Saturday bangers yeah baby!
Watch a galaxy get forged in bass—can your subs handle the drop?
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Peak‑time hard techno + trippy sci‑fi visuals = instant full‑screen rave—dare you press play?
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Chronicles of the Mycelial Starforge
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Ixoa Morrow wasn’t born on any map you could fold. Raised in a comet-mining flotilla, they learned early to navigate by intuition—feeling gravity’s hiccups, hearing the micro-pulses between stars. The gift turned profitable: traders paid dearly for slip-route coordinates whispered in Ixoa’s half-sleep. Yet profit dulled into routine, and routine into restlessness, until a forgotten emergency relay in the Polychrome Drift flared back to life after four centuries of silence.

The signal was a single chord of ultraviolet radio mixed with sub-audible bass, more felt than heard. Ixoa’s synapses lit up like festival lanterns. They dismissed the autopilot, brewed lucid-dream tea steeped with mescal spores, and keyed in the broadcast’s coordinates. Engines groaned, reality folded, and the Star-Vagrant skipped across spacetime like a stone across water.

1 Portal Ignition
The relay’s origin teetered beside a derelict Stargate—six fractured rings penguin-stacked into an impossible hexagon. Its shattered edges bled violet light that dripped upward, defying momentum. As Ixoa approached, the light recomposed into a door—no bigger than a ship’s airlock hatch yet furious with gravitational hunger. Without ceremony (or even a prudent scan), Ixoa stepped through.

Density inverted. Bones hummed cello-low. The next breath tasted of petrichor, cinnamon, and distant thunder. Then gravity snapped back, and Ixoa stood on a glassy platform suspended over a cosmic canyon. Rivers of electric orchids surged below, their petals casting turquoise reflections that painted Ixoa’s suit in prismatic kaleidoscope.

A whisper—half static, half lullaby—coiled around Ixoa’s skull: Run forward; forward is freedom.

Trusting the voice (or perhaps the spores now blooming in arterial pathways), Ixoa sprinted. The platform unfurled ahead in modular hexes, assembling just in time for each footfall. Each step triggered mushroom bulbs under the glass, erupting bioluminescent spores that spiraled upward into constellations shaped like forgotten alphabets.

2 Acceleration Corridor
The path narrowed into a cobalt tunnel glazed with liquid equations that dripped like raindrops in reverse. Velocity gathered of its own accord; Ixoa’s heartbeat synced to a 129-beat cadence—the corridor’s hidden pulse. Walls rippled between dimensions. For a nanosecond, Ixoa saw every possible self: monarch, martyr, chorus line singer, silent monk. Each future variant winked out until the one who kept running stayed solid.

Mid-sprint, time elongated like taffy. Footsteps echoed centimeters apart yet stretched through parsecs of subjective distance. Neon glyphs flared on the tunnel’s skin, marking milestones in languages no civil lexicon had catalogued. Spore-constellations inside Ixoa’s lungs mapped these glyphs to emotion: courage, trepidation, wonder, hunger for the unsayable.

They burst from the tunnel as abruptly as a seed gun: launched into velvet void, spinning until inertia sighed and balance returned.


Continues on the website: 
https://grasspatchbum.com/2025/07/26/chronicles-of-the-mycelial-starforge/

#techno #hardtechno #melodictechno #4kvisualizer

Chronicles of the Mycelial Starforge

Music video : https://youtu.be/ec0lk5TlXPg

Hypnotic techno + psychedelic space tunnel—lights low, volume high.
Raw/deep/hypnotic textures with cosmic visuals. Dive in.
Dark hypnotic grooves and biolum worlds—lose gravity.

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The Story  ᓚᘏᗢ  ➜
Prologue — The Sigh that Called Across Orbits

There is a city in the Perseid Flow that does not wait for visitors; it inhales them. Its name in the wind‑tongue is Anhelion, and the maps draw it as a lung‑shaped void, a negative space, because it cannot be built from stone alone. Its avenues open and close like alveoli. Its towers are ribs. Its plazas are diaphragms that rise and fall on a patient schedule that predates calendars.

From the slate edge of orbit, a sleek courier seed drifts down toward the breathing surface, and from it steps a being who is not a traveler in the common sense. Khyre‑of‑the‑Murmurs is a Sibilant, a humanoid from a distant sporeworld where architecture grows and etiquette is exchanged as scents. Khyre’s body is tall and jointed with filaments that flex like reeds; beneath translucent, onyx‑dark skin, pale mycelial veining glows a soft green, glimmering along collarbones and wrists. Four long fingers on each hand end in capillary tips that taste the air. Fan‑shaped gill fronds, thin as paper, arc from Khyre’s neck to the jawline, opening and closing as the atmosphere changes; fractal pupils adjust to blankness and brilliance in an instant. A braided mantle of woven hyphae hangs from broad shoulders, so fine it can slip between atoms when necessary, so textured it records the passing of winds like a book.

Where Khyre goes, a companion follows. Miell is a Scriptmoth, a moth only in silhouette; close, Miell is an angular geometry of silver membranes and jointed light. Each wing is a translucent panel etched with veinwork like circuit diagrams; when Miell moves, the wing‑etchings write glyphs in the air, lingering a moment as luminous afterimages. The Scriptmoth communicates by composing these drifting letters—one word per beat of wing—until the words knot themselves into a meaning the eye can swallow whole.

Khyre and Miell stand at the edge of Anhelion as the city exhales. The exhalation is dry and fragrant with petrichor. The ground underfoot hums. Far overhead, vaults of spore‑light move like auroras. The city’s breath strokes Khyre’s gills and the gills answer—small ripples of pleasure; the air carries a pattern. The pattern repeats, then complicates, then repeats again, an DMT‑clean geometry encoded not in sound but in pressure and drift.

“Eager,” Miell writes in a loop of floating sigils. “Hungry.”

“Hungry for what?” Khyre’s voice is low and unlabored, each word softened by the phenolic resonance of the gill fronds. Khyre tastes the answer before Miell can assemble it: the city is hungry for alignment. Something in its lungs has slipped.

The courier seed folds itself into a brittle pod behind them like an empty husk, and the living gates of Anhelion open, stippled with bioluminescent dots that echo the constellation the city was patterned from. Khyre steps forward, into the thorax of a world.

Continues on the website.


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

The City That Breathes | Trippy Music Video on Youtube

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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 #industrial‑techno