😎Grass Patch Bum😎

Feel lava under your feet—hard techno meets a psychedelic sky in 3…2…1.
Plug in—this dark rave journey will melt reality in five bass drops.
Nomads march. Drums pound. The sky turns ember. Are you ready?
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Close your eyes—follow the spiral galaxy and bass into oblivion.
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Nomads Under the Ember Sky
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Keep in touch with latest releases:
https://www.youtube.com/@grasspatchbum
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https://grasspatchbum.com/
Trippy Music Video : https://youtu.be/AeD5DNvqi4Q
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Support the tunes:
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The moon had not been seen in thirty-three nights, for an ember-red shroud lay over the heavens like molten silk. Beneath that burning veil sprawled an obsidian plain—black glass so polished it mirrored the crimson firmament above. Rumors called this place Ash-Hollow, though the oldest wanderers claimed it was once a lake of fire that cooled into stone the night something else fell from the constellations.

Into this hush trudged a caravan of cloaked nomads. Their boots rang dull notes on the glossy floor, each footfall accompanied by a pulse that throbbed up from the rock itself, as if the ground possessed a heartbeat trying to match their own. Spirals—tattooed in shimmering mica—glittered across their weathered skin, guiding them forward with a geometry no star-chart could replicate.

I. The Echoing Path
Kai, youngest among the pilgrims, paused to gaze at his reflection in the obsidian. The sky’s ember glow painted his eyes a fierce amber, yet within them danced the tremor of uncertainty. He had heard the legends from whispers in desert markets: When the sky turns embers and the stone begins to hum, follow the pulse to the heart-rift. There the world’s secret will open like a mouth of light.

He tightened his cloak and rejoined the march. The caravan curved toward a fissure in the plain—an ink-black wound wide enough to swallow cities. From its depths rose faint tendrils of emerald luminescence, like vines of living ore trying to escape. It was here, the elders said, that the ritual would begin.

II. Breath of the Spore Wind
A sudden gust, impossibly cool, spiraled up from the rift. With it came a cloud of spores—spherical motes aglow in hues that shifted from jade to amethyst to gold depending on how one dared to blink. They drifted among the nomads, kissing foreheads and slipping under cloaks.

Kai inhaled—and the world kaleidoscoped. The obsidian plain rippled as if water; constellations buckled and re-arranged into sigils that pulsed in time with his racing heart. Cloaked companions fragmented into geometric silhouettes of themselves—prisms walking. Every doubt, every childhood memory, floated outward and crystallized as visible thought-petals before dissolving back into the wind.

An elder touched Kai’s shoulder. Through vision warped by chromatic tides, Kai still recognized the gesture: reassurance. “Let the spores rewrite seeing,” the elder murmured, voice both thunderous and whispered grains of sand. “Only then can you walk paths not yet laid.”


Continues on the website: 
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/03/nomads-under-the-ember-sky/

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Nomads Under the Ember Sky

Saturday bangers babay!
A little psychedelia for yah peepers my peoples! 😘💚
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https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
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Neo rave sci‑fi visuals with ruthless hard techno drive.
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Helix of the Bioluminal Oracle
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Keep in touch with latest releases:
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Trippy Music Video : https://youtu.be/tTh2kXk3rT0
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There's a STORY!!! ;)
I — The Map That Wasn’t a Map

You arrive where the atlas stops pretending it knows anything.

Beyond the ridge, the land is a black opal plain veined with cobalt veins that hum in no wind. A hush sits on it the way frost sits on grass—delicate, temporary, sacred if you move gently enough. The dew here is wrong in the way a dream is wrong: each bead is too round, too steady, too awake. They don’t roll or soak in. They hold. They wait.

You kneel and the beads reflect not your face but diagrams—hexes nested in hexes, spirals that refuse to end, angles that feel like numbers you once knew. The longer you look, the more they join: a filament touches a filament, and there’s a glow passing between them like the smallest current. It is not water. It is a statement.

The old story said the Oracle grows where dew refuses to be only dew.

You rise, dust the grit from your palms, and walk without choosing a direction. The plain chooses for you. Lines of cold light thread from bead to bead like veins answering a heartbeat. The geometry doesn’t push, it persuades, shaping your steps, showing paths only as you take them. The horizon stays perfectly level, the sky a long bruise of cobalt with a single pale star pinned in the wrong place. Your breath fogs and then the fog arranges itself into numerals you cannot read and then dissolves. It’s almost kind, the way this place tells you: you are in the presence of a very patient intelligence.

When you feel it—before you see it—the hair along your arms rises not from fear but from recognition. As if a song you used to know finds your throat from the outside.

And then you see the Oracle.

II — The Humanoid That Was Also a Tree

It towers but does not loom. A torso of varnished bark with shoulders braided out of roots, hips heavy with the memory of storms. The arms bend the way branches bend, and where hands should be, the wood splits into filigreed fronds—their undersides ribbed with gill-like lamellae that pulse with bioluminescence. The face is not a face, not really, but a mask of old growth and lichen with hollows where eyes should be; inside those hollows slow constellations wheel like watch gears. A crown of fruiting bodies bursts from the skull and then recedes, then blooms again in a long, tidal breath, spores drifting like snow that has learned how to glow.

Its feet are not feet, they are a root-crown woven into the plain, plugged into the dew like a nerve into a brain.

You do not speak. You bring your question the way you were taught to carry flame—cupped, stubborn against the wind. The question is old and small enough to be dangerous: what am I for?


Continues on the website: https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/16/cobalt-dewfall-geometry/

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Cobalt Dewfall Geometry - Mushroom Visualizer @ YouTube

A hypnotic 8K sci‑fi voyage—deep bass, trippy geometry, melodic lift‑offs.
Melodic, psychedelic, progressive—zero‑gravity techno for late hours.
Minimal to massive: trippy textures, deep drive, melodic bloom.

8K Video: https://youtu.be/_6mjYbS_-6Y

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ᓚᘏᗢ


The Story ➜
The shuttle cut across the dark like a scalpel of dull chrome, its hull showing only a thin comb of starlight as it banked toward the Quay. Below, an archipelago of structures rose out of the vacuum—a ring of barbed petals and glassy ribs, like a flower pressed between the pages of physics. They called it Tessellation Quay, and at its center—hung on invisible filaments—waited a round, black sheet with a faint sheen, as if it were coated in oil that refused to drip.

Amri Quell watched it tilt, an angle shifting against nothingness, and adjusted her ship’s attitude until her reflection skimmed the slick surface and fractured into a dozen faint copies. The copies kept flying, like she did, but their courses were off by the smallest degree, and she had a brief, superstitious fear each one would plow into some invisible wall she’d avoid only by accident.

“The Mirror’s awake,” said the Quay’s traffic mind, its voice a steady alto that made no effort to be comforting. “Dock on rib seven. Your sponsor is waiting. And Amri—don’t touch the surface.”

“As if anyone comes this far to smudge a priceless artifact,” she said, and let the shuttle kiss the rib with a well-practiced lean.

Mag clamps took hold. The cockpit glass irised open. She climbed down into air laced with a mineral chill and the faint musk of wet soil—the Quay kept gardens threaded everywhere, corridors furry with moss and filaments, a mycelial skeleton that made walking through the place feel like navigating a living lung. The filament glow was gentle, teal and cobalt, as if bioluminescence had learned restraint.

A figure waited at the end of the causeway—a long coat, a thin halo of thin-film iridescence around the shoulders, and the austere expression of a person who conversed mostly with machines.

“Conservator Nals,” said Amri. “You look exactly like your letters, which is mildly disappointing.”

“Pilot Quell,” Nals said, dry. “You look exactly like someone who doesn’t believe in mirrors.”

“I believe in mirrors. I don’t trust them.”

“Good. The Rosette returns mistrust with courtesy. Come.”

They walked a narrow path that spiraled inward, over a dark well where the Mirror hung. From above, it was not perfectly round. Its edge flowered into petals of angle—eight elaborate lobes, like a rosette carved from shadow. Each lobe was the suggestion of symmetry, not symmetry itself; when she tried to count the facets at any given radius, the count changed by one, as if the Mirror reserved the right to differ with her.

“Everyone calls it the Rosette Mirror,” Nals said. “But that’s not its name. It’s an artifact we don’t know how to name.”

“What does it test?” Amri said.

“Continuity.”

“Of what?”

Continues on the website.


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Rosette Mirror Test - 8K Psy Video on Youtube

This music video is trippy az - took a minute : https://youtu.be/riJ2PAnbyzQ

Dark, hypnotic, warehouse‑ready techno—step into the Index and don’t look back.
Rolling bass, acid edges, space‑bound pulse—built for late hours.
From void to city: a cinematic techno journey.

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The Story ➜
There is a library that rotates around a star that does not shine.

The star is called the Umbra Crown, an object that drinks light the way dry soil swallows rain. Around it, on a safe, slow ring, floats the Palimpsest Array—thirty‑one linked hulls and one cathedral of glass mathematics, all of it oriented toward a thing no eye can see. The Array keeps records of what the universe attempts, fails, revises, and forgets.

In Vault Nine, behind shutters etched with compass roses, the Index of Lost Vectors sleeps in a cradle of null‑metal. It is not a book. It is not a map. It is a living catalog of directions that once were real and then weren’t: bearings erased by paradox, routes collapsed by war, trajectories canceled by the absolute pressure of someone’s choice.

Every so often, a new arrow appears in the Index, pointing toward nothing and still insisting it points. That insistence is hard to ignore when your job title is Vectorist.

Kael Ivers had held that title for sixteen years. They had seen the Index wake exactly three times.

On the fourth, the arrows did not appear.

They bloomed.

I — Arrowfall

Kael did not dream in pictures. They dreamed in angles: a narrow gate of ninety degrees held like a promise, an indulgent sweep of one hundred twenty that never closed where you thought it would. That night, in the small sleep between the first cup of bitter broth and the second, Kael dreamed a circle that would not stay circle. It kept erupting with tangents, each tangent a pale hairline of intent.

They woke with the taste of tin in their mouth and the feeling of a room straightening around them.

“Vault Nine,” said the Array, warm and calm in Kael’s ear. The Array never hurried its vowels. “The Index is agitated.”

Kael rolled off the hammock, slid into a field jacket, and jogged through the airless corridor. The shard windows along the passage showed a black full of small, reluctant stars. The Umbra Crown lived where no starlight reached, but the shyer stars still haunted the periphery.

The vault door recognized Kael’s gait before it recognized their badge. Inside, the Index floated—a torus of glass, a halo with a heart. When it slept, it looked like a ring made by someone who understands rings only as an idea. When it woke, angles sprouted from it the way grass erupts after a secret rain.

Today, it was a meadow.

Thousands of vectors had blossomed out of the torus, paper‑thin and luminous. They didn’t point to random; they pointed toward a choreography. Some curved, some refused to bow; others leaned with the authority of a road that predates the city it enters.

Kael did not touch it. They didn’t have to. The vectors brushed the surface of their attention and left afterimages that behaved like memory. The taste of tin intensified.

Continues on the website.


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#techno   #musicvideo   #trippyvisuals   #technomusic   #visualizer   #undergroundtechno   #musicvisualizer   #melodictechno    #4kvideo   #4kvisuals   #psychedelicvisuals   #8kvideo  #peaktimetechno  #drivingtechno  #darktechno  #hypnotictechno  #acidtechno  #warehouse   #cinematicmusic  #scifiadventure

Index of Lost Vectors | Uber Trippy Morphing Music Video @ YouTube

Trippy music video : https://youtu.be/w2hUcPYG7dE

Peak‑time pressure + hypnotic grooves in a psychedelic sci‑fi visual trip.
Hard techno meets raw/deep hypnosis—warehouse energy in 4K.
Driving kicks, rolling bass, and a desert dream that won’t let go.

Stream / download / buy ➜
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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I. The Door That Breathes Spores

At the rim of the desert stood a seam in the air, hairline and luminous, like a scar that learned to exhale. When it sighed, motes unfurled into the dusk—opal dust and spore‑light that arranged itself into shy constellations. The seam smelled of rain that could not remember where it fell.

Aneleth arrived without footsteps. Their feet left no mark by design; their kind, the Mneme‑walkers, were sworn not to bruise the hours beneath them. Aneleth’s body was a study in glass and vellum: skin the color of quiet dawn, thin enough to show the rivers of gold filament that ran like patient lightning under the surface. Along the throat, a translucent veil fluttered—a gill‑lace that drank aroma and rumor. The eyes were coin‑bright and slow‑turning, with irises that gathered starlight, folded it, and kept it as a kindness for later.

They wore a mantle of mycelial silk grown in moon‑dark gardens, the threads still alive, still remembering the tunnels from which they had been coaxed. On Aneleth’s left wrist slept a ring of living wire—the Thread, a compliant serpent of gold that could smell distance the way others smell smoke.

Aneleth placed an open palm upon the seam. The air learned their shape. Spores swept forward like a soft tide, mapping the fingers, the lifelines, the old scars of vows kept and nearly broken. The seam widened, not as a door does, but as a thought does when it finds its opposite. Hyperfine cracks spread, diverged, and converged again in a lattice that suggested both invitation and correction.

“Let me in,” said Aneleth in the language of mineral patience.

The seam spoke back in fern breath: Come in if you can accept the arithmetic of forgetting.

Aneleth had come for that arithmetic. The Dunes of Liquid Memory waited beyond the seam, and somewhere inside those dunes lay the promise they once made in the Dark Orchard—the promise the desert had taken as collateral and never returned.

They stepped through. The seam stitched itself closed with a surgeon’s certainty, and silence rearranged its furniture to make room.

II. The Glass Dunes and Their Blooming Sigils

The desert was not sand so much as the idea of sand persuaded into matter. Each dune was a slope of congealed recollection, liquefying and resolidifying on its own clock. The grains were translucent and full of tiny occlusions—faces, gestures, half‑remembered weather. When the wind moved, the dunes flowed in slow currents, as if all memory wanted to be water but had first to practice being glass.

Continues on the website.


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https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
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https://grasspatchbum.com/
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Support the tunes:
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Dunes of Liquid Memory | Liquid Music Video @ YouTube

Deep/minimal groove with trippy ultra‑real visuals. Enter the corridor.
A fractal sun over glass dunes—hypnotic techno immersion.
Dark kicks, deep subs, cosmic glow—get lost in the visuals.

Stream / download / buy ➜
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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
I — The Door Beneath the Dark

The star was a fever that never cooled. From orbit it painted the hard vacuum with spirals of color too precise to be chance: lime, magenta, ultraviolet lattices shimmering like the wings of mythic insects. The Hyphaeryx named it the LSD Sun for the way its light convinced stone to dream and dunes to rearrange themselves into perfect mandalas. Around this sun drifted a desert of comet‑ground silica, fused and refrozen into rippling continents. The dunes rolled on tides of radiance rather than wind, sculpted by spectra that moved with the patience of continental drift and the caprice of a hallucination.

Vhorin arrived not in a vessel but in a germination. His body stepped out of a seed that had been a star only yesterday; he shook the last dew of cold nebula from his shoulders and watched it evaporate into petals of cyan steam. The dunes murmured in color. Far beneath his feet, he felt the Hyphosphere stir—threads of living matter braided through the vacuum like the roots of a forest that had traded soil for starlight.

He walked until the dune‑faces climbed to meet the sky, tall as mountains and rimmed with auroral fire. At the base of one such face a circle of gills irised open in the dark glass as if the dune itself had been holding its breath. The hatch exhaled a fine mist—spores sculpted into vowels—and in their pattern Vhorin read greeting and test.

“I have come for the corridor,” he said, and his voice was a fiber of gold weaving itself into the mist.

The hatch widened. Beneath it, a stair spiraled away into a coolness that was not darkness so much as uncommitted color. Vhorin lifted one foot, then the other, and descended into the under‑dune where gravity behaved like a thought that refused to settle.

II — Gravities Turning

The stair did not point down. It turned toward a vector Vhorin could only name by taste: metal with a citrus tremor. Each step unhooked weight from one meaning and relayed it to another. The dunes above forgot he had ever stood upon them. Somewhere behind his eyes, a flock of phosphorescent glyphs convened: coordinates singing to each other in a language of angles.

Walls of interlaced hyphae rose around him, pale braids pulsing with slow, star‑blue light. He let his fingers brush the living weave. It shivered and disclosed a map—strands touched strands, and whole constellations changed their minds about where they lived. High overhead, where “overhead” was temporarily plural, he glimpsed DMT auroras sliding through the rock like cattails through riverwater: mint green, persimmon, electric violet. Each color drafted a hypothesis of the corridor’s location.

He tasted the air with the filaments along his wrists and whispered his lineage—the spore‑names and filament‑houses that had grown him. The stair humbled to a ramp and the ramp bent open into a chamber where the ceiling was not a ceiling but a low sky.

Continues on the website.


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Merch Shop : https://grass-patch-bum-shop.fourthwall.com
o(*^＠^*)o
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
https://grasspatchbum.bandcamp.com/
https://grasspatchbum.com/
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Support the tunes:
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#techno  #trippyvisuals  #technomusic  #visualizer  #undergroundtechno  #musicvisualizer  #4kvideo  #4kvisuals  #psychedelicvisuals  #peaktimetechno  #hypnotictechno  #drivingtechno  #melodictechno  #aimusicvideo

Dunes of the LSD Sun | Cinematic Visual Trip @ YouTube

Dig the tunes? Check out trippy music videos: https://www.youtube.com/@grasspatchbum

Website or Instagram for booking.

Need change - going into the depths.

Techno, Trance, Psytech, Psytrance, and other liquid psychedelic music is where I'm the happiest but I do love a lot of Latin, Tribal, Trip Hop, Lofi, Chillhop so occasionally I'll release something off-beat.

------ Past-Tense Shenanigans ------

Born in the dust-filled vibes of a ‘90s apartment, Grass Patch Bum started spinning records back when vinyl was king and internet cafes were revolutionary. Armed with a crate of vinyl, Grass Patch Bum dived headfirst into underground raves and sweaty house parties, learning the art of blending beats on turntables and (eventually) the "futuristic" CDJs. But the journey didn't stop there.

After taking a hiatus to dive into the world of FL Studio and dissect the mechanics of production, Grass Patch Bum came back stronger, with a repertoire of original sounds and the technical chops to match. Fast forward, and they've turned dancefloors upside down from Thailand to Vietnam, Bali to the heart of Europe. Now, powered by Ableton Live and a creative arsenal that refuses to stay in one genre, Grass Patch Bum weaves sonic journeys that blend groove, grit, and just a sprinkle of nostalgia for the good ol' days.

Catch him live for a taste of nostalgia, modern beats, Latin grooves, electronic melodies, and a wide range of liquid sounds. Whether it's a tropical beach in Thailand or an underground club in Berlin, Grass Patch Bum brings thems booty movements like no other.