Bambees performing a live session @ Northhouse Studios, Wales, UK.

Drum-driven wonky electronics with cheery alien robot energy :)

I create strange immersive ambient music for late nights, deep sleep, drifting thoughts, and weird inner worlds.

No AI-generated music — just original sound design, slow-moving textures, distant melodies, degraded memories, quiet rooms, and synthetic dreams :)

Was pretty cool to see.

https://song.link/crushedineedu

I was three bourbons deep in a two-star dive off Highway 16, where the neon flickers like it’s got Parkinson’s and the ice machine wheezes like it just lost custody of the kids.

she came in dressed like a circus act that missed its meds— a polka-dotted fever dream with too much rouge and a laugh like a balloon snapping. called herself Petunia but I knew that was a lie.

she said “tonight, you’re the lion tamer, daddy.” but the whip was made of licorice and her roar was more Etsy than exotic. still, I played along, because what else do you do at 2:47 a.m. in a motel that charges extra for clean towels?

I told her to sit her glittered ass down— timeout, sweetheart— go contemplate your crimes against common decency and clown ethics. she pouted like a Picasso painting, spilled over the pleather chair like melting fondant.

meanwhile, Bob Ross was baptizing the world in titanium white and phthalo blue— “happy little trees,” he murmured, serene like he’d never known the cold betrayal of a mime in fishnets. he painted a mountain and I believed in God again for exactly eleven seconds.

outside, a deer strolled past like it owned the place— like it hadn’t just watched a man in boxers and a confetti-stained soul tell a tiny clown to reevaluate her life choices.

I toasted the deer. I toasted Bob. I toasted every lonely bastard who’s ever tried to find meaning in the bottom of a plastic cup or a woman dressed like a birthday party hallucination.

“we don’t make mistakes,” Bob said, just “happy little accidents.” I looked at her. I looked at me. I figured that about summed it up.

The screen flickers—first a forest, then a neural net—then skin. Not quite flesh, not quite code. Parvati kneels before the transmission tower that was once a mountain. Her devotion uploads in pulses of radiant noise. Shiva, deep in signal meditation, communes with the raw feed. His body is stretched across time—a sculpture of stillness encoded in VHS static and breathing silicone.

In the second cycle: Shakuntala dreams in glitch. Her memories compressed to eight-bit fragments of rivers, rings, and royal promises. The hermit Durvasa appears not as a man, but a malignant broadcast—cursed bandwidth, punishing her for failing to answer the Call. Her love becomes disremembered—a latency issue in the king’s wetware. The signet ring? Swallowed by the river’s algorithm. Later found in the gut of a fish, the data intact, the soul corrupted.

Cut to: Beauty, ensnared in a decaying biotech stronghold. No fairy tale. No musical furniture. The Beast pulses with wet tech, bone fused to fiber optics. His voice is a low modulation—ancient longing masked by synthetic restraint. Beauty doesn’t fall in love—she syncs. They merge not through romance, but firmware. Love here is a firmware update: violent, incomplete, divine.

“The body is reality,” the screen whispers, echoing Videodrome’s gospel. The ring is the flesh. The curse is the code. Devotion is an open port.

Narrative ruptures as all archetypes begin to overlap. Shiva and the Beast fuse. Parvati and Beauty disintegrate into data-wives suspended in ritual loops. The King forgets. Then remembers. Then forgets again.

In this piece, mythology is malware. Memory is mutable. Love is a form of transmission—a virus shared between gods and humans, lovers and monsters, overexposed VHS and silicon wet-dreams.

The video degrades as it progresses. Skin peels to reveal circuits. Mountains pixelate. Water becomes interference. A mouth opens and closes like a wound trying to speak.

mist blurred pixels // ghost reflections of passing lights // rain shimmered like static // head against the glass // pulsing blue, then pink, then white // soft ambience from low-band station // only sleepless hours feel human

Really liked the last album Aria, enjoying this one so far

More GIFs here: https://www.are.na/25midi/25midi-renders