it. That scarcity and uniqueness were intoxicating. Even tape trading—getting letters, mixtapes, and CDs from people I met on message boards—was transformative. Driving around my small town with a tape deck blasting these mixes made me feel like I could get out, like there was something else out there for me.
Objects have this inherent energy. Not to get mystical, but they shape our reality in a way. They allow you to carve out a version of life you want for yourself. Making tapes, CDs, and records is so personal to me because that’s how I first connected to music. It’s why I keep doing it.
Digital releases are also important, though it’s different. Labels like Superpang have done incredible work with digital formats. They’ve put out hundreds of releases—everything from Makoto Oshiro and my record to Kevin Drumm and Merzbow—just digitally.
That said, I didn’t have a computer for a long time, so I missed out on the early days of digital labels. My focus was always on physical formats. For example, I recently collaborated with Diego Behncke and Adam Campbell on a CD-R release with no digital component initially. Once the CD-Rs sold out, we moved it to a digital platform. Now, I’m exploring ways to combine physical and digital formats with those two, creating a website with text, writing, and music to expand the concept.
But generally, the world is moving away from physical mediums. There’s less time, money, and space for records, tapes, and CDs now. People are living increasingly nomadic lifestyles, which makes physical collections challenging. Personally, I feel this anxiety deeply. I look at my records and books and think, "I’m not even from this country—what am I going to do with all this stuff if I have to move?" These objects are so specific and charged with meaning for me that separating from them would be crushing.
It’s a strange relationship. On one hand, I value the physicality and history of these formats. On the other hand, they feel like they’re fighting against the current nature of the world. It’s a challenge, but one I’m willing to take on because I believe in the importance of these objects and the stories they carry.
ET: Can you tell us which five records someone should start with to get a sense of your label?
Cover art for Wilted Woman: Fluid
Wilted Woman's Fluid and L. Lewis's Ox albums: These two are crucial. They toured together, and Lucy recorded "Ox" directly to our cassette deck in the shop. I remember making the tapes for their tours; this was just the beginning of the label.
Just the Right Height's Post-Fergie White Christmas: I don’t think anything else sounds quite like it. It's so unique and sets a kind of ideological, practical framework for the label.
These artists really set the stage and built the label’s foundation beyond Alex, Miguel, and I.
ET: So those are your first three choices?
NK: Yeah, but I’ll need to name more than five, or I'll upset everyone!
F1K's Prose: Aesthetically and sonically, it's a standout.
Then there's Bobby Flan and the Shawn O'Sullivan 7-inch, which were rhythmic and deeply significant.
Detail of die Reihe's 106 Kerry Chandler Chords
die Reihe's 106 Kerry Chandler Chords: That record is unbelievable. Jack took Kerry Chandler’s house chords and created something really unique with them. Jack had already been working on a series of records that we’d debated and talked about quite a bit. There was Trap Studies, and then another one, I think it’s called House Studies. Both were collages of music with an immediacy and edge, qualities that made them feel somewhat flippant and politically charged for the time.
But what Jack did with the Kerry Chandler chords was really beautiful. He took the house music concept, focusing specifically on Kerry Chandler's work, and treated it as a study. He went as far as hand-notating each chord and then had the SEM Ensemble—a chamber music group—play them back.
The record is a one-sided 12-inch in a hand-stamped disco sleeve. Each chord sits angularly with the others, played one at a time. And when it’s over, it’s just over. As a piece, I think it’s absolutely remarkable.
I think Saint Abdullah's In God's Image is an unbelievable piece of recorded material. It’s by Mohammed and Mehdi, two Iranian brothers who started out in Canada and later moved to New York. They were probably the people I knew the least before we worked on this album, but we sat down over tea (they don’t drink, and I thought that was pretty unique) and got to know each other.
They’re incredibly exploratory and open with their music. They initially sent me about nine gigs of jams—something like 15 hours of material! I didn’t get back to them for a month and a half, which understandably made them a bit mad. I had to explain, "You guys sent me so much music!"
The album we ended up with is a two-disc release that I think is phenomenal. While their other records are often more flowy and jazzy, I pushed them to make this one a bit more beat-driven and tough. It turned out to be an incredible album—truly amazing.
Then there's the Korean crew: Jiyoung Wi, Joyul, Yeong Die, and Bela. Their contributions have been incredibly important for the label and reflect another chapter of what we're doing.
Yeah, I guess these albums mark crucial chapters for the label and its evolution.
ET: How did you get involved with the Korean experimental music scene?
NK: It started pretty organically. Jiyoung Wi, followed me on Instagram, so I followed her back. She’s a writer, and through her posts and stories, I started to see what people like Bela, Yeong Die, and Joyul were doing in Korea. It struck me as really interesting—both contextually and sonically.
At some point, I was here in Berlin, and I messaged Wi. I suggested she curate a compilation of her friends doing music out there. This was during a period when PL felt very insular, almost hermetic. I had been in the Netherlands for three years at that point and was preparing to move to Berlin. It felt like the right time to expand, to try something different and see if it resonated.
She liked the idea, so we went ahead with the compilation. After that, Bela and Yeong Die came to Berlin on tour and played the first PL night at Arkaoda. Later, I had the opportunity to go to Korea through Montez Press Radio to organize a PL night there. It felt important to me to show up in person, to pay respect to them and say, “Hey, I’m not just some random American guy on the internet. ” We all performed together, and it was great.
Since then, I’ve stayed in touch with them. Joyul recently played a PL Night, and she’s a good example of what PL is about. She’s constantly evolving. For instance, she made a sort of experimental downer pop record where she’s playing guitar and singing beautifully, but at PL Night, she performed solo with a daxophone, ripping through a 40-minute experimental set.
PL creates a space where artists can try new things. There’s just enough visibility—enough eyes and followers—that people take it seriously. At the same time, they know I trust them to do whatever they want. That trust and freedom are what make it so rewarding for me.
[Above: performances at PL Nights—Anne Gillis; HMOT; Oren Ambarchi; Russell Haswell.]
ET: Another big part of PL is live events—PL Nights currently running in Berlin. Can you talk about that? How does that fit into the label?
NK: For me, it’s about the ritual of gathering people and creating a different version of reality. That idea might be up for debate, but it’s central to what I do. Performances have been the most consistent thing in my life since I was a kid. They’re non-negotiable for me, even though they bring a lot of stress. Despite that, they seem to matter enough to people to keep doing them.
I’ve been booking shows since I was 14, and now at 37, I can say that I’ve met every best friend, lover, and even enemy through this process. Shows are my second dysfunctional family, and they’re valuable to me.
I don’t limit myself to working with people on the label for the evenings. I also work with people whose work I respect and who might be doing something similar. A good example of this is how it all started. I tell people I didn’t even get paid to play a show until I was 27 or 28. That happened when I first came to Europe, where I made maybe $200 at a gig—and that felt incredible. It was also the first time I played with a subwoofer, even! This was very late in my life as a musician comparatively.
Organizing shows has always been there for me, connecting me with people globally through this network of events. Now, it feels like it clicks with people differently. I wouldn’t say I’m hyper-successful or anything—I’m not running a big, profitable operation. But being able to pay artists I respect a small fee that might make a difference in their lives that month is a huge deal.
Early on, I played in all kinds of settings—Mexican restaurants, basements with inches of water, you name it. These types of DIY tours just don’t happen as much anymore. Now, getting to do things at venues like the Volksbühne or larger clubs, it’s a different story.
I care less about the prestige of these spaces now. Earlier in my life, I would overthink every detail if we were doing something at a big-name venue. Now, it’s more about presenting what I do and seeing how the space adds a new dimension to the work. There’s something beautiful about putting something raw and incongruous into a formal setting—it creates an interesting tension.
In terms of the relationship between the label and live events, it is ouroboros—the shows inspire the label, and the label supports the shows. Keeping both alive creates more interesting and complex opportunities.
ET: With all these roles—artist, label founder, event organizer—what’s it like to balance everything?
NK: It’s definitely a balancing act. PL started as an extension of my artistic practice, so people often see me as either “NK the artist” or “NK the label guy.” The two roles can conflict with each other sometimes. I constantly have to remind myself and others that this is a DIY project, and not a commercial enterprise. It’s a lot of work, but the community and personal relationships make it worth it.
ET: What are some of the upcoming plans for Psychic Liberation (PL) that you’d like people to know about?
DOCUMENTO_UNO by Hugo Esquinca
NK: By the time this comes out in December, I’ll have released a few projects. For instance, this week, I’m releasing Hugo Esquinca’s first album. Hugo is a close friend and a brilliant artist who primarily works in sound but has never explored the album format until now. It’s an honor to release his work. The album includes a 15-minute extended remix by Russell Haswell on the CD. Russell and Hugo worked closely on this, so it’s a real family effort. Hugo personally hand-packaged all 100 CDs, wrapping them in black trash bags and individually stamping them. It’s more than just an album on CD—it’s an artwork edition, though people can still listen to it online.
Another release is by the artist Scant, aka Matt Boettke from the U.S., a pivotal figure in the drone, noise, and ambient scenes there. He used to run Thousands of Dead Gods (with Justin Lakes), a noise-focused label and noise-only store in New York for five years—an incredible feat. Matt played at the last PL Night, and his performance moved me to tears. With this new record, he’s pushed himself artistically quite a lot. These two releases are deeply rewarding for me because both Matt and Hugo are among my closest friends.
Looking forward, I’m hoping to fund and release several more projects, including albums by Nic Krog, and a collaboration between Kevin Drumm and Joachim Nordwall. These will likely come out between December and January, depending on funding.
ET: What about your own artistic projects? Are you working on any albums or performances?
NK: My focus has shifted a bit over the last year. I’m trying to secure funding to create an art school that spans several countries—Berlin, Paris, and Korea. We’ve already secured venues in Berlin and Korea, and Paris is in progress. It’s an ambitious project, but I’m optimistic about making it happen.
As for my own music, I haven’t released a solo album in a long time, but I have a few collaborative projects in the pipeline. For example, I recorded an album with Makoto Oshiro in Japan, and I’ve worked on another with Audrey Chen, which just needs a few final edits before its release.
When it comes to solo work, I’ve been more focused on performing again, which has been creatively reinvigorating. I’ve had breakthroughs in how I approach live performances, and now I’m figuring out how to translate that energy into a record. I’m thinking about experimenting with formats—maybe releasing an album as a box set or breaking it into three seven-inch records instead of a standard 12-inch. It’s all about staying excited and motivated, which can be challenging, but I feel good about where I’m heading.
ET: Anything else you'd like to note before we wrap up?
NK: I just want to take a moment to emphasize how profoundly important Lazaro Rodriguez was to the development of everything. His energy, humor, taste, and artistry were unparalleled. Lazaro had this incredible passion for nightlife, fashion, photography, drawing, and even the way he spoke—it all left a huge impression on me personally, and I know on Miguel as well.
His loss this year has been devastating. It’s hard to look back at PL without seeing how deeply he was woven into its fabric. He was such a crucial part of what PL has been. So, if I could ask for anything, it would be to acknowledge his influence and presence. At this point, I just feel like that needs to be said.
Check out Psychic Liberation (PL) on Bandcamp!
