Belly

B͒o̹r̾n̝e͖ o̳ṉ t͜h͓e̹ e̼d͓g͍e͉ o̤f̖ n̘i̲n̦e̠ s̢w̢o̗r͚d̥sͅ,̘ y͍e͞t̛ i̕t̕ w͈a̻s̷ t͓h̬e͘ l̢a̗s̨t̗ t͕h̞a̻t͔ k̲n͇e̬w͝ m̤y̬ n̼a̘m̡e̙

Support Color Squad Below:
https://colorsquadrecords.bandcamp.com/album/c-o-l-o-r-s-q-u-a-d-0-1-8
https://colorsquadrecords.bandcamp.com

Swingacon mas, v2 [C O L O R S Q U A D 0 1 8 ]

fresh start (corrupted again)

shunned by society, a man, living off of himself, living off of THE WORLD, shunned, put to one side, but thriving, in spite of it, or perhaps BECAUSE OF IT, a man, in the world, thriving, or perhaps, FAILING, a horse, shunned by man, but exalted by horse-kind, a man

toiletman - loggotz

Track made for: https://colorsquadrecords.bandcamp.com/album/c-o-l-o-r-s-q-u-a-d-0-1-8

Pholidox B

1 min = 400000 min at 1 min above the event horizon

Tonantzintla 618

97 patch4 (water) v2025

rapo - C O L O R S Q U A D 0 1 8 - 13 klang

https://colorsquadrecords.bandcamp.com/album/c-o-l-o-r-s-q-u-a-d-0-1-8

from a nice "growth inst. [blonder]+6,ru" inspiration

I IV II III musical degrees

klang

Rosicrucifixion Tape B02 “Tardigrade Ufologesque”

Support here

brainancholy [C O L O R S Q U A D 1 8]

i keep hearin the same dusty gatekeepin like a turtle screamin i climbed this hill in the rain so you gotta do it too like congrats bro you broke your back carryin a plugin folder that dont make you mozart it makes you tired go drink water

not everything gotta be a spaceship made of compressors sometimes it can be a broomstick with a dream it dont gotta be complex and bloated like a lasagna built by twelve engineers it can be simple and hit like a toaster fallin down stairs

yes itz a skill but where is the art if all you do is stack layers like pancakes made of math and cryin if i feel somethin from what i made thats the finish line i dont need a trophy made of reddit karma or a gold star from the ghost of steve albini

i know im weird i make stuff for the same reason raccoons dance in moonlight i just want to hear noises that feel like static on my spine i dont care about norms or numbers or money unless im usin it to buy more kickdrums

if there aint room for chaos then your art is just a spreadsheet wearin a halloween costume if you cant let imperfection sit at the table then you might as well copy a serum patch and kiss it goodnight i dont care if it sound like producer y dropped it in a vat of reverb and tears

i challenge this whole church of logic and clean sound design it got no flavor art is mistakes tied together with string and glue sticks and maybe some haunted samples you make your sound by throwin paint at a wall not by askin permission from the eq gods

if someone says its the cheap way good then call me discount jesus cause im not here to impress the plugin priesthood im here to make weird beautiful trash that feels like gettin hit in the face with a rainbow made of bad decisions

who cares if i use splice kicks must i carve my own from the bones of extinct animals just to earn a nod from the mix police sometimes the free sounds hit harder than a 400 dollar vintage snare recorded in the sweat of a forgotten jazz ghost

even when people say to each their own they say it like a waiter handin you a dish they secretly spit in like oh thats cute you made it easy must be nice but really they just scared to let go of the rules they married in high school

they make things harder and call it depth but its just a sandbox with no toys and too many rules their music sounds like a microwave reading a textbook backwards while cryin and whisperin about resonance

i respect grind i respect craft i love when a sound hits like a car accident made of drums but when you build everything like a powerpoint presentation you forgot what it feels like to fall in love with noise

art should be unhinged it should taste like purple and scream like a goose flyin through a synthesizer it should slap the status quo and bite your expectations and dance barefoot in a puddle of distortion

people be treatin technicality like a religion like if they sidechain harder theyll be reborn but they just makin tiny prisons for their creativity with gold plated doors and a panic attack in the foyer

the real artists they dont care they chase the weird itch in their ribs that says make this beat even if it sound like a dishwasher with a grudge if it moves them itll move someone else no need to dissect it like a frog made of presets

i know you a character maybe in real life you cry at sunsets and hug trees but the persona you put out feel like a robot tryin to smile its cold and explained to death like every note got a backstory longer than the actual track

and your community they all sound like clones wearin the same perfume too perfect too samey like a museum where every painting is just slightly different shades of beige i get lost in it but not in a good way

this is the trap the real ones broke it with a stick made of chaos they know the rules and they ignore em they feel the forbidden strange knowledge the sound that makes no sense and all the sense at once

they dont find it in the oscillator they find it in the part of them that eats fear and spits out breakbeats they find it when they stop askin does this work and start askin does this punch me in the soul

you cant explain it it dont fit in a tutorial it lives in the glitch in the groove in the accident that becomes the anthem its the stuff that cant be taught only summoned like a cursed cat playin a theremin

every artist has met that moment where they made a sound and laughed like a maniac and thought wait this is good and then tried to fix it and killed the vibe stop doin that

let go make something dumb and holy make something that feels like a garbage truck full of glitter rollin downhill at midnight make something that would get you kicked out of a music theory class and worshipped in a cave

that is where the gold is and it never needed to be clean

B͒o̹r̾n̝e͖ o̳ṉ t͜h͓e̹ e̼d͓g͍e͉ o̤f̖ n̘i̲n̦e̠ s̢w̢o̗r͚d̥sͅ,̘ y͍e͞t̛ i̕t̕ w͈a̻s̷ t͓h̬e͘ l̢a̗s̨t̗ t͕h̞a̻t͔ k̲n͇e̬w͝ m̤y̬ n̼a̘m̡e̙

Lord Timothy Dexter