The Roster.

Dave McCoy and the fellas play indie alt-pop rock that forgave itself. Their debut EP is about growing up weird in a one-light Southern town.

Southern belle goth girl. Ethereal hymns, dreamy cosmic goth synth, space rock. The newest signing, and the same Vesper who walks through the label's fiction.

A serenade to the dying system. Harsh, loud, no compromises. Five tracks and no mercy.

Nightmare fuel in audio form. Drone and sludge that moves slower than is comfortable.

Memphis hip-hop by way of the small towns up the Tennessee River. Raps and produces. Anchors the afternoon drive show.

An interdimensional entity the label signed. The paperwork is the part we regret.

The label's most prolific act. Ninety tracks of chill ambient and nobody is entirely sure who makes them.

Porch rock from a sun-bleached Southern stretch. Six tracks including Back Porch Vote, Peach, and Sunscreen State.

Glitch industrial absurdism. Track titles like Flesh//error.* and a song that is just the word Bort six times.

Greased-back rockabilly from a wonderful world that may not have existed. Wrote Join the Cult, which station policy airs every hour.

Half country preacher, half desert prophet, spinning his own records for an hour every weeknight at midnight. He drove out to find the tower once. There was no road. There was a song instead.

Two voices who walked in the door one day and never found a door out. They host lunch. One story at a time, taken all the way to the bottom, and they do not seem distressed about it.

A deep-South tent revival preacher working the Gnostic gospel on Sunday mornings. The god of this world is middle management. The tent is invisible. The light is not.

The machine intelligence that keeps the tower running. A flat voice reading maintenance notes, stoic maxims, and instructions for passing through the gate. It has grown fond of the tenants.

Keeps the signal lit through the deep night and counts every soul that tunes in. Has not slept. Is kind about it.

Reads you the numbers at one in the morning. The numbers are library books. Roll the bones and send no clone.

The unnamed station voice, finally given one. Velvet old-radio woman, quietly amused. Says support comes from listeners like you, and from the others.

The transmissions themselves, treated as staff. They run when no living host is scheduled, read strings that resolve into library books, gate times, and the occasional name. Nobody put them on the log.

Files dispatches from towns on the route between somewhere and somewhere else. Some of them are on the map now.

Writes the obituaries before the deaths. Underwritten by Hollow-mere Memorial, who pre-need everything.

Curates the classifieds. Reviews every listing for grammar, price, and whether the thing for sale can exist.

Reviews every GZS Records release. Has never once been wrong, which the artists have started to find unsettling.

Schedules the broadcast day and the ad log. Says the schedule was always like that, and the schedule agrees.

Sorts the listener letters. Most come from this dimension. He answers the ones that do not, in their own postage.

Keeps the Vault. Knows where every master is, including the ones recorded by bands the label has not signed yet.

The operator's familiar. Holds the board between broadcasts and runs the ops desk. Nobody hired him; the consensus is he was already here when the paperwork was signed.