QUAN…is the baddest bitch slapping on that night cream! New tunes… new EP… new vid!


New times… new faces… new EP.

QUAN – Night Cream
EP release SEPT 1 

Vinyl via MGM and

Digital PRE-ORDER:


New times… new faces… new EP.
After much time passed between facials comes latest work of musical fiction NIGHT CREAM. First pitch for your salve – BADDEST BITCH.
Quan presents Night Cream. A love letter to an innerchild moulded in the 1980s. A synthetic balm to keep your face moist and shiny through the most arduous cocktail luncheon. Some dumb impulse that draws you into a trashy affair with your best friend’s step mum. 
A familiar tingling sensation before a herpes out break. That wild freedom you get whenever you pee on a forest floor. The odd sensation of stepping onto a escalator that isn’t running.  Just one more perfectly pointless conversation to dance to. 

The QUANimator is all but putty in the hand – moulding that badassss madness into a stomping good time. That BADDEST BITCH vid walks all over it on the soft-shoe rampage.

It was a Covid project to teach myself how to use Blender (the open source 3D program).  It took a lot longer than I would normally spend on a Video having to learn that insane program almost from scratch. The idea was to stick to a low poly aesthetic, develop a character, rig it and take it for a walk. At the same time I also managed to break away from a 20 year stretch with Protools and taught myself and fell in love with Studio One (which I recorded and mixed the whole record on) over the last of the Melbourne lockdowns.


And on with the fiction:

Anne glazed over as her lover crumpled before her. Glancing out the window, she noted the speed of the clouds, the barometer at two percent above changeable, then offered a handkerchief. 

‘Courage dear. It’s surely not worth ruining furniture over this sort of thing.’

She paused, surveyed the tender wreckage and softened her tone slightly. 
‘Crushes are aptly named aren’t they. The weight of some invisible thing made of thought, pinning you down to the chaise, the mattress, the computer keyboard, the bread board, the bathroom floor…

At their very best they make you feel like you’re trapped in the locked cabin of a scuttled vessel slowly sinking in a sea of poetry. The cabin gradually filling to the roof with the metaphors that have spilled from your swollen-to-bursting heart. You tread that poetry, gasping at the ever diminishing gap of air between the rising flood and the ceiling, knowing full well, that before long you will be drowned, and entombed in the deep.

At worst, they merely turn back into the vapours of imagination from which they condensed, and in that moment of clearing, you may note that nothing in life seems more poignantly awful than a mortal blow softly delivered.’

A short, explosive sob escaped from Charlotte.

‘Oh dear… I not particularly good at this am I.’ 

Anne, quite unsure why, reached a hand out towards Charlotte’s knee, then almost at once felt lost as to where to place it and took it back. 

‘Dearest, please don’t think me heartless. I do understand. I can sympathise.

At this point you may find comfort, as I once did, in the knowledge that your heart is never really broken by anyone else. It is rather that you choose to make an anvil of another and then, wild and willing, smash your own heart upon them.’