Contraband Starlines

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Rekordbox
135 BPM
F#m
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Violet starlight flickers against a velvet void as the cosmic desert exhales its first pulse. Beneath that pulse six chrome-shelled sand-skimmers rest like dormant predators, engines humming at the edge of silence. Captain Vel Anteras swings a leg over the lead hull, his weather-tattered cloak snapping in the faint solar wind. In his palm glows a crystal compass—its needle refuses to point north, instead twitching toward a jagged fissure in the sky: the Prism Gate, a rift rumored to weave rhythm into wormholes.

One sharp twist of the throttle and the entire caravan erupts forward. The skimmers skim a desert of liquid glass, carving mirrored wakes that fling prismatic shards into the air. Each shard hangs momentarily like a frozen lightning bolt before dissolving into a mist of rainbow static. The bass throb of their anti-grav drives merges with a percussion of skittering micro-rocks, forming an accidental symphony that echoes for light-years across the dunes.

Soon the horizon buckles. A single dune rises higher than any mountain—its grains flash through colors no spectrum can name, cycling from prehistoric shades of ochre to futurist neons birthed in laboratories yet unbuilt. Vel powers down and steps onto its shifting flank. Time thickens. Every footprint detonates into cloudlets of fractured memories—childhood rainstorms, half-forgotten melodies, strangers’ kisses tasted only in dreams. The world slows to the heartbeat of a slumbering star.

But the lull is a trick. A sudden thunder of crystal hooves shatters the trance. Shards of those earlier rainbow mists have fused into translucent beasts: giraffe-long necks of glass, lion torsos refracting desert light like living chandeliers. They charge alongside the skimmers, their footfalls chiming as if a cathedral bell tower were galloping at full tilt. Vel laughs, steering through the crystalline stampede, sparks of mirrored sand tick-tacking off his visor.

An eye-blink later, the roar collapses into hush. Where sound once pounded, silence now rings. A silver pool—smooth as mercury—materializes at dune’s base, offering stillness so complete it swallows breath. Vel kneels, cupping liquid metal that weighs nothing yet drips memories of languages no tongue has spoken. One sip, and he recalls how it feels to be born tomorrow.

The beat returns—faster, tribal, insistent. Thirteen moons slide across the violet star, stacking atop one another like the tumblers of an interstellar lock. Each eclipse click syncs to the caravan’s drum-laced engine rhythm. Gravity hiccups. Skimmers hop from one sliver of reality to the next, bouncing between dimensions as easily as children skip stones across a pond.

Vel’s compass spins wild, then locks onto a new signal: a neural riptide roaring eighty meters ahead. Invisible yet deafening, the current is an ocean made of forgotten tweets, orphaned lullabies, and half-erased diary entries. The caravan dives in. Sonic waves of acid-bright arpeggios batter them left and right, rewriting neurons in real time. Memories flash-update; old scars heal; ancient grudges flicker out like bad code purged from a system. They emerge dripping data that shimmers like dew on circuit boards.

Continues on the website...

Prism-Gate Smugglers

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Rekordbox
150 BPM
Am
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The highway was never intended to dangle in space. One sleepless midnight it simply materialized—a matte-black ribbon coiling through the velvet nothing between yellow dwarf suns. Scientists logged it as “anomalous infrastructure,” then moved on. Yet salvagers whispered about a rust-red hover-wagon prowling those impossible lanes, its engine pulsing like a colossal heartbeat beneath chromed armor.

I met that wagon the night the air-pressure of existence dipped below common sense. Lightning stitched paisley sigils across an indigo void, and every flash revealed fresh mile-markers under my boots. With nothing but a dented harmonica case and a suitcase full of regrets, I thumbed for passage—and the Quantum Caravan hissed to a halt beside me.

“Name your frequency,” rasped the driver, a woman whose irises shimmered like molten vinyl frozen mid-swirl.

“Minor key mood,” I joked out of habit—then caught myself and shrugged. “Hope that still counts.”
Her grin widened. Doors hissed open, releasing warm amber light that wrapped my bones like electric wool. I climbed aboard.

1 ✦ Asphalt Nebula
The wagon kicked away from the roadside, flinging fiery dust behind its thrusters. Outside, nebular clouds pulsed in time with some hidden mechanism, while constellations strobbed like warehouse strobes. The windshield displayed scrolling glyphs—migrating sigils that seemed less like navigation data and more like prayers meant to keep the laws of physics attentive.

Without warning the road tilted into a spiral on-ramp to everywhere. Gravity lost her grip; inertia improvised. We plummeted through crystalline ravines whose mirrored walls refracted our headlights into endless mosaics. Time itself cracked into shards that chimed against the hull, each note an echo of something just barely remembered.

2 ✦ Mirrored Oasis
Energy bled from the engine, dimming to a luxurious purr. Glassy black water spread beneath us, reflecting not only the galaxy above but memories I had fought to bury. On its surface drifted faint images of every promise broken, every letter I mailed too late. Soft electric vapors curled along the shorelines, painting the air with melancholy silver.

“Mirrors only show you backward,” the driver murmured, killing the throttle. “But momentum—that carries us forward.” She tapped a crimson lever.

The thrusters snarled awake, deeper and wilder. Across the sky meteorites bucked and sparred, twin blades carving incandescent arcs. I braced against the dash as the wagon banked hard. Sparks—or perhaps newborn stars—skittered down our hull like beads of mercury.

Continues on the website...

Bassline Event Horizon

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Rekordbox
141 BPM
A
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Starlight on Liquid Mercury

Parallel to the spiral arms of a shy galaxy, a single glimmer drifted—no bigger than a lantern-mote, yet bright enough to stain the void a faint blue. The mote did not remember its birthplace; memory felt optional when you were made of pure light. What mattered was motion. And tonight—even though “night” meant nothing outside clocks and planets—the mote felt a tug unlike any gravity it had learned to dodge. Somewhere ahead, an invisible current was braiding time into a rope, and it wanted a rider.

The mote stretched itself into prisms, testing each hue the way swimmers test depths with cautious toes. Ruby fizzed into amber, amber cooled to jade, and when sapphire finally surfaced, the tether snapped tight. Space folded like satin around a gemstone, revealing a hidden corridor paneled with mirrors. Each pane bloomed with a possible future: emerald jungles that breathed fire, citadels carved from harmonics, oceans of whisky-colored plasma. Gravity excused itself. Forward became the only direction left.

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A corridor of mirrors

With every meter the mote travelled, reflections multiplied. But the mirrors—tricksters that they were—didn’t echo the mote’s own shape. Instead, they produced flocks of skeletal birds spun from molten ember. Hollow bones, ringing like windchimes, snapped together into wings that ignited mid-beat. One ember-bird swooped low. The air crackled; every feather was a shard of smoldering sunrise.

Ride, the bird cawed without sound.

The mote obliged. As soon as it settled onto the fiery saddle, the flock wheeled into formation—spiral upon spiral—until centrifugal force tore a rip in the corridor’s silver lining. Together they dove through the gash, plunging into a garden where nothing soft could survive.

—

Continues on the website.

Starlight on Liquid Mercury

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Nebula Pulse Engine

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Website or Instagram for booking.

Need change - going harder.

Techno, Trance, Psytech, Psytrance, and other liquid psychedelic music is where I'm the happiest but I do love a lot of Latin, Tribal, 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.