Slow Dancing Society 'The Disappearing Collective Vol. II' [LP] (Pre-Order)

This is a pre-order. Ships mid-January.

160g Color LP
160g random color vinyl record housed in a 3mm semi-gloss jacket. Full color center labels. Rice paper innersleeve. Download code insert. Shrinkwrapped. Edition of 100.

160g Audiophile Black LP
160g black vinyl record housed in a matte jacket. Full color center labels. Black paper innersleeve. Shrinkwrapped. Pressed, manufactured, and assembled in Warsaw, Poland. Edition of 200.

Since taking on the Slow Dancing Society mantle in 2006, Pacific Northwest-based Drew Sullivan has issued more than two dozen collections built from radiant analog synthesis, treated guitars, and an intuitive sense of texture. The Disappearing Collective, Vol. I (PITP, 2020) was an essential expression of reverberating beauty pulled from the darkness of an uncertain era, and six years on, The Disappearing Collective, Vol. II (PITP, 2026) expands on that theme with the wisdom and resolve that have emerged since. “It started with considering where I was in my life back then,” Sullivan notes, “and a desire to reimagine that peculiar headspace, to play in its world again with a different perspective.”

“I Never Will Forget Those Nights” opens the album with a pensive hum and swirling synths over snow-tire ambience, as subtle chord changes mimic shifts in wind direction across a dormant field. There is a particular kind of nocturnal comfort here, not entirely of this world, but familiar in its warmth and welcoming pull. “A Light in the Window at Home” rises from a mysterious howl beneath angelic drones, each element in complementary contrast to the other, while the rumbling bass of “Ephemeris” underscores subtle tonal explorations, smeared across a clock face whose second hand ticks patiently in the background. The quiet power of these pieces illustrates a mastery of world-building through nuanced arrangement and wordless storytelling, each with its own peaks, valleys, and blind corners.

About the album title’s origins, Sullivan cites a line by slow-folk artist Matthew Ryan, who sings, “The things we love will one day disappear / First slow, and then so quick”. This simple, cutting notion applies at the personal scale, as well as the cosmic, and describes perfectly the complicated dance of honoring loss through memory while remaining receptive to the joys of the present. As much as ever, the job of the artist is to return us to ourselves, to tilt our gaze upward and offer a hand on the shoulder amid tender desolation.

On “Tenshi”, soft rain falls in veils behind a slow, crystalline keyboard theme that recalls the spacious, reverent beauty of Hiroshi Yoshimura. Quiet strings develop beneath panning pulses that feel like delicate Morse code messages filtering in from across the ether, conveying some nebulous message to those back home. Elsewhere, we hear blissed-out, shimmering synth arpeggiations, softly glitching fragments of melody, and other disarmingly organic forms built from a shapeshifting combination of guitar, keys, and software.

Closing track, “Blue Suburban Skies”, unfolds with understated momentum, driven by sparse percussion and an array of harmonic textures that recall the most heartbreaking and emotive parts of the legendary score to Twin Peaks. Halfway through, a rich string arrangement joins a cascade of synthesizers to perfectly summarize Sullivan’s wide-ranging skills and worlds of contrast. “I am always working on different projects, and have had a ‘Volume II’ folder for a while, growing as things presented themselves from various sessions,” Sullivan says. “Ultimately, the songs tell me where they want to go.”

All music written, arranged, performed, and produced by Slow Dancing Society. Mixed and mastered at SDS Studios by Drew Sullivan. Layout and design by zakè. Cut at WWM. Pressed at GGR. Marketed, distributed, and phonograph copyright: Past Inside the Present. Pressed, manufactured, and assembled in Cleveland, OH-US. © + ℗ 2026 Past Inside the Present. This is PITP72. pastinsidethepresent.com / pitp.us