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.
Unimaginable, perhaps: I am human. I am simply exploring all the technical substitutes we have invented for what we call real. Just for the record, I use every kind of technical help I can to express myself. Seen from the outside, I present myself — my actual human being — and expose more of myself than my physical body alone would allow.
Just think of artists who hide behind curtains, masks, costumes, or shadows. I am not even sure I think of myself as an artist in that way. I am simply a human being putting myself out into the world to be discovered — with my deepest inner emotions, thoughts, memories and states forming something whole that I want to share.
And in doing so, I deliberately step back from my physical appearance. Not to hide the person behind the work, but to find the expression of that person that best correlates with what is being said and expressed — in that sense, more precisely than the body alone ever could. It is my human self transported onto my stage, and that stage is digital: the internet.
Much like the artists I compared my work with above, I reduce the visible individual so the audience can concentrate on what I have to say: my words, my point of view deriving from my inner self, and the feelings, states and memories they carry — hoping that somewhere in the listener, something responds.
I reduce myself because I believe the work should speak for itself — not because there is someone who knows me, likes me, and therefore recommends it. Everyone is invited to encounter the work on that stage from the same naked starting point.