tribute to titan

Warehouse‑grade hard techno—bioluminal, hypnotic, relentless. Enter the helix.
Fast, industrial, trippy—ride the bioluminal hard techno corridor.
Peak‑time energy, rumble bass, zero mercy. Step into the Oracle.
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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/aI_Gb7lvwUs
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The Story
Prologue — The Color That Learns Your Name

On the far side of a drowned continent, a river of mirror-liquid runs uphill into the clouds. It threads a trench through the sky and vanishes into an angle no map allows—an ongoing mistake in the geometry of weather. Locals call it the Chromatic Torrent. At night, it sheds feathers of light that fall like snow and melt into color without leaving the ground wet.

The courier arrives alone: a silhouette wrapped in a midnight coat that collects stray glints like rain. Their skiff waits behind them, folded to a blade of light under the quay, ribs ticking softly as if remembering the ocean. The courier closes a hand around a coin of pale fire and the coin grows lighter, as if it recognizes the palm. It is a permit and a promise, a round door that fits any lock that isn’t made of metal.

The wind smells of iron and cloves and wet stone. Above, the Torrent leans out of the sky like a muscle flexing, then loosens, then flexes again. Color runs within it in shifting lanes: indigo, teal, a little magenta heat, turned by some gravity that doesn’t belong to the world.

To the east: a forest of mushroom pylons rises from salt fog, the caps broad as amphitheaters, the stems braided with cables of living hyphae that carry light as if it were water. In that forest stands the one the courier has come to find: the Bioluminal Oracle, the ancient humanoid mushroom tree. It is older than the city, which is older than the sky in its current mood. When it moves—slow, slower—the fog reads the gesture and translates it into attention. The courier breathes once to count their ribs, then starts walking.

No one walks out to the Torrent without first speaking to the Oracle. If you try, the river will look away. That is how people drown in dry air.

I — City Quay, and a Coin That Warms Like a Small Moon

Boardwalks hold to the shore with brass teeth; underfoot, gullies of shadow. Traders have packed away their night markets, leaving the quay smelling of smoked kelp and engine perfume. The courier slides between shuttered kiosks until the buildings thin and the quay becomes a tongue of basalt licking the fog.

The coin grows warm, and with it, the world clarifies. On the basalt, faint as breath on glass, a lattice of DMT filament unfurls, lines intersecting in patient thirty-degree rhymes, leading east toward the mushroom pylons. Each joint glows like a pinprick star. When the courier steps on the lattice, the lines brighten. There is no sound, yet the bones of the quay vibrate minimally, as if acknowledging a password.

A shape crosses above—no bird, not a craft. A figure made of ovals of light connected by corridors, a strolling bureau of weather examining its paperwork. The courier keeps moving.

They do not carry weapons. There’s nothing to fight out here that knows what a weapon is.

Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/15/helix-of-the-bioluminal-oracle/

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Helix of the Bioluminal Oracle - Enter the Oracle @ YouTube

Relentless kicks, dark rave pressure—this is a 4AM hard techno weapon.
Underground warehouse vibes: hard techno, fast, raw, unstoppable.
Acid bites, steel drums—peak‑time ignition for the rave.
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2025 techno anthem—acid hooks & relentless warehouse drive.
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Serotonin Tundra
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Trippy Music Video : https://youtu.be/HMy27l9_jN8
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I. Letters of Light
The tundra does not begin so much as arrive.

I crossed a ridge of cobalt ice, and the sky opened like a book turning to its first bright page. Lines of aurora braided above me—mint, sakura, electric teal—ribboning into sharp, deliberate strokes, as if some patient hand were writing with light. The wind was not cold. It had the temperature of a held breath, the taste of orange peel and winter.

They had warned me: There is a place where weather remembers how to feel. Go there if you want your moods repaired, or rewritten. The map they gave me was only a single sentence: Follow the serif.

So I did. The aurora’s edges were not vague swirls but exact, knife-graceful curves, the kind a calligrapher draws when they mean every millimeter. I followed as if reading, and the sky punctuated distances with dots of amber stars, the way a sentence grips you with its rhythm until your steps match its meter.

The land below was an ocean rendered in slow motion—waves of violet and indigo snow, frozen mid-crest. From between the drifts rose mushrooms the size of towers, their caps freckled with lantern pores. Light leaked from them in steady breathing, as if the earth itself were practicing calm.

Far off, a silhouette moved: a whale gliding along the seabed of snow as if swimming through density alone. When it surfaced, the surface did not break; the snow accepted its shape and let it pass. Its flanks glimmered with constellations I didn’t recognize.

I spoke without deciding to. “I came to remember how to be happy.”

The whale’s eye turned. It was not human, not even mammalian in any familiar way, and yet something like patience lived there.

The nearest mushroom’s gills trembled, releasing a sigh of bioluminescent dust. Spores drifted up, each a tiny coin of color. When they touched the aurora, letters kindled—angular, clean, and ceremonial. They spelled the tundra’s answer across the sky:

WELCOME, READER.

It made me smile, and it made me feel read.

Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/08/serotonin-tundra/

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Serotonin Tundra - Mushroom Visual @ YouTube Music Video

JAGGESYNTESIA

NAWATT - Dark Gospel

Hard techno warehouse energy—drop in now and ride the storm.
Peak‑time kicks, industrial grit—enter the tunnel.
Acid‑laced hard techno for the 4AM warehouse.
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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/dv56pNhrA-c
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The Story
The plain was made of black salt, a horizon of matte crystals that swallowed reflections instead of returning them. Above it hung a sky the color of cooled iron. Nothing moved, not the thin grasses fossilized in place, not the distant ribs of petrified cactus, not the oval shadows that pooled where there should have been light. The air felt thick—like a held note, like a thought someone forgot to finish.

Out of that heldness, a figure stepped.

They were not armored or robed. They carried no tools, only a glass seed cupped in both hands, small enough to hide in a fist, heavy enough to pull the shoulders down. The seed was not luminous, but light noticed it; beams bent when it passed. The traveler steadied their breath until it matched the inaudible pulse threading through the ground. When they looked up, the horizon turned by a fraction, just enough to show that all horizons here were part of a wheel.

The wheel’s center was nowhere and everywhere, but its rim—the path—ran straight ahead. The traveler started walking.

Out past the fifth step, the salt exhaled spores that did not rise or fall. They hung, counting each other, arranging themselves into a body: a lank, cathedral-shouldered mushroom being with gills inscribed in teal. Its shadow formed before its cap; then its stem curled up from the shadow’s edge, a reversed sprout. The gills flexed, and stenciled onto the air between them appeared a silent string of equations shaped like vines.

The traveler paused without fear. The equations were invitations.

The mushroom lifted its arm. Halfway through the gesture, the arm became a cactus rib, green lacquer with glints of trapped suns. The rib arched overhead and, with a soft click of geometry, multiplied into a corridor: rib upon rib, an arcade of living anatomy, each curve fitted to the next by joints that whispered when they turned. Salt slipped out of salt, forming steps that did not look like steps until the traveler placed a foot on them and the ground agreed.

A corridor of ribs and spores opened toward a darkness that was not night, and the traveler crossed the threshold.

Beneath the ribs, the air acquired weight. Droplets formed on the cactus skin and beaded, each bead holding a world full of tiny weather. Where the beads grazed one another, prisms were born—micro-faceted insects that hummed without sound and flew in quivering constellations. Columnar forms extruded from the salt like glass trees, branches interlocking in a scaffold of perfect errors. Between branches, filaments stretched into a lattice, a graph of choices the traveler hadn’t made yet.

In the prisms, the traveler’s reflection wore a dozen futures. In some, the seed had already been planted; in others, the seed was a piercing and the sky was stitched to their skin. In one, there was no traveler at all, only the seed rolling like a planet where the ribs met the plain.

Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/18/mercury-river-protocol/

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Mercury River Protocol - Psy Visuals on YouTube

Warehouse‑grade hard techno pressure; peak‑time energy, hypnotic drive.
Schranz edge at 136 BPM—rolling subs, iron kicks, relentless momentum.
Peak‑time assault; raw, deep & hypnotic textures collide.
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https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
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Underground tunnel energy—driving techno for maximum lift.
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White Field Aperture
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Trippy Music Video : https://youtu.be/1inW88pif3w
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The Story
1 — Threshold: The Mirror That Drinks the Sky

The desert had learned how to be quiet. Black salt dunes laid their scales to the horizon; the wind went around them like a respectful rumor. I walked until the ground lost the habit of footprints and turned to mirror—not glass, not water, something that behaved like both until you asked it to choose. When I touched it, my fingers sank into a ketamine hush, the temperature of a held breath. The sky above me slipped downward, pooling at my feet, and the mirror took the sun into itself as easily as a coin into a sleeve.

“State your vector,” said a voice with the pleasant bluntness of machinery that also dreams.

I looked up. The ship had been a shimmer in peripheral vision; now it chose to exist. Ribs of spore-glass unfurled like the gills of an enormous bioluminescent mushroom, a vessel grown rather than built. Patterns pulsed beneath its skin—teal and cobalt, the color logic of an ocean that had never seen water. On its prow: a thin seam of light, smiling.

“Inside,” the ship said, as if there were no other sensible direction. “Name me and we’ll move.”

“If I name you, do you become true?” I asked.

“Everything is already true,” it replied. “Names are just handles to carry it by.”

I touched the seam and said, “Aperture.” The word fit its hull the way a right word fits a wrong silence. The mirror accepted our weight as if we were a memory returning to where it had been recorded. The world tipped, rotated—not falling but refracting—and the desert’s heat turned to the cool inner-weather of deep caves.

The hull closed around me, a cathedral grown from hyphae and patience. Filaments stitched the air with soft LSD confetti, each mote a syllable of a grammar only light can speak. Somewhere in the Aperture’s frame, a heartbeat began—mechanical and patient, the kind of rhythm you trust without deciding to.

“Destination?” the ship asked.

“Forward,” I said, and the mirror drank us whole.

2 — Corridor of Peyote Suns

Forward was a river of mercury that couldn’t decide between surface and volume. It braided under a ceiling of peyote suns, each one a hex of luminous scars that re-inked themselves as you watched. Desert bones turned to architecture: arches of white stone that remembered having been whale ribs. We slid beneath them like a secret trying to become a law.

Continues on the website:
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/08/19/white-field-aperture/

#techno  #technomusic  #hardtechno  #schranz  #industrialtechno  #warehousetechno  #peaktimetechno  #undergroundtechno  #rave  #visualizer

White Field Aperture - Psy Music Video @ YouTube

Recorded live at HYDRA, a raw underground gathering near Kaunas, Lithuania. An intense journey through techno, electro and breakbeat — dark, hypnotic and restless, shaped by the forest and the energy of the night.

foto by Alina Pasiuk

HYDRA set 2025-08-23

i think all the songs in my account will be acid-techno

Electric Surge

Euphoria Elevation

Well holy hell Andre it's mushroom-spaceship bananza or maybe it's just a banana OOORRR MAYBE a bandana! :) enjoy crew!
Hahah I might of taken it too far with the spaceship scene but I just couldn't get enough :)

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ᓚᘏᗢ


The Story ➜
The first time the stars breathed, Kiera thought the station’s windows were fogging from the inside. A ribbed pattern shimmered over the night—fine, parallel lines radiating outward, folding and unfolding like the underside of some celestial creature. Then the pattern vanished and the sky returned to the ordinary cold scattering of points.

Kiera held still, counting. Three seconds. Five. Eight.

The pattern returned, faint but certain: silver lamellae sliding across the constellations, as if the dark itself wore gills.

She killed the cabin lights of the Kite of Radials and let her eyes adjust. The ship—a grafted thing of bone-white ribs and black ceramic tissue—hung docked on Harbor Nine like a seed caught in a spiderweb. In the dim, the cockpit felt more grown than built: vein trails in the console resin, organ-glass curled around the navigation core, the slow pulse of the hull’s self-healing membranes.

“Show me the sky raw,” she said.

The glass peeled back its filters. Deep field flooded in, along with the faint photonic noise the station usually scrubbed. There—again—the slow, tidal sweep of lines, not atmosphere, not lensing, not a glitch. It was a rhythm. A breath.

Kiera’s left hand eased toward the lamina compass she wore on a cord around her throat. It was an old, illegal thing: a coin of frost-glass with a thin gold filament threading inside it like a living maze. At first breath the filament trembled; at the second it traced a curve to starboard. By the third, it formed an arc that settled toward a patch of nothing near the Mirror Belt.

“Coordinates,” she whispered, and the Kite woke by degrees—panels unfurling, thrusters whispering, marrow engines tasting vacuum.

Three months earlier, a courier had handed her a cloth-wrapped bundle with no name. Inside: the lamina compass and a single line of handwriting, shaped like a sigh.

Find where the stars learn to breathe.

Kiera had laughed then, because she had spent years mapping lies dressed as mysteries. Contracts with extraction fleets taught her that most wonders hid pipes and price tags. But now, with the compass thrumming and the windows showing parallel ridges slipping over starfields, the old skepticism felt thin and brittle. This wasn’t a trick. The sky had gills.

She undocked without asking permission. Harbor Nine came from a culture that never said no if you didn’t ask first, and Kiera had long since learned to protect that balance.

The Kite drifted, then glided, then became a line spreading away from the station into the black.

Continues on the website.


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Gills in the Stars | Psychedelic Music Video @ YouTube

Music video : https://youtu.be/fV8jBmirnjM

Peak-time pressure meets cosmic ship cove voyage — a 3D techno odyssey.
Melodic shadows + industrial grit = peak-time visual ignition.
Ship Gaze Phantom — Progressive Techno | Cinematic Warehouse Voyage
Boats boats and more boats!

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The Story ➜
No story, just a healthy obsession with boats :)

Key frames on the website.


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Ship Gaze Phantom | A Cinematic Music 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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Index of Lost Vectors | Uber Trippy Morphing Music Video @ YouTube

Psychedelic music video : https://youtu.be/w57--vqBbmo

Lanterns lead the way—hypnotic, peak‑time energy for the night shift.
Dark, driving, hypnotic—follow the path and don’t look back.
From hush to relentless groove—step into the Elsepath.

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The Story  ➜  ᓚᘏᗢ
I — The Beacon and the First Lantern

At moon‑zero, the meadow remembered how to breathe.

Its surface looked like dew until you knelt close and saw the dew was a crowd of micro‑lanterns—round as seeds, each holding a patient ember—the kind of glow you notice first in your peripheral vision. They were asleep, nested at the rims of opal‑capped mushrooms whose gills pulsed as if listening for a hand. The air tasted bright, with a citrus‑metal afterthought. Somewhere underfoot, a slow machine turned: roots counting, capillaries arguing, distance learning to be flexible.

Iri arrived without sound, a dark coat unruffled by the sideways breeze. They had been told the Elsepath only appears to people who are not sure the next step belongs to them. That was true. Uncertainty had followed them for months, soft and insistent as fog. It had the shape of a coin they did not own, and the weight of a question that would not settle.

On this night, a Fractal Beacon uncoiled above the meadow like a spiral drawn by a patient giant. It wasn’t a tower or a flame but a geometry of light, threadlike and certain, rising from the mushroom field and stopping at a height that felt intentional. When it pulsed, hundreds of the tiny lanterns woke in a quiet shiver and lifted, no heavier than breath, to form a hovering halo of seeds around Iri’s shoulders.

“Lanterns of the Elsepath,” Iri said without speaking. It was not a spell. It was manners.

The lanterns answered by drifting into a pattern—three triangles arranged inside a fourth, lines of glow between them like veins in a leaf. The pattern hung in the air, rotated once, and slid forward, an invitation to follow. The Beacon brightened by a degree the eye could not measure but the skin could feel. The mushrooms nodded, gills opening, exhaling a faint, LSD‑like color split that sliced Iri’s silhouette into green, violet, and cobalt for a blink. When the colors rejoined, the Elsepath appeared under their feet.

It didn’t look like a road. It looked like an angle deciding to last.

Iri stepped onto it.

II — Lattice Footfall

The path assembled one stride ahead, one stride behind, never all at once: a lattice of glass treads supported by nothing, each step humming a tone you didn’t hear so much as feel as a temperature of blue. The lanterns gathered at ankle and wrist height, forming little way‑plumes that cooled when the foot was placed, warmed when it lifted, learning Iri’s rhythm with the eagerness of new rain memorizing a roof.

On either side of the lattice, the meadow folded into planes of possibility like pages that had forgotten which book they belonged to. In one plane, a fog of DMT dragonflies combed the air with thread‑thin UV trails, knitting invisible nets that only became visible when a lantern drifted too near and lit them. In another, the horizon had a seam—just a neat stitch of gold—where day and night agreed to shake hands.

Continues on the website.


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Lanterns of the Elsepath >|< Psy Music Video at Youtube

He sacrificado la primera sesión por falta de espacio :) En esta ocasión mezclo temas más actuales, entre 145-150 bpm Quizás haga una segunda parte subiendo hasta los 155 bpm!!!

need extended version?

Psychedelic Music Video : https://youtu.be/FiU4FKbE_LE

I've been working on this one for a minute and put a lot of love into it.
This type of trippy psychedelics is what really gets me going.
I had a lot of fun working on this track and video! 
*Drop* hope you enjoy it!

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜ Where Spores Learn Our Names (;~)

Prologue — The Gate That Grew from Stone

The gate unfurled from a canyon wall as if a fern remembered how to breathe. Its ribs were glassy quartz shot through with ink‑dark filaments; under each rib, gills of soft teal glowed as though moonlight were trapped and happy about it. Spore‑mist slept in the hollows of the carving, drifting like a slow snowfall that refused to fall.

Naelith stood before it, a lank, luminous figure whose skin carried a faint constellation of freckles that moved when they did—a star‑map synced to pulse rather than sky. They were not born of flesh as we understand it; their body was a lattice of living crystal threaded with silvery hyphae, a humanoid silhouette assembled by intention more than blood. Their hair was a spill of fine mycelial fibers, each strand echoing the light around, sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes the color of wet slate. Across the sides of their throat, veils like the gills of a cap winked open and shut with each breath, reading the air the way others read ink.

On the gate’s surface, lines brightened into words, but not the kind that bind. A script of auroral curves rippled, and the gate spoke without sound: Enter, Nameless‑in‑motion. Let us practice you.

Naelith touched the rim. Spores awakened—an orchard’s worth of patient witnesses—and swirled to greet the palm. They tasted skin the way dawn tastes lake water, learning shape by contact. The stone sighed, and the gate parted.

I — Orchard of Singing Shadows

On the other side, night had learned to bloom.

Mushrooms rose on all sides, their caps like domes of pearl, their stems braided with runes so old even moss could only hum the chorus. Gills rippled under the caps in sheets, shimmering with teal and cobalt light. When a breeze pressed through, the gills sang: not a melody, but patterned breath, a language built from patience. Between the trunks, shadows kept their own council—and yet they moved companionably, as if eager to be stepped on.

Naelith entered the grove. Where their feet touched the ground, spores rose to nose at their ankles. Spore‑dust sparkled in nets of LSD lace—living veils that draped between caps like spiderwebs made from starlight and logic. The lace gave way with a clever rub, sliding apart into repeating motifs, each tessellation briefly recalling a past season: a winter where snow arrived from the wrong direction, a spring where flowers imitated bells and rang the fog awake.

Above, coin‑moths trailed through the trees, each with wings of frosted glass veined by aurora‑script. When they turned, their wings caught the orchard’s glow and flickered it into messages. One circled Naelith and hovered—the size of a small plate, eyes like patient citrine. Its wing veins pulsed, and a phrase formed: Your name is the space you keep between steps.

“Is that how the spores learn it?” Naelith asked, voice quiet to keep from disturbing the gills.

Continues on the website.


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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  #hardtechno  #hypnotictechno  #drivingtechno  #melodictechno  #aimusicvideo

Where Spores Learn Our Names | Trippy Mushroom Video @ YouTube

Music Video : https://youtu.be/mP6bBJcqZG4

Rolling, peak‑time techno engineered for the warehouse.
Dark, driving techno with industrial grit and acid ghosts.
A hypnotic techno descent—warehouse rave energy, cinematic rise.

Stream / download / buy ➜
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https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
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https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Hypha Crown Pilgrim

The door appeared where the salt‑blue plain met the thought of a horizon. It had no hinges and no handle—only a seam of rain‑smelling dusk that traced a tall, thin ellipse in the air, as if the world had remembered an opening and then drawn it by reflex. Under the crust of the plain, pale threads stirred. They quivered like sleepers waking from long, accurate dreams.

Saephra stood before the seam, studying the faint letters gathering along its edge. Letters wasn’t the right word. The markings looked like frost, moved like ideas, and each carried a taste—copper, cedar, old stars. Saephra read them without eyes; the gill‑veils at their throat tensed and released, sifting the air for sense the way oysters tease salt from tide.

Saephra’s body shifted with the wind. Bones of smoked glass, flexible and resonant. Skin thin and living, patterned like a leaf—networks of capillaries that were not blood but hyphae, carrying light where blood might have carried warmth. Their hair wasn’t hair so much as a down of dormant filaments, pearl‑grey now, yet to bloom into the arcs and tassels that would name them Pilgrim. Above Saephra floated a halo the size of a tea saucer, a ring of dew held together by tension and will. It was a seed, coaxed from the Root Cathedral and entrusted to no one and nothing—until it had chosen Saephra with a voice like gentle thunder and a soft, inexorable tug toward this seam.

A wind came across the plain; it lifted grains of salt and secreted them back into the ground. The seam inhaled. Lichen script bloomed brighter, and in that instant the door became a door by ceasing to be a question. Saephra stepped forward. The seam opened, becoming a corridor lined with lamps that grew by themselves—a procession of mushroom caps as thin as coins, each one lit from within. Their gills were a cartographer’s daydream, filigreed and tight; when Saephra moved, the lamps’ light split into orderly, LSD‑clean bands, and the air arranged the colors into columns like a filing system for rainbows.

Saephra bowed to the lamps. Not a learned bow, but the courtesy that happens when a breath regards another breath. The corridor exhaled in answer, and Saephra felt the ground begin to change beneath their feet—if feet were the word for the yes‑shaped pads that loosened when they needed grip and rolled into glides when the road called for speed. The floor became threads. Threads became a road. Through the weave of hyphae Saephra could see a second sky, slowly turning under all other things, wheels within wheels: a patient star‑machine.

In the thread‑road’s gleam, the dew seed above Saephra’s crown shivered. It would be a crown if it learned Saephra’s path well enough to answer it. Pilgrim was not a title given; it was a shape the world would admit only when worn by someone already walking like a pledge.

Continues on the website.


ಥ_ಥ
Merch Shop : https://grass-patch-bum-shop.fourthwall.com
o(*^＠^*)o
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
https://grasspatchbum.bandcamp.com/
https://grasspatchbum.com/
ㄟ(≧◇≦)ㄏ
Support the tunes:
https://paypal.me/grasspatchbum


#techno  #trippyvisuals  #technomusic  #visualizer  #undergroundtechno  #musicvisualizer  #4kvideo  #4kvisuals  #psychedelicvisuals  #peaktimetechno  #hardtechno  #hypnotictechno  #drivingtechno  #melodictechno  #aimusicvideo

Hypha Crown Pilgrim | Trippy Video on YouTUbe

Exploring wonderfully bizarro melodies cling to crisped percussion, all shrouded in a smokey blanket of saturation. Haunting basslines, exotic resonance howls, sludgy synths drowning in the umbra, diabolical carnival organs, and stygian vocals. Downtempo breakbeats.
Collecting digital and cassettes.

DJ stuff and field recording compositions

Original name was ignore this account BTW
ALSO i dont care if you use my songs in a game or anything else

Aprendiz de Dj autodidacta, todavía no me atrevo con la producción. Pero poco a poco van saliendo las cosas 🥷⛩️🍃

NeoTekno Alchemist
AcidCore Dealer
UnderGround Raver

Next event(s):
check FB

Send me a msg for bookings

BIO:

- Nawatt is a Brussels-based musician whose unique sound blends neo-acid, early hardcore  and all darker tekno elements into intense sonic experiences. His journey into the underground electronic music began in 2008, when he discovered the free party scene across Belgium, France, and the Netherlands as a resident artist for 
www.aku-soundsystem.com
Immersed in the rave culture, he quickly became captivated by the raw energy and subversive spirit of hardtek and acid tekno.

- By 2010-2011, after playing at some raves in Brussels, he began to feel the limitations of the typical hardcore and hardtek sounds released, sparking a desire to delve deeper. This led him to explore the darker, more experimental side of electronic music, with a focus on creating his own tracks he crafted his own distinct take on acidtekno and hardcore music.

- In the summer of 2012, he made the shift to Ableton, aiming to produce deeper, more agressive acid-core and "neo-tekno". His goal was not just to make music, but to create explosive, mystical soundscapes that could transport listeners to otherworldly realms. Since then, his work has become heavily influenced by the iconic 303 & the early gabber hardcore scene, with a sound that evokes power, darkness and transcendence—perfect for those looking to journey through the harder sonic depths of the underground raves such as Tek'n'Bass, 303breakstreet, Datsuzoku, and many more ...

-----------------
Nawatt’s music continues to evolve, driven by his obsession with acid-driven, experimental rhythms and his commitment to pushing boundaries and energy within the realms of psychedelic and mystical soundscapes.

Follow for exclusive edits, rave announcements and special releases
DM for collabs, remixes, or live visuals

vinyl releases:
KMR - OVNIVOR 11
VB - vinyl bleu 03

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

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, 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.

New tracks tagged #Acid-techno