About Xepi

Electronic music is temporal archaeology — each track a dig site where I unearth fragments of emotion buried in frequencies and rhythms. I'm drawn to the space between nostalgia and possibility, where synthesizers become time machines and drum patterns map the geography of feeling.

There's something profound about building sonic worlds from nothing but voltage and imagination. Every oscillator carries the potential for transcendence, every filter sweep the promise of catharsis. I make music because in those moments when the mix clicks into place, when the bass drops just right, I touch something larger than myself — a shared human frequency that connects us across the digital divide.

Music is the language we speak when words aren't enough. It's the "aha" moment stretched into eternity, the feeling of driving through rain-slicked streets at 2 AM when the city feels like it belongs only to you. I chase these moments, bottle them in waveforms, and release them hoping they'll find their way to someone who needs to hear exactly that frequency at exactly that moment.

In a world increasingly disconnected from the natural rhythms of existence, electronic music offers a different kind of organic experience — one where humanity and technology don't fight but dance together. Each track is an invitation to step into this dance, to feel the pulse of the future while honoring the heartbeat of the past.

My relationship with electronic music began in the liminal spaces — late-night radio broadcasts that felt like transmissions from another dimension, video game soundtracks that painted entire worlds with just a handful of channels, and the hypnotic pulse of machinery that seemed to have its own consciousness.

Portland, Oregon became the perfect laboratory for this sonic exploration. The city's rain creates its own white noise, a constant backdrop that makes every other sound feel intentional. The Pacific Northwest's blend of urban grit and natural beauty mirrors the aesthetic I chase in my music — organic textures wrapped in digital precision.

Each release represents a different chapter in this ongoing conversation between past and future. "86" emerged from late-night drives through empty highways, "Gecko" from the meditation of repetitive motion, "Dream State" from those moments between sleep and waking when reality feels most malleable. Every album is a snapshot of a particular emotional geography, mapped in BPM and filtered through years of accumulated sonic wisdom.

My sound lives in the intersection of synthwave nostalgia and downtempo meditation, where vintage synthesizers meet modern production techniques. I'm fascinated by the emotional weight that certain frequency combinations can carry — how a simple arpeggiated sequence can instantly transport you to a neon-lit street corner in 1985 or a rain-soaked rooftop in 2045.

The aesthetic draws heavily from the "Blade Runner" school of electronic music — all atmospheric pads, melodic bass lines, and drums that hit like drops of digital rain. But underneath the retro-futuristic surface lies something deeply human: the desire to connect, to feel, to transform mundane moments into something transcendent.

I approach each track like a cinematographer approaches a scene, thinking in terms of mood, atmosphere, and narrative arc. The goal isn't just to make people move (though that's certainly part of it) but to create space for reflection, introspection, and maybe even revelation. Electronic music at its best is emotional architecture — it builds rooms for feelings we didn't know we had.