The Sabres Of Paradise - Sabresonic (2LP)

Some albums feel like rooms you can walk into. Sabresonic is one of those spaces. Released in 1993 on Warp Records, the debut from The Sabres of Paradise captures Andrew Weatherall at a pivotal moment, channelling post‑rave energy into something slower, deeper and far more hypnotic. With Gary Burns and Jagz Kooner beside him, Weatherall builds a world of smoked‑out dub, rolling techno and ambient hush that still sounds startlingly fresh. You can hear the DJ in every decision, but you can also hear the engineer, the crate digger and the devoted listener.

There’s a mythic aura around this era for good reason. Weatherall had already helped twist rock and dance together on Primal Scream’s Screamadelica, and he brought that same taste for space and texture here. The trio weren’t chasing chart moments so much as creating a mood that would sit right at 3 am, when the crowd has settled into its stride. That makes Sabresonic a proper album album, geared to long arcs and careful dynamics. Basslines arrive like fog rolling off the sea. Percussion taps and shuffles rather than shouts. Synths smear and bloom, then recede, like lights reflecting on wet asphalt.

Everyone knows Smokebelch II, and for good reason. The track is the album’s emotional anchor, and its Beatless mix became a chill‑out staple that turned up in countless backrooms and sunrise sets. Hearing it in the flow of Sabresonic is something else though. Weatherall, Burns and Kooner set it up with such patience that when those chords finally spill out, it lands with a kind of earned relief. It’s not just a blissed‑out interlude. It’s the payoff for all the simmering tension that precedes it.

The production feels tactile. Dub techniques are baked into the architecture rather than sprinkled on top. Echo curls off hi‑hats. Kicks are weighty but not crude. You can tell this was built by people who understood how sound behaves on a big system and in small rooms. That’s no surprise if you know the London club nights that gave the project its name. The Sabresonic parties were famed for their atmosphere and their breadth, and the album carries that same invitation to linger. You don’t rush this record. You let it breathe.

What keeps Sabresonic compelling today is its restraint. Plenty of early‑90s dance albums went for maximal chaos. The Sabres of Paradise doubled down on negative space and groove. You hear the patience of career DJs who trust the floor. Tiny details keep the momentum: a handclap that drags a fraction late, a filter sweep that lifts the whole room by an inch, a bass figure that repeats just long enough to become meditative. It’s not minimal in the clinical sense. It’s minimal like a good dub record, where the arrangement is a living thing and silence is part of the rhythm.

If you came to Weatherall through later projects, or even via his storied remixes, Sabresonic connects the dots. The pieces he loved are all here, from sound‑system pressure to Balearic drift, but arranged with a craftsman’s calm. It also set up the darker, more cinematic sweep of Haunted Dancehall the following year. Taken together, those albums mark one of the great runs on Warp, proof that the label’s legacy isn’t just IDM headspace but body music with soul and grit.

Collectors have long prized this one, and with good reason. Sabresonic vinyl carries the music with the scale it deserves, letting the low end move air in a way streaming rarely does. If you’re crate digging, keep an eye out for early UK pressings, but any clean copy will do the trick. The Sabres of Paradise vinyl always moves quickly in a decent Melbourne record store, and it’s easy to see why. You put it on and the room changes temperature. If you’d rather buy The Sabres of Paradise records online, there are reputable shops that ship across the country, which is a blessing when you’re hunting hard to find vinyl records Australia wide. For anyone building a collection that makes sense after midnight, The Sabres of Paradise albums on vinyl are near essential, and Sabresonic sits at the front of that queue.

Three decades on, this isn’t a museum piece. It still works on a system, still sets a tone in a living room, still sounds generous and a bit mysterious. Sabresonic is the rare dance LP that rewards close listening without losing the gut pull that brought us all to this music in the first place. It’s a room worth walking into, again and again.