jAishO Perspective on Astral Flow

Definitely the time FL Studio crashed on me eight times while working on the same track. No exaggeration—eight full-on crashes, each one right when I thought I was in the zone. It got to the point where I started saving after every single tweak, like I was defusing a bomb.

Instead of scrapping the project, I leaned into the chaos and turned it into “Untitled Save.” The track became this glitchy, lo-fi loop that sounds like a corrupted memory trying to piece itself back together. It’s full of ambient noise, broken rhythms, and that eerie, unfinished vibe—like a digital ghost haunting your hard drive.

What started as pure frustration turned into one of my most emotionally resonant pieces. Sometimes the system breaking down is the inspiration.

 For me, it’s almost always the music first. The sound sets the emotional tone—it’s like building the world before writing the story that lives in it. I’ll start with a texture, a rhythm, or a synth line that sparks a feeling. Once that sonic atmosphere is in place, the words start to surface—sometimes as full lyrics, sometimes just fragments or phrases that match the mood.

A track like “Epiphany” or “No Goin Back” started with melodies that carried so much emotion, the lyrics almost wrote themselves. But even in more abstract or instrumental tracks, like “ReSearcH” or “Calibration Complete,” there’s always a narrative underneath—it just doesn’t always need words to tell it.

That said, sometimes a single phrase or title—like “Manifesto” or “Hindi Ko Alam”—will spark the entire vibe. But usually, the music leads the way.

I’m consistently drawn to themes of resilience, duality, transformation, and introspection. A lot of that comes from my own journey—being a veteran, a father, a survivor of homelessness, and someone who’s rebuilt from the ground up. Music is where I process all of that. It’s therapy, reflection, and release.

Tracks like “No Goin Back” and “Manifesto” are about pushing forward, even when the path is unclear. “Duality” and “Flipside” explore the tension between light and dark, strength and vulnerability. And then there are tracks like “Introspection” or “Buried” that dive deep into the emotional and psychological layers—those quiet, internal battles we don’t always talk about.

I’m also fascinated by technology, memory, and the digital self—which shows up in tracks like “Untitled Save,” “ReSearcH,” and “Calibration Complete.” I like exploring what it means to be human in a world that’s increasingly synthetic and fragmented.

In the end, I write about what I’ve lived—and what I’m still trying to understand.

My music is a reflection of who I am—layered, resilient, and always evolving. The characteristics that show up most often are:

Resilience – As a service-connected disabled veteran and someone who’s experienced homelessness, I’ve learned how to rebuild from nothing. That grit shows up in tracks like “No Goin Back” and “Impetus”—they’re about pushing forward, no matter what.

Duality – I’ve lived many lives: military police officer, chef, mechanic, father, tech grad, artist. That contrast—between structure and chaos, logic and emotion—shapes tracks like “Duality,” “Flipside,” and “Calibrate.”

Introspection – I’m always reflecting, analyzing, trying to understand myself and the world around me. That’s where tracks like “Introspection,” “Buried,” and “Ether” come from. They’re sonic meditations.

Innovation – My background in IT and electronics repair gives me a deep appreciation for the technical side of sound. I love experimenting with glitch, texture, and rhythm—tracks like “ReSearcH” and “Calibration Complete” are like sonic lab experiments.

Fatherhood & Humanity – Being a father of three grounds me. It reminds me that music isn’t just about escape—it’s about connection. Even in my most experimental work, there’s always a thread of emotion, of storytelling, of legacy.

My identity isn’t just in the lyrics or the sound—it’s in the intention behind every track.

With “Astral Flow,” I wanted to capture the feeling of cosmic motion—like surfing through solar winds or drifting between dimensions. The goal was to create a track that felt both fluid and fast, something that could carry you away without ever losing momentum. I was chasing that balance between chaos and clarity, where every synth and rhythm feels like it’s orbiting something bigger.

It’s also a reflection of my own mindset at the time—navigating life’s turbulence while trying to stay grounded in purpose. I wanted listeners to feel like they were moving through space, not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. It’s a track about expansion, energy, and elevation.

The high BPM, layered textures, and interstellar vibe were all intentional. I wanted it to feel like a journey—one that doesn’t stop to explain itself, but invites you to feel your way through.

Astral Flow was inspired by the idea of movement beyond the physical—a kind of spiritual or cosmic momentum. I was thinking about what it feels like to be in a state of flow, not just creatively, but emotionally and energetically. That moment when everything aligns and you’re just moving—through sound, through thought, through space.

I was also inspired by the contrast between stillness and speed. Life can feel like it’s rushing past you, but inside, there’s this calm awareness. I wanted the track to reflect that duality—fast BPM, but smooth transitions; intense energy, but with a meditative core. It’s like riding a beam of light through your own subconscious.

Visually, I imagined solar winds, shifting constellations, and digital stardust. Sonically, I pulled from breakbeat, ambient, and glitch textures to create something that felt cosmic, kinetic, and deeply human.

Absolutely—my music is probably the most honest version of me. It captures the parts of myself that don’t always come out in conversation: the chaos, the calm, the questions, the fight, the healing. Every track is a snapshot of a moment, a mindset, or a memory. Whether it’s the raw energy of “Degen Again,” the introspection of “Buried,” or the cosmic drift of “Astral Flow,” it’s all me—just translated into sound.

I’ve lived a layered life—veteran, father, survivor, creator—and my music reflects that complexity. It’s not always polished or predictable, but it’s real. I don’t make music to fit in; I make it to feel, to process, to connect. So yeah, if you want to know who I am, listen to the catalog. It’s all in there.

 For me, the hardest part is recognizing the inspiration when it comes. Ideas are always floating around—sounds, feelings, fragments of thought—but catching the right one at the right moment takes a kind of awareness that’s easy to miss. Sometimes inspiration whispers instead of shouts, and if I’m not tuned in, it slips past.

It’s not about lacking ideas—it’s about knowing when something is worth chasing. That spark might come from a glitch in FL Studio, a memory, a random sound, or even a moment of silence. Tracks like “Untitled Save” or “Astral Flow” came from those unexpected sparks. The challenge is being open enough to recognize them, and disciplined enough to follow through.

Once I see the inspiration, the rest flows. But that first moment—that’s the real magic, and the hardest to hold onto.

Sonically, the artist who’s influenced me the most is someone who blends emotion with experimentation—someone unafraid to break structure, bend genres, and still hit you in the chest with feeling. Whether it’s the glitchy textures of Aphex Twin, the cinematic layering of Burial, or the raw emotion of early Kanye production, I’m drawn to artists who treat sound like storytelling.

Their work taught me that music doesn’t have to be clean or conventional to be powerful. That influence shows up in tracks like “ReSearcH,” “Ether,” and “Sacrifice.” I learned how to use distortion as emotion, silence as tension, and rhythm as narrative.

It’s not just about copying a sound—it’s about carrying forward a mindset: be fearless, be honest, and let the music speak before the words do.

For me, a great song is built on a few key elements—emotion, intention, texture, and movement.

Emotion is the core. Whether it’s joy, pain, tension, or peace, a great song feels like something. It doesn’t have to be lyrical—it just has to connect. Tracks like “Buried” or “Epiphany” hit because they carry emotional weight.

Intention is what gives the song purpose. Every sound should serve the story, even if that story is abstract. I think of “Manifesto” or “Sacrifice” as sonic declarations—every element is there for a reason.

Texture is what makes a song immersive. I’m drawn to layered, evolving sounds—glitch, ambient noise, distortion, clean synths—all working together to create a world. That’s what I explore in tracks like “Ether” or “ReSearcH.”

Movement is what keeps it alive. Whether it’s a slow build, a sudden drop, or a hypnotic loop, a great song goes somewhere. It takes you on a journey, even if it’s just a two-minute loop that feels like a lifetime.

A great song doesn’t have to be perfect—it just has to be real. That’s what I aim for every time I sit down to create.

It’s hard to name just one, but if I had to choose, I’d say Burial has had the biggest sonic and emotional influence on me. His ability to create atmosphere, to make music that feels like memory and emotion wrapped in static and shadow—that really shaped how I think about sound. It’s not just music, it’s mood. It’s storytelling without needing to say a word.

That influence shows up in tracks like “Ether,” “Untitled Save,” and “Introspection.” I’m drawn to that raw, unpolished beauty—where imperfections become part of the texture, and silence is just as powerful as sound.

But I also pull from a wide range of artists—Aphex Twin for his fearless experimentation, Flying Lotus for his rhythm and layering, and even Memphis phonk producers for their grit and swagger. My sound is a blend of all those worlds, filtered through my own lived experience.

 I feel most inspired in the in-between moments—those quiet, often overlooked spaces where emotion and thought collide. It could be late at night when the world is still, or right after a long conversation, a memory, or even a moment of frustration—like when FL Studio crashes for the eighth time. That tension between chaos and calm is where a lot of my creativity lives.

I also find inspiration in motion—driving, walking, working with my hands. As someone who’s been a mechanic, a chef, a tile layer, and a father, I’ve learned that inspiration doesn’t always strike in the studio. Sometimes it hits while I’m fixing something, cooking dinner, or just zoning out to a visualizer synced to a beat.

And then there are the emotional flashpoints—moments of clarity, loss, resilience, or reflection. Tracks like “Epiphany,” “Buried,” and “No Goin Back” were born from those kinds of moments. When I feel something deeply, I know it’s time to create.

Honestly, I don’t look for inspiration—I wait for it to find me. I’ve learned not to force creativity. If a project isn’t coming together, I don’t see it as being “stuck”—I see it as a signal to step back. Sometimes the best thing I can do is walk away, clear my head, and let the idea breathe.

Inspiration tends to show up when I’m not chasing it—while I’m driving, cooking, fixing something, or just zoning out to a visualizer. I trust that if I give it space, it’ll return with more clarity than if I tried to force it. That mindset has kept me from burning out and has helped me stay connected to the why behind my music.

So no, I haven’t really experienced being stuck—just moments of pause. And those pauses are part of the process.

 One of the most direct examples is “Untitled Save.” That track was born out of pure frustration—FL Studio crashed on me eight times while I was working on it. Each time, I lost progress, and each time I had to rebuild from memory. But instead of scrapping it, I leaned into the chaos.

The glitches, the lo-fi textures, the fragmented loops—they all became part of the story. It stopped being just a track and became a sonic representation of persistence, of trying to hold onto something fragile and fleeting. It’s about memory, frustration, and the beauty that can come from broken processes.

That real-life moment—something as mundane and maddening as a software crash—turned into one of my most emotionally resonant pieces. It reminded me that inspiration doesn’t always come from big, dramatic events. Sometimes it’s in the small, annoying, very human moments.

“Sylenth Night” & “In-Spired” – When Tools Become the Muse

Some of my most inspired tracks didn’t come from a dramatic life event or a deep emotional state—they came from something as simple as installing a new synth.

“Sylenth Night” was the first. I had just loaded up Sylenth1, and before I even touched a preset, the raw tone of the oscillators hit me. It had this nostalgic, electric feel—like the pulse of a city at midnight. That moment sparked the entire track. I leaned into that vibe, channeling classic rave energy with a modern twist. The name came naturally—it was a tribute to the tool that sparked the sound.

Then came “In-Spired.” This one was different. I had just installed Spire, and for the first time, I used its built-in AI preset generator. I let the AI create a bank of sample sounds, and instead of tweaking or layering them with other tools, I challenged myself to build an entire track using only what the AI gave me. The result was minimal, meditative, and deeply atmospheric. It felt like a sonic ritual—something spiritual born from code. The title “In-Spired” is a play on both the plugin and the process: I was literally inspired by Spire.

These tracks remind me that inspiration doesn’t always come from within—it can come from the tools we use, the interfaces we explore, and the unexpected results of experimentation. Sometimes, the gear isn’t just a means to an end—it’s the muse itself.

I’d choose “Buried.”

This track dives deep—emotionally, sonically, and symbolically. “Buried” is about confronting the weight of the past, the things we suppress, and the emotions we don’t always have the words for. It’s layered with ambient textures and heavy, almost suffocating basslines that mirror the feeling of being overwhelmed—but also the slow, deliberate process of digging yourself out.

For me, “Buried” represents the darker chapters of my life—homelessness, trauma, isolation—but also the strength it took to survive them. It’s not a song about defeat; it’s about acknowledgment. It’s about facing what’s underneath and finding a way to rise. If someone wanted to understand the emotional core of my work, this is the track I’d point them to.

Adversity.

More than any single person or piece of art, it’s been the challenges I’ve faced that have shaped my sound and my drive. From serving in the military to surviving homelessness, raising a family, and rebuilding my life through creativity and technology—those experiences taught me resilience, adaptability, and the value of expression.

Adversity gave me perspective. It taught me how to turn pain into rhythm, isolation into atmosphere, and struggle into structure. Every glitch, every distorted bassline, every ambient swell in my music is a reflection of that journey. It’s not just about making tracks—it’s about translating life into sound.

So if there’s one influence that’s been with me through every phase of my evolution, it’s the pressure that forged the artist I’ve become.

Survival, expression, and legacy.

Music is more than a creative outlet for me—it’s a lifeline. It’s how I process the weight of my past, the complexity of my present, and the hope I hold for the future. After everything I’ve been through—military service, homelessness, rebuilding from the ground up—music became the one place where I could be fully myself. No uniform, no expectations, no judgment. Just sound.

I keep writing because it helps me stay grounded. It gives shape to emotions I can’t always put into words. It lets me connect with others who might be going through their own battles. And it’s a way to leave something behind—not just for the world, but for my kids. I want them to hear my story in the music. I want them to know that no matter how hard life gets, you can still create something beautiful from it.

That’s what drives me. Not fame. Not streams. Just the need to keep telling the truth—one track at a time.

Absolutely—and it’s a simple one: I never go into a track with expectations.

I’ve learned that the best music happens when I let go of control. I don’t sit down thinking, “I’m going to make a banger” or “This needs to sound like X.” Instead, I approach every session with a blank slate and let the track create itself. I follow the sound, not the plan.

That mindset keeps me open. It allows for surprise, for emotion, for experimentation. It’s how I stay honest in my work. If I try to force it, the music feels artificial. But when I let it flow naturally—when I trust the process—that’s when the real magic happens.

One of my biggest lyrical influences—though maybe not in the traditional sense—is Riff Raff. What inspires me most about him isn’t just his wordplay or delivery, but his fearless individuality. He’s a master of blending humor with confidence, absurdity with authenticity. There’s a kind of genius in how seriously he takes his own style, even when it’s completely outside the box.

That mindset has had a huge impact on me. Riff Raff doesn’t care if people “get it”—he creates because he loves it. That freedom, that refusal to conform, is something I carry into every track I make. Whether I’m building a glitchy jungle banger or a meditative ambient piece, I remind myself: this is for me first. If others connect with it, that’s a bonus. But like Riff Raff, I’m not here to fit in—I’m here to express, experiment, and enjoy the ride.

Definitely. My process is all about intuition, experimentation, and emotional honesty. I don’t walk into a session with a blueprint—I let the music guide me. I treat every track like a conversation with the unknown. I don’t force it. I listen.

One of my core principles is to never start with expectations. I don’t try to make a hit, or chase a trend. I open up a synth, a plugin, or a sample, and I let it speak. Sometimes the gear itself becomes the muse—like when I first used Sylenth or Spire and ended up creating “Sylenth Night” and “In-Spired.”

I also work fast when the inspiration hits. I don’t overthink the first loop—I let it flow. I don’t save the project until I’ve laid down something that feels alive. And I’m not afraid to get weird with it. I’ll blend genres, distort sounds, or break structure if that’s what the track wants.

My workflow is a mix of technical precision and emotional chaos. I’ve got the discipline from my background—military, IT, mechanics—but I use it to serve the feeling, not control it. Every track is a reflection of where I’m at mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

In short: I don’t make music to impress. I make it to express. And that’s what makes my process mine.

Over the past 10 months, I’ve created 59 tracks—so on average, I’ve been producing about 5.9 beats per month. But that number doesn’t tell the whole story.

I don’t always count while I’m creating—I just stay in the flow and let the music come. But looking back, it’s wild to see how consistent that output has been. Whether it’s a full track, a remix, or an experimental idea, I’m always building, always exploring. It’s not about hitting a quota—it’s about staying connected to the process and letting the sound evolve naturally.

As I’ve grown more comfortable with my DAW and refined my workflow, I’ve developed a personal ritual of sorts, maybe even considered a promise to myself to stand behind: I try to start at least one new project every single day. Even if I don’t finish it right away, I make sure to capture that day’s inspiration. It might be a melody, a drum pattern, a texture—whatever comes through.

For me, it’s about staying connected to the creative current. Some days the track finishes itself. Other days, I come back later and build on the spark. On occasion i've produced as many as 9 songs in a single day when the inspiration presented itself and was flowing. But by showing up daily, I keep the momentum alive and give myself space to evolve. It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence.

With “Astral Flow,” I wanted to create a sense of cosmic motion—something that felt like surfing through solar winds or drifting between dimensions. The main production elements I prioritized were fluidity, texture, and momentum.

I focused heavily on synth layering to create that interstellar atmosphere—pads that shimmer, leads that glide, and subtle arpeggios that feel like stardust. The percussion was designed to be tight but not overpowering, giving the track propulsion without grounding it too much. I wanted it to feel like it was always moving forward, but never in a straight line.

One thing I really wanted to stand out to listeners was the emotional contrast—the way the track balances serenity with urgency. There’s a kind of tension in the harmony that mirrors the feeling of being in awe of something vast and unknown. That’s the feeling I wanted to leave people with: like they just traveled through space, but also through themselves.

🎛️ 1. Setting the Intention
Before touching the DAW, I had a conceptual vibe flowing through me that day: something cosmic, fluid, and fast-moving. I wasn't trying to make a banger, I was trying to capture a feeling which presented itself the moment I heard the opening synth reverberating through my speakers after plugging it in. That feeling of drifting through space, of being in motion but not in a rush.

 
🎹 2. Sound Discovery
I started by exploring synths—if I remember correctly a new plugin or a familiar one with fresh patches. Instead of chasing a melody, I was listening for a texture that made me felt it presence, like stardust. Once I found that shimmering pad, then gliding lead, the track started to take shape.

 
🧪 3. Building the Atmosphere
I then layered ambient textures—pads, reverb-heavy sweeps,  some reversed samples—to create a sense of depth and space. This wasn’t just background—it was the emotional core. I wanted listeners to feel how I was at that moment, like they were floating.

 
🥁 4. Percussion with Purpose
The drums in “Astral Flow” entered tight and kinetic, but not overwhelming. I used syncopated hi-hats, rolling snares, and subtle kicks to give the track motion without anchoring it too hard. The rhythm flows like a current—always moving, never static.

 
🎚️ 5. Automation & Movement
To keep the track evolving, I incorporated automation—filter sweeps, panning, reverb tails—to make the sound feel alive. This is where technical background shined: I needed to make the track breathe.

 
🎧 6. Emotional Contrast
I then paid close attention to harmonic tension—balancing light and dark, serenity and urgency. This contrast is what gives “Astral Flow” its emotional pull. It’s not just pretty—it’s powerful.

 
🧠 7. Letting Go of Control
True to your process, I didn’t force the structure. I let the track build itself, following the energy rather than a formula. I looped quite a few sections for hours, tweaking until it felt right. A few times I walked away to give myself time to reset, assuring that I returned with a fresh pair of ears, trusting the process.

 
🎙️ 8. Final Touches
Once the core was locked in, I proceeded to add subtle ear candy—glitches, echoes, a vocal sample buried in reverb. These details don’t scream for attention, but they reward close listening. Once I felt the song was in tune with my 432 frequency vibes I saved and exported to share.

1. Synthesizers:

Serum and Vital – For crafting those interstellar, fluid synth textures and leads.
Omnisphere – Ideal for lush, evolving pads and atmospheric layers that give the track its cosmic feel.

2. Effects & Processing:

Valhalla Shimmer/Supermassive – To create that expansive, spacey reverb tail that makes the track feel like it’s floating through the stars.
RC-20 Retro Color – For adding subtle lo-fi textures and movement to synths or background elements.
Granular FX (like Output Portal or Quanta) – To manipulate and morph sounds into otherworldly textures.

3. Drums & Percussion:

XO by XLN Audio amd Atlas – For organizing and layering percussive elements with a sense of motion.
Transient Shapers – To give the drums punch without overwhelming the ambient elements.

4. Arrangement & Automation:

FL Studio native plugins – Great for fluid automation of filters, reverb, and delay to keep the track evolving.
LFO Tools or ShaperBox – For rhythmic modulation and sidechain-style movement that gives the track its kinetic flow.

5. Mastering & Final Polish:

Lens by Auburn Sounds – For a clean, wide, and balanced master that retains the track’s emotional and spatial depth.

Sylenth1 is hands-down my favorite instrument to work with. It’s incredibly versatile, intuitive, and powerful. Whether I’m crafting lush pads for tracks like 'Ether' or designing aggressive leads for something like 'Project Dopa,' Sylenth1 gives me the sonic flexibility I need. Its analog-style warmth and low CPU usage make it a go-to for layering complex synths without sacrificing performance. It’s like having a modular synth rack in a single plugin—perfect for the kind of genre-blending, high-energy sound design I love.

One of the wildest moments in my production journey happened during a casual stream in my Discord server. I was just vibing, not really thinking too hard—just letting the creativity flow. Without even realizing it, I fully wrote and produced the track 'In-Spired' in approximately 5-10 minutes. It was pure autopilot—like I tapped into some kind of creative beast mode. That same day, I ended up making nine tracks total. I didn’t even notice how fast it all came together until my buddy Bender, who was watching the stream, pointed it out to another friend who joined later. He was like, 'Yo, you just missed him make a ton of completed tracks fast as hell.'  That moment really showed me what’s possible when you’re fully locked in and not overthinking the process.

The most random sound I’ve ever used in a track came from a Drake vs. Stake livestream that aired over the 2024 Christmas holidays. Drake was streaming for Stake Casino with Adin Ross as a guest, and their banter was just too good to ignore. Something about the chaotic energy and off-the-cuff humor caught my ear, so I decided to extract the audio stems from the recorded stream. I chopped up their conversation and layered it over a beat I had just made—using their back-and-forth as a kind of comedic commentary woven into the rhythm. It turned into this hilarious, offbeat track that I never released publicly, but I did share it with close friends on my Discord server. It’s one of those pieces that lives in the vault, but it’s a classic in the humor department for sure.

I definitely lean toward working alone, especially during the initial creative process. There’s something powerful about being in that solo zone—just me, the DAW, and whatever emotion or idea I’m channeling in the moment. It allows me to move fast, follow instinct, and experiment without boundaries. That’s how tracks like 'In-Spired' and 'Astral Flow' came to life—pure stream-of-consciousness production.

That said, I’m not against collaboration. I’ve had some great moments bouncing ideas with close friends or sharing works-in-progress in my Discord server. But even then, I prefer to take those ideas back into my own space and refine them solo. I think that balance—being open to outside influence but filtering it through my own lens—is what gives my sound its unique identity. It’s raw, personal, and often unpredictable.

Having the preference of working alone when I’m in the initial creative zone—is where I feel most free to experiment and follow my instincts without interruption. That’s how a lot of my catalog has come together, especially tracks like 'In-Spired' or 'Ether', where I was just locked in and let the ideas flow.

While I usually prefer working solo during the early stages of a track, I’m definitely not opposed to jumping into a project that already has a framework. Sometimes a beat or melodic idea from someone else sparks something new in me, and I love adding my own textures, rhythms, or sound design to elevate it.

In this reference, I am not opposed to collaboration, which has its own magic. Those sessions are more like creative conversations—we bounce ideas, challenge each other, and build something that none of us could’ve made alone. That’s the case with a few collaborations I’ve done—like with BXNDi— which pushed me in new directions, and at the present I am working on some exciting projects with my close friends Bender and Lorilikes (aka Lilly Sparks) which we just started the process for what will produce some exciting new auditory candy for the fans. Whether I’m building from scratch or adding my flavor to an existing idea, I just focus on bringing something authentic and unexpected to the table.

So while I thrive in solo mode, I also value the energy and perspective that comes from working with people I trust. It definitely influences my sound by introducing new textures, rhythms, and ideas I might not have explored on my own.

I’m an artist—but not just in the traditional sense. I create music, visuals, and experiences that are rooted in real life. My journey didn’t start in a studio. It started in the military, on job sites laying tile, under the hood of cars, in the kitchen as a chef, and behind the counter of my own electronics repair business. Every one of those paths taught me something about discipline, creativity, and resilience—and I bring all of that into my art.

Most of my music is made in the quiet moments between gaming sessions or during breaks from wagering—those unexpected pockets of inspiration where something just clicks. I don’t force it. I let it find me.

I make music that’s honest, layered, and grounded in experience. I want people to feel something real when they hear it—whether it’s a beat that moves them or a lyric that hits home. I’m not here to follow trends. I’m here to build something that lasts.

I explore a wide spectrum of themes in my music, but at the core, it’s all about contrast—light and dark, chaos and control, emotion and precision. A lot of my tracks dive into introspection, digital identity, and the tension between human emotion and machine logic. You’ll hear that in pieces like “Ether” or “Introspection”, where ambient textures and glitchy rhythms create a meditative, almost cerebral space.

There’s also a strong cinematic and narrative thread running through my work. Tracks like “Danger”, “Apex”, and “Sacrifice” feel like scenes from a dystopian film—high-stakes, emotionally charged, and full of movement. I’m fascinated by the idea of sound as storytelling, where each track is a moment, a memory, or a mood captured in motion.

Another recurring theme is transformation—whether it’s personal, emotional, or sonic. Songs like “No Goin Back”, “Calibration Complete”, and “Manifesto” reflect that sense of evolution, of pushing forward and reshaping identity through sound.

And then there’s the playful, rebellious side—tracks like “Degen Again”, “WTPhonk It’s A Trap”, and “Trappin in the Jungle” tap into digital subcultures, meme energy, and genre-bending chaos. I like to blur boundaries and challenge expectations, both sonically and thematically.

Ultimately, my music is a reflection of the world I move through—fragmented, fast-paced, emotional, and always shifting.

Astral Flow is one of those tracks that doesn’t sit neatly in one box—it floats between genres, which is kind of the point. At its core, it leans into high-BPM drum & bass, but with a more fluid, spacey vibe that pulls from neurofunk and cinematic bass. There’s a definite glitch and IDM influence in the textures and transitions, and the whole thing has this interstellar, almost psybient energy to it.

I wanted it to feel like surfing solar winds—fast, fluid, and full of motion. So while it hits hard rhythmically, it’s also layered with atmospheric elements that give it a sense of depth and space. If I had to tag it, I’d say it lives somewhere between experimental DnB, space bass, and futuristic glitch.

Astral Flow is deeply rooted in my personal journey—especially the years I spent as a homeless veteran. During that time, life felt chaotic, unpredictable, and often overwhelming. But I also had moments where I’d just look up at the sky and feel this strange sense of peace, like I was still part of something bigger. That feeling—of drifting through uncertainty but still moving forward—became the emotional core of the track.

My background in breakdancing also plays a role. There’s a rhythm and momentum in Astral Flow that mirrors the way I used to move—fluid but precise, fast but intentional. And growing up in a Navy family, constantly relocating, I think I’ve always had this sense of motion and displacement in me. That’s why the track feels like it’s in constant orbit—never still, always evolving.

It’s not just a song—it’s a reflection of survival, movement, and the search for clarity in the middle of chaos.

If you’ve never heard my music before, imagine a sound that lives between grit and reflection—something that hits hard but also makes you pause and think.

My music blends phonk, lo-fi, experimental hip-hop, and electronic textures. It’s raw, layered, and emotionally charged. You’ll hear influences from gaming, late-night thoughts, and the kind of energy that comes from living multiple lives—military, mechanic, chef, business owner, and now, artist.

Most of my tracks are born in the in-between moments—during breaks from gaming or creating, when my mind is drifting and something unexpected clicks. That’s when the real ideas come through. I don’t chase trends—I chase truth. Every beat, every sample, every glitch is intentional.

If you’re into music that feels like a soundtrack to your inner world—sometimes chaotic, sometimes calm, always real—then you’ll probably connect with what I do.

My overarching goal as an artist is to create music (or art, content, etc.) that transcends boundaries and inspires people to feel deeply, think differently, and connect more authentically with themselves and others.

I want every fan who engages with my work to feel seen, heard, and empowered. Whether it’s through lyrics, visuals, or live performances, my goal is to build a community where people feel they belong.

As an independent artist with a passion for emotional storytelling and fan connection, my mission is to use my creative voice to spark change and build a loyal, inspired community.

As an electronic music artist blending the raw grit of phonk, the heavy energy of dubstep, and the fast-paced chaos of drum & bass, my overarching goal is to push sonic boundaries and create immersive soundscapes that ignite emotion and movement.

I want my music to be more than just sound—a visceral experience that resonates with fans on a deep level. Whether it's through a late-night headphone session or a packed live show, I aim to build a global community of listeners who feel empowered, energized, and understood through the music.

Ultimately, my mission is to redefine what electronic music can be—fusing genres, breaking molds, and leaving a lasting impact on the culture and the people who vibe with it. I aim to leave a lasting legacy—not just through my art, but through the lives I touch and the stories we create together.

It’s hard to pick just one, but “Purple Grind (Sippin’)” really stands out for me. That track captures a specific mood I love—gritty, hypnotic, and soaked in Southern swagger. It’s got that syrupy bassline and woozy rhythm that feels like it’s moving in slow motion, but with purpose. The phonk influence is strong, but I twisted it into something more digital and dreamlike. It’s the kind of track that doesn’t just play—it lingers.

Another favorite is “Official.” That one came from a place of confidence and clarity. It’s bass-heavy and militant, with glitchy textures and IDM undertones that give it a sharp edge. It feels like a sonic mission statement—like I’m planting a flag and saying, “This is my sound.” There’s a rawness to it, but also a sense of control, which is a balance I’m always chasing in my work.

Music isn’t the only thing I’ve done—but everything I’ve done feeds into the music I make.

When I was a Military Police Officer, I learned how to stay calm in chaos. That discipline shows up in the studio when I’m deep into a mix and things aren’t clicking. I don’t panic—I troubleshoot. I treat every track like a mission: assess, adapt, execute.

Later, working as a Tile Layer, I developed a real appreciation for precision and repetition. Laying tile is all about rhythm and alignment—just like building a beat. I find myself zoning in on the groove of a hi-hat pattern the same way I used to focus on getting grout lines perfect.

Running my own electronics repair business taught me how to solve problems creatively. I’d get devices in all kinds of conditions—some barely holding together—and I had to figure out how to bring them back to life. That mindset carries over into my music. I love taking a rough vocal or a broken sample and turning it into something polished and powerful.

I’ve also spent time building and repairing cars, which gave me a deep respect for systems and flow. A car is a machine of moving parts, and so is a song. When I’m arranging a track, I think about how each element—bass, drums, melody—needs to work together like a well-tuned engine.

And then there’s the kitchen. Being a chef taught me how to create under pressure. Dinner rush? That’s like a live set. You’ve got to stay sharp, improvise when needed, and still deliver something that hits. Cooking also taught me about layering—flavors, textures, timing—which is exactly how I approach sound design.

All of these experiences have shaped how I hear, feel, and build music. I don’t just make tracks—I engineer them, cook them, fix them, and sometimes even fight for them.

One of the most memorable moments came early in my production journey. I used to hop on Discord with a few buddies who were also learning to produce, and we’d share ideas, give feedback, and just vibe. One day, someone asked, “Who do you think is the best producer out of all of us?” I didn’t even consider myself in the running—I had just started, barely knew what I was doing, and was still fumbling through the basics.

But then my friend Bender said, “Honestly, if I had to choose, it’d be you.” That completely floored me. I’ve always been modest to a fault—I never think of myself as the best at anything, even when I’m clearly doing something right. It was a real Dunning-Kruger effect moment in practice. I didn’t see what others saw in me, but that comment stuck with me. It made me realize that having a clear vision and a strong ear can matter just as much—if not more—than technical skill. That moment was a confirmation for me—a reminder that sometimes, we’re too close to our own work to see its value. It was a powerful shift in perspective.

It made me realize that having a clear vision and a strong ear can matter just as much—if not more—than technical skill. That comment gave me the confidence to keep going. It reminded me that sometimes, the people around you can recognize your potential before you do. And that kind of encouragement, especially early on, can be the spark that keeps the fire burning.

If my fans could describe me in just three words, I’d want them to say:

Authentic. Resilient. Innovative.

Authentic, because I stay true to who I am. Everything I create comes from real experiences, real emotions, and a real desire to connect.

Resilient, because I’ve faced challenges in every chapter of my life—from the military to entrepreneurship to music—and I’ve never stopped pushing forward.

Innovative, because I’m always looking for new ways to express myself. Whether it’s blending genres, sampling everyday life, or fusing my other passions into my sound, I want to keep evolving and surprising people.

I see myself as more than just a music producer—I try to be a multidimensional artist. These are the mediums I connect with most deeply:

Music Production & Sound Design
Sound is my primary language. I use it to sculpt emotion, energy, and atmosphere. Every track I make is a sonic canvas where I blend genres and push boundaries.

Digital Art & Visuals
I’m drawn to glitch aesthetics, abstract visuals, and cyberpunk-inspired imagery. These visuals reflect the same raw, experimental energy that lives in my music.

Film & Cinematic Storytelling
A lot of my music feels like it belongs in a film. I think in scenes and moods, and I love building soundtracks for moments that haven’t been filmed yet.

Performance Art / Live Sets
When I perform, it’s not just about playing tracks—it’s about creating an experience. I see live sets as a form of performance art where energy flows between me and the crowd.

Writing / Conceptual Art
I’m big on themes, titles, and world-building. There’s always a deeper concept behind what I create, and I use writing to give my music context and meaning.

To translate emotion into energy—and give people something they can feel.

Whether it’s through the raw grit of phonk, the chaos of drum & bass, or the introspective calm of ambient, I make music to express what words can’t. It’s about creating a space where people can lose themselves, find themselves, or just be—no judgment, no rules, just sound.

Music is my way of connecting with others on a deeper level. If even one person feels seen, understood, or inspired by what I create, then it’s all worth it.

Honestly, the seed was planted early. Growing up, I was obsessed with performing—especially as a breakdancer. I loved the energy of the crowd, the adrenaline of a battle, and the way music could move people—literally. There was something powerful about stepping into a circle, challenging someone, and letting rhythm guide your body. That was my first real taste of expression through movement and sound.

Over time, that same energy evolved into producing and performing music. I realized I didn’t just want to move to the beat—I wanted to create it. The transition felt natural. The same instincts I had as a dancer—timing, tension, release, storytelling—now fuel how I build tracks and perform live. Becoming an artist wasn’t a single moment—it was a rhythm I’ve been following my whole life.

Authenticity is everything.

No matter how experimental, chaotic, or genre-bending the sound gets, the most powerful music I’ve made has come from being real—with myself and with my listeners. I’ve learned that chasing trends or perfection can drain the soul out of the art. But when I create from a place of truth—whether it’s pain, joy, confusion, or curiosity—that’s when the music resonates.

Being an artist taught me that vulnerability is strength, and that the most meaningful connections come when I stop trying to impress and start trying to express.

When people listen to my music, I want them to feel seen.

I want them to hear a beat or a lyric and think, “Yeah, that’s me. That’s what I’ve been through.” Whether it’s pain, pride, struggle, or joy—I want my music to tap into something real. I’ve lived a lot of life outside the studio, and I bring all of that into my sound. So when someone connects with it, it’s not just about the music—it’s about the shared experience.

I also want people to feel inspired. Not in a cliché, motivational-poster kind of way, but in a real way. Like, “If this person can come from where they came from and still create something meaningful, maybe I can too.”

And finally, I want people to feel curious—about the sounds, the stories, the layers. I want them to lean in, replay it, and discover something new each time.

If my music can make someone feel understood, empowered, and a little more awake to their own story—then I’ve done my job.

My favorite work of art isn’t just one piece—it’s any creation that makes you feel something real. But if I had to choose one, I’d say:

My favorite work of art is “Vegas” by The Crystal Method.

That album was a game-changer for me. It showed me how electronic music could be gritty, cinematic, and full of attitude—all while still being deeply emotional. The way they fused breakbeats, rock energy, and synth-driven storytelling made me realize that genre doesn’t matter when the vibe is real. It’s one of the reasons I started blending styles like phonk, drum & bass, and ambient in my own work.

It’s not just music—it’s a blueprint for how to build a world with sound.

Aphex Twin, Flying Lotus, and Skrillex

To me, having an artistic outlook on life means seeing beauty in chaos and meaning in the mundane. It’s about moving through the world with curiosity, emotion, and intention—treating every moment like it could be a sample, a scene, or a spark.

It’s not just about creating art—it’s about living creatively. That means:

Feeling deeply, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Questioning norms and breaking patterns.
Turning pain, joy, confusion, or silence into something expressive.
Seeing every experience as raw material for growth or creation.
An artistic outlook is a mindset. It’s how I stay connected to myself, to others, and to the world—even when it doesn’t make sense.

I’ve worn a lot of hats over the years, and each one has shaped the way I create today. Before diving into the art world full-time, I served as a Military Police Officer, where I learned discipline, resilience, and how to stay calm under pressure.

After that, I got hands-on with the world—literally. I worked as a Tile Layer, mastering precision and patience, and later ran my own Consumer Electronics Repair & Maintenance business, where I combined technical know-how with customer service and entrepreneurship.

I’ve also spent time under the hood—building and repairing cars, which taught me how to troubleshoot, tinker, and bring things back to life. And somewhere in between, I found myself in the kitchen as a Chef, where creativity, timing, and flavor came together in a different kind of art form.

All of these experiences feed into my artistic process. Whether it’s structure, storytelling, or the rhythm of a well-executed idea, I bring a little bit of each past life into the work I do now.

Yes, at times. Being an artist often means spending long hours in your own head, chasing ideas that no one else can see yet. It means feeling things deeply, questioning everything, and sometimes isolating yourself to protect the creative process. That solitude can be beautiful—but it can also feel like disconnection.

Ways I Counteract this.

Creating to Connect
I remind myself that I’m not just making music for me—I'm building bridges. Every track is a message in a bottle. When someone resonates with it, that’s connection.

Finding My Tribe
I seek out other creatives—people who get the grind, the silence, the obsession. Whether it’s online communities, collaborators, or fans, I stay open to real conversations.

Balancing Input and Output
I make time to experience life, not just document it. That means stepping away from the DAW, going outside, listening to others, and letting the world refill me.

Letting Vulnerability Be a Strength
I’ve learned that sharing the lonely parts through my art often brings people closer. The more honest I am, the more others feel safe to connect.

If I could change one thing about the music industry, it would be the way success is measured—and who gets to define it.

Right now, so much of the industry is driven by algorithms, follower counts, and viral moments. Don’t get me wrong—those tools can be powerful. But they often overshadow the artists who are building something real, something lasting, something that doesn’t fit neatly into a trend.

Coming from a background where I’ve worked with my hands, solved real-world problems, and built things from the ground up—whether it was a car engine, a tile floor, or a business—I know the value of process. I believe music should be treated the same way. Artists should be given space to grow, experiment, and evolve without being penalized for not going viral overnight.

I’d love to see an industry that invests more in development than in data—where artists are supported for their vision, not just their metrics. Where collaboration is prioritized over competition. And where the gatekeepers are replaced by communities that lift each other up.

Music is one of the most human things we do. It deserves an industry that reflects that.

If I had to choose one song that represents success to me, it would be “Victory” by Puff Daddy featuring The Notorious B.I.G. and Busta Rhymes.

That track hits different. It’s not just the energy or the production—it’s the feeling of pushing through everything to get where you are. The orchestral beat feels like a movie score, like you’re walking into battle and winning at the same time. And Biggie’s verse? It’s raw, confident, and unapologetic. It reminds me that success isn’t always clean or easy—it’s earned, sometimes painfully, and it comes with scars.

Coming from a background where I’ve had to rebuild—cars, businesses, even parts of myself—that song feels like a soundtrack to survival and triumph. It’s the kind of track I play when I need to remind myself who I am and how far I’ve come.

To me, the artist is a translator of experience.

We take the chaos, the beauty, the struggle, and the silence of the world around us—and we turn it into something people can feel. Whether it’s through sound, visuals, words, or movement, we give shape to things that are often invisible. That’s powerful.

Coming from a background that includes the military, trades, business, and the kitchen, I’ve seen a lot of different sides of life. I’ve seen structure and discipline, but I’ve also seen people break under pressure. I’ve seen systems that work and systems that fail. As an artist, I feel a responsibility to reflect all of that—not just the polished parts, but the raw truth too.

Artists are mirrors, storytellers, and sometimes even healers. We challenge norms, preserve culture, and spark conversations that others might be afraid to start. We remind people that they’re not alone in what they’re feeling.

In a world that often moves too fast and values productivity over presence, the artist’s role is to slow things down and say, “Look. Listen. Feel this.”

That’s what I try to do with my work—whether it’s a beat, a painting, or a verse. I want to make people feel something real.

I don’t just want to make music—I want to shift the way people experience it.

My plan to be a game-changer starts with blending everything I’ve lived through into my sound. I’ve been a Military Police Officer, a chef, a mechanic, a small business owner, and an artist. That’s not a typical résumé for a musician—but that’s exactly the point. I bring a perspective that’s raw, grounded, and real. I want to create music that reflects the complexity of life—not just the highs, but the grit, the grind, and the growth.

Sonically, I’m not afraid to experiment. I mix genres, textures, and even field recordings from my day-to-day life. I might sample the sound of a wrench hitting concrete or the sizzle of a hot pan—because to me, everything has rhythm. I want to break the mold of what my genre is “supposed” to sound like.

But beyond the music, I want to build a community. I plan to mentor up-and-coming artists, especially those who feel like outsiders in the industry. I want to create spaces—both online and in real life—where people can collaborate, learn, and grow without gatekeeping.

Being a game-changer isn’t about being louder. It’s about being truer. And I plan to do that by staying rooted in who I am, while pushing the boundaries of what music can be.

Success, for me, isn’t about charts, clout, or going viral. It’s about impact—real, lasting impact.

If someone hears my music and feels understood, inspired, or even just seen, that’s success. If a track I made helps someone get through a tough day, or sparks a memory, or makes them want to create something of their own—that’s the win.

I measure success by connection and growth. Am I evolving as an artist? Am I staying true to my voice while pushing my boundaries? Am I building something that outlives the moment?

Coming from a background where I’ve had to build things from scratch—whether it was a business, a car, or a new life path—I’ve learned that success is about consistency, not just moments of glory. It’s about showing up, doing the work, and staying grounded in your purpose.

I also measure success by the community I build. If I can open doors for others, share knowledge, and create space for collaboration, then I’m doing more than just making music—I’m helping shape a culture.

So yeah, streams and recognition are cool. But for me, success is when the art is honest, the message is clear, and the people feel it.

Absolutely—I practice all the time. But what “practice” means to me has changed a lot over the years.

When I first started making music, practice was all about learning the tools. I’d spend hours just figuring out how to use my DAW, how to EQ properly, how to layer sounds without muddying the mix. It was technical, and honestly, a little overwhelming—but I loved the challenge. Coming from a background in electronics and mechanics, I approached music like a machine I had to understand and master.

Over time, though, my practice became more about feel than just function. Now, I spend just as much time listening as I do creating. I study the emotion behind a track, the space between the notes, the way a vocal sits in the mix. I’ll loop a section for an hour just to get the vibe right. I’ve learned that practice isn’t just repetition—it’s reflection.

These days, my practice includes:

Daily sound design sessions—even if I don’t finish a track, I try to create something new.
Sampling everyday life—recording sounds from my environment and experimenting with them.
Studying other artists—not to copy, but to understand their choices and expand my own palette.
Journaling ideas—writing down concepts, moods, or visuals I want to translate into sound.
Practice used to be about getting good. Now, it’s about getting honest—with myself, with my sound, and with the people I’m trying to reach.

My favorite way to share my music is face-to-face—with real people, in real time. Whether it’s a live performance, a listening session with close friends, or even just playing a rough mix in the car, I love seeing how people react in the moment. That energy exchange is something you can’t replicate online.

There’s something powerful about watching someone’s head nod to a beat you made from scratch, or seeing their expression change when a lyric hits home. It reminds me why I do this in the first place.

That said, I also love sharing behind-the-scenes content—like process videos, sound experiments, or even the mistakes I make along the way. I think people connect more when they see the journey, not just the polished product. So I try to keep it real on social media too, especially with short clips or stories that show how a track came to life.

But nothing beats that in-person moment when the music hits, and you know it landed exactly how you meant it to.

Honestly? The strangest place I’ve discovered a new song was right in the middle of a gaming or gambling session—no studio, no fancy setup, just me, a controller or a betting screen, and a sudden spark of inspiration.

Most of my songs are born in those in-between moments—when I’m taking a break from the intensity of a game or the adrenaline of a wager. It’s like my brain switches gears and suddenly, a melody or rhythm just shows up. I’ll pause everything, grab my phone, and start humming into a voice memo or tapping out a beat idea before it disappears.

It’s weird, but those moments of escape—where I’m not trying to create—end up being the most creatively charged. It’s like my subconscious is working in the background, and when I finally step away from the screen, the music just flows.

So yeah, the strangest place I’ve found a song? Probably somewhere between a bet and a boss fight.

The last three years were some of the most transformative—and challenging—years of my life. From 2021 to 2024, I was a homeless veteran, navigating survival while still holding onto my creative drive. That experience didn’t just change me—it reshaped my entire approach to music.

In that time, my sound became more raw, more experimental, and more emotionally honest. I didn’t have access to fancy gear or perfect conditions, but I had ideas, emotion, and a deep need to express what I was going through. Tracks like “Buried,” “Containment,” and “No Goin Back” came from that space—dark, introspective, but also full of resilience and forward motion.

I started leaning into glitch, ambient, and lo-fi textures more heavily—sounds that mirrored the chaos and unpredictability of my life at the time. But I also found beauty in minimalism and imperfection. ‘Into You’ and ‘In-Spired’—came from moments where silence spoke louder than chaos, capturing the stillness I had to fight to find.

Now that I’m in a more stable place, I can see how that period gave my music a deeper emotional core. I’m still evolving, but I carry those years with me in every beat, every texture, every transition. My sound isn’t just about genre—it’s about survival, transformation, and the power of sound to tell the truth when words fall short.

If I could collaborate with any artist, it would hands down be K.A.A.N.

His lyrical precision, speed, and depth are on another level. He doesn’t just rap—he unloads thoughts, emotions, and philosophies in a way that feels surgical and soulful at the same time. I’ve always admired how he balances raw intensity with introspection, and I feel like our energies would align in a powerful way.

Given my background—coming from the military, trades, business, and creative spaces—I think we’d have a lot to say together. I’d love to build a track that blends my gritty, grounded production style with his rapid-fire delivery and layered storytelling. Something that hits hard but also makes people think.

That kind of collaboration wouldn’t just be a dream—it’d be a statement.

I’d say it’s like stepping into a dream where every sound has a purpose and every silence has weight. Their music isn’t just something you hear—it’s something you feel. It’s layered, emotional, and often unpredictable—like a conversation between machines and memories.

If I had to paint a picture, I’d say it’s the sound of neon lights flickering in the rain, or a heartbeat echoing through a digital forest. It’s cinematic without being overproduced, experimental without losing its soul. The kind of music that makes you pause, reflect, and sometimes even confront something inside yourself.

That’s the kind of energy I try to channel in my own work too—tracks like “Introspection” or “Buried” are definitely influenced by that same emotional depth and sonic storytelling.

1. K.A.A.N.
K.A.A.N. is essential. His lyricism is razor-sharp, his delivery is relentless, and his content is deep. He’s one of those artists who makes you think, rewind, and reflect all at once. His music pushes me creatively and mentally—it’s like fuel for both the grind and the growth.

2. Nujabes
Nujabes is pure soul. His music feels like peace in audio form. The way he blends jazz, hip-hop, and emotion is unmatched. I often find myself creating to his instrumentals—they open up space in my mind and let ideas flow freely. His sound reminds me that music doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. It just has to be true.

3. Adventure Club
Adventure Club brings the emotion and energy that hits me right in the chest. Their blend of melodic dubstep, haunting vocals, and cinematic drops creates a sound that’s both powerful and deeply emotional. Their music feels like a release—something that lifts you up and breaks you open at the same time. Whether I’m creating, reflecting, or just vibing, their sound always finds a way to resonate.

One of my earliest and most vivid memories of music comes from growing up in a Navy family. My dad was a huge music lover—especially classic rock—and our home was always filled with the sounds of bands like Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, and Pink Floyd. I remember riding in the car with him, singing along to whatever was playing, and making it a mission to learn the lyrics and get them right. It wasn’t just background noise—it was something we shared, something I took seriously even as a kid.

That early connection to music, especially the storytelling and emotion in those songs, definitely shaped me. It taught me to listen closely, to feel the rhythm and the message, and to respect the craft. Even now, whether I’m building a track or remixing something, I think that early exposure to melody, structure, and raw energy still echoes in what I create.

If I could go on tour with any artist, who would it be and why?

Without a doubt—Adventure Club. Their sound has always resonated with me on a deep level. There’s this emotional weight to their music—melodic, cinematic, and heavy-hitting—that aligns with the kind of energy I try to channel in my own work. Tracks like “Crash 2.0 (Degen Labs ReSearcH Mixed by jAishO)” were directly inspired by that blend of beauty and bass they’ve mastered.

Touring with them would be more than just a musical fit—it would be a full-circle moment. Their ability to move between emotional storytelling and high-energy drops mirrors my own approach to genre-bending and emotional contrast. I think we’d create a powerful experience together—something that hits hard but also stays with people long after the set ends.

Plus, their fanbase is open-minded and emotionally tuned in, which is exactly the kind of audience I want to connect with. It wouldn’t just be a tour—it’d be a journey.

My dream performance takes place at The Sphere in Las Vegas—the ultimate fusion of sound, light, and immersive technology. That venue is built for artists who think beyond the stage, and that’s exactly how I approach my music. I don’t just want to play tracks—I want to create a world.

The show would start in near darkness, with ambient textures from tracks like “Ether” and “Intermission” slowly filling the space. The Sphere’s 360° visuals would come alive with glitchy, cosmic imagery—fractals, data streams, and surreal dreamscapes that evolve with the music. As the set builds, the visuals would sync with the rhythm, reacting in real time to tracks like “Astral Flow”, “Project Dopa”, and “WTPhonk It’s A Trap.”

I’d design the set to feel like a journey through dimensions—each track unlocking a new visual and emotional layer. The Sphere’s sound system would let every detail shine, from the sub-bass to the tiniest glitch. I’d even incorporate moments of silence or minimalism, letting the space breathe before dropping back into high-energy chaos.

The crowd? A mix of ravers, artists, and digital explorers—people who came not just to dance, but to feel something real. I want them to leave feeling like they just experienced a sonic odyssey—something cinematic, emotional, and unforgettable.

Performing at The Sphere wouldn’t just be a show. It would be a statement: this is what the future of sound looks like.

If I could attend a performance by any artist, dead or alive, who would I choose and why?

Honestly, I’ve already lived part of that dream—I was an attendee at the very first Ultra Music Festival, and that experience changed everything for me. The raw energy, the sense of community, and the feeling that something massive was just beginning—it lit a fire in me that still burns today.

If I could relive that kind of moment or attend another dream performance, it would be at Ultra or EDC. Both festivals represent the pinnacle of electronic music culture—massive production, genre-defying lineups, and crowds that are there for the love of the music. I’d want to see a set that blends emotion and power—maybe Avicii at his peak, or a legendary B2B with Adventure Club, Skrillex, and RL Grime.

As a producer, I’d be soaking in every detail—the transitions, the visuals, the way the crowd moves with the music. It’s not just about watching—it’s about learning, feeling, and being inspired. One day, I hope to bring my own sound to that stage and give someone else the kind of unforgettable experience that first inspired me.

That is what I would want to attend in the present or future. If I could go back in time and attend any performance, it would hands down be Woodstock 1969. That wasn’t just a concert—it was a cultural shift, a moment where music, rebellion, and raw emotion collided in the most powerful way. The energy of that crowd, the mud, the chaos, the unity—it was pure, unfiltered expression. I would’ve loved to witness artists like Jimi Hendrix, Santana, or Janis Joplin in their element, pouring their souls out on stage with nothing but passion and distortion.

As someone who blends emotion, grit, and experimentation in my own music, I feel a deep connection to that era. Woodstock was about more than just sound—it was about message, movement, and meaning. I think that spirit still lives in electronic music today, especially in the underground and experimental scenes. Being there would’ve been like watching the roots of everything I now try to channel through synths, bass, and glitch.

It would’ve been wild to experience that kind of raw, communal energy—no LED walls, no synced visuals, just music and meaning in its purest form.

If I could change one thing about how social media is used, I’d shift the focus from performance to presence. Right now, so much of it is about chasing algorithms, curating perfection, and constantly proving your worth through numbers. As an artist, that pressure can be exhausting—it turns creativity into content and connection into competition.

I’d love to see social media evolve into something more authentic and community-driven. A space where artists can share their process, their struggles, and their growth without feeling like they have to package everything for virality. Where people engage with each other’s work because it moves them—not because it’s trending.

I’d also love to see platforms that reward originality and vulnerability, not just volume. Imagine if the algorithm prioritized depth over frequency—if a single, meaningful post could carry more weight than a dozen throwaways.

For me, music is about emotion, connection, and storytelling. Social media should amplify that—not dilute it. If I could help shape that shift, I’d be all in.

Honestly, it’s a double-edged sword. Social media has opened up incredible opportunities for artists—it’s given us platforms to share our work directly, build communities, and connect with people all over the world without needing a label or a gatekeeper. That kind of access is powerful, and I’ve definitely benefited from it.

But at the same time, I think it’s also hurting authenticity in a lot of ways. The pressure to constantly post, to chase engagement, to fit into trends—it can pull artists away from their true voice. It turns creativity into content, and that can dilute the raw, honest energy that makes art meaningful in the first place.

As someone who values emotion, experimentation, and storytelling in my music, I’ve had to learn how to navigate that balance. I try to use social media as a tool—not a mirror. I share what feels real, not just what I think will perform well. But it’s not always easy.

So yeah, social media can help—but only if we stay grounded in why we create in the first place. The moment we start creating for the algorithm instead of from the heart, we lose something important.

Without a doubt, it’s “Phoenix” by K.A.A.N. What’s wild is that I wasn’t even looking for music when I found it—I was watching a penetration testing video on YouTube while I was in school for Information Technology. The track was playing quietly in the background, but the moment I heard it, I was completely drawn in. The flow, the lyricism, the energy—it just hit different.

I paused the video and went on a mission to find out what the song was. Once I found it, I didn’t stop there—I dove into K.A.A.N.’s entire catalog and had his music on repeat for months. Even now, I’m a huge fan of his work. His ability to blend raw emotion with technical precision really inspired me, especially as someone who values both storytelling and sonic experimentation in my own music.

That moment reminded me how powerful music discovery can be—how a single track, heard in the background during a completely unrelated moment, can shift your whole perspective and even influence your creative path.

Social media has honestly been one of my favorite tools for discovering new music—especially the kind that flies under the radar. Whether it’s a reel, a TikTok, or even a YouTube video in the background, I’m always listening. One of my most memorable discoveries was “Phoenix” by K.A.A.N.—I was in school for Information Technology, watching a penetration testing video, and the track was playing low in the background. It hit me so hard I had to pause everything and find out who it was. That one moment led me to dive into his entire catalog, and I’ve been a huge fan ever since.

I also follow a lot of niche music pages, underground producer collectives, and Discord communities where people share their latest finds or personal projects. It’s like digital crate-digging—sometimes you stumble on a 30-second clip that completely shifts your mood or inspires a new idea.

What I love most is how social media breaks down the walls between artists and listeners. You’re not just discovering songs—you’re discovering people, stories, and sounds that might never make it to the mainstream but still hit just as hard.

There’s definitely a part of me that romanticizes that era—when music spoke for itself, and artists weren’t expected to be content creators 24/7. Back then, the focus was on the sound, the message, the physical experience of music—vinyl, tapes, CDs, live shows. That analog intimacy is something I try to channel in tracks like “Samplicity” and “Untitled Save.”

But at the same time, I recognize the power of social media. As someone who’s rebuilt from the ground up—veteran, father, entrepreneur, survivor—being able to share my story and connect directly with listeners is invaluable. Social media gives independent artists like me a platform we wouldn’t have had before. It’s not just about promotion—it’s about community, visibility, and control.

So while I might prefer the purity of the pre-social era in some ways, I thrive in the now. I use the tools of today to tell stories that are timeless.

 One of my favorite trends has been the rise of genre fusion and experimental remix culture—especially the kind that thrives in online communities and underground scenes. I love how boundaries have blurred between styles like phonk, jungle, trap, IDM, ambient, and breakbeat. It’s no longer about fitting into a box—it’s about creating your own sonic identity.

Tracks like “TBKO’d (Robert Miles – Children Remix)” and “Trappin in the Jungle (Nicki Minaj ft. 2 Chainz – B’s in the Trap; Skrillex – Rumble Remix Mashup)” are perfect examples of that. They’re bold, chaotic, and unapologetically hybrid. I’ve always been drawn to the idea of taking something familiar and flipping it into something unexpected—whether that’s a nostalgic trance melody or a viral vocal sample.

This trend speaks to my background too. I’ve worn many hats—MP, chef, mechanic, father, survivor—and I bring that same layered energy into my music. Remix culture lets me honor the past while pushing forward, and that’s something I’ll always be passionate about.

I’m obsessed with laser light shows and fractal visualizers—especially the ones that seem to move perfectly in sync with the beat, even when they’re not directly connected to the audio. There’s something mesmerizing about how those visuals pulse, twist, and evolve with the rhythm. It’s like watching math and music dance together.

As a producer, I’m deeply tuned into timing and texture, so seeing visuals that feel the beat—whether through programmed sync or just uncanny harmony—really inspires me. Tracks like “Tesseraction” or “Astral Flow” were made with that kind of visual energy in mind. I want listeners to not just hear the music, but to see it unfold in motion and light.

Fractal visualizers, in particular, fascinate me because they reflect the complexity and unpredictability I aim for in my sound. They’re chaotic but controlled—just like a lot of my work. Watching them reminds me that even in randomness, there’s rhythm.

It’s a bit of a love-hate relationship. On one hand, I do enjoy sharing my work online—it’s empowering to put something out into the world and know it can reach someone across the globe in seconds. As someone who’s lived through a lot—military service, fatherhood, homelessness, rebuilding from scratch—there’s something powerful about being able to share my sound and my story on my own terms.

But I’ll be real: the pressure to constantly post, promote, and perform for algorithms can be draining. I didn’t get into music to chase likes—I got into it to express, to heal, to connect. That’s why I focus on making sure what I post is authentic. Whether it’s a track like “Manifesto” or a visualizer synced to “Ether,” I want it to mean something.

So yes, I enjoy posting—but only when it feels aligned with the art, not just the attention.

SoundCloud, hands down. It’s always felt like home base for me. There’s a rawness and authenticity to the platform that aligns with how I create—experimental, genre-blending, and emotion-driven. I can upload a track like “Degen Again” or “No Queue” and not worry about fitting into a trend or algorithm. It’s about the sound, not the spectacle.

What I love most is the community. SoundCloud listeners are explorers—they’re not just looking for hits, they’re looking for something real. I’ve connected with people who truly listen, who appreciate the layers in a track like “Integral Reflection” or the chaos in “WTPhonk It’s A Trap.” That kind of engagement means more to me than any viral moment.

Plus, as someone who’s rebuilt from the ground up, I respect platforms that empower independent artists. SoundCloud gives me the freedom to be fully myself—no filters, no gatekeepers.

My favorite content to create and share is music paired with immersive visuals—especially when I can sync my tracks with fractal visualizers, glitch art, or laser-style animations. There’s something powerful about turning sound into a full sensory experience. It’s not just about hearing the music—it’s about feeling it, seeing it move, and letting it tell a story beyond words.

I love sharing snippets of tracks like “Astral Flow” or “SlipStream” with visuals that pulse and evolve with the beat. It’s a way to bring people into my world—where rhythm meets emotion, and chaos meets control. Whether it’s a 30-second clip on SoundCloud or a looping visual on Instagram, I want every post to feel like a portal into the soundscape.

And honestly, as someone who’s lived through a lot, I find that this kind of content lets me express things that words alone can’t capture.

These platforms have completely reshaped the music landscape—for better and for worse. On the positive side, they’ve democratized exposure. You don’t need a label or a massive budget to get your sound out there. A 15-second clip on TikTok or a visual snippet on Instagram can introduce your music to thousands—sometimes millions—of people overnight. That kind of reach was unthinkable in the pre-social era.

As someone who’s built from the ground up—veteran, father, small business owner—I respect that hustle. Platforms like YouTube and TikTok give independent artists like me a fighting chance to be heard without gatekeepers. I’ve seen how a track like “WTPhonk It’s A Trap” or “Focused Restraint” can catch attention just by pairing it with the right visual or moment.

But there’s a flip side. The pressure to constantly create content, chase trends, and “go viral” can pull artists away from the deeper creative process. Music becomes more about moments than movements. That’s why I try to use these platforms intentionally—to share meaningful pieces of my work, like fractal visualizers or behind-the-scenes clips, rather than just chasing the algorithm.

In short: these platforms are powerful tools—but like any tool, it’s all about how you use them.

Right now, I’d say SoundCloud is where my content resonates the most. It’s built for people who listen deeply—the kind of listeners who appreciate layered production, genre fusion, and experimental sounds. Tracks like “Ether” or “ReSearcH” get real engagement there—not just plays, but thoughtful feedback and reposts from people who get what I’m doing.

That said, Instagram has been great for sharing visual snippets—especially when I pair my music with fractal visualizers or laser-style animations. It’s where I can showcase the aesthetic side of my sound. And when I want to test how a track like “SlipStream” or “Tesseraction” feels in motion, Instagram Reels gives me that instant visual feedback.

Each platform has its strengths, but SoundCloud is where the music lives and breathes. It’s where I feel most understood as an artist.

 Without a doubt—Spotify. Even though it’s tough to gain traction at first, once the algorithm starts picking up your tracks or you land on the right playlist, the reach is unmatched. It’s one of the few platforms where your music can organically find its way to listeners across the world who’ve never heard of you before.

Spotify’s ecosystem—like Discover Weekly, Release Radar, and editorial playlists—can turn a track like “Apex” or “Sacrifice” into a gateway for new fans. It’s not just about plays—it’s about discovery. And for an independent artist like me, that’s gold.

That said, it takes patience. You have to build momentum, optimize your metadata, and keep showing up. But when it clicks, it’s powerful. Spotify helps me reach beyond my existing circle and connect with people who are genuinely into the kind of layered, emotional, and experimental music I make.

I started using social media seriously as an artist around the time I began building out my catalog—when I realized that making the music was only half the journey. I’d say it really clicked for me when I saw how platforms like SoundCloud and Instagram could be more than just places to post—they could be tools for storytelling, connection, and visibility.

At first, it was just about sharing tracks. But over time, I started experimenting with visuals, behind-the-scenes content, and even reflections on my journey—from being a veteran and small business owner to a father and creative. That’s when it stopped being just “promotion” and started feeling like expression.

Social media became a way to not just release music, but to build a world around it.