My songs rarely begin as songs.
They begin with something that stays — a feeling, a thought, a movement, a shift in temperature, a fragment of language, a moment that quietly returns.
For many years, I listened to electronic music and found more than sound in it. Images, words and small stories appeared as the music unfolded. Somewhere along the way, I began to reverse that movement: taking a feeling, an image or a thought and allowing it to become music.
Words matter to me for what they mean, but also for what happens when they are repeated, whispered, stretched or placed against rhythm. Sometimes they remain language. Sometimes they become colour, temperature or motion.
I am less interested in telling a complete story than in holding one state precisely enough to return to it. Past, present and what is still becoming often meet there. A memory can still be present. Something ahead can already be felt.
Even the lightest moment carries its passing with it.
The sound changes. I change with it. Or vice versa.
Lexter Adam is the voice I found by listening.
This is my music.