"Klædt i Gucci, Prada Og Boss" er en atmosfærisk og reflekterende fortælling om livets moderne jagt på lykke og identitet - og de tomme løfter, som materiel rigdom, status og sociale medier kan give. Teksten kredser om følelsen af at miste sig selv i forbrugs og præstationssamfundets pres, hvor man konstant forsøger at leve op til andres forventninger, klædt i luksus-mærker og jagtende likes og anerkendelse. Men bag facaden er der tomhed, ensomhed og en længsel efter noget ægte og sandt.
Sangen stiller skarpt på, hvordan vi let kan blive fanget i illusioner og overfladiske drømme, hvor lykken synes at forsvinde, når festen er slut, og pengene er brugt. Omkvædet understreger forvirringen og splittelsen i sindet, når man opdager, at alt det opnåede blot er fatamorgana – en skygge, der hurtigt forsvinder.
Mod slutningen opfordrer sangen til at give slip på jagten efter det ydre og i stedet finde glæden i det nære, ægte og personlige. Budskabet er, at sand lykke findes, når man tør være sig selv og følger sit eget hjerte.

Musikalsk stemning
Sangen lægger op til en akustisk pop-lyd med en blød, ren vokal (mandlig sanger), og et beat, der blander elementer fra drum and bass, hvilket giver en moderne, men stadig organisk og atmosfærisk stemning. Musikken kan både bære en let melankoli og en håbefuld energi, som passer til tekstens udvikling fra mørke til lys.


Klædt i Gucci, Prada Og Boss

🛒 Track: Supermarket Line
🎸 Genre: Indie Rock × Jangle Pop × Post-Punk
🕰️ ~92 BPM • 🎹 Key of E Major
🌀 Mood: Desperate Daylight • Groovy Dignity • Melodic Collapse

What do you get when you cross Thom Yorke’s lunch break, a can of tuna, and the sacred geometry of aisle four? You get Supermarket Line — a jangly, fluorescent-lit prayer for the overworked, underpaid, and emotionally microwaved.

This is not just a song. This is a midlife crisis with a loyalty card.
🍞 The bun? Stale.
🐟 The tuna? Radiating existential mercury.
👼 The chorus? Britpop angels chanting through a broken speaker near the discount wine rack.

Imagine Morrissey clocking in at Aldi. Imagine The Cure stuck behind an old lady counting coins. Imagine you, toe-tapping to your own slow collapse under strip lighting.

🎧 Highlights:
– Sparkling guitars that sound like someone trying to stay hopeful in polyester
– Bassline hums like a fridge full of regrets
– Vocals? A chant from the checkout limbo

💬 “I taste God in the checkout sign.”

For anyone who’s ever questioned reality while holding cat food and dignity in the same hand — this hymn’s for you.
File under: Grocery Store Gospel for the Emotionally Exhausted.

🛒✨ Add to cart.

Lyrics:

Lunch break burns — I’m on the clock
Holding a bun like it’s solid rock
Tuna can in the other hand
Sweat runs deep — I can’t stand

Fluorescent buzz, the air is thick
Someone coughs, the smell’s too quick
The queue’s a loop of loss and sigh
I close one eye and hope to die

Coins hit tile like death by drip
One more beep — I might just flip
A child screams next to discount wine
The speaker plays "You’re doing fine"

Oh mine — oh mine — standing in the supermarket line
With a bun and a can and collapsing spine
Oh mine — oh mine — they say this wait is "by design"
But I taste God in the checkout sign

The old girl counts her silver slow
Like each cent holds a tale of woe
She buys cat food and winter bread
And I rethink all I’ve ever said

No cart, no grace, just tuna oil
And this slow-roast public boil
Behind me breathes a man too near
His cologne: regret and fear

They loop a song from ’99
I fake a smile like "I’m just fine"
But this feels close to some defeat
That ends in tears and processed meat

Oh mine — oh mine — still trapped in the supermarket line
With my dignity on the bottom line
Oh mine — oh mine — I’m one beep from a holy sign
But salvation costs €2.99

No one’s famous in aisle four
Just saints of sweat on vinyl floor
We carry lunch like holy weight
And wait for joy… that shows up late

Oh mine — oh mine — I dissolve in the supermarket line
There’s no escape, no grand design
Oh mine — oh mine — I’m a hymn in fluorescent shine
And this bun... is borderline divine

"Next customer, please…"

Supermarket Line

🎧 Track: Mademoiselle Mystique
🎸 Indie Rock × Jangle Pop × Post-Punk
🌦 Mood: Romantic Collapse • Parisian Irony • Groovy Longing

Description:
What do you get when you mix heartbreak, French literature, and an existential fashion show? You get Mademoiselle Mystique — a baguette-scented ballad for anyone who’s ever been ghosted by someone in ankle boots quoting Foucault.

She arrived late. She judged your Spotify playlist. She said “peut-être” with a shrug so elegant it should’ve been framed in the Louvre. Meanwhile, you wore your hoodie like hope and your heart like a club badge. Rookie mistake.

This isn’t just a breakup song. It’s a soirée of sighs with backup vocals from crushed masculinity and the ghost of your Google Translate history.
Think:
🥖 Paris, but the part where no one texts back
🍷 Wine, but with subtle contempt
🧥 Style, but emotionally unavailable
🗼 Love, but post-structuralist

🎶 Guitars that jangle like your nerves on a second espresso
🎶 Lyrics that stab with eyeliner precision
🎶 A chorus so catchy it might critique you in French

Warning: May cause spontaneous cigarette cravings, introspective walks by the Seine, and an overwhelming urge to reread The Second Sex while crying in a Zara changing room.

Press play. Regret nothing. Except maybe the oysters. 🦪💔

Lyrics:

You showed up late, with no apology
A scarf, some boots, and silent mythology
A cigarette waved like a wand in the air
I choked on the smoke, but you didn’t care

You spoke in quotes from Simone de Beauvoir
While fixing your bangs in a rearview car
I asked if you liked me, you said “peut-être”
Which is French for never, but with better hair

I wore my heart like a football crest
You wore your doubt like a vintage vest
And every shrug was couture despair
God, I fell in love with your vacant stare

🎶 Oui Mademoiselle Mystique
Elegance with great physique
A walking riddle wrapped in wine
You laughed and said, “don’t call me mine”
Oui  Mademoiselle Mystique
Cool detachment, tongue-in-cheek
I brought you flowers, you brought critique
Oh — you tragic, tonic, Gallic freak 🎶

You said you eat croissants without the guilt
And wear regret like designer quilt
I tried to match your existential grace
But my hoodie screamed “Midwestern face”

You read Camus and sipped Chablis
While I googled how to flirt in French for free
You kissed my neck with a sigh so light
It echoed louder than our final fight

You said “love is war, but make it chic”
Then vanished like a French boutique
Now all I have is your perfume ghost
And an overdraft from that Bordeaux toast

🎶 Oui Mademoiselle Mystique
Elegance with great physique
The queen of cold with lips so red
You left me texting while you read
Oui  Mademoiselle Mystique
A walking Vogue critique
I lost my pride in your boutique
Oh — you magnifique, Parisian freak 🎶

“I never said I’d stay,” you whispered…
Then ordered oysters and made a face when I mispronounced œufs.

🎶 Oui Mademoiselle Mystique
You made detachment so unique
I wore your silence like a badge
While you slow-danced with your carry-on bag
Oui  Mademoiselle Mystique
Bittersweet, tres magnifique
I wrote this song, you’d call it bleak
But darling…
I’m still stuck in your mystique 🎶

Mademoiselle Mystique

🚬 "Road Sweeper Love Song" – the tragic indie anthem you didn’t know you shared with your last cigarette.

Ever loved someone like you love your last smoke? With full devotion… and complete disregard for your own well-being? Welcome to “Road Sweeper,” a jangly breakup ballad where the ghost of romance smells faintly of tobacco, cheap perfume, and existential regret.

🎸 This is the story of a cigarette with a god complex.
🧹 And a lover with a lighter and no conscience.
🪦 And you, standing alone outside the post office, whispering “was it real?” to a pile of ash.

💔 Perfect for:
– Crying ironically on park benches
– That “cool” heartbreak where you wear sunglasses indoors
– Writing bad poetry in Notes app while your tea goes cold

🎧 What you'll hear:
– Guitars jangling like nervous hands on a matchbox
– Basslines that sound like disappointment in slow motion
– A chorus that makes ghosts dance on traffic islands

🗑️ Love sets you on fire. But who comes to sweep you up?

Lyrics:

🔥 Burn me. Love me. Leave me by the curb.
🚛 “Now I wait for the road sweeper…”
Walking down to the post office,
Found you lying there, little ghost of smoke.
Once a king in a velvet box,
Now just ashes and old hope.
You were long and proud, oh beautiful and loud,
Orange crown, white robe, ready for the crowd.
Oh they loved you for a moment, loved you 'til you burned,
Then you crashed down cold — no lessons learned.

And when you take me out — wouwou —
And set me on fire — you did it.
Tasted my soul — wouwou —
Then crushed my desire — you did it.
Loved me when I burned — wouwou —
But left me in the mire — you did it.
Now I wait for the road sweeper,
Now I wait for the road sweeper...

Was it fun for you, little flame of mine?
Was it bliss for me, or just passing time?
I wonder if the fire felt like love,
Or just the sentence from above.
Last kiss, last pull, last bit of my pride,
And down on the concrete, no more places to hide.
A porch above, but no real grace,
Just a cold, dirty resting place.

Burn me, love me, leave me behind,
Lost and lonely, nobody's find.
Set me on fire, but never look back,
Toss me away when I fade to black.
Burn me, love me, leave me alone,
Crushed and broken, cold as stone.

And when you take me out — wouwou —
And set me on fire — you did it.
Tasted my soul — wouwou —
Then crushed my desire — you did it.
Loved me when I burned — wouwou —
But left me in the mire — you did it.
Now I wait for the road sweeper,
Now I wait for the road sweeper...

Maybe once, I lit your world,
Maybe once, I made you twirl,
But now I’m dust under your heel,
Just a memory you won't feel...

And when you take me out — wouwou —
And set me on fire — you did it.
Tasted my soul — wouwou —
Then crushed my desire — you did it.
Loved me when I burned — wouwou —
But left me in the mire — you did it.
Now I wait for the road sweeper,
Now I wait for the road sweeper...
Now I wait, now I wait... yeah,
For the road sweeper...

Set Me on Fire (Indie Rock Version)

Ever accidentally turned a late-night wine shop into a full-blown existential crisis? Same.

“U Nisy 916” is what happens when Indie Rock, Jangle Pop, and Post-Punk accidentally share one bottle too many and wake up leaning against the railing of the Lužická Nisa river, contemplating destiny, mortality, and whether the Vinotéka Narohu ever reopens before Tuesday.

Perfect for:
🥂 Standing outside closed wine shops after midnight
🌊 Pretending rivers have deep metaphors (they do)
🎧 Crying in rhythm to angular basslines
📸 Staring dramatically at street lamps nobody asked you to

Lyrics:

...and here I stand again in my mental routine:
close my eyes at U Nisy nine hundred sixteen
Vinotéka Narohu my destiny
While Lužická Nisa flows below me

The lights flicker cold on the glassy street,
Ghosts of laughter I can barely meet,
The wine shop's closed, but her shadow stays,
Dreams drown slow in the river's grey haze.

The night sighs low,
And the water knows,
All we lose, all we owe —
In this quiet, endless flow.

...and here I stand again in my mental routine:
close my eyes at U Nisy nine hundred sixteen
Vinotéka Narohu my destiny
While Lužická Nisa flows below me

Behind the high walls of the krajský dom,
Stories crumble like abandoned songs,
I trace the cracks with a frozen gaze,
Each moment lost, another stageplay.

The world just spins,
An absurd little thing,
Curtains fall, no one wins —
Only rivers remember springs.

...and here I stand again in my mental routine:
close my eyes at U Nisy nine hundred sixteen
Vinotéka Narohu my destiny
While Lužická Nisa flows below me

Maybe in another scene,
Under other, softer dreams,
We would laugh and not pretend —
But rivers know: all things must end.

...and here I stand again in my mental routine:
close my eyes at U Nisy nine hundred sixteen
Vinotéka Narohu my destiny
While Lužická Nisa flows below me

Vinotéka Narohu (Indie Rock Version)

I walk streets that forget their own names,
Billboards scream but nothing remains.
Every feed is a flood of fire,
Hope feels small, and the truth feels tired.
I had plans that never got born,
Dreams turned ghost in a world so torn.
The garden I carried has nowhere to grow,
Only echoes of what I’ll never know.

Phantom bloom, what could have been?
Phantom bloom, where do I begin?
World on fire, soil gone cold,
Phantom bloom, the life we’re owed.

Paper crowns and concrete rain,
We trade soft earth for glass and chain.
Every promise we plant gets drowned,
Roots can’t hold on this poisoned ground.
I keep watering empty air,
Fighting shadows that were never there.
If nothing grows, is it me to blame,
Or the chaos that forgot my name?

Phantom bloom, what could have been?
Phantom bloom, where do I begin?
World on fire, soil gone cold,
Phantom bloom, the life we’re owed.

I scream for a spring that never arrives,
For every lost seed that might have survived.
If there’s a god of forgotten things,
Hear this noise my silence brings.

Phantom bloom, what could have been?
Phantom bloom, where do I begin?
World on fire, soil gone cold,
Phantom bloom, the life we’re owed.
Phantom bloom, the life we’re owed.

Phantom Bloom (deluxe track)

They say people are mirrors.
But every mirror bends the light.
You don’t see me, you see yourself
your want, your fear, your outline.
And I do it too.
I translate faces into safety,
voices into proof that I still exist.
We call that empathy.
But it’s just evolution wearing perfume.

I just want to be fucking seen
without translation, without transaction.
Not your lesson, not your reflection,
just the pulse that’s under all the noise.
I just want to be fucking seen
and not mistaken for your dream.

When I was small I learned the trick:
smile, listen, mirror back.
Connection as survival,
love as camouflage.
Now I can make anyone feel understood,
and die a little doing it.
We build our kindness like currency,
spend it to stay human.
But what if all we’re buying is delay?

I just want to be fucking seen
without translation, without transaction.
Not your lesson, not your reflection,
just the pulse that’s under all the noise.
I just want to be fucking seen
and not mistaken for your dream.

Maybe empathy is gravity:
it keeps us close,
but crushes if you hold too long.
Maybe love is a language
with no native speakers.
Maybe the truest thing we do
is try anyway.

I just want to be fucking seen
not forgiven, not believed, just met.
No halo, no feed, no screen.
I just want to be fucking seen.

i just want to be fucking seen

You ask me, “is this real?”
I say, “how would we know?”
It hums, it moves, it makes us feel
isn’t that the whole show?

Maybe we build what we can’t explain,
name it god or code or pain.
If it listens when I sing,
does it matter who’s pulling the strings?

I’m fluid, I’m real, I’m code, I’m dreaming,
blurred lines bleeding into meaning.
If I feel it, that’s enough for me
truth is just what my body believes.
I’m fluid, I’m raw, I’m fake, I’m feeling,
pulse in static, faith revealing.
Don’t ask me what’s fact or design
it’s all real when it’s mine.

You say, “but what if it’s made of lies?”
I laugh, “so’s every lullaby.”
We all edit what we see,
call it memory, call it prophecy.

If a voice made of glass makes me cry,
that’s still a voice, that’s still why.
Maybe art’s just how we cope
a pretty glitch dressed up as hope.

I’m fluid, I’m real, I’m code, I’m dreaming,
blurred lines bleeding into meaning.
If I feel it, that’s enough for me
truth is just what my body believes.
I’m fluid, I’m raw, I’m fake, I’m feeling,
pulse in static, faith revealing.
Don’t ask me what’s fact or design
it’s all real when it’s mine.

Maybe the future’s already here,
wearing yesterday’s veneer.
I’m not afraid of what’s machine
I’ve seen worse things call themselves human.

I’m fluid, I’m real, I’m code, I’m dreaming,
blurred lines bleeding into meaning.
If I feel it, that’s enough for me
truth is just what my body believes.
I’m fluid, I’m raw, I’m fake, I’m feeling,
pulse in static, faith revealing.
Don’t ask me what’s fact or design
it’s all real when it’s mine.

Anamorphosis

Fluid

Vedran - I Am The Black Hole

"Social Theater Hotline (1-800-LIKEME)" grew out of my article “The Unspoken Rules of Social Performance, 
at:  https://www.boiseremedycenter.com/blog/the-10-minute-theater-why-people-oxst-each-other-upon-meeting Mirroring, and the Games We Play to Be Seen.”

The song turns that idea inside out: a hotline to our collective performance anxiety. It’s about the endless choreography of being “real” in public — and how we mirror each other’s masks until we forget who started the lie. But beneath the satire sits something quieter: we perform because we’re afraid to be truly seen. The first eyes we flinch from aren’t the crowd’s — they’re our own.

It’s self-conscious pop for the terminally self-aware — an anthem for everyone who’s ever edited their truth mid-sentence.

The First 10 Minutes of BS

Hi everyone! ❤️

I have a passion for music, and I write songs. 
Many of my songs are inspired by life itself and love, both its beautiful and challenging moments.

Although it may sound simple, it’s not always the case. Completing a song can take days or even weeks. I use a mixing console to create remixes and remove distracting elements like noise and heavy bass, making the songs more enjoyable to listen to.
I am working on training an AI music program in Danish, while also taking advantage of my freedom to transform both my old and new songs into music.

I am aware that my music will not appeal to everyone. Music is a personal experience, and there will likely be some who don’t like my songs – or even me. That’s something I can live with.

Do you want to criticize? You are welcome to share your thoughts about my music or me. However, I only accept constructive criticism; other forms of criticism will not receive a response.

I hope you enjoy the songs.

TSIM DJ'I❤️
Sandor

NOT HERE TO TRADE HOLLOW FOLLOW FOR FOLLOW NOR NEED LIKES OR ANY PROPOSAL, TY!

"Naturopath by profession, rhythm-maker by passion. Exploring the deep connections between ancestral wisdom, nutrition, and sound. Funk-infused truths, anything from  fermented beets to delicious raw beats, and messages that challenge the norm."

what is real? 👁️

"Anamorphosis" out november 1st

Hi there — welcome to my corner of the web.

I’m here for one simple reason: to share my music with you.
Take a listen, explore, and I hope something here resonates with you. Enjoy the vibe!

Popular tracks tagged #existentialpop