Telegogue is the debut album by Floridian electronic producer and audiovisual artist Charlie Thall, and it arrives like a browser window possessed. Five years in the making, the record mutates incessantly, presenting itself as a 29‑minute continual hat trick: eleven tracks of cartoonishly surreal, compositionally deranged genre‑mashups shaped by the infinite remixing possibilities of the digital DIY. Released on Artetetra as a limited cassette and digital edition, with Thall’s own visuals on the J‑card, it stands as both music and media object - an artefact of a generation raised inside feeds, edits and endless re‑versions.

Self‑taught on keyboards and working largely alone, Thall channels the showmanship and flamboyant character of early prog acts like Yes and Genesis through the collage language and sample curation of contemporary electronic music. His frenetic keyboard playing and MIDI drumming convert overstimulating musical information into neurotic yet highly danceable earworms, turning dense harmonic modulations and rhythmic fake‑outs into club‑ready chaos. The pieces feel like tiny rock operas condensed into meme‑length, then exploded back out into full‑body rhythmic impact: crescendos, fake codas, sudden key changes and theatrical flourishes appear and vanish with cartoon timing.

Despite being clearly “terminally online,” Telegogue’s sound palette is rooted in a deep, foundational humanity. Voices of children are digitized, warped and stretched against body‑grinding rhythmic patterns, primal chants and toyish synthesizers, tapping into a universal language of play and repetition. The album seems to carry a collective remembrance of childhood - the way rhythm, pitch and nonsense syllables lodge themselves in the brain before formal language arrives. These traits of music, rooted in primordial cognition, give the record a strangely aspirational tone: sincere in spite of the toxically postmodern environment it’s assembled within, aware of the irony but still hunting for genuine affect.