Derrick Stembridge’s Fading Into What Remains emerges as both a sonic balm and a philosophical probe into what still lingers beneath the noise.
Released on January 24, 2025, via his own imprint, Labile Records, Fading Into What Remains is an ambient/electronic masterwork that drifts between organic stillness and digital entropy. Known for his emotionally resonant soundscapes as Drifting in Silence and Long The Night, Stembridge steps into his own name here, building a 12-track meditation on identity erosion, quiet transformation, and the slow reconstruction of the self in a digital-heavy world.
The album opens with “Automated Dreams,” a gentle fog of ambient textures and softened glitch that immediately places the listener in an uncanny, subconscious space—familiar yet foreign. From there, the journey deepens. “Algorithm of the Soul” pulses with introspective drive, balancing melodic complexity with a meditative core, while “Memories Left Behind” floats like a vapor trail from a half-remembered dream—equal parts nostalgia and surrender.
Stembridge isn't just layering textures here—he's tracing psychological arcs. The emotional centerpiece, “Endless Cycle of Puzzled Patterns,” features longtime collaborator Mike Petruna (aka DJ Acidgrin), capturing the disorienting repetition of unresolved thoughts and emotions through hypnotic loops and subtle tension.
He even reimagines the past through a futurist lens with a cinematic ambient reinterpretation of Mike + The Mechanics’ classic “Silent Running,” rendered here as a ghostly, immersive experience under the Drifting in Silence alias. It’s one of the album’s boldest moves—taking something historically emotive and filtering it through the detachment and decay of modern digital memory.
But it’s the title track, “Fading Into What Remains,” and the closer “Full Circle” that quietly deliver the most impact. Without grandeur or climax, these final pieces offer resolution through reflection—a musical echo of rebuilding, of piecing oneself back together in a world where data is permanent, but emotion is slippery.
“With Fading Into What Remains, I wanted to explore what’s left of us as we move through the noise of memory, emotion, and machine logic,” Stembridge shares. “If someone listens and finds a quiet moment of reflection or hears something they’ve never felt before, then I’ve done my job.”
And he certainly has. The album doesn’t demand your attention—it invites it patiently. It’s the type of work that lingers long after listening, revealing new meanings with each return. You don’t just hear Fading Into What Remains—you inhabit it.
Fading Into What Remains explores the quiet erosion and reconstruction of identity in the digital age. What was the personal or emotional catalyst that sparked this concept for you?
This album came from a personal tension—not a rejection of technology or AI, but a curiosity about how these tools reshape our inner lives. We've reached a point where the line between human intention and machine assistance is nearly invisible. From how we communicate to how we create, these systems are not just supporting us; they're becoming a part of us. And I find that both fascinating and deeply human. I've always believed in embracing technology in my process. Whether it's modular synthesis, generative patterns, or AI-assisted tools, I see them as collaborators rather than intrusions. But even in that embrace, I asked: When so much of our experience is mediated by machines, what remains distinctly us? What's the residue of the soul once the digital layers are peeled back? Fading Into What Remains explores that space not in fear but in reflection. I used electronic textures, programmed loops, and synthetic movement to represent the digital presence in our lives. Still, I wove in organic instruments like the Native American flute to ground the work in something elemental. That contrast became the language of the album. The flute, in particular, carries breath, ancestry, and memory, and it's almost the opposite of code. But placing it within these technological environments didn't feel like conflict; it felt like harmony. I wanted the record to explore how these seemingly opposing forces can coexist to create something more profound, layered, and honest. The title is less about mourning what's lost and more about identifying what continues to matter even as we evolve into new hybrids of biology, machines, feelings, and functions. It's about finding the pulse that's still beating underneath the automation.
Your work often blurs the line between music and visual art. How do you approach sound design with a visual mindset, and how did that influence the textures on this album?
For me, sound and image have always been connected. Before I hit record, I usually have a visual world in my head—fragments of light, architecture, and decay. I write songs and sculpt environments. Every track begins with a mood board of mental imagery: artificial skylines, blurred security footage, and underwater cities. For Fading Into What Remains, the dominant visuals were muted and abstract, often rooted in impermanence—glitches in perception, remnants of memory, signals fading into static. Sound design becomes about translating those visuals into motion and texture. I'd work with wide, stretched synths to simulate distance and time. I used filters that slowly open or dissolve to give the sensation of emergence or erosion. Reverbs weren't just affected; they became spaces: abandoned rooms, wind tunnels, and empty fields lit by screens. Every click or breath was treated like a beam of light or a shadow on the wall. The Native American flute was like introducing a sudden, fragile figure into that landscape: a human. So when people say this album feels "visual," I think it's because I never approached it like music in the traditional sense. I approached it like a moving installation—like walking through a sound that changes shape as you move closer.
"Silent Running" stands out as a reinterpretation of a classic track through an ambient lens. What drew you to revisit that specific song, and how did you approach reimagining it for this project?
There's a haunting quality to "Silent Running" that I've carried with me for years. It's a song that feels suspended in time—both urgent and restrained, full of emotion but delivered with such subtlety. When I started working on Fading Into What Remains, that melody resurfaced in my mind—not as a song to cover but as a feeling I wanted to explore again, differently. Rather than recreate it, I decided to erase everything recognizable, with no lyrics or hooks, until I was left with its emotional skeleton. I let the melody unravel, slowing it to near unrecognizability. I wanted it to feel like a transmission drifting for decades and barely reaching us. The instrumentation is minimal, almost weightless. It's more about tone than narrative. There's a stillness in the track that fits with the album's more prominent theme of messages lost or distorted in time, of memory interacting with a machine. In a way, my version of "Silent Running" is less a reinterpretation and more a form of ambient archaeology. It's what remains of the song when everything else has been stripped away, just a shimmer, a pulse, and a shadow. And that fits perfectly within an album about what's left behind.
You've built Labile Records into a home for experimental and ambient artists. How does having complete creative control through your label shape how you produce albums like this?
I founded Labile Records as a platform to support artists working in the spaces between ambient and industrial, memory and abstraction, and across the full spectrum of electronic music. It was never about chasing trends or fitting into rigid categories. It was about creating a space where experimentation could thrive and where artists could fully explore their ideas without explanation or constraint. By maintaining complete control over the creative, visual, and distribution process, I've given each project—including Fading Into What Remains—the time and attention it deserves. This album couldn't have come together under someone else's timeline or marketing checklist. There was no pressure to cut tracks short, no push to add vocals or polish the imperfections. I allowed the music to evolve slowly, repeat, glitch, and drift—because sometimes, that's where the truth of the sound reveals itself. Labile is more than just a label—it's a home for those exploring sound as language, emotion, and architecture. We're not interested in building hits. We're creating experiences. Being part of this creative ecosystem—one where vulnerability and experimentation aren't just allowed but encouraged—continues to inspire and shape everything I do.
This album has a deep psychological arc, from disorientation to quiet acceptance. When you consider the listener's journey, what emotional state do you hope they reach by the time "Full Circle" closes?
What'sWhat's next for you?
I just released a new Long The Night album called A Distant Place and Time. It dives deeper into the dark ambient world—more textural, shadowed, and internal. It focuses less on resolution and more on creating spaces where listeners can disappear for a while.
That project has always been my place to explore the quieter, more haunted edges of sound. At the same time, I'm working on a solo album that returns to something more acoustic. There's a vulnerability in returning to real instruments, string, wood, and breath. This new record will pull from earlier stages of my career but filter through everything I've learned since—so it's not nostalgic but reflective—a reclamation of analog emotion.
There's also a new Drifting In Silence release in the works for later this year—something more cinematic, widescreen, and emotionally expansive. Beyond that, I continue working closely with Labile Records artists, pushing boundaries through voice, field recordings, and generative systems. We're all exploring how sound can evolve without losing its humanity. That's where I want to stay creatively—on the edge where vulnerability meets innovation, and silence says as much as sound.