A song i made i FL studio (Mobile) 
the program crashed and deleted my project file, so this is the only version i have
Made: 15.01.2025

LonG PsyC [FL Studio Mobile]

Abenteuer im Zauberwald Vol.8

◉◉ Soundroom Podcast 114 - SANCHEZ ◉◉

◉ Sanchez is a Tunisian artist known for blending dark/groovy house with the raw energy of hip-hop. Starting his journey in 2015, Sanchez quickly carved out his own niche, merging deep, atmospheric grooves with sharp, impactful hip-hop lyrics. His sound reflects the pulse of North Africa, while embracing the global influence of underground hip-hop culture. 

◉ Since 2019, he's been crafting tracks that challenge traditional boundaries, fusing minimal electronic elements with storytelling that speaks to both the mind and the body. With each release, Sanchez continues to push the limits of electronic music, delivering tracks that are as moody as they are groove-driven.

◉ Follow SANCHEZ: https://soundcloud.com/rami-ben-amor-312051286
◉ Follow Soundroom: www.facebook.com/soundroompodcast
◉◉ ◉◉ Support us on patreon: patreon.com/SoundroomBucharest

Soundroom Podcast 114 - SANCHEZ

Saav - No a la suerte (Paul K remix)

Saav - no a la suerte

Saav - Bajaron de la luz

Saav -Sin querer queriendo

Saav - No a la suerte (Paul K ambient rework)

Programmed

Trippy 4K Techno Experience!
Hypnotic warehouse drive—glass seed pulses, map hums back.
-
Stream / download / buy ➜
-
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3q0KcTUD3hmRdi1SUWd6VL
-
https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
-
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
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Merch Shop : https://grass-patch-bum-shop.fourthwall.com
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Warehouse visualizer: teal haze, sunflower halos, 123 BPM.
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Keep in touch with latest releases:
https://www.youtube.com/@grasspatchbum
https://grasspatchbum.bandcamp.com/
https://grasspatchbum.com/
Trippy Music Video : https://youtu.be/fLXi1z5_xH0
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Support the tunes:
https://paypal.me/grasspatchbum
-

Prologue: The City That Forgot Its Corners

The city had no right angles anymore. Years of slow migration in its own sleep had rounded every edge into a soft, treacherous kindness. Streets drooped like ribbons. Towers leaned in to hear each other breathe. At night, light pooled in bowls and refused to climb the walls. People blamed the damp, or the age of foundations, or the recent habit the wind had of returning lost words.

Sen walked through it with the steady patience of someone who carried a task heavier than their shadow. Their satchel held a glass seed—smooth, thumb-sized, faintly warm—taken from a mineral library deep under the old quay. The librarians had warned that it wasn’t a seed at all, but an organ, the kind you could add to a place in order to give it a new sense. “Don’t plant it in soil,” they’d said. “Plant it in a problem.”

The city’s problem was the same every city kept hidden: it had forgotten where it ended. Some nights its borders drifted so far that fog felt foreign; some mornings the outer districts woke up looking at mountains that weren’t on any chart. The mayor had asked for better fences. Sen, a cartographer too stubborn for fences, had asked for the seed.

On the night that began the end of drifting, the seed woke. Not with light, not with sound, but with vibration—a low, velvet hum that traveled up Sen’s bones and mapped out a direction behind the ears. When Sen faced that way, the hum smoothed. When they turned aside, it rasped. That was how Sen knew the thing was a map: it cared when they cheated.

The seed’s hum pulled them through the city’s softened streets to a battered iron wicket that had never opened for anyone sober. Beyond it lay a scar of land no one managed to name—the Orchard of Glass to some, the Prism Orchard to those who liked their danger with geometry—the place where trees grew mirrors and fruit pretended to be planets. At the orchard’s edge, the air carried the flavor of cold coin and rainwater under stone. Mushrooms at the roots of the iron fence opened teal gills and breathed out a pause, like a door deciding whether to be a door.

Sen set the glass seed on their palm. It rolled toward the fence and pressed itself against the iron. The hum pressured Sen’s ribs. The wicket sighed and forgot that it had ever been locked.

“Show me,” Sen said to no one and to the seed and to the orchard. The hum approved.

They stepped through.

I — Threshold Sap

Inside, the orchard’s darkness was organized. The trunks were columns. The leaves were ruled lines. Moss laid out a grid with small, amber nodes, and every so often one node blinked and sent a ripple through its neighbors until the whole mat had agreed on something quiet.

Continues on the website: https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/09/01/a-map-that-hums-back/

#techno  #musicvideo  #trippyvisuals  #technomusic  #visualizer  #undergroundtechno  #musicvisualizer  #melodictechno   #4kvideo  #4kvisuals  #psychedelicvisuals4k

A Map That Hums Back | Psychedelic Music Video @ YouTube

Samsara Glitch — 7:12 — 136.0 BPM — D minor (7A)

Accelerated groove with a mean mid-range grind. Linear rise, percussive switch-ups, and a center stretch built to flip a floor from focus to frenzy without theatrics.

For DJs: peak-time engine; works in the 134–138 corridor; phrase-clean for doubles and pressure rides.

“From 2:53 it goes crazy… a 7-minute track that plays like an hour-long mix. I love it!” — Nastya Muravyova

Credits/usage: Written & produced in Berlin. 
From EP1 / Extended Player One. 

Lossless/WAV on request. 

If you play it, please drop a timestamp/clip.





人 Sansara Glitch — 7:11 of evolving, fractured techno ritual.
A journey where cyclical rhythm meets digital imperfection: looping like the wheel of saṃsāra, cracking open with glitches that distort and renew. Heavy low-end drives the body forward, while spectral textures flicker like half-remembered dreams.

This is a track for late hours and dark rooms — where repetition becomes meditation, and every glitch is a portal.

#Techno #Glitch #Hypnotic #Ritual #Berlin

HITORIN - Sansara Glitch

Bellflair

Techno Mix for Techno Tuesday Amsterdam Opening October 22nd.

Planetary Mix 013

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 :)

(●'◡'●)
Stream / download / buy ➜
(❁´◡`❁)
https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
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.


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   #musicvideo   #trippyvisuals   #technomusic   #visualizer   #undergroundtechno   #musicvisualizer   #melodictechno    #4kvideo   #4kvisuals   #psychedelicvisuals   #8kvideo

Gills in the Stars | Psychedelic Music Video @ YouTube

Midget & Fabius - @Gierstädt Part 1 (05.09.25)

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.

(●'◡'●)
Stream / download / buy ➜
(❁´◡`❁)
https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
ᓚᘏᗢ


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.


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   #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

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 ➜
(●'◡'●)
https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
(❁´◡`❁)
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆


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

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 ➜
(●'◡'●)
https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
(❁´◡`❁)
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆


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.


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  #hypnotictechno  #drivingtechno  #melodictechno  #aimusicvideo

Dunes of the LSD Sun | Cinematic Visual Trip @ YouTube

Hard techno + sci‑fi visuals—enter the dark warehouse at 4AM.
Peak‑time energy with hypnotic, trippy visuals in 4K—go deep.
Raw, deep, hypnotic techno—late‑night sci‑fi trip.

Stream / download / buy ➜
(●'◡'●)
https://music.apple.com/us/artist/grass-patch-bum/1596136340
(❁´◡`❁)
https://soundcloud.com/grasspatchbum
☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆


The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Prologue: The Mote That Sang Coordinates
In the cold fold beyond the Perseid wake, a glint of biology threaded with machinery drifted like a seed waiting for soil. The vessel had once been named for a numbered star, but that name had long since been composted by its living hull. Now it was simply the Ship That Grew a Forest, and it was dreaming itself apart.

The call that reached the Lattice did not arrive as sound or code. It arrived as fragrance—notes of rain on copper, lichen warmed by moonlight, resin char from a fire that had never burned. Those who could taste messages tasted it and turned their attention. Those who could walk the geometry between intentions chose a courier.

The courier’s name was Vyr, a bipedal being of amber cartilage and night‑black bark. Vyr was not born so much as distilled from woodland thunder, given joints that clicked like patient metronomes and lungs thick with spores that glowed when it thought. It wore no armor, only a cloak woven from mycelial skeins that learned whatever they touched. Every step it took made a quiet pattern in the air, as if the floor had become a pond and its feet were pebbles thrown carefully into it.

At the edge of the derelict, Vyr found a hull grown into arches and buttresses, cathedral‑minded, a skeleton trellised with luminous growth. The ship had weathered vacuum as if vacuum were merely another winter. Filaments strung from rib to rib like constellations. Caps the size of shields opened to text the dark with bio‑luminescent grammar.

The scent‑message burned brighter. Vyr inhaled. The spores kindled in its lungs, and the path unfolded.

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 #hypnotictechno #drivingtechno #melodictechno #aimusicvideo

The Ship That Grew a Forest | Music Video on YouTube

Midget = Techno ~ mal melodisch. mal weniger melodisch ~ mal schneller, mal langsamer = aber immer tanzbar!

Ich freue mich über jeden like, play, repost und bla bla bla....

Dj und Producer seit 2008! 

Grüüüüüße
Midget

[☣︎] ⊤.∈.⋐.≩.∑.⋥.≀.∧ [☣︎]

Male
age: 34
Genre; Experimental Industrial Techno/Aggrotech

influenced by bands like:
 Centhron, Nachtmahr, Gorgoroth, 
Mick Gordon, Pestdokter, Sub Zero Project.. etc

Viens explorer l’infinité de la musique minimaliste. 

Vibre en osmose avec l’énergie et la profondeur des basses, laisse ton esprit divaguer au gré des textures, perçois ton âme a travers ces sonorités abstraites. Connecte toi, ressents la musique s’exprimer pour un voyage intérieur, introspectif jusqu’aux tréfonds les plus pure de l’être.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Come and explore the infinity of minimalist music

Resonate in harmony with the energy and depth of the bass, let your mind wander through the textures, perceive your soul through these abstract sounds. Connect, feel the music express itself for an inner, introspective journey to the purest depths of being.

Sounds that take you to my universe ... 🪐

✉️ info@iceyplanet.com

人 Vinyl-only DJ sets. Boundary-breaking techno productions.

Berlin’s underground, filtered through a journalist’s precision, an entrepreneur’s vision, and an activist’s fire.
On decks, Valentin Hitorin spins hypnotic, groove-driven journeys cut from rare wax. In the studio, he channels chaos into sharp, evolving soundscapes built for the floor.
Living and creating with a mental disability, he turns personal survival into collective ritual—music as both defiance and communion.
Follow for deep cuts, unorthodox textures, and techno that refuses to lie ⩖

Producing machine music for silicon souls - tech house, minimal, techno and electronic for dancefloors and DJs. Based in Southend on Sea.

support us on patreon: patreon.com/SoundroomBucharest

Born out of a deep passion for underground electronic music, Soundroom Bucharest has grown over the past 9 years into one of Romania’s most respected podcasts in the tech-house, minimal, and deep-tech scene. With over 12.5K followers on SoundCloud and episodes reaching anywhere from 2,000 to 90,000 plays, this platform gives real exposure to DJs and producers worldwide.

What started as a podcast is now evolving into a label, dedicated to pushing fresh sounds and supporting emerging artists. If you’re a DJ or producer looking for a platform that truly values underground music, this is the place for you.

🔥 Join the movement. Support the underground. Be part of Soundroom Bucharest. https://patreon.com/SoundroomBucharest

🎧 Welcome to the Sound of Arty3eatz 🎧

Ich bin Arty3eatz – Producer, Soundtüftler und Liebhaber hypnotischer Klänge. Hier teile ich meine eigenen Tracks, Remixe und alles, was elektronische Musik lebendig macht. Ob treibender Bass, sphärische Vocals

🎶 🎵 Arty3eatz Techno | Vocal Trance | House Deep Vibes. Pure Sound.

🎧 TMIL4x2 – Leidenschaftlicher DJ & Livestreamer seit über 10 Jahren. Hier findest du exklusive Sets aus House, Techhouse, Minimal, Techno, Trance & Hardtrance – live gemixt, direkt vom Pult!
💥 Kein Mainstream – nur echter Sound für echte Liebhaber.

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.

New tracks tagged #Minimal-Techno