When I first started creating electronic experimental music, I stumbled upon a happy accident. I needed to make a note longer, but instead of re-recording it, I simply stretched it. What I discovered was fascinating: stretching a note doesn't just extend its duration; it reveals all the tiny sonic components that make it up. There are so many, and some are incredibly small and strange. I became obsessed with isolating these small sounds, increasing their volume, and hearing what they truly were.
I later learned these sonic fragments were called glitches, and other artists had already been using them for a while. While I felt a little like I had reinvented the wheel, I was still proud of discovering them on my own. These glitches became a central part of my music, and I started creating them intentionally.
I also began using electronic drums in many of my recordings. I found they were like a familiar grid painted over an abstract painting, providing something for the listener to hold on to in my otherwise chaotic songs, which often lack a clear melody. The drums were a lifeline.
Recently, I went through a phase where I removed the drums completely. I still used percussive sounds like thunder, dropping rocks, or banging a chain against a propane tank, but I used them for their texture and sound rather than for rhythm. I soon discovered something new: if I added just one or two measures of rhythmic drums at odd points in a song, it was like a life raft for the listener in rough water. When the drums stopped, it felt like jumping into open space.
This new technique of interspersing rhythmic drums with my more chaotic, arrhythmic compositions has become a new and exciting aspect of my music. It gives the listener a moment of familiarity before pulling them back into the unknown.