Tvam returns with news of his new album, Ruins, which is due to be

released on 'Crystal Clear' vinyl on 27 February via Invada Records.

The follow-up to High Art Lite, Ruins is an album shaped by grief,

reflection, and transformation; a record that captures both the weight

of loss and the strange beauty that comes with it. Written after a

self-imposed break from songwriting, it represents a shift in focus

and perspective for Joseph Oxley. "I wanted to step away from what

I thought I was supposed to make," he explains. "The worst advice

anyone can give you is, 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it.' It's always broken.

It always needs fixing."

At it's core, Ruins explores loss not as emptiness but as presence,

something that reshapes the world around you. The album finds

Oxley wrestling with the dualities of human experience: the tension

between what's said and unsaid, between humanism and nihilism,

public and private, despair and acceptance. "Hope and despair don't

cancel each other out," he says. "They can co-exist - that's what makes

it feel real."

Somewhere within a lifetime of repeats, reruns, and reboots, Tvam

lives, crafting work that touches on our memories while toying with

our fears, creating a world in which broadcast becomes performance.

Since his debut album Psychic Data burst from a small bedroom

studio in Wigan, Tvam has defined the sound and spectacle of

nostalgia's grip on modern life, from the sloganeering of "Porsche

Majeure" to the electioneering of "Semantics," his music has gained

daytime playlisting on BBC 6 Music and has been featured on TV

including groundbreaking series Succession.

Musically, Ruins is expansive and immersive. Dark but magical, it is

filled with reverb-drenched synths, fractured textures and hammerblow snares. Guitars weave through the mix with a newfound

restraint, creating space for atmosphere and emotion to take centre

stage. "Broken reality" textures collide with driving rhythms, recalling

the cinematic pulse of Floodland-era The Sisters of Mercy, and the

melodic melancholy of Disintegration-era The Cure. The result is a

record that finds beauty in dissonance and light in the wreckage