Unter Null interview: ‘The anger is still feral, but it has learned how to aim’

Hearing Unter Null in 2026 means hearing two versions of Erica Dunham at once: the young woman who turned rage, grief and instinct into “Sick Fuck,” and the woman who can now look back at that fire without needing either to apologize for it or step back inside it.

When Erica Dunham released “Coming Up To Breathe” in April 2025, it ended more than a decade of release silence under the Unter Null name. “You Made A Monster” followed that July, and in June 2026 Alfa Matrix brought another part of the story back into circulation with “The Rise From Ruin (and the Ritual of Becoming)”, a double-CD revisiting material from the formative The Failure Epiphany period and other early releases.

For anyone who remembers Unter Null from the “Sick Fuck” era, there is something strange about hearing that material again now. The aggression is immediately recognizable, but the person standing behind it has accumulated another two decades of grief, survival, silence, motherhood, loss and rebuilding. The old songs have not changed; the consciousness looking back at them has. That tension runs throughout this conversation.

Dunham speaks with striking clarity about rage becoming something she can aim rather than simply explode inside, about distortion functioning simultaneously as armor and confession, about refusing to allow somebody else’s account of her life to become the official version, and about the long silence in which Unter Null had not disappeared so much as become temporarily unreachable. She also talks about Stray as another emotional nervous system, the literal destruction of her studio in the 2008 fire, being a woman inside an aggressively male-coded scene, and why reopening the past has very little to do with wanting to live there again.

For Erica, survival is no longer simply about making it through. It is about deciding what belongs to her after everything that tried to take pieces of her away.

Unter Null interview

Karo: When you look at the very young Erica who started Unter Null in 1998, and then at the woman who returned with “Coming Up To Breathe”, “You Made A Monster”, and now “The Rise From Ruin (and the Ritual of Becoming)”, do you feel continuity between them, or do you feel that Unter Null had to be broken apart and rebuilt by a different person?

Erica: I don’t think I was ever rebuilt by a different person, just a different version. Erica 2.0 and beyond, and I think I keep surviving just long enough to become more of myself, more authentic without apologies. The same passion and fire that started Unter Null in 1998 is still here, it never left. I’ve always written about grief, love, anger, longing, and trying to understand what it means to be human.

That part has never changed. What changed is the amount of life I’ve lived between then and now. I’ve lost people, and I’ve buried versions of myself that I thought would last forever. I’ve had to start over more times than I ever would have expected, but some things had to be broken apart completely so I could see what was actually worth carrying with me. I am a firm believer that everything happens for a reason, whether we see it at the time or not.

So, yea, I don’t feel disconnected from that younger version of myself. I love her and she deserves grace and compassion. She was fearless, chaotic, stubborn, and she created something honest with whatever tools she had at the time. But I also don’t romanticize her. She hadn’t yet realized the fires she would be walking through.

“Coming Up To Breathe,” “You Made A Monster,” and this re-release all come from a place of understanding that becoming is a lifelong process. You don’t rise back just once. You do it over and over again until it makes sense. Every loss, every mistake, and every act of survival leaves a mark.

I didn’t bring back Unter Null because I wanted to relive the past. I brought it back because there were still so many things left to say.

Karo: “The Rise From Ruin (and the Ritual of Becoming)” feels less like a standard reissue and more like a full-circle moment. The “Sick Fuck” era comes back, but you are no longer the same person who created it. What kind of circle does this release close for you, and what does it reopen?

Erica: I think it closes a circle with the version of myself who was creating from pure instinct. The Sick Fuck era was chaotic, ugly, emotional, but thoroughly honest. I was young, wild, without much direction, and writing music because I had an intense drive to do so- I didn’t have some grand plan, I was just pulling whatever was inside of me out into sound, whether it was rage, grief, desire, self-destruction, or the need to feel like I existed somewhere. Coming back to that material now is strange because I recognize my younger self completely, but I’m not survive without fully knowing that’s what I was doing. So in that way, this release closes the circle of shame I may have had around some of that early chaos. I don’t feel the need to distance myself from it.

I don’t feel the need to apologize for how intense, imperfect, or unpolished it was. That was my rocky foundation, unforgiving, but the making of who I am now. It also reopens the door to the parts of myself I thought I had buried. Not in a destructive way, but in a way that lets me look back and say, “You made it! I’m still here.” However, this re-issue isn’t about living in the past. It’s about honoring the fact that the past survived me (ha), and I survived it too.

Karo: I remember you from the “Sick Fuck” era, including those earlier visits in Poland, and listening to this material now feels strange in the best possible way. It is the same voice, but it does not feel like the same girl speaking anymore. It feels like a woman looking back at her own fire. When you hear those songs now, do you recognize yourself immediately, or do you hear someone you had to survive becoming?

Erica: I recognize myself immediately, but I feel detached in some ways, almost like it was another lifetime. There are moments in many of those songs where I can hear exactly who I was at the time of writing. I can hear the anger, the ferocious hunger, the lack of fear, the chaos, and the need to purge something out of myself and make it real. I don’t listen to it and feel disconnected from my younger self. I know her now, and I understand her, which is all she needed, but I also hear someone who had no idea what was coming. I can hear the beginning of survival in those songs before I even knew what survival was going to cost me. I hear someone becoming, but not yet understanding the price of becoming. I hear someone playing with fire before knowing how badly it would burn.

So yes, it is the same voice, but it carries differently now. Back then, it was instinct. Now, there is memory behind it. There is grief behind it. There are teeth of steel, but also a lot more clarity. I don’t think I had to survive becoming who I am- I think I had to survive everything that tried to take her from me. When I hear those songs now, I don’t feel ashamed of the chaos. I feel protective of it. That fire was real, and I’m grateful it never fully went out, it just transformed.

Karo: The title joins two very different ideas: ruin and becoming. Ruin suggests destruction, while ritual suggests transformation, repetition and meaning. Was revisiting this early material emotionally difficult, or did it feel like taking control of a story that had been waiting for you?

Erica: It was both. Revisiting this material was emotionally difficult in ways I didn’t fully expect. Not because I’m ashamed of it, but because old work has a way of dragging old versions of you back into the room. You remember what your voice sounded like before certain losses. You remember what anger felt like before it became grief. You remember who you were before life took a sledgehammer to everything – but it also felt like taking control of something that had been waiting for me. Ruin and becoming have always been connected for me. I don’t think transformation happens in some clean, beautiful, peaceful way most of the time. Sometimes it starts in the wreckage. Sometimes you don’t get to choose the fire, but you do get to choose what you build from the ashes. That’s what this release feels like to me. It isn’t just looking backward. It’s returning to the scene with a different kind of strength. I can hear the damage, but I can also hear the beginning of something that refused to die (which would be me). So yes, it felt necessary, like putting my hands on an old wound and realizing it doesn’t dictate my life anymore.

Karo: “Coming Up To Breathe” felt less like a comeback single in the usual sense and more like the first moment after a long submersion. What exactly were you coming up from? Artistic silence, personal exhaustion, trauma, survival, motherhood, disillusionment, or something harder to name?

Erica: I was coming up from all of it. Artistic silence, personal exhaustion, trauma, grief, survival, disillusionment. All of those things were tangled together. I don’t think there was one clean, singular reason I disappeared or went quiet. Life just kept piling on until I didn’t recognize the surface anymore. I was coming out of years of being in survival mode; from losing parts of myself I thought were permanent, from carrying more than I knew how to carry, from being so emotionally and physically exhausted that creating didn’t feel possible for a long time. There also is the harder-to-name part: that moment when you realize you have been underwater for so long that you forgot what breathing even felt like beyond short gasps of air. “Coming Up To Breathe” wasn’t written as a polished comeback statement. It was more like proof of life. It was the sound of me breaking the surface after being submerged in so many things that had tried to bury and silence me. It wasn’t triumphant in some clean, cinematic way. It was messy. It was human. It was the first inhale after a long period of slowly drowning quietly.

Karo: A lot of Unter Null’s music has always dealt with survival, but survival can mean very different things. Sometimes it means staying alive. Sometimes it means keeping your voice. Sometimes it means refusing to let someone else’s version of events become the official story. When you write now, what kind of survival are you writing from?

Erica: I think I now write from the type of survival that comes after staying alive. There is the immediate kind of survival where you are just trying to make it through the day, through the night, through the next hour, through whatever is happening without completely disappearing inside of it, and I know that version very well. The type of survival I write from now is very different- it is the aftermath of pure emotional exsanguination. It is what happens when you are still here, but you have to figure out what parts of you made it through and what parts need to be rebuilt from nothing.

I write from the survival of keeping my voice, of not feeling that I have to shrink anymore to keep the peace, of not letting someone else’s version of me become the truth, of refusing to let the worst things that happened to me be the only things that define me. There is a lot of anger in that, but there is also clarity. I am not necessarily writing as a wounded version of myself anymore, I am writing from the scars that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. So, when I write now, it is still about survival, but it is also about ownership. I am not asking for permission to tell my story, I am simply taking my power back.

Karo: In your earlier work, anger often felt explosive, almost feral, as if the only honest language was attack. In the newer songs, the anger feels more precise, more conscious, more controlled. Has your relationship with rage changed over the years?

Erica: Oh, for sure. Absolutely. When I was younger, rage was immediate- it was reflexive. It was the only language I had for things I didn’t know how to process yet. A lot of the earlier material came from that place where the feeling hits and you just throw it against the wall as hard as you can. There was honesty in that, but there was also a lack of distance from it. I was inside the fire. My relationship with rage has definitely changed. I don’t think I’m less angry now. I think I understand my anger better. I know where it lives in my body. I know what it is protecting. I know when it is useful, and I know when it is just trying to keep me from falling apart.

The newer songs still have teeth, but the bite is different. It’s more deliberate. I don’t need to burn the whole room down just to prove that I was hurt. I can point directly at the thing. I can name it. I can turn it into something controlled, focused, and still very dangerous. Rage is not something I want to erase from Unter Null. It belongs there. It has always belonged there. But now it feels less like an explosion and more like a weapon I actually know how to hold. I think that is the difference. The anger is still feral, but it has learned how to aim.

Karo: “You Made A Monster” is such a powerful title because it shifts responsibility. It does not say, “I became this by accident.” It says, “Look at what was done, look at what was enabled, look at what you helped create.” Was that song written as a personal exorcism, a confrontation, or a document of something many people silently recognize?

Erica: I think it was all three. “You Made A Monster” was definitely personal. It came from that place where you finally stop absorbing everything and start handing it back. There is a moment when you realize you have been carrying the weight of someone else’s damage, someone else’s choices, someone else’s cruelty, and somehow you are the one expected to stay soft, quiet, graceful, and forgiving. That song is me saying no. It is an exorcism because I needed to get it out of my body. It is a confrontation because I wanted to point directly at the source and say, “You don’t get to act surprised by what I became after what you did.” But I also think a lot of people recognize that feeling.

That moment where you are no longer willing to be the only one held responsible for how you survived. I don’t mean “monster” as something evil. I mean it as something altered. Something created under pressure. Something that grew teeth because it had to. It is not about avoiding accountability for myself. It is about refusing to carry everyone else’s. There is power in saying: I did not become this in a vacuum. I was shaped by love, loss, betrayal, survival, and the things people thought I would never say out loud. And now I am saying them.

Karo: The early Unter Null material returns after “Coming Up To Breathe” and “You Made A Monster”, which changes how we hear it. Do you feel the new songs explain the old ones in any way, or do they complicate them?

Erica: I think the new songs complicate the old ones more than they explain them. I don’t really want to explain the early material too neatly. Those songs came from a very specific place in time, and part of their power is that they are messy, instinctive, and unresolved. I don’t want to go back now and clean them up with adult language just to make them easier to understand. But I do think the newer songs change the way the old ones are heard. “Coming Up To Breathe” and “You Made A Monster” come from someone who has lived long enough to understand the patterns more clearly. The early songs were me inside the fire. The newer songs are me standing in the aftermath, looking at what burned, what survived, and what I refuse to lose again. So no, I don’t think the new songs explain the old ones like an answer key. They give them more context. They show that the rage, the grief, the chaos, and the survival were not separate phases. They were part of the same long thread. The old songs were the warning signs, the wounds, the instinct. The new songs are the scar tissue, the language, and the refusal to disappear. So maybe they don’t explain the past. They prove I made it through it.

Karo: The voice in Unter Null is still distorted, still violent in texture, but in the new material it feels emotionally clearer. Do you feel that distortion protects the truth, exposes it, or allows you to say things that would be unbearable in a clean voice?

Erica: I think distortion does all of those things. It protects the truth, but it also exposes it. There are certain things I can say through distortion that would feel almost too naked in a clean voice. Not because the clean voice is weaker, but because some emotions don’t feel clean when they come out of you. Some things are jagged. Some things are ugly. Some things need to sound like they clawed their way through your chest to get into the room. Distortion gives me a place to put the violence of the feeling. It lets the voice become something more than just a human voice. It becomes armor, static, teeth, machinery, grief, panic, rage — all of it layered together. And sometimes that is the only honest way to deliver something. If I’m writing about survival, betrayal, dependency, anger, or the parts of myself that are hardest to look at, a clean voice doesn’t always feel truthful enough. But I also think the emotional clarity comes from knowing what I’m saying now. I’m not hiding behind the distortion. I’m using it as part of the language. The newer material feels clearer because I understand the source of the feeling more than I used to. So yes, distortion protects me. But it also tells on me.

Karo: “The Rise From Ruin” brings back “The Failure Epiphany”, “Sick Fuck”, and material from “Sacrament” and “Absolution”. How does it feel to reopen that specific period from this distance? Do those songs still feel like yours, or do they feel like preserved evidence from another life?

Erica: It feels like opening a box I buried a long time ago and realizing everything inside still has a pulse. Those songs still feel like mine, but they also feel like evidence. They are pieces of a life I lived, a mind I had, a body I was in, and emotions I didn’t always know how to survive. I can hear who I was in them so clearly. I can hear the chaos, the instinct, the damage, the defiance, the hunger to create something that felt real. But from this distance, I don’t hear them the same way anymore. When I was making that material, I was just inside it. I wasn’t thinking about what it would mean decades later. I wasn’t thinking about legacy or revisiting it or having to explain it.

I was just making sound out of whatever was eating me alive at the time. Now, reopening that period feels less like returning to it and more like witnessing it. I can hold it differently. I can respect it without being consumed by it. I can see the beauty in the ugliness and the strength underneath the chaos. So yes, they are still mine. Completely. But they are also preserved evidence of someone trying to become, even when she had no idea what she was becoming. And I think that is what makes this release feel so strange and powerful to me. It is not just nostalgia. It is proof that something survived.

Karo: “Sick Fuck” became one of those tracks people remember almost physically: club impact, aggression, shock, adrenaline. But when a song becomes an anthem, it can also flatten the person behind it into one image. Did you ever feel trapped by that song, or by the version of Erica people projected onto it?

Erica: Yea, I think I did feel trapped by it at certain points. “Sick Fuck” became bigger than I ever expected it to become. I understand why people connected to it the way they did. It has that immediate impact. It is aggressive, ugly, confrontational, and it hits the body before the brain has time to catch up. I’m grateful that it had that life. But when a song becomes that recognizable, people sometimes start treating it like the entire definition of who you are. They see the aggression, the shock, the distortion, the title, and they build a version of you around it. And that version can be very flat. I was never just that song. I was never just rage, or provocation, or violence in a club track.

was always vulnerability underneath it. There was always grief underneath it. There was always a human being trying to turn something unbearable into sound. So yes, I think I pushed against being reduced to that one image. But I also don’t reject the song. I don’t look at it like something I need to escape from. It was honest. It came from me. It still belongs to me. The difference now is that I can hold it without letting it define the entire room. “Sick Fuck” is part of the story, but it is not the whole story. It is one huge scream from a much larger body of work.

Karo: Unter Null emerged in a scene that was often aggressive, male-coded, confrontational, and not always generous to women who sounded angrier than people expected them to be. Did you feel you had to become harder, louder, or more extreme to be heard, or was that intensity simply your natural language?

Erica: I think intensity was always my natural language. I feel loudly. I don’t think I sat down and decided I needed to become harder or louder to survive in a male-coded scene. I was already angry and emotional. I was already drawn to violent sound, distortion, confrontation, and the kind of music that felt like it could rip something open. But I also think being a woman in that space meant people read that intensity differently. When men are aggressive, it is often treated as power, confidence, or authority. When women are aggressive, people want to explain it, soften it, sexualize it, or turn it into some kind of novelty. I was never interested in being a novelty.

wasn’t there to be the “angry girl” in the room. I was there because that sound was mine. So no, I don’t think I became extreme just to be heard. But I do think I refused to become smaller so people could feel more comfortable with me. The intensity was real. The anger was real. The damage was real. The need to make something beautiful and ugly at the same time was real. If anything, Unter Null gave me permission to stop translating myself into something easier to digest.

Karo: The “Sick Fuck”, “Sacrament” and “Absolution” period almost reads like a dark religious sequence: sickness, ritual, confession, punishment, release. Was that language accidental at the time, or were you already building a kind of personal mythology around damage and cleansing?

Erica: I don’t think it was fully conscious at the time, but I also don’t think it was accidental. I’ve always been drawn to language that feels ceremonial, violent, sacred, and ruined all at once. Words like sacrament and absolution carry weight. They imply guilt, cleansing, punishment, forgiveness, devotion, and the need to be released from something. Looking back, I can see that I was building my own kind of mythology around damage before I even had the language to explain it. At the time, I was probably just following instinct. I liked the ugliness. I liked the contradiction of something sacred being dragged through something filthy. That tension made sense to me. It still does.

think a lot of Unter Null has always lived in that space between confession and exorcism. There is shame there. There is rage there. There is a need to purge something from the body and turn it into sound before it poisons you. So no, I wasn’t sitting there with some perfectly formed concept. But I do think I was already circling the same themes that still haunt the work now: damage, survival, ritual, guilt, transformation, and the strange kind of cleansing that can happen when you finally say the ugly thing out loud. Maybe I didn’t know I was building a mythology then. Maybe I was just trying to survive the one I was already living inside.

Karo: You have Stray as another part of your artistic identity, and that project has often seemed like the aftermath of impact rather than the impact itself: sadness after rage, reflection after damage, breath after violence. How do you now understand the relationship between Unter Null and Stray?

Erica: I’ve started to understand Unter Null and Stray as two different nervous systems in the same body. Unter Null is the impact. It is the violence, the confrontation, the thing that happens when the feeling is too big to come out gently. It is rage with machinery around it. It is the scream, the static, the teeth, the part of me that refuses to be quiet. Stray is what happens after. Stray has always felt more exposed to me. It is less armor and more bruising. It is sadness after the adrenaline wears off. It is reflection, longing, grief, tenderness, and the strange quiet that comes after you survive something and don’t know what to do with your hands.

don’t see them as separate identities as much as different ways my body processes emotion. Unter Null fights. Stray mourns. Unter Null spits blood. Stray sits with the stain and tries to understand what happened. They both come from the same place. They just speak in different temperatures. And honestly, I think I need both. I need the violence and I need the breath after the violence. I need the weapon and I need the wound. They explain each other in ways I’m still figuring out.

Karo: There is a long silence between “Moving On” and the new Unter Null material. Silence is often described as absence, but sometimes it is full of work nobody sees. What was happening inside that silence? Did you stop being Unter Null during those years, or was Unter Null waiting somewhere under the surface?

Erica: I don’t think I ever stopped being Unter Null. I think I just stopped being able to reach that part of myself for a while. That silence was not empty. It was full of life happening very loudly behind the scenes. Grief, caregiving, loss, survival, burnout, trying to hold everything together, trying to be a functioning human being when a lot of me was falling apart. There were years where music felt very far away, not because I didn’t love it anymore, but because I didn’t have enough of myself left to give to it. I think people see silence from the outside and assume nothing is happening. But sometimes silence is where the heaviest work is happening. it is where you are breaking down.

Sometimes it is where you are learning how to stay alive. Sometimes it is where you are being stripped down to whatever is actually real. Unter Null was still under the surface. I just couldn’t hear it clearly for a long time. And maybe it needed to be quiet. Maybe I needed to live more, lose more, survive more, and become someone who could return to it with a different kind of honesty. So no, I don’t see those years as absence. I see them as the space where the next version of me was being formed, even when I didn’t know it yet.

Karo: After the studio fire in 2008, part of the story around Unter Null became literal loss: equipment, recordings, physical tools, the material body of music. Did that event change your relationship with control, memory, and the idea that art can be destroyed but still somehow return?

Erica: Yea, absolutely. The fire changed my relationship with control in a very real way. When you lose equipment, recordings, files, tools, and the physical things that helped you make the work, it forces you to understand how fragile all of it really is. You think you have things preserved because they exist somewhere outside of you, and then suddenly they are gone. That kind of loss is brutal because it is not just “stuff.” It is time. It is memory. It is versions of songs. It is unfinished ideas. It is pieces of a life and a creative process that you can’t fully recreate. But it also taught me that art doesn’t only live in objects. The machines can burn. The files can disappear. The room can be destroyed.

But if something was real enough, some part of it stays in you. It changes shape. It waits. It comes back through a different door. I think that fire became part of the mythology of Unter Null in a way I couldn’t have planned. There is something almost too literal about it: ruin, loss, destruction, and then years later, the work finds its way back into the world anyway. It definitely made me less trusting of control, but maybe more trusting of return. Some things are destroyed, some things are transformed, and inevitably there will be things that haunt you until you are ready to rebuild them.

Karo: You returned not only with new music, but with a sense of purpose. The new Unter Null does not feel nostalgic, even when the old catalogue is being revisited. What did you refuse to bring back from the past, and what did you know had to remain untouched?

Erica: I refuse to bring back anything that feels like performance for the sake of being extreme. The anger, the honesty, the distortion, those things have to remain untouched because they are the core of Unter Null. But I don’t want to drag the past forward just to recreate it. I’m not interested in nostalgia or trying to sound like a younger version of myself. What had to remain was the truth of it. The emotional violence, the melody, the vulnerability under the noise, the refusal to be quiet. What I refuse to bring back is the need to prove anything.

Karo: You have classical training, and even in the harshest Unter Null material there is often a hidden sense of structure beneath the violence. How much of your writing is instinct, and how much is architecture? Do you build chaos, or do you discover order inside it?

Erica: It’s a combination of instinct and architecture. The emotional part usually comes first. I follow the feeling, the melody, the tension, and whatever hits my nervous system before I fully understand it. But the classical training is always underneath, whether I’m thinking about it or not. It gives the chaos a spine. I don’t think I build chaos just to be chaotic. I’m usually trying to find the shape inside it. Even the harshest material has to move, breathe, and resolve in some way. So maybe I discover the disorder first, and then I build a structure strong enough to hold it.

Karo: In 2026, many artists are speaking more openly about burnout, survival, mental health, and the cost of keeping a creative identity alive over decades. What does it cost you now to write honestly? And has that cost changed since the early Unter Null years?

Erica: It costs me less now because I’m not afraid of my truth as I’ve grown older. Early on, I think brute honesty came out like a reflex, but now it comes with aim. I know what I’m saying, I know why I’m saying it, and I’m not interested in softening it for anyone. The cost is vulnerability, but the reward is power..

Karo: If “The Failure Epiphany” captured Unter Null as rupture, “Coming Up To Breathe” captured the first breath after silence, and “The Rise From Ruin” captures the ritual of becoming, what kind of emotional place is the next Unter Null chapter coming from?

Erica: The next chapter is coming from the part of me they couldn’t take. It’s still rage, grief, and survival, but now it’s sharpened by clarity. Some people will empty the room, steal the furniture, and then swear you burned the house down. I’m not living inside their version of the story anymore. This next chapter is feral, focused, and very much alive.

About Unter Null

Unter Null is the solo project of Erica Dunham, launched in 1998 in Seattle, Washington, when Dunham was 17. Classically trained in piano, cello and guitar, she began writing under the name as a powernoise-leaning project influenced by artists including Noisex, Converter and P.A.L. A self-titled debut album followed in 2001, and in 2002 she signed to Leech and NTT/Annihilvs Records for the web-exclusive second album, “Neocide.”

In 2005, Dunham signed to Belgian label Alfa Matrix. Her debut for the label, “The Failure Epiphany,” peaked at number four on the German Alternative Charts (DAC) and ranked 43rd on the DAC’s albums of the year for 2006; that same year, the “Sacrament” EP reached number six on the DAC singles chart. The “Sick Fuck” and “Absolution” EPs followed from the same period, cementing Unter Null’s confrontational, distortion-heavy sound within the mid-2000s EBM and aggrotech scene. Unter Null toured the United States and Europe in support of the material, including a short 2005 run and a longer European tour in 2006.

In early 2008, Dunham launched a side project, Stray, releasing a self-titled two-CD album with contributions from Mothboy, Detritus and Testube, among others. On December 25, 2008, a fire destroyed the studio housing her musical, recording and electronic equipment; her next album, “Moving On,” was feared lost but was ultimately recovered from a damaged hard drive and released. In 2012, Dunham relocated to Hamburg, Germany.

A long period of reduced activity followed. Unter Null resurfaced in January 2025 with news that Dunham was back in the studio, followed in March by a collaboration, “Hollow,” with Frontal Boundary. In April 2025, Unter Null released the free download single “Coming Up To Breathe,” its first new material in over a decade, followed that July by the EPCD “You Made A Monster” on Alfa Matrix. In September 2025, Unter Null headlined Das Bunker’s 29th anniversary show at Catch One. In April 2026, Alfa Matrix announced “The Rise From Ruin (and the Ritual of Becoming),” a limited double-CD compiling “The Failure Epiphany” era alongside the “Sick Fuck,” “Sacrament” and “Absolution” EPs and remixes by Noisuf-X vs. X-Fusion, Manufactura, T3chnophobia, Aslan Faction, Grendel, KiEw, Terrorfakt and C-Drone-Defect; the collection was released on June 26, 2026.

Erica Dunham speaks about all of it in the interview above: the two decades between “Sick Fuck” and “The Rise From Ruin,” the 2008 fire, the long silence after “Moving On,” and what the next Unter Null chapter is coming from.