# song_narratives

cue_in: 16:03
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Pop Up Area B - East Gate
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Open Decks
narrative_short:
Daylight on a half-empty floor; one brave newcomer plugs in, bumps the gain, and learns in public while the crowd claps on heart, not on grid. A lovable backstage bear finally takes an honest, wobbly first swing out front.

narrative_full:
Daylight on a half-empty floor; one brave newcomer plugs in, bumps the gain, and learns in public while the crowd claps on heart, not on grid. A lovable backstage bear finally takes an honest, wobbly first swing out front.

producer_note:
She wanted this one to be a love letter to the bedroom producers, backline techs, and quiet creatives who live around music but almost never put their own name on a file. It’s her nudge for them to step out of the shadows, render the “unfinished” ideas anyway, and let the world hear the clumsy first versions. She ended up taking the vocal herself, partly to prove the point that it doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.


cue_in: 16:37
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Public Grounds
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Main Stage - FOH Tower
narrative_short:
An EDM / trance-inspired track by Bobku set in the FOH pit of a fictional festival, built around patch lists, cue stacks, and the invisible ballet of live production.

narrative_full:
Patch lists snap, cue stacks lock, comms become choreography—the invisible ballet that makes nights work. It’s the headset kid’s hymn to keeping chaos tidy with one more save. The moment just before a major run of cues: the last cross-check, the last patch fix, the last “we good?” before the lights and FX hit on time—or don’t.

producer_note:
Phase took the lead on Showfile.cfg because the song is really about invisible structure: the front-of-house engineer making hundreds of quiet decisions so the show can feel effortless to everyone else. Where some puppets hear only the drop, Phase hears the lattice underneath — buses, cues, comms, routing, patch notes, save points, and the tiny timed moves that keep chaos singing instead of collapsing. He built the track like an actual showfile: verses as channel notes, pre-choruses as cue calls, choruses as “GO” macros, all wrapped around Scooter as the ghost inside the booth. The dedication nods outward to the lighting directors too, because Phase understands that sound and sight only feel magical when unseen hands are working in sync. But at its core, this is a love letter to the FOH tech who never gets a bow, with every patch, route, and cue in the lyrics acting like a little spotlight on the person holding the night together. Loopette provides the female vocals.


cue_in: 17:05
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Control Core Configuration
narrative_short:
Chaos_Controller.exe (The Zany Compiler) by Bobku is a tech-trance, happy hardcore, hard trance crossover set at the Feltware Festival main stage at 17:05, where a locked rig wriggles back to life and turns a bug into the feature.

narrative_full:
The rig “locks”… then wriggles—UI doodles wink, pixels grin, and laughter lands perfectly on beat. A toy-box troop of misfits proves the bug was the feature all along.

producer_note:
Riff treated this track like a stress test for the rig and the crew’s sense of humor, piling happy-hardcore energy on top of tech-trance bones until the whole thing felt like a DAW having a giggle fit. She wanted the festival itself to feel like it was in on the joke—UI doodles, misbehaving pixels, and all <em>(We're not kidding, if you look at the spectral frequency display, she smudged in a smilely face)</em>. The brief she gave the room was simple: “If you’re not smiling at the drop, we’re not done yet.”


cue_in: 17:28
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Lab Configuration
narrative_short: A sonic reminder that we stand on the shoulder of giants.
narrative_note: *Front rails should be considered a high-voltage area.
narrative_full:
A “perfectly safe” demo keeps getting louder until the lab becomes fireworks. The earnest inventor and his trembling partner spin near-disaster into delight.

producer_note:
Phase took the lead on Safety Goggles (Meepwave Protocol) because he’s the only one in the room who genuinely believes you can make something feel dangerous and still be safe. Watching Bunsen and Beaker work, he saw two stories at once: a chaotic lab where anything might explode, and a quiet little meep trying very hard to trust the process. His approach was to build the track like a controlled experiment—every riser measured, every drop double-checked—so all the wild sound design sits inside a structure that never actually lets the listener fall. He spent ridiculous hours late at night comping Beaker’s meeps into chords and drum patterns until they felt less like a joke and more like a heartbeat, then wrapped the whole thing in that bridge about kindness resonating alone. For Phase, this one isn’t just a lab banger; it’s proof that you can align chaos and care on the same grid and still have everyone walk out smiling.


cue_in: 18:19
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Golden Hour Configuration
narrative_note: *VIP Guest DJ * No other performances*
narrative_short:
A golden-hour festival set built on warmth and nostalgia, where melody and memory pull the whole crowd back to “home.” VIP Guest DJ: a tall, gentle friend who feathers the hi-hats and calls everyone “family.”

narrative_full:
Rigs catch gold; melody and memory turn the whole field toward home. A tall, gentle friend feathers the hi-hats and calls everyone “family.”

producer_note:
If you ask Faderghost about Sunset Sequencer, he’ll tell you he built it like a front-of-house mix for one very tall, very nervous headliner. In his head, Big Bird wasn’t “doing a kids’ song,” he was closing a golden hour set the way the big trance guys do—only instead of lasers and pyro, the payload was home and sidewalk chalk and paper kites. Faderghost’s whole goal was to make the crowd feel like they were standing in front of a massive rig and a tiny stoop at the same time: big, wide festival low end and long, glowing tails on the synths, but with enough air in the mix that every “home!” lands like someone calling your name from down the block. He kept riding faders on imaginary kids’ voices in his head, carving space for the lyric so the nostalgia never got drowned by the drop. “It’s just a sunset rig,” he shrugs, “wires everywhere, crowd roaring—but if I’ve done my job, it still feels like one big nest.”


cue_in: 18:57
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage B
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Control Core Configuration
narrative_short:
A playful, glitch-happy dance cut where squeaks quantize, widgets wobble in key, and the dancefloor “debugs itself” by laughing. For stitched-together troublemakers who ship joy as long as it squeaks on beat.

narrative_full:
Darkness lands and the system installs whimsy—squeaks quantize, widgets wobble in key, the dancefloor debugs itself by giggling. For every stitched-together troublemaker who ships joy if it squeaks on beat.

producer_note:
Nova made Googly-Eye Overclock because she wanted a track that flips the whole festival from “serious night mode” into “we’re allowed to be weird now” in a single install. She’d been watching the crew grind through tense sets and perfect mixes, and she kept saying the system needed a patch—not for stability, for whimsy—something that makes darkness feel safe by making it laugh at itself. So she built it like an overclocked debug session: squeaks snapped to the grid, wobbling widgets tuned into the key, little UI glitches turned into hooks until the dancefloor feels like it’s fixing its own code by giggling. It’s Nova’s love letter to every stitched-together troublemaker who ships joy as a feature—because if it squeaks on beat, it belongs in the drop.


cue_in: 20:02
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Central Ops
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Ops Tower
narrative_short:
A song all about embracing the chaos that is live events and realizing it's all a part of the music.

narrative_full:
Timelines collide, carts vanish, three stages want five favors at once; a small, steady leader in green finds the groove inside the sirens and keeps the wheels on.

producer_note:
Wrote this one as a love letter to every producer who’s watched their session names, backups, and CPU usage spin out of control while they swear they’ve “got it under control.” He stepped out of his comfort zone to do the vocals himself—deadpan, quietly stressed—and then surprised everyone by insisting on a banjo line because, in his words, “if the system’s on fire, it might as well have twang.” Buried in the harmony stack, he snuck in a progression inspired by Muppet Treasure Island, just to prove that even in admin meltdown mode, there’s still a bit of adventure score hiding under the error messages.


cue_in: 21:11
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage B
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Comedy Alcove Configuration
narrative_short: Groans get sampled, punchlines sidechain the drop, and heckles get turned into heat.
narrative_full:
Groans get sampled, punchlines sidechain the drop, and a fuzzy comic turns misses into a roar. It’s a hug to the kind bomb-artist who lands the biggest laugh by “failing” on purpose.

producer_note:
Atlas almost never takes the lead, but The Heckler Algorithm felt personal. As the studio’s general manager, he’s the one who absorbs the notes, the complaints, the “can we tweak it again?” emails, so turning boos into beats wasn’t just a concept—it was policy. He built the track like an error-handling system: sample the groan, gate the boo, quantize the crash—treat every failure as input instead of interruption. Beneath the packet jokes and punchlines, it’s Atlas quietly proving that timing isn’t just musical—it’s emotional—and if you hold the line long enough, even a heckle can become part of the groove.


cue_in: 21:39
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Pop-Up Area A - West Gate
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Live Mix Session
narrative_short: A musical journey through the collaborative creative process of how most songs really get made.
narrative_full:
A cramped deck becomes a writers’ room: fast notes, faster claps, and a producer smiling through the chaos because it secretly works. A tiny, relentless critic floors the gas; his patient partner steers.

producer_note:
Built this one out of every 3 a.m. booth nightmare he’s ever mixed through: the panicked producer who “just needs one more tweak” and the overeager idea-gremlin who keeps adding genres to bar one. He took the lead so he could ground the whole thing in something that still works on a real system, and ended up voicing the frazzled producer himself—every sigh and “it’s fine, it’s fine” borrowed from nights spent babysitting fragile egos over hot monitors. Patch jumped at the chance to play Pepe as pure chaos on the talkback mic, turning the track into a call-and-response between hard-earned live-sound wisdom and the gremlin in your DMs yelling, “More spice, baby!”


cue_in: 22:27
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Drum Pit Configuration
narrative_short: Sometimes you have to break the grid and just play it be feeling.
narrative_full:
The schedule explodes into pure motion—snares multiply, chains sing, and the crowd sprints to a rhythm nobody approved. A wild-eyed drummer teaches the field to run free.

producer_note:
Philter only took the helm on this one because everyone else was too busy bracing for impact. Animal doesn’t “sit in” on a session—he detonates it—so Philter decided the only way through was barefoot calm and open ears. Instead of forcing Animal back onto the grid, he treated the chaos like a river: let the trance kick hold steady, let the snares outrun it, and smooth the low end so the room never actually falls apart. The whole concept—chains breaking, grid dissolving—was Philter proving that structure doesn’t have to shackle rhythm; sometimes the kindest thing you can do is loosen the tension and let broken time bloom. When the report reads “system is confused… and happy,” that’s him smiling from the couch, knowing the groove survived because it was allowed to breathe.


cue_in: 23:04
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Central Ops
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Media Tent
narrative_short:
While mains rage, a daredevil mod cleans the sky: trolls bounce, kindness trends, starlight fills the feed.

narrative_full:
While mains rage, a daredevil mod cleans the sky: trolls bounce, kindness trends, starlight fills the feed. It’s social high-wire—every post a stunt, every click a soft landing. But there's no one better to manage the social media / online presence / live streams for the whole festival.

producer_note:
Loopette took the helm on this one because she knows Gonzo’s bravest stunt isn’t the cannon—it’s the comment section. As Feltware’s social media manager, he willingly dives into spam storms and troll seas every day, which Loopette quietly insists is more dangerous than launching into a brick wall at terminal velocity. She built the track like a signal-cleaning ritual: soft pads under hard snares, filters firing like little shields, each melodic “thread” widening the space until the noise has somewhere to go. Instead of dunking on the chaos, she shaped it—booping the banhammer on beat, lifting the feed like a sunrise—so the bridge feels less like moderation and more like transformation. For Loopette, Blue Comet.exe isn’t about winning the internet; it’s about holding the grid steady long enough for kindness to spread its wings and glow on its own.


cue_in: 23:42
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Runway Configuration
narrative_short:
Cancelled at the Diva’s request. Original mix survives only in rumor, test prints, and hard drives that “mysteriously” never got wiped.

narrative_full:
Spotlight equals overload: couture cache hits 100% and cameras blink in unison. A glamorous powerhouse crashes systems by entering frame—then poses in the reboot. Warning: Show may involve extreme VFX that have been deemed a hazard by the FAA.

narrative_note:
*Removed per The Diva (Handwritten Note: Cancelled at the Diva’s request. Original mix survives only in rumor, test prints, and hard drives that “mysteriously” never got wiped.)

producer_note:
Riff’s original version of Hiya.ha was her dream diva runway: tech-trance lifts, uplifty chords, and a drop that felt less like a stomp and more like a perfectly timed hair flip in slow motion. She built it as a love letter to The Diva’s control over a crowd—how a single “hiya” and a strut could overload every camera in the room without ever losing musical grace. When the note came down that it was “too trance, not enough devastation,” she took the cancellation on the chin, stuck a smiley face on the session folder, and told Nova, “Go break something beautiful with it.”


cue_in: 00:31
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Snack Pit Configuration
narrative_note: *VIP Guest DJ
narrative_short:
Half nursery rhyme + half dubstep, using playful metaphors of snacks and treats to describe the experience of enjoying electronic music, with references to bass drops as heavy snacks, beats as cookies cracking, and the overall atmosphere as a chaotic yet enjoyable snacking party.

narrative_full:
Shortly after midnight a VIP headliner storms main; trance rules politely step aside for colossal wobble. The famous blue monster turns the field into a shared snack—om nom nom, delicious bass. (Festival Note, we don't care if he wants to do brostep, we just can't believe he agreed to come)

producer_note:
Phase took Nom Nom Wub Wub partly as a dare to himself: could he take the loudest, silliest guest imaginable and still make a track that actually tells a story? On paper it’s “nursery rhymes meet brostep,” but he approached it like scoring a tiny monster’s hero’s journey—building the verses around small, bouncy crumbs of melody, then arranging the drops so every ridiculous “nom” and “wub” feels like a carefully timed chomp instead of pure noise. He spent a lot of late nights lining Cookie’s ad-libs up with the LFO moves, tightening the sidechain “bites” until the bass felt like it was literally chewing through the room, and kept one rule taped to the console: no joke without groove, no groove without heart. Under all the crunch and laser-lit cookie dust, Phase wanted the bridge line—“no one dances alone no more”—to hit like the real center of the song: a puppet rave where every messy, hungry little monster gets pulled into the circle. Loopette providing the secondary vocals for the track, helped make sure that happened.


cue_in: 01:06
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Kitchen Configuration
narrative_short: We told him trance... He told us &#x27;Bork, bork, bork... Dutch House.
narrative_full:
Rules leave, bounce stays: pots, pans, and a rubber bird lead a crooked dance that shouldn’t work—until it’s everybody’s favorite. A chaotic chef proves a dumb squeak on a deadly kick is sometimes all you need. (We told him trance... He told us 'Bork, bork, bork... Dutch House. -No Refunds)

producer_note:
Patch talks about Boem_Kip.wav like it was the moment someone finally let him drive the forklift through the warehouse. Dutch house plus a literal rubber chicken as the lead felt like destiny: a stupid idea with a serious groove, which is basically his religion. He built the whole track around the squeak like it was a sacred synth patch—sidechained it, tuned it, EQ’d it, then refused to let anyone “fix” how ridiculous it sounded on its own. The rule in the room was simple: if the club’s laughing and their feet won’t stop stomping, the groove is working. Patch kept telling everyone, “No, no, the dumber the top, the deadlier the thomp,” and every time the chicken hit the pan on the drop, he just pointed at the meters and yelled, “See? Groove saved. Boem kip.”


cue_in: 02:09
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Control Core Configuration
narrative_short:
A house-anthem moment where the festival rig feels alive—LEDs, cables, and PA “singing back” to the crew with a stitched-and-wired heart. The Feltware Festival becomes the performer.

narrative_full:
LEDs harmonize; cables hum a choir; the rig answers its makers with a house anthem for stitched-and-wired hearts. It’s the moment the festival itself starts to sing back.

producer_note:
Nova took this one like it was a launch sequence, not just a song—because to her, Feltware has always been half music and half AV myth-making. She built the track as an installation: boot tones as crowd cues, “googly eye drivers” as the world’s dumbest operating system, and drops that feel like the festival’s lights physically snapping into alignment. The moon theme wasn’t metaphor for her—it was a target—so yes, she absolutely tried to get permission to project the Feltware logo onto the lunar surface with holography lasers, and yes, she was politely told to stop emailing NASA “for one tiny little test.” In the end she settled for “uploading joy to the lunar room” instead: a title track that treats every glitch as glitter, every squeak as truth, and every reboot as the moment the whole city remembers it’s allowed to be magical.


cue_in: 03:51
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Rainbow Configuration
narrative_full:
First pink light finds tired smiles; the last song feels like a shared memory whispered across thousands of shoulders. A small green-hearted host ties every color together and reminds us: when the dark goes quiet, keep singing.

producer_note:
Loopette said yes to Color Threads knowing exactly what it meant: last song of the night, first light over the crowd, the “don’t screw this up” slot. Instead of chasing the biggest sunrise drop, she treated it like a question whispered into the dark and waited to hear what answered back. In the studio, she kept the room almost completely quiet—no big monitors, just small speakers and headphones—stacking soft chords and tiny melodic “threads” until the song felt like a handful of lanterns being passed from person to person. She built the chorus around the idea that every off-key voice and frayed seam still belongs in the tapestry; all the colors glow because you can see the stitching. When the others asked if it needed a bigger lift, she just shook her head and said, “If they’re still here at sunrise, they already brought the loud part. I just have to give them something gentle to carry home.”


cue_in: 16:00
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage · Stage B · Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Simulcast
narrative_short:
Feltware Festival’s gates-open kickoff where the breakers flip and all three stages boot up at once, hitting the big red start button for the entire night.

narrative_full:
The gates click, the breakers flip, and three stages cough to life in the most gloriously obvious way possible. It’s the big red start button for the whole night.

producer_note:
For the opener, Riff wanted something that felt like the festival itself flipping its own power switch: big, obvious, and a little bit cheesy in the best way. She stacked eurodance hooks on top of a stompy house chassis so the first kick would feel like three stages coughing to life at once. It’s her favorite kind of scene to captain—where one silly, huge melody tells everyone, “Okay, we’re really doing this now.”


cue_in: 16:32
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Standard Configuration (Aborted Set)
narrative_short:
A scheduled set that never materializes as a runner pings between the artist compound and a fully lit stage, and the timetable gets rewritten with a headset sigh when the slot finally times out.

narrative_full:
The Captain is technically scheduled. But the performance never arrives. A runner pings back and forth between a velvet-curtained compound and a fully lit stage, negotiating psychology, physics, and the laws of nature required for emergence. The crowd waits. The BPM holds. The clock does not. Eventually, the set times out—not with a bang, but with a headset sigh and a schedule quietly rewritten.

producer_note:
Faderghost took this one personally. Before he was the calm in the booth, he was the one sprinting across gravel with a radio clipped to his belt and a stage plot folded in his back pocket. Feet_Beat.pdf is his love letter to the artist relations runners—the invisible miles between green rooms and loading docks—and he built the track like a shift that never quite ends: tight kicks like footfalls on asphalt, comm chatter tucked into the mids, and a break that refuses to let you rest because neither do they. The drop hits hard not for spectacle, but because the workload hits hard; it’s the sound of carrying someone else’s show on your shoulders and still making it look effortless.


cue_in: 16:38
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Standard Configuration
narrative_short:
In the wake of the aborted slot, a stern voice steps out to restore order. The stage resets to defaults. The tempo is explained. The proper way to dance is outlined.

narrative_full:
In the wake of the aborted slot, a stern voice steps out to restore order. The stage resets to defaults. The tempo is explained. The proper way to dance is outlined. Arms are to remain sensible. Joy is to be measured. Unfortunately, someone has discovered the pad controller. What follows is not rebellion, exactly—just unfiltered enthusiasm colliding with authority, as perfectly behaved trance drops dissolve into joyful, rule-breaking noise.

producer_note:
Dial wrote Trance_Rules.docx as a perfectly ordered manifesto—clean builds, sensible arm angles, kick and bass aligned like well-labeled folders. He loved it. Then Patch suggested the “Interrupted Edition,” where a pad-happy gremlin keeps derailing the rules mid-lecture, and Dial experienced what can only be described as measurable physical discomfort. Still, he knew the chaos would land with a crowd, so he reframed the whole thing as exposure therapy: let the interruptions happen, then prove the grid can absorb them. The trance sections are immaculate on purpose—Dial’s comfort zone, polished to surgical precision—so every sidetrack feels like a test he chooses to survive rather than a system failure.


cue_in: 17:42
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Control Core Configuration
narrative_short:
A main-stage “we are the track” moment where kick, bass, and a thousand voices stack onto the master bus until the whole field realizes they’re part of the print.

narrative_full:
One by one the pieces step into place—kick, bass, strings, squeaks, and a thousand off-key voices—until the master bus glows like a sunrise. It’s the moment the whole field realizes they’re not listening to a track; they are the track, finally printed together on one big, beating timeline.

producer_note:
Dial didn’t have to invent a concept for this one—he just described how he already hears the world. To him, people aren’t “too much” or “off-beat,” they’re just stems that haven’t been routed yet. He built the track like a literal session file: common sends for love, FX returns for the weird, a master bus wide enough to hold every crackle and shaky tone without clipping. The chorus is basically his worldview—no solo track left outside the song—because Dial believes the grid isn’t there to judge you, it’s there to hold you steady while you lock in with everyone else. All Stems In is what happens when the metronome-soul decides belonging is a routing decision, not a personality trait.


cue_in: 19:26
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Backlot
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Primary Generator Farm
narrative_short: A single foot on the wrong cable ends up taking out Main Stage.
narrative_full:
Somewhere behind the fence, the festival’s power spine flinches, warning lights ripple down the line, and a stage goes dark mid-beat. Cable ramps turn into tripwires, breakers get moody, and a runner with a flashlight learns that “just one quick fix” can decide whether the night comes back—or stays quiet. It wasn’t a boom—just a footstep where no one was looking.

producer_note:
When Phase first pitched Cable_Fault.irq, everyone assumed it was a rare pun—his name, the title, the obvious “phase/cable” joke—and the room actually laughed. Then they remembered Phase only makes about three jokes a year and he’d already met his quota, which meant this wasn’t a gag; it was a warning. He wrote it like a late-night incident report turned into a track: the kind of fault that starts as a tiny crackle, becomes a misfire in the groove, and suddenly the whole system is fighting itself. The final mix is pure Phase—quiet, focused, and relentless—turning a technical failure into a story about tension, patience, and the moment everything snaps back into alignment.


cue_in: 19:41
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Backlot
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Main Stage Truss Spine
narrative_full:
A single metallic plink interrupts the relative calm in the backlot. A cotter pin from the main stage truss ends up somewhere it shouldn’t. Riggers with almost interchangeable faces snap into action, because the whole sky deserves a second look to make sure the only thing that drops is the beat.

producer_note:
Aria took the helm on Cotter.prt because she couldn’t stop thinking about how the world must sound when you’re above it—when traffic turns to texture and arguments dissolve into wind. She chose void-core not for darkness, but for altitude: wide negative space, distant pulses, vocals that feel like they’re drifting between rooftops. During the entire production cycle she moved through the studio like she was a few inches off the floor—soft-voiced, slow gestures, building huge empty skies around tiny melodic threads. Where others would have filled the silence, Aria carved it open, letting the drop feel less like impact and more like a long exhale from somewhere very high up.


cue_in: 19:58
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Public Grounds
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Vendor Tents
narrative_short:
At Feltware Festival’s merch row, a fan comes for a keepsake and ends up behind the table—card readers beeping in time and pins clacking like percussion—because the night quietly recruits him.

narrative_full:
He shows up early with a short list and a pocket full of excitement, planning to grab a keepsake and hurry back to the crowd. Instead, card readers start beeping in time, pins clack into trays like percussion, and the line turns into its own dancefloor. One small offer to help becomes a borrowed lanyard, then a headset, then a place behind the table—running the merch booth for the headliner he came to see. By the time the set starts, he’s exactly where the night needs him. Leaving was never really part of the plan, even if he didn’t know it yet.

producer_note:
Philter ended up with Wanna Buy a Pin because the second someone said “nu-disco / electro-funk,” the room basically pointed at him like it was a law of nature. He’s the only one who can take something as repetitive as “wanna buy a pin” and filter it into a groove instead of a headache—nudging the phrasing, riding tiny swing changes, and carving space so the chant becomes percussion, then melody, then hook. Other producers have tried to make it work and somehow it always turns into pure annoyance; Philter’s trick is that he doesn’t fight the repetition, he smooths it until it feels inevitable. By the end you’re not being sold anything—you’re just caught in the pocket, smiling, and chanting along like it was your idea.


cue_in: 20:05
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage B
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Funk Configuration
narrative_short:
On Stage B, “The Doctor” patches the grid with electro-funk swing—trance leads relax, bass gets rubbery, and off-shift crew drift in to recalibrate on a moving-couch dancefloor.

narrative_full:
The Doctor is In! And he’s her to fix your grid: trance leads lean back into rubbery basslines, hi-hats learn to swing, and Stage B turns into a moving couch for tired feet and nodding heads. It’s where off-shift techs, runners, and stray ravers drift to recalibrate, finding out the rig can groove just as hard as it can soar.

producer_note:
Philter almost didn’t take the captain’s chair on this one—he’s usually the barefoot couch ghost fixing everyone else’s sessions—but the minute someone suggested a funk-leaning trance track, the whole room just stared at him. He’s been saying “trance needs funk to be functional” for so long it practically wrote the chorus itself, so he leaned into it: rubbery bass, swung hats, and just enough groove glued under a classic trance lift to prove the point. Most of the time he still insists he’s “just here to keep things smooth,” but this is the rare release where the crew agrees it sounds exactly like he talks when he thinks nobody’s listening.


cue_in: 21:58
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Backlot
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Main Stage - SFX Bunker
narrative_short:
In the main-stage SFX bunker, checklist-perfect flame cues and snarling acid/hardcore energy turn restraint into choreography—professional “stand by” on comms, pure joy when it’s finally “go.”

narrative_full:
Inside the SFX bunker, there’s enough carefully controlled firepower to capture a small country, all of it humming behind checklists, timecode, and one felt figure vibrating with barely contained joy. The acid line snarls, the tempo spikes, and flame cues stack with surgical precision as restraint turns into choreography. On comms, his voice stays flat and professional for “stand by”—but he’s absolutely living for the moment someone finally says “go,” and the night gets just bright enough to try and outshine the sun.

producer_note:
Riff jumped at the chance to produce Pyrofame.fin because she has always, quietly, unapologetically adored Crazy Harry—not as a one-note explosion gag, but as the patron saint of perfectly timed detonation. To her, Harry isn’t random; he’s organized chaos with impeccable aim—nothing blows up unless it’s supposed to. She built the track the same way: tightly structured builds, calculated tension, and drops that feel explosive but land exactly on target. The only mild studio concern came when she started describing the bridge as “tasteful ignition,” but she assures everyone she only sets off fireworks in controlled DAW environments. “For the record,” she added, “I like metaphorical explosions. Mostly.”


cue_in: 22:12
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Central Ops
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Security Tent
narrative_short:
At Central Ops’ security tent, a gentle giant with a flashlight steers chaos like a hug—reuniting friends, handing out water, and keeping the monsters imaginary to a soft downtempo thump.

narrative_full:
Out by the edge of the noise, a massive silhouette moves slow—part wall, part hug, steering chaos with a flashlight and a goofy grin. Heavy boots thump like sub-bass, but the track itself is gentle: a tribute to every “scary” guardian who spends the night reuniting friends, handing out water, and making sure the monsters stay imaginary.

producer_note:
Faderghost didn’t hand this one off to anyone else. Before he was the calm in the booth, he played shows in rooms where “security” could mean either the safest person in the building or the most dangerous one. He’s seen the difference. Sweetums.sys is his thank-you to the quiet giants who understand that strength isn’t force—it’s restraint. The shaved heads with soft hands, the ones who break up fights with bear hugs and dad jokes instead of boots. He wrote the dedication himself because he knows the festival only feels magical when someone is willing to stand at the edge of it and hold the line without needing applause. To him, that’s real power: not the guy who throws the punch, but the one who absorbs it and keeps the night intact.


cue_in: 22:50
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage B
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Henhouse Configuration w/ Thrust
narrative_short:
Stage B reconfigures for a dancer-forward set—thrust deployed, booth moved aside, and the hype squad takes over. A legendary feathered dance queen turns the slot into a full-body showcase of tight counts, hands-up lifts, and relentless momentum.

narrative_full:
Thrust deployed. Booth to the side. This block belongs to the dancers. A legendary feathered dance queen leads the hype squad and turns Stage B into a full-body showcase—tight counts, big hands-up lifts, zero wasted motion. If you think you can dance, here’s your chance to find out what dancing really is.

producer_note:
Nova built Feathers_Up.egg specifically for Camilla and her chicken dance crew, treating the track less like a song and more like a formation file. She mapped every build to an eight-count wing snap, every drop to a synchronized stomp that could read from the runway all the way to the back rail. The feathers weren’t a joke to her—they were kinetic light diffusers, catching strobes and turning simple Hands-Up energy into a full-field visual bloom. By the first rehearsal, when a line of chickens hit the chorus and the entire crowd mirrored them without thinking, Nova just nodded once. System installed. “Yes,” she clarified, “the BPM was chosen to optimize wing-span symmetry.”


cue_in: 23:02
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Backlot
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Boneyard
narrative_short:
A big, shy stagehand makes a midnight gas-station run for a lost crate, accidentally saving the diva’s laser show as steel-string strums and highway kicks carry him back.

narrative_full:
Out behind the main rig, a big, shy stagehand in a too-small cap just takes the keys and goes—down a two-lane ribbon of dark toward a flickering gas station and a crate that fell off the convoy. Steel-string strums and highway kicks follow him as a sleepy clerk sells coffee, fuel, and a miracle, never knowing he just saved the diva’s big laser show and the gentle driver who’ll roll back in like it was no big deal.

producer_note:
Dial took the lead on Starlight & Gasoline as a quiet experiment—what happens when you route folktronica warmth through a precision grid without sanding off the soul? Working with Beauregard, he built it around guitar plucks, soft pads, and a pulse that feels like highway lines sliding under tired headlights. The twist came halfway through production, when Faderghost slowly realized the lyrics were suspiciously close to one of his own old road stories—gas-station coffee, missing crates, and that random country savior who showed up at 2 a.m. Dial hadn’t meant it as a prank; he just hears memory as tempo and texture. By the time Faderghost said, “Wait… that’s my story,” the chorus was already locked, and the whole room agreed some histories sound better when someone else arranges them.


cue_in: 23:42
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Runway Configuration
narrative_short:
At 23:42 on Feltware Festival’s Main Stage runway, a glam powerhouse walks into frame and instantly overloads the system—cameras blink in unison, “couture cache” hits 100%, and the reboot becomes canon as a big-room, FAA-hazard VFX spectacle.

narrative_full:
Spotlight equals overload: couture cache hits 100% and cameras blink in unison. A glamorous powerhouse crashes systems by entering frame—then poses in the reboot. Warning: Show may involve extreme VFX that have been deemed a hazzard by the FAA.

narrative_note:
*Revised per The Diva (Handwritten Note: Per The Diva’s “intense guidance.” Riff’s trance draft was scraped; Nova’s big-room rewrite is now canon for this slot.)

producer_note:
Nova approached the rewrite like a system reboot with extra pyrotechnics: bigger kicks, brighter stabs, and a mainstage drop designed to feel like the runway itself crashing through the PA. Under The Diva’s “intense guidance,” she rebuilt Riff’s elegant trance skeleton into a full big-room detonation but refused to do it alone—she kept Riff in the room, stealing her favorite melodic turns and shouty little hook ideas so the new version still carried Riff’s DNA. The result is canon now, and whenever it plays, Riff just grins and yells, “Told you the ‘hiya’ was the hook,” from the side of the booth.


cue_in: 00:52
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Public Grounds
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Concession Tents
narrative_short:
Concessions go full gabber as fryers roar and POS beeps while trays fly out and boomerang back with more hungry faces—proof the window crew is keeping the whole party alive.

narrative_full:
The fryers roar like kick drums and paper tickets pour like confetti; every tray flung into the crowd seems to boomerang back with two more hungry faces attached. It’s gabber at the grill—POS beeps, grease hiss, and a rubber-armed server proving that if the line never dies and the trays keep returning, the food must be hitting just right.

producer_note:
Patch didn’t grab this one because he was itching to make gabber—he took it because he recognizes the battlefield. Ticket_Storm.err is his salute to the food-service crews running on caffeine, call-outs, and pure survival instinct while tickets stack like error logs. He built the track to feel like a slammed kitchen: relentless kicks like printers spitting orders, snares snapping like shouted “Behind!” and drops that hit the way a rush hits—no warning, no mercy, just motion. To Patch, those workers are kindred spirits—improvising under pressure, turning chaos into choreography—and the gabber speed wasn’t aggression, it was respect.


cue_in: 01:34
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Central Ops
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Sanctuary Tent
narrative_short:
A warm, low-BPM sanctuary-tent song for DanceSafe, the Zendo Project, and every vibe guardian who trades drops for deep breaths, water, and gentle words—holding space for overloaded ravers to land safely without judgment.

narrative_full:
Inside the Sanctuary Tent, a flower-crowned guitarist with a long, lazy “fer sure” drawl trades solos for breathing exercises, pressing mugs of water and tea into shaky felt hands. While the rest of the park chases peak drops, she and a handful of harm-reduction angels keep the BPM low, talking panicked kids out of dark loops and reminding them the colors are just colors, they’re not falling, and they’re totally loved enough to ride the night out safely.

producer_note:
Aria didn’t “write” Hold_Space.om so much as translate it. She spent an afternoon sitting quietly in one of the Zendo tents, watching volunteers offer water, shade, and steady voices to anyone who needed it, and the rhythm of that care became the track. The downtempo pulse mirrors a slowed heartbeat, the pads rise and fall like guided breaths, and the space between notes is intentional—room to land, room to feel, room to reset. She said the song practically wrote itself because all she had to do was listen to what was already happening: people holding space for each other until the night softened.


cue_in: 02:32
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Control Core Configuration
narrative_short:
During what should’ve been a cooldown at 02:32 in the Control Core, the rig spins up on its own—BPMs snap to attention, melodies surface fully formed, lights lock into unprogrammed patterns—and the festival decides it wants to dance with no DJ touching the console.

narrative_full:
During what should have been a cooldown, the rig spins back up on its own. BPMs snap to attention, melodies surface fully formed, and the lights lock into patterns no one programmed. No DJ steps forward. No hand touches the console. The festival, fully awake now, decides it wants to dance.

producer_note:
Nova didn’t pretend this was a new concept. She’s been quietly hoping a lighting rig would wake up mid-set since she was a kid staring at stage trusses like they were sleeping giants. The Dance Machine is her long-held daydream rendered in BPM: subs as heartbeats, strobes as blinking eyes, kick patterns as the first tentative steps of something realizing it doesn’t want the music to stop. She built the track so the rig doesn’t just respond to the crowd—it chooses to keep dancing, overriding shutdown cues and chasing the drop like it’s alive. When someone joked that the system shouldn’t have feelings, she just smiled and said, “It’s fine. It only wants more bass.”


cue_in: 02:45
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Central Ops
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Ground Ops Tent
narrative_short:
While the crowd chases drops, a night pit-crew of safety-vest janitors ghosts through the glowstick jungle—dodging boots, clearing hazards, and keeping the dancefloor safe and runnable. An invisible rhythm section cleaning on the sidechain between kick hits.

narrative_full:
While everyone else is losing their minds at the drop, a rat-sized brigade in safety vests ghosts through the glowstick jungle with grabbers and trash bags, timing their rushes between kick hits and mosh-pit lunges. They dodge boots, mop up mystery puddles, and sync their sweeps to the sidechain, turning biohazards and bottle fields into clean floor again—an invisible rhythm section of janitors keeping the rave danceable long after sanity should’ve gone home.

producer_note:
The brief didn’t even come from Phase—it came from Philter: “Write one for the janitors who clear a broken bottle in the middle of a mosh pit without stopping the party.” Most of the room expected Phase to hesitate. Instead, he mapped it like a live show file—trash cans ducking like sidechains, broom sweeps landing on the kick’s punchline, tension rising just enough to carve out a safe lane through chaos. And in a move that surprised everyone, he refused to drop the beat in the bridge. No cinematic silence, no breath before the lift—the rhythm keeps running, because the job keeps running. For Phase, that was the point: the crowd never stops dancing, and the people holding the floor together never stop moving either.


cue_in: 03:27
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Central Ops
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Medical Tent
narrative_short:
While everyone at the stages celebrates an exciting night, a crew in the med tent celebrate a boring night. A tired doctor and their team watching a stable chart and realizing that “nothing happened” is the best possible headline.

narrative_full:
While everyone else is losing their minds at the drop, a rat-sized brigade in safety vests ghosts through the glowstick jungle with grabbers and trash bags, timing their rushes between kick hits and mosh-pit lunges. They dodge boots, mop up mystery puddles, and sync their sweeps to the sidechain, turning biohazards and bottle fields into clean floor again—an invisible rhythm section of janitors keeping the rave danceable long after sanity should’ve gone home.

producer_note:
Loopette didn’t try to be clever with this one. She said the medical tent didn’t need metaphor—it needed honesty. After spending time near the edge of the field where the bass fades and radios crackle, she realized the most heroic outcome of the night is nothing happening at all. So she stripped everything back: no zany textures, no playful glitch, just steady ambient trance and room to breathe. She let the pads sit wide and the pulse stay calm, because in her mind the real drop wasn’t a kick—it was a quiet log that read “minor” and an ambulance that never had to start. For once, she didn’t stitch chaos into harmony. She left it alone, and called that beautiful.


cue_in: 17:11
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Control Core Configuration
narrative_short: A mainstage hardstyle rewrite that turns Feltware’s cameo roll call into a high-voltage broadcast.
narrative_note: *We're not actually sure which version will play, but we'll find out!
narrative_full:
The system-level rewrite. Nova takes Aria’s citywide chant and hardens it into a mainstage broadcast—tighter drops, sharper kicks, and a hook that shifts from “we’ve got” to “you’ll hear.” It’s the same festival, but now it’s overclocked: a runway-ready hardstyle detonation where every cameo hits like a scheduled ignition.

producer_note:
Nova heard Aria’s version and loved it—but she also heard what it would sound like at full mainstage voltage. Instead of replacing the heart, she compressed it, sharpened it, and pointed it straight at the crowd. The shift to “you’ll hear” was deliberate: this wasn’t a campfire list anymore, it was a system-level announcement. She kept Aria in the room the entire time, borrowing the melodic spine and emotional pacing, but rebuilt the chassis into a harder, cleaner hardstyle machine. In the end, no one could pick which one felt more “Feltware,” so the only logical answer was: both.


cue_in: 16:44
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Standard Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
A stern, flag-adjacent avian storms back to the decks with a clipboard and a mission—restore order, restore dignity, restore trance—accidentally delivering a breakdown so perfect the crowd “HEY!”s anyway.

narrative_full:
With the deck cleared and the chaos quietly escorted away from anything that blinks, a stern, flag-adjacent avian steps back into the wash light with a clipboard and a mission: restore dignity, restore structure, restore trance. He declares the schedule recovered, lectures the crowd on patience, posture, and precisely timed hand-raises—then, against his own principles, builds a breakdown so effective the room can’t help but “HEY!” on cue. It’s order… delivered so well it accidentally becomes fun.

producer_note:
After surviving the beautifully traumatic chaos of Trance_Rules.docx (Interrupted Edition), Dial got a second chance with Sam Eagle—and this time he made it very clear there would be no gremlin edits. For Dial, “out of place” isn’t just annoying; it’s something he feels in his whole body, like static under his felt skin, so Rules of Proper Trance became the most satisfying track he’s ever captained: disciplined builds, noble ascensions, hands rising on the correct bar line, and absolutely no unsanctioned freestyling. Working with Sam felt like collaborating with a metronome in a red suit—every rule stated, every frown measured—yet somewhere between the respectable synths and the ridiculous majesty, Dial found himself enjoying it more than he would ever admit. Patch, notably, remained very quiet during this session. And for once, the universe received no formal complaints.


cue_in: 16:50
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Standard Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
Ops hands the mic to a tiny red-suited crustacean who stabilizes the chaos with pure confidence, turning panic into dembow and the entire field into a chant of “PEPE!” / “OKAY!”

narrative_full:
Ops needs energy fast—so they commit the unthinkable and hand the mic to a tiny red-suited crustacean with unlimited confidence. He storms the deck like an emergency override: no notes, no patience, just command presence and a hook simple enough to stabilize a crowd mid-confusion. The lecture is replaced by dembow, the tension by strut logic, and the whole incident is rebranded into a chant-driven victory lap: “PEPE!” / “OKAY!”

producer_note:
Philter knew his job on this one wasn’t to steer—it was to keep the floor steady while Pepe did exactly what Pepe does. Working in Latin, moombahton, tech house, and dembow, Philter treated the groove like a moving sidewalk: smooth, elastic, and impossible to fall off, so Pepe could strut, wink, and improvise without ever knocking the rhythm sideways. He focused on pocket and repetition—letting the chant live, letting the spice breathe—nudging swing and low end just enough that “okay” never gets annoying, it gets inevitable. The result isn’t a producer flex so much as a successful collaboration with a force of nature: Philter holds the frame, Pepe fills it, and the crowd learns very quickly that resisting is optional but dancing is not.


cue_in: 17:32
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Lab Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
A white-coat visionary converts Stage C into a live experiment, routing squeals, sparks, and one very nervous lab assistant into neon chaos that is confidently declared “working as intended.”

narrative_full:
A white-coat visionary with boundless confidence converts Stage C into a live-test bench and declares the crowd a peer-reviewed audience. Clipboards appear, wires multiply, and the lab assistant with the red tie and permanent panic is volunteered for “controlled chaos” in the name of science. Every squeal becomes data, every misfire becomes a feature—until one button press briefly folds reality into neon haze and the experiment is triumphantly logged as working as intended.

producer_note:
Loopette took the lead on this one because she could hear what Beaker was feeling underneath all the sparks. The brief was breakbeat, electro, glitch hop—sharp edges, popping transients, beautiful malfunctions—but she felt a quiet responsibility to make sure the chaos didn’t turn cruel. As Bunsen gleefully documented every squeal and misstep, Loopette softened the glitch just enough to let Beaker’s panic become rhythm instead of pain, tuning shrieks into percussion and clicks into something almost playful. She treated the lab like a padded room for bad ideas: still buzzing, still popping, but held together by a gentle melodic spine so the joke stays kind. In the end, it’s still a spectacular mess—but one where Beaker survives, the atoms mingle, and the malfunction feels more joyful than dangerous.


cue_in: 17:35
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Lab Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
When his voice won’t cooperate, the lab assistant reroutes it through the deck—stutters sliced into hooks, fear sidechained to the kick, and squeaks reborn as full sentences at 190 BPM.

narrative_full:
In the afterglow of the “tingle” test, the quiet one finds a loophole: if his mouth won’t cooperate, the pads will. A crooked red tie leans over the deck, and suddenly the nervous syllables get routed into rhythm—fear sidechained to the kick, stutters sliced into hooks, squeaks transformed into full sentences at 190 BPM. What starts as a glitchy coping mechanism becomes a revelation: the lab assistant wasn’t silent… he was just waiting for a system that could translate him.

producer_note:
Patch took the lead on More Than Meep because if Beaker was going to find his voice, it needed to hit at 190 BPM. He built the track as a full-tilt j-core / speedcore surge—kicks relentless, snares snapping, energy high enough to turn anxiety into propulsion—but the emotional groundwork came from Loopette, who helped Beaker realize the deck and MPC could function as a vocal prosthesis instead of a panic trigger. Together they mapped his “meeps” to pads, sliced them into leads, pitched fear into melody, and routed stutter into rhythm until the squeak stopped being a joke and became a statement. Patch amplified it without irony, letting every chopped syllable punch through the mix like a declaration: not background noise, not comic relief—just Beaker, finally speaking in the only language that ever felt natural to him.


cue_in: 18:41
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Default Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
As golden hour fades, a steady green presence lifts the tempo with warm pads and patient kicks, turning a simple message of belonging into a field-wide trance chorus.

narrative_full:
Golden hour fades, but the field doesn’t. A small green presence steps forward—steady hands, steady heart—and lifts the tempo without losing the warmth. Pads bloom, kicks stay patient, and a chorus about belonging carries from barricade to back rail. The message is simple: no one stands alone under these lights.

producer_note:
Aria took the lead on Green Lights Over Mainstage because she wanted Kermit’s “small voice on a giant stage” to feel honest—not heroic, not ironic, just real. She built it like a community anthem with gentle hands: uplifting/progressive trance lift, singalong drops, and enough space in the verses for that nervous mic-tap to land like a confession instead of a performance. In the booth, Aria kept reminding everyone that the hook wasn’t “mainstage energy,” it was belonging—so the synths rise like string lights, the chants are written for shy people as much as loud ones, and the drop isn’t a flex so much as a shared exhale. By the final mix, it felt like the whole field was holding Kermit up, and Aria was quietly proud because that’s exactly what she was trying to produce: a crowd that sounds like home.


cue_in: 19:10
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Default Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
The festival’s livestream ringmaster sneaks five minutes from the comment storm to flex on the decks—backspins, cuts, and warped trance—before record-stopping back into duty.

narrative_full:
The festival’s online ringmaster finally steals five minutes away from the comment storm and the livestream dashboard to remind everyone he didn’t get famous for being responsible. He taps the mic, lies to Central Ops, and drops into a showboater’s turntablist flex—backspins, cuts, and trance lines warped like carnival metal. For one brief slot, the social feed runs itself while the cape-wearing curator of chaos proves the decks still answer to his hands… then record-stops back into duty before anyone can file an incident report.

producer_note:
Faderghost took the lead on Back on Wax because he recognized the look in Gonzo’s eye—the one that says “I need five minutes before I forget who I am.” With Gonzo buried in comment moderation, stream feeds, and digital chaos, Faderghost built a gritty trance-meets–boom bap framework that felt like dust on vinyl and sweat under stage lights—something raw enough to remind him he wasn’t just the social media guy, he was Gonzo the Great. Drawing from his own punk-roadie instincts, Faderghost leaned into texture: dirty breaks, weighty kicks, scratches left imperfect on purpose, giving Gonzo space to steal the room the old-fashioned way. The whole session felt less like a feature and more like a jailbreak—five stolen minutes where the turntables weren’t content, they were identity—and by the time the radio crackled “REPORT,” Faderghost was already grinning. Sometimes the best production choice isn’t polish. It’s letting someone prove they still deserve their name.


cue_in: 19:21
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Speakeasy Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
In a blue-lit corner beyond the velvet rope, a sleepy horn player bends one sax note into motion, and suddenly the speakeasy floor remembers why it came.

narrative_full:
Past the velvet rope and into the blue-lit corner where the floor sticks and the rulebook goes quiet, a sleepy gold-suited horn player gets summoned like a late-night cheat code. He doesn’t give a speech—he just sits up, straightens the tie, and lets the sax do all the talking while the kick ducks politely underneath. Swing snaps into house, brass rides the sidechain, and the whole speakeasy shifts from “afterthought” to “main event” the moment that first bent note lands.

producer_note:
Loopette led Zoot in the Back Room because she understands restraint—and she knew Zoot didn’t need clutter, he needed space. Instead of overproducing the electro-swing angle, she built the track like a dimly lit room: kick ducking politely under brass, upright walking just enough, subline creeping instead of stomping. She treated the sax like a lead vocal you don’t interrupt—sidechaining the groove so every bent note could breathe, every drag in the pocket could feel intentional. Loopette’s touch kept it intimate and warm, letting the swing wobble just slightly imperfect on purpose. By the time Zoot leaned into that one long, crooked note, the whole mix tilted toward him—and she smiled behind the glass, because sometimes the most powerful production move is knowing exactly when not to speak.


cue_in: 20:09
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage B
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Funk Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
Four strings, one truth: the groove slides from garage shuffle to house thump as a cool-handed bassist proves low-end is the language every dancefloor already understands.

narrative_full:
Four strings, one truth. The groove slides from garage shuffle to house thump with a grin and a calm, purple-cool confidence. Low-end rolls thick and melodic, proving that no matter the genre tag, bass is the common language. If your shoulders start swaying before you realize why, that’s just good leadership from the backline.

producer_note:
Everyone assumed this one would belong to Philter—UK garage swing, bassline bounce, G-house pocket—but Aria quietly called it first. She said if Floyd Pepper was going to prove low end transcends genre, then she needed to get out of her own comfort zone and meet him there. Instead of building from atmosphere and lift, she built from weight—learning how to let the sub speak before the melody does, how to make space feel physical instead of airy. Philter didn’t fight it; he just curled up barefoot on the couch in the booth, offering the occasional nod when the pocket locked. By the time Floyd bent that first note and the room moved as one, it wasn’t about genre expectations anymore—it was about Aria proving she could tune the floor just as confidently as she tunes the sky.


cue_in: 20:12
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage B
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Funk Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
Hi-vis vests flash under strobes as cleanup turns crate-digging—quick paws pocket chants and hooks while a cheeky garage bassline proves nothing useful ever goes to waste.

narrative_full:
Hi-vis vests flash under strobes as the shuffle tightens and the hooks get cheekier. What looks like cleanup duty doubles as crate-digging hustle—every dropped chant, every crowd shout pocketed for later flips. Quick paws, quicker punchlines, and a bassline that refuses to leave scraps behind. By the final reload, the floor’s spotless and the bins are full of bangers.

producer_note:
If Any Color Low End was Aria stepping into the pocket, Rats in Hi-Vis Selecta was Philter stepping back into his natural habitat. The second Rizzo pitched the idea—UK garage swing, bassline snap, speed-garage bounce built around the cleanup crew—Philter was already barefoot in the booth mapping the groove like a floor plan. He treated every sweep, spill, and squeak as rhythmic data, tightening the drums so they shuffled instead of stomped and letting the subline feel like it was gliding between cones in a mosh pit. Rizzo brought the swagger; Philter brought the balance—making sure the chaos never tipped, the two-step never tripped, and the low end stayed plush even when the lyrics were about mud and crumbs. Behind the glass he just nodded, because to him this wasn’t novelty—it was proof that maintenance has rhythm, night shifts have swing, and sometimes the cleanest mix in the festival comes from the dirtiest job on site.


cue_in: 21:16
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage B
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Comedy Alcove Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
Two balcony veterans start with punk grumbling and tin whistles, but sneaky synths drag them into four-on-the-floor territory until the heckle accidentally becomes a chant.

narrative_full:
Two balcony veterans trade tin whistles and sharp opinions over a stomping punk groove—until the synths sneak in. What starts as a proper grumble turns into a four-on-the-floor betrayal. Arms stay crossed, but toes start tapping. By the final drop, the heckle turns into a chant they absolutely refuse to admit they’re enjoying.

producer_note:
Nobody even pretended this one was up for debate—if you’re fusing Irish punk with EDM and giving the mic to two professional hecklers, you hand the keys to the 90’s punk vet. Faderghost built it like a pub riot with a subwoofer: fiddles and pipes up front, a kick that tries to behave and fails, and a drop engineered to make even the grumpiest front-row statue start tapping a foot against their will. He loved Statler and Waldorf because their whole bit is basically punk ethos—show up, complain, tell the truth too loud—so he treated their boos like percussion, their insults like call-and-response hooks, and the “we hate this / don’t stop” contradiction as the emotional core. The result is a track that sounds like a bar fight accidentally becoming a singalong: messy, loud, and weirdly full of heart—exactly the kind of chaos Faderghost knows how to translate into a chorus.


cue_in: 21:22
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage B
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Comedy Alcove Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
A fuzzy comic hijacks disco house like an open-mic at Studio 54, firing “waka waka” between scratches while bad jokes set up drops good enough to save them.

narrative_full:
A fuzzy comic grabs the mic and rides a glittering disco-house groove like it’s open-mic night at Studio 54. “Waka waka” lands between crisp record scratches and shiny hi-hats, bad punchlines setting up surprisingly clean drops. The jokes miss on purpose—the bass never does. By the third break, even the groaners are dancing.

producer_note:
Riff volunteered for this one immediately because she knew two things: disco house can survive almost anything, and Fozzie absolutely cannot be told “no.” She built the track like a glittered safety net—funky basslines, punchy breaks, and drops timed perfectly to rescue jokes mid-flop. Instead of fighting the “waka-waka,” she doubled down and matched it with tight record scratches—“wika-wika”—turning the punchline into percussion and the scratch into a rimshot with swagger. Every boo became pre-drop tension, every awkward pause a build. Behind the glass she kept one hand on the filter, ready to slam the bass back in the second a joke hit the floor. In the end, it wasn’t about whether the punchlines landed—it was about proving that over the right groove, even a dad joke can bounce.


cue_in: 22:32
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Drum Pit Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
An MC calls, a wild drummer answers—snare cracks, tom storms, and jungle tempo collisions turning a simple call-and-response into a full-kit detonation.

narrative_full:
The MC calls. The drummer answers—never with words. Each shout gets a snare crack, a tom roll, a full-kit explosion. Jungle tempos meet primal instinct as sticks blur and cymbals scream. It’s less conversation, more controlled detonation. By the reload, the crowd isn’t chanting—they’re bracing.

producer_note:
Philter insists this track only exists because he stopped trying to control it. “You don’t direct Animal,” he said later, laughing. “You point him at the drums and survive.” The idea was simple—an MC calls, Animal answers—but in practice it meant Philter building a groove sturdy enough to absorb whatever rhythmic explosion came back across the kit. “The trick wasn’t tightening him up,” Philter explained, “it was leaving space so the crash could be the punchline.” Every break was shaped like a question mark, every drop built to give Animal room to detonate. “Most drummers follow the groove,” he added. “Animal hunts it. My job was just to keep the floor steady while the conversation got louder.”


cue_in: 22:55
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage B
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Henhouse Configuration w/ Thrust
narrative_note: *Cameo Track * Advanced Choreography Only*
narrative_short:
Feathers snap into formation as a lead hen calls impossible steps—left, right, spin, stomp—turning a cute dance craze into a hardstyle endurance test only true professionals survive.

narrative_full:
Feathers line up with military precision as the BPM climbs past polite territory. A lead hen calls the steps—left, right, spin, stomp—each cue harder and faster than the last. What starts like a dance craze mutates into a professional endurance test. If you can keep up, you’re certified. If not… observe from a safe distance.

producer_note:
Riff thought she was producing a schranz / hardstyle track. Camilla thought she was staging a war drill. Within ten minutes it was clear who was actually in charge. Camilla barely commented on sound design—but she had sixteen-count combinations mapped before the first kick was finalized, demanding specific BPM ranges, exact drop lengths, and clean, unforgiving transients because “we land on that.” Riff leaned into it, tightening the kick until it felt like a metronome with teeth, carving space so every stomp, neck snap, and talon pivot would read from the back rail. The half-time bridge wasn’t for vibe—it was for breath control before the burst. By the final render, Riff admitted something rare: this wasn’t a dance track with choreography added. It was choreography that forced the music to become sharper, faster, cleaner. Camilla didn’t produce the song—but she absolutely engineered the pressure.


cue_in: 23:53
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Runway Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
With the system rebooted, the Diva refuses to clear the deck—turning the stage into a catwalk where every drop is a heel-click and every lighting cue an accessory.

narrative_full:
With the system rebooted and every camera still blinking, The Diva refuses to clear the deck—she turns the runway into a victory lap and treats lighting cues like accessories. A full-send strut set where the drop is a heel-click, the pyro is punctuation, and the festival briefly becomes her catwalk by force of will.

producer_note:
After Diva-DDoS Devastation, Miss Piggy didn’t want a cool-down—she wanted momentum. She was thrilled with the “devastation” Nova delivered, so she kept Nova in the captain’s chair and demanded the follow-up be pure runway adrenaline: tighter, shinier, and even more obedient to the catwalk. Nova treated it like an AV cue stack disguised as a banger—spotlight hits as percussion, flashbulbs as accents, drops timed to heel-clicks and hair flips—so every “HI-YA!” lands like a pose and a punch. Piggy handled the attitude and command; Nova built the machine that makes the crowd mirror it. The result is a back-to-back mainstage flex where the runway doesn’t just sit on top of the beat—the beat chases it.


cue_in: 01:10
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Kitchen Configuration
narrative_note: *Cameo Track * No Translations*
narrative_short:
The chef ignores the brief entirely—Dutch house kicks bounce while ladles fly and rubber poultry squeaks, leaving organizers confused, translators unemployed, and the dancefloor somehow packed.

narrative_full:
At this point, we have accepted that he will not read the brief. The kicks bounce, the ladles fly, and the syllables remain confidently untranslated. Dutch house arrives by way of cookware and rubber poultry, and somehow the floor stays full. We have filed the paperwork. He has ignored it. The crowd approves.

producer_note:
After surviving their first collaboration, Patch should have known better than to give the Swedish Chef a microphone again—but the moment Chef walked into the booth with a rubber chicken and a saucepan full of drumsticks (the musical kind and the poultry kind), the session was already lost. Patch leaned all the way in: every børk, squaaak, and pan clang got sampled, sliced, and turned into percussion until the track basically became a kitchen operating at festival volume. The rule quickly became “if it makes noise, it’s an instrument,” which meant ladles became hi-hats, skillet hits became snares, and Chef’s completely untranslated gibberish somehow locked perfectly to the groove. Patch handled the structure just enough to keep the pot from boiling over entirely—but the real magic was realizing the Chef’s chaotic nonsense already had rhythm hiding inside it. The result is a track that sounds like a rave breaking out in a restaurant kitchen, with Patch trying (and failing) to keep the recipe under control while the Swedish Chef proudly shouts the only lyrics he knows: “BØRK BØRK BØØM.” 🐔🥁


cue_in: 01:40
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Central Ops
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Sanctuary Tent
narrative_note: *Cameo Track
narrative_short:
As the strobes fade, warm pads and slow pulses invite the overwhelmed to sit, breathe, and reset—reminding the festival that not every drop needs to land loudly.

narrative_full:
The strobes dim. The tempo exhales. A gentle voice drifts over warm pads and slow pulses, inviting anyone who needs it to sit, sip water, and breathe. Glitter fades into soft light; the bass becomes a heartbeat instead of a demand. Not every drop is loud—some are meant to land quietly.

producer_note:
Not every track at Feltware Festival is meant for the mainstage, and Janice was very clear about that from the start. She didn’t want a drop, a buildup, or anything that would pull people back into the frenzy outside—she just wanted something slow, warm, and steady for the Zendo Sanctuary Tent while she helped people ride out the occasional festival brain spiral. Aria immediately understood the assignment. Instead of writing a “song,” the two treated it like emotional infrastructure: low-BPM psybient pads that breathe like lungs, a sub that sits where a resting heartbeat should, and space left intentionally empty so Janice’s calm, grounded voice could guide people back to themselves. The brief glitch moment in the bridge was even intentional—Aria’s idea to mimic the sudden spike of anxious thoughts before letting the track settle again, giving Janice a moment to gently call it out and defuse it. The result isn’t a banger; it’s a quiet piece of care hidden inside a festival built on noise—a little room where the music slows down long enough for people to remember they’re okay.


cue_in: 17:11
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuation
secondary_detail: Control Core Configuration
narrative_short: A communal hardstyle roll call where every cameo in Feltware City gets their moment in the light.
narrative_note: *We're not actually sure which version will play, but we'll find out!
narrative_full:
A sunrise roll call for Feltware City. Aria’s version stacks voices like lanterns—every cameo, every side-stage hero, every wild guest slot stitched into one communal hardstyle lift. It’s less about spectacle and more about belonging: a full-crowd chant that turns the entire festival into a living organism shouting “we’ve got” together until the sun shows up to clock in.

producer_note:
Aria wrote the first version as a roll call of the whole city—a love letter to every cameo, every strange little guest slot that keeps the festival alive. She wanted it to feel like the crowd itself was doing the counting, like everyone in the room was part of the same stitched-together organism. The “we’ve got” hook was intentional: it wasn’t about spectacle, it was about belonging. When the room hit that final chorus, Aria wasn’t thinking about peak pressure—she was thinking about arms around shoulders.


cue_in: 02:37
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Control Core Configuration
narrative_short:
After the rig “wakes up” on its own, the crew simply plays along—one more Control Core anthem while the schedule quietly agrees to sort itself out later.

narrative_full:
Nobody argues with a rig that boots itself. After the console “decides” it isn’t done, the crew does what crews always do: they stop asking why and start making it safe. Someone rides the faders like they’re calming a living animal, someone else throws a look at the schedule like it can explain itself later, and the Control Core leans into the moment—one more clean load, one more locked tempo, one more song the festival seems to be requesting by name. If the night wants Dance Mode, Ops will… note it for post-mortem.

producer_note:
Riff treated this song like a mass-activation anthem—something halfway between a Eurodance love letter and a hardstyle ignition switch. She wanted the chorus to feel like the whole sky tipping open, so she borrowed one of Loopette’s favorite harmonic tricks: a Lydian #4 lift that makes the hook feel brighter, stranger, and bigger than the chords underneath have any right to be. Between the duet, the gang-shout hook, and that little harmonic flash of “upward,” the whole track was designed to flip the crowd from self-conscious to fully committed. To Riff, that was the mission: not just getting people to dance, but making them feel like they’d been switched on together.


cue_in: 18:06
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Central Ops
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Media Tent
narrative_short:
In Central Ops’ Media Tent, a spotlight-hungry diva and a daredevil feed-wrangler negotiate the night—make it shine, keep it kind.

narrative_full:
Three cameras are hot, the dashboard is full of stages and timestamps, and the night’s online mirror is already sharpening its knives. A runway-grade powerhouse storms the tent demanding her name pinned, the spotlight louder, and the trolls erased from existence; a cape-wearing high-wire poster knows rage multiplies, so he redirects the feed—gold clips, fan-cams, soft smiles, a better story in real time. They split the difference: she gets the moment, he keeps the room kind, and the festival’s digital sky stays lit without catching fire.

producer_note:
Loopette took the lead on this one because, to her, the argument already had a soundtrack. Piggy’s side of the exchange arrived like big-room commands—bright, vertical, demanding to be seen—while Gonzo’s came through as steadier trance motion, all flow, threading, and emotional continuity. Because ideas and moods tend to register as sound in her head before they register as language, the whole collision made immediate musical sense to her. Her real job wasn’t choosing one over the other; it was keeping the big-room shine from swallowing the human pulse underneath it. So she let Piggy have the spotlight without letting Gonzo disappear inside it—stacking the chorus wide and glamorous, then keeping the trance engine underneath alive enough that the song still feels like a conversation, not a takeover. In Loopette’s hands, “make it shine” and “keep it kind” stopped being opposites and became the same hook.


narrative_full: *Song still being developed*
producer_note:
He took this one because weather holds are where a festival stops feeling like a party and starts feeling like judgment. Phase built it like a tower log with a pulse underneath it—half spoken, half sung, all tension management—letting the “GO / NO-GO” refrain do the work of a chorus while the pads, steel hum, and distant kick hold the field in suspension. What interested him wasn’t the storm itself so much as the people inside the pause: the Whatnot on watch, Bunsen doing math in his head, Ops holding their breath, everybody needing one small joke about a giant fan just to keep their hands steady. For Phase, that’s what made it cinematic: not lightning, but procedure under pressure, and the quiet faith that skill sometimes gets to keep the night.


cue_in: 00:54
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Backlot
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Production Offices
narrative_short:
A Gregorian-trance hymn from the Production Office where JP Grosse holds the festival together—ledger, gates, risk, and resolve—until the night earns a final “Green.”

narrative_full:
Inside the Backlot Production Office, the festival’s primary financier becomes the calm nerve-center behind the chaos—monitoring gates, exits, comms collisions, POS failures, and weather/insurance pressure in real time. While the crowd hears bass, he hears risk: every “one more song” weighed against load, liability, and the fragile math that keeps the dream alive—until he whispers the only word that matters: “Green.”

producer_note:
Atlas almost never takes the captain’s chair, but this one was too close to the bone to leave to anybody else. He wrote it as a cathedral for operations people—the ones holding gates, budgets, weather plans, sponsor calls, radio traffic, and risk assessments in the same shaking pair of hands while a thousand people outside just hear the bass and call it magic. Detroit techno gave him the machine pulse; the Gregorian chant gave the whole thing the weight he thinks that job deserves, because to Atlas, keeping the dream alive is a kind of sacred accounting. The bridge is the real confession: invoices behind the eyes, insurance down the neck, every cheer outside the tent arriving with a cost attached. But that’s why the last word is “Green.” Not because the pressure was imaginary—because the numbers trembled, the crowd stayed alive, and for one more night, the ledger and the dream both held.


cue_in: 20:47
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Public Grounds
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: VIP Zone
narrative_short:
A velvet-rope lounge trance where Johnny Fiama smooths sponsor panic into champagne shine—keeping the VIP room calm while the festival burns bright outside.

narrative_full:
Behind the rope, the night runs on reassurance. A velvet-voiced fixer turns noise complaints into “texture,” schedule slips into “mystery,” and sponsor anxiety into a toast—while his comms stay lit like a heartbeat. He doesn’t solve problems; he reframes them until Ops can.

producer_note:
Philter took the lead on Sparkle & Sponsors because he immediately understood the job behind Johnny Fiama’s smile: not flashy heroics, just constant low-grade crisis filtration until the whole room still feels expensive. That made the lounge-house / deep-house brief feel perfect to him—warm sub, brushed hats, glossy chords, and trancey pads that could hold real pressure without ever looking rushed. He approached the track the same way Johnny works a VIP lounge: smooth the edges, keep the pocket elegant, and never let the panic arrive wearing its real name. What he loved most was the humanity under the polish—the idea that all this sponsor gloss and velvet-rope diplomacy is still, at its core, about protecting a fragile little bubble where people can feel special for a night. So even when the chorus lifts, it doesn’t sneer at the luxury; it treats it like another kind of service work, just done in cufflinks instead of work gloves.


cue_in: 20:58
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Backlot
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Catering
narrative_short:
In the Backlot Catering zone, headliners and crew share the same line and the same tray—forks up, egos down, back to showtime.

narrative_full:
For a few minutes, the entire hierarchy dissolves into one slow-moving queue: VIP wristbands, gaff-tape badges, riggers with dust on their shoes, and headliners in sunglasses all balancing the same trays. Gossip stays quiet, radios keep humming, and the only status that matters is “Food’s up.” Forks rise like a crew salute—because stomachs don’t care who’s on the poster.

producer_note:
Aria fell in love with this one because the catering line felt like a tiny, accidental utopia hiding inside the festival—one of the only places where hierarchy softens, everybody’s holding the same tray, and the person on the poster stands shoulder to shoulder with the person who taped the stage together. That warmth shaped the whole production. Instead of pushing for something flashy or ironic, she built it bright, open, and friendly: sidechained pads that feel like shared breath, duet vocals that sound like people meeting in the middle, and stacked harmonies on “catering line” so the chorus lands less like a slogan and more like a communal smile. To Aria, the song wasn’t really about food at all—it was about those three quiet minutes when the whole machine remembers it’s made of people.


cue_in: 03:14
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Backlot
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Main Stage BOH
narrative_short:
A 3AM backstage anthem for stage managers and show callers—turning the collapsing run sheet into a “beautiful wreck” that still makes curtain call.

narrative_full:
At the edge of the deck, where radios hiss and the run sheet starts bleeding time, the night becomes theater again. Cue lights blink like warnings, spike tape turns into scripture, and every missing prop is solved with gaff, nerve, and one more lie told politely to the clock. It’s the 3AM hymn for the callers and managers who keep the show standing when it’s cracked, overbooked, and somehow still alive—lights up on the beautiful wreck.

producer_note:
Patch, trying to explain it afterward: Aria was impossible to interview on this one because she basically moved into the track and started haunting it. She kept saying she wanted something that felt like “the moment the chandeliers are still sparkling, but everyone knows the palace is already on fire,” which apparently translates to gothic rock colliding with dark symphonic EDM in a very serious, very beautiful way. She leaned all the way into that goth-meets-rainbows thing she does, except this time the rainbow got swallowed by cathedral choirs, baroque strings, overdriven guitars, and these huge female belts that sound like they’re trying to love something while it’s falling apart. Even the drop doesn’t feel like a party trick — it feels like a glamorous collapse timed perfectly to the beat. Honestly, I think she loved this one because it let her make ruin sound majestic instead of sad.


cue_in: 01:18
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Public Grounds
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Parking Lot
narrative_note: *Not affiliated with Feltware Festival staff or operations.
narrative_short:
In the festival parking lot at 1am, the perimeter economy hustles with laptops and blank lanyards—trying to turn static into signal before the battery dies.

narrative_full:
Beyond the gates, under floodlights and bass bleed, the unofficial workforce runs its own aftershow: laptops on low battery, blank lanyards worn like armor, and a chorus of “I can cut that fast” drifting between cars. It’s not glamour—it's rent, groceries, and a fragile maybe, pitched one handshake at a time. They call it spam; the lot calls it work: people trying to turn static into signal before the night ends.

producer_note:
Nova took this one because she knows the parking-lot ecosystem is part of the festival too—the freelancers, shooters, editors, brand-polishers, and maybe-managers trying to turn one conversation into next month’s rent. She built it as Jersey/Baltimore club on purpose: fast, clipped, restless, all forward motion and no cushion, like a dead-phone hustle with a red battery and a full pitch deck in your head. The staccato rhythm gave her a way to mirror the language of the grind—two clips, one hook, one shot, one maybe—while still treating the people in it with respect. To Nova, the song isn’t about “clout chasers.” It’s about all the half-visible creatives orbiting the lights, trying to become signal before the night packs up and drives away.


cue_in: 20:32
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Backlot
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Main Stage BOH
narrative_short:
Backstage at Main Stage, the Penguins run a timecode-perfect lighting cue stack that turns trance drops into pure visual impact—on cue, on time, every time.

narrative_full:
Behind the LED wall, four tuxedoed specialists run the night like a silent heist—headsets low, cue stack armed, timecode rolling. While the crowd watches the drop, they’re counting bars, holding frames, and firing lasers on the exact syllable of impact, turning rhythm into architecture. It’s a VFX-heavy set built from discipline: blackout to strobe, white to blue, flash to fade—proof that what you see can make what you hear hit harder

producer_note:
Nova took the lead on this one because no one in the collective reveres lighting crews more than she does—but for once, she didn’t approach the subject as a spectacle-chaser. She treated it almost like a technical prayer: restrained, precise, and completely locked to the discipline of the people it honors. Instead of overloading the track with gimmicks, she built it with clean tech-trance mechanics—cue-stack vocals, laser-tight sequencing, gated synths that behave like programmed light, and drops that hit with the exact confidence of a crew that knows the show lands on “go,” not by accident. The bridge is the real tell on her: not flashy, just deeply sincere, spelling out the philosophy she’s always believed—that light doesn’t decorate sound, it rewrites how the brain receives it. For Nova, this wasn’t a chance to show off. It was a chance to salute the people who make music visible, and she handled it with more restraint than almost any other song she’s ever led.


cue_in: 16:04
primary_type: Location
primary_detail: Main Stage · Stage B · Stage C
secondary_type: Configuration
secondary_detail: Simulcast
narrative_short:
A festival-wide simulcast “thank you” ritual—an organizer’s call for the crowd to honor the crew before the night fully ignites.

narrative_full:
A second after the anthem, the festival pauses on purpose. Every stage locks to the same heartbeat and a message rolls across the grounds like an organizer’s note—simple, ceremonial, non-negotiable: before we disappear into the night, we acknowledge the people who made it possible. Not the names on the posters, but the hands that built the site, keep it safe, keep it powered, and keep it beautiful. The track functions like a call-and-response blessing for the whole field: a shared moment of gratitude that turns the crowd into a single choir, then releases everyone back into the rave with the feeling that this place is being held together—by real people—right now.

producer_note:
This song is my little baby unicorn. I’ve been taking care of it for years, and I think it might finally be ready to face the world. I know you’re supposed to play it cool and act like it doesn’t matter whether a song breaks out or not, but I’ll be honest about this one: it always mattered. It was always my dream to write a festival ritual song — one of those tracks that gets played across the major festivals, right after the opening anthem, while people are still walking in and the whole site is waking up. In my head, this was the second song of the day: the one that rolls across every field just long enough for everyone to nod toward the crews still doing last-minute checks and quietly hoping nothing too big goes wrong.


cue_in: 00:01
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Backlot
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Dirty Haul Road
narrative_note: *Restricted service corridor — if you can smell it, you’re too close.
narrative_short:
At midnight on the Backlot Dirty Haul Road, diesel and radio calls become an acid-breaks sprint as honey wagons keep the festival’s “plastic city” from failing.

narrative_full:
Midnight hits and the glamour peaks—so the backlot hotline lights up. Diesel hum, blue beacon, gravel grind: operators run bent route sheets and twitching tank gauges while radios trade clipped “copy / on my way” behind the stages. Vacuum pumps thump in acid-breaks tempo as operators restock, rotate, and hold the line before it breaks. It’s containment as choreography—restock, rotate, hold the line—so the crowd never learns what “failure state” smells like.

producer_note:
Faderghost took this one because he’s spent enough years around shows to know there are jobs so essential people only notice them when they fail, and honey wagon crews might be the purest example. He built the track dirty on purpose—acid chewing at the edges, breaks stomping like boots on gravel, pump-motor rhythm baked into the low end—because the job itself is mechanical, urgent, thankless, and one radio call away from disaster. What got under his skin wasn’t just the filth; it was the dignity of it. The lyrics treat the worker like what he really is: not comic relief, not gross-out background texture, but the person holding the edge of the city together while everyone else chases lasers. For Faderghost, that bridge is the whole song—the moment where the worker steps into the light, gets looked through, and goes back to saving the night anyway.


cue_in: 17:48
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Backlot
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: Main Stage BOH
narrative_short:
During Main Stage changeover, the crowd hears a BOH “work gospel” as the crew sings the flip into existence and the night turns toward Golden Hour.

narrative_full:
(Main Stage changeover: Control Core → Golden Hour)
As Main Stage drops out of show mode and the changeover swarm moves in, the audience doesn’t get “dead air”—they get a glimpse behind the curtain. From the BOH corridor, a work-song rises through comms chatter and rolling cases: a stitched-together anthem for hands that tape, lift, patch, reset, and make miracles on a clock. The PA carries it out like a gift—part chant, part hymn—so the field can hear what usually stays hidden: the sacred rhythm of the flip, sung by the people doing it.

producer_note:
Riff took the lead on this one because she’d spent enough time around rave culture to know the party only exists because a small army of invisible weirdos can rebuild a stage at a dead sprint. But the soul of the song came from Faderghost—specifically the old roadie stories about basement punk shows, bad load-ins, failing monitors, wet cables, and the kind of competence nobody applauds because if you’re doing it right, the crowd never notices it happened. She translated those stories into tech-trance pressure: rolling bass like wheels on concrete, electro-breaks drums snapping like road case latches, and harmonies that stay unresolved on purpose because changeovers never really get to relax. What she loved most was the gospel of it—the way stagehands joke, sweat, swear, and survive together in the dark while building someone else’s miracle. So even at its biggest, the track never turns polished or pretty; it stays gritty, heroic, and a little funny, because to Riff the real anthem wasn’t the headliner’s drop—it was hearing someone yell “deck clear” and knowing the whole night was still alive.


cue_in: 16:14
primary_type: Area
primary_detail: Public Grounds
secondary_type: Location
secondary_detail: West Ticketing Concourse
narrative_note: *Handwritten note: This is the one gatekeeper job you’re allowed to respect.
narrative_short:
At 16:14 in the East Ticketing Concourse, Marvin Suggs runs the only acceptable people-filter—stamps, scans, comps, and “Denied/Approved/Next” set to electro-swing breaks.

narrative_full:
At the elevated entry choke point, the festival meets its only culturally-approved tyrant: a fuzzy little clerk with a ledger, a scanner, and the power to turn “VIP” into “maybe” with one squint. While bass leaks through the ramp complex, he stamps, scans, and untangles wristband math—artist escorts, comps, cousins, and QR codes that swear they’re real.

producer_note:
Dial took the lead on this one because, to him, credentialing chaos already sounded like a beat: scanner blips, stamp hits, clipped denials, line tension, and the tiny mechanical panic of a system coughing at the gate. He built the track from that exact contradiction—electro-swing polish and acid-breaks momentum up front, then a darker bureaucratic grind underneath, where one typo can stall a thousand people and one fuzzy little gatekeeper can hold the whole fantasy in place. What amused him most was how danceable the stress became once it was properly arranged: brass stabs for the false confidence, rubbery 303 for the creeping dread, sidechained low end for the pressure of the line inching forward. In Dial’s hands, Marvin isn’t just comic relief—he’s the hinge on the festival gates, and the song treats him like the tiny, ink-stained metronome of public order.


# song_dedications

source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the bedroom producers, backline techs, stagehands, and quiet creatives who live around music but rarely put their own name on a file. The ones with half-finished projects on old laptops, hooks hummed into phone memos, and a DAW they only open when no one's around to hear. 

If you've ever thought, "I'm not a real producer," or "my stuff’s not good enough to share," this track is me standing in the crowd yelling back: render it anyway. The first mix won't be perfect. It doesn't have to be. You're allowed to be clumsy, loud, amateur, and still completely valid. This one's for every unseen idea that almost stayed on the hard drive. Hit save. Hit export. Let it exist.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to every FOH engineer, system tech, LD, stagehand, and quiet hero who makes the show possible—the ones who arrive before the doors, leave after the echo, and spend the whole night fixing problems that never get credited because they never made it to the audience. You’re tuning rooms, chasing feedback, repatching lines, rebooting rigs, and solving “that shouldn’t be happening” in real time, all while the crowd assumes it was always supposed to sound and look this way.

You’re the invisible heartbeat of every venue—the ones who make chaos disappear so the magic can feel effortless. You may never be paid what you’re actually worth, and your best work is the work nobody notices… but this track is for you anyway. The show doesn’t just “go on”—it goes on because you’re there.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the ghostwriters, topliners, and lyricists who keep everyone else’s stories moving while your own ideas sit in notebooks, voice memos, and half-finished sessions. You’ve written a lifetime supply of “baby, baby”s and “oh yeah, party”s on demand, even when your brain was begging to build worlds instead of just hooks.

This song might be pure chaos, but the whole Feltware project is my reminder—mostly to you, a little to myself—that dance music can still be a storytelling medium. You’re allowed to use the same craft you hide behind other people’s names to tell your kind of weird, layered, honest stories too. This one is for every writer in the back room who’s itching to make the lights and lasers carry a narrative again.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the ghosts of musique concrète and the early experimenters who thought, “What if the music is everything we can record?”—lab-coat weirdos at the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, and people like Pierre Schaeffer, François Bayle, Bernard Parmegiani, and so many others cutting tape, abusing radios, and turning noise into structure before there was a name for any of this.

Because of you, whole galaxies of sound grew up: tape loops into synth lines, radio hiss into ambient, machine clatter into industrial, chopped voices into house, trance, drum & bass, dubstep, J-pop hooks, reggaeton riddims, Dutch house drops, game soundtracks, film scores, and a hundred other scenes that all carry pieces of your experiments in their DNA. Every riser, every bitcrushed scream, every “what is that sound?” moment at a festival is part of your butterfly effect. This track is a thank-you note to the giants under the floorboards—the ones who proved that anything the world can throw at a microphone can become music.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
This one was written for Catherine Greenfield, but it's for anyone who chased an entertainment life or who needs to hear it: you are built on a real, honest foundation, and that part of you hasn't gone anywhere. It's still there under the noise, under the grind that taught you to doubt everything, under the days that feel wrong-sized. 

You’re still that person. You’re allowed to come back to the part of you that’s soft, sincere, and excited to share something—even if the industry taught you to keep your guard up.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because sometimes I just want to make a song I’d actually listen to. Not everything has to be a statement, and I wasn’t trying to turn this whole dedication thing into a giant manifesto anyway.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the network admins, systems engineers, RF wranglers, and ops-center leads staring at walls of monitors while everyone else just sees “the show works.” You’re the ones routing packets, streams, comms, ticketing, cashless, and a dozen mystery boxes at once—silently absorbing every “admin panic” so it never reaches the crowd.

And dedicated to the showrunners, stage managers, and MCs who have to smile into the mic while their in-ear is full of fires: “deck dropped, link’s down, we’re losing a camera, stall for thirty seconds.” You live in the space between “everything’s fine!” and “the system is on fire,” and somehow turn that into a rhythm the audience can dance to. This track is for the people holding the chaos together on both sides of the grid.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the hecklers—yeah, you too. Not because the shouting is helpful, but because it usually means you care in some sideways way, or you’re carrying something that doesn’t fit anywhere else and it leaks out loud. Sometimes it’s nerves, sometimes it’s loneliness, sometimes it’s the weird urge to prove you exist in a room that already feels too big.

You’re not the villain of the night. You’re a person. And I’m betting that if we met you outside the spotlight—in line for water, on a smoke break, walking back to the lot—you’d be kinder than your worst moment. So here’s a little reminder in song form: you don’t have to throw stones to be seen. Come be part of the thing.

Unless you are just a bully, in which case, f*** you.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the producers, mixers, and studio ghosts who take the impossible briefs—the ones that start with “we love it, but…” and end somewhere around “can you make it bigger, but also intimate, and make it sound more orange, but also make me want to buy gum?” You’re the translators between idea and reality, the ones carving clarity out of chaos, shaping sounds until they mean something. It’s probably time to step out of the shadows and show the world how much you’ve actually contributed.

And to the human idea firehoses on the other side of the glass (The artists, directors, and prawns with ten concepts a minute) Sometimes we all just need the reminder that you want the silly song to do well. Thanks for caring enough to keep pushing.


updated_utc: 2026-03-23 16:03:50
dedication:
Dedicated to every musician who can’t sit still on the grid—every drummer who rushes the fill because the feeling hits first, every player who leans forward into the moment, every dancer who suddenly realizes their body can move faster than they thought. The ones who treat tempo like a suggestion and energy like the only real clock that matters. This track is for the moments where instinct wins, where the push and pull becomes the point, where the music feels alive because it refuses to behave.

And to the studio musicians on the other side of that coin—the ones asked to do the exact opposite. The ones who lock in so precisely it almost disappears, who play the same part ten times so it feels like it was always meant to be there, who hold the line so everything else can bend around it. You’re the engine that lets chaos exist safely, the quiet precision behind the wild moments. Between the ones who push and the ones who anchor, the groove actually lives—and this track belongs to both of you.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the social media managers, community managers, live-chat mods, and all the people quietly steering the comment storms. You see humanity at its worst and sometimes at its absolute best, often in the same hour. You deserved a patron saint a long time ago, and honestly, I hope Gonzo can stand in for that here. 

No amount of “good job” or “couldn’t do this without you” really covers what you carry. This one’s personal for me: I’ve lost too many to mental health struggles, and I don’t want that story for you. Put your own brain and heart first when you can. Log off when you need to, don’t bottle it up, and remember you matter far beyond any metric, view count, or thread. This track is for you.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the VFX crews, laser ops, content wranglers, and screen teams—... the people who make sure the spotlight divas actually have a world to stand in. You’re juggling renders, safety regs, and last-second “can we just…” notes while everyone else takes the credit. Please keep patiently explaining FAA Form 7140-1 to everyone; one day it might actually sink in. 

And to the divas, streamers, and influencers living in that light: you're still human long after the metrics refresh. You were a whole person before the views, and you still matter when the numbers dip. This track is for you too.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the talent buyers, bookers, and festival programmers—the people who spend months stitching together dream lineups, refreshing inboxes, chasing agents, and quietly freaking out when a big name actually says “yes.” You’re the ones who know exactly how many miracles it took to get that one artist on that one time slot… and then have to listen to the internet complain about it anyway.

This one’s especially for the days you’re proud of a carefully curated program and still get, “Why is there dubstep at a trance festival?” Sometimes the wild card is the whole point. Sometimes you need a wub wub moment in the middle of all the tasteful BPM grids. When the crowd roars, enjoy your victory lap and feel completely entitled to flip off the comment section while you dance.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the Dutch—the people who took four-on-the-floor, turned it into an export industry, and somehow kept a straight face while doing some of the silliest, most joyful, most hard-hitting dance music on earth. You catch way more grief than you deserve for “that Dutch sound,” the endless kicks, the festival cheese… and you just keep filling fields, stadiums, and hearts anyway.

This track is a tiny rubber-chicken salute in your direction. Thank you for not slowing down just because anyone rolled their eyes. The world would be a lot less fun without your “too much” energy. We should all be a little more Dutch.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to everyone who’s still here at the almost-morning hour—the rail-riders and rail-sitters, the shufflers in the back, the ops crews in the towers, the FOH teams blinking at LEDs, the med, security, runners, cleaners, and the friends guarding everyone’s bags from the sidelines. You’ve all been sharing the same air, same kick drum, and the same slowly-melting sense of time for way too many hours in a row, and somehow the lights still feel worth it.

This is the “we’re exhausted but we’re not done yet” reset button—the moment the whole field quietly agrees to squeeze out one more wave of joy before sleep, showers, and sore everything catch up. If your caffeine, adrenaline, and feelings are all peaking at once, please drink some water, take a breath, and look around: you did this together. Crowd and crew, artists and staff—at this hour you’re all the same constellation under the same rebooted moon. This one’s for everyone who stayed.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to Jim Henson and to everyone who has ever put their hands, voice, craft, patience, and weird little heart into the world of The Muppet Show and the wider Muppets universe—puppeteers, builders, stitchers, designers, performers, writers, composers, camera crews, editors, stagehands, and the people in the corner fixing the thing that’s about to break mid-take. You’re the original invisible-labor miracle: a team of humans doing meticulous work in the shadows so a felt creature can look directly into the camera and feel more alive than most people.

You taught me values I still chase: that kindness can be funny, that sincerity doesn’t have to be corny, that chaos can be choreographed without losing its soul, and that collaboration is the whole point. This project exists because you proved something essential—that you can build a world out of craft and care, and invite everyone into it. So this is a thank-you for the hands behind the characters, for the standard you set, and for the lifelong permission slip to make art that’s joyful, human, and a little bit ridiculous on purpose.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to you. Yeah, you. The one actually reading this instead of just skipping to the next track.

You’re the whole point of this mess. If nobody listens, this project is just a folder on a hard drive. It started as a dumb little kid of an idea, kept me up at 3 a.m., got torn apart and taped back together, and now it’s out there on its own. I’m just hoping it survives the world and maybe stumbles back home every once in a while.

What I really want, though, is for you to see past the headliners and the brand logos. Most of this scene is held together by tired humans with gaffer tape stuck to their clothes and coffee instead of blood. They don’t get interviews. They just keep the lights on.

So don’t let the usual names make you bitter. They’re the tip of the iceberg, not the whole beast. Next time you’re at a show, look for the person sprinting across the field, or tweaking a knob in the dark, or hauling something heavier than it should be. Give them a nod, even if they never see it.
They’re why the music reaches you at all.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the artist-relations teams, runners, wranglers, liaisons, and handler crews who live permanently in the crossfire—advocating for artists while trying not to get roasted alive by production. You’re the bridge no one notices until it buckles, translating “creative vision” into something the crew can actually execute while absorbing every rider tweak, schedule slip, wardrobe crisis, and pre-show meltdown with a headset smile and a quietly dying soul.

When the crowd screams, the review praises the headliner, and everyone says “what a show,” you’re already in the wings lining up the next miracle. This track is for the ones who make impossible timelines feel inevitable, who absorb the chaos so the spotlight can look clean, who get called bossy by talent and ignored by crew, who know everybody’s secrets and almost never get to tell their own.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to my kid—the tiny chaos engine who was literally at the pads making those drops you probably hated, and the voice you’re hearing is her unfiltered joy (okay… slightly filtered, and definitely formant-shifted). This track exists because she showed up with zero shame, zero genre loyalty, and the kind of confidence adults spend years trying to earn back.

Kids are the only true RNG in the universe. They don’t make choices to be “correct,” they make choices because they’re curious—and that’s how new ideas get born. So if something in here makes you laugh, cringe, or suddenly rethink what “good taste” means, that’s the point. Listen anyway. The next big inspiration you’re waiting for might be sitting at a controller right now, pressing buttons like it’s magic—because to them, it still is.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the other half of the audience—the wallflowers, the hoodie-hiders, the nervous first-timers, the friends holding everyone’s water bottles, and the ones who don’t know a single artist on the poster but came anyway because something in them hoped they might belong here.

From the kids who spent an hour choosing an outfit and still think they picked wrong, to the older heads in comfortable shoes—the ones with a mosh-pit scar from ’96 and a chiropractor who knows their festival schedule. You’re not forgotten. You’re proof the scene has history, a future, memory, and heart.

Everything feels whole because you showed up. Every crowd needs its soft edges: the watchers, the listeners, the shy shoulders swaying a little off-beat. You are the pulse between the kicks, the breath between the drops—the calm that keeps the chaos beautiful. And honestly? This is the part of the crowd where you’ll find me hiding too. I’ll join you shortly with the Advil. You’re already part of the family the moment you step through the gate. Showing up is enough. You’re enough.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the power distro crews, generator techs, electricians, cable runners, load balancers, and backup power teams—the people standing in the tiny space between “show” and “total black-out panic.” You’re the ones who turn an empty field into a temporary power grid, mapping phases and amperage where everyone else just sees grass and truss. Every kick, every laser, every pixel on every screen is riding on the lines you laid in the dirt and the numbers you did in your head six hours ago.

You pace the site with headlamps and radios, chasing mystery faults through mud at the hours where the insects went to sleep, juggling loads so the bass can hit without tripping the night. When something surges, you’re already halfway to the panel; when everything works, nobody thinks about you at all. This track is for the people who know exactly how close we are to darkness and keep a straight face anyway—the quiet hum under the PA, the invisible grid that lets the rest of us believe the lights will stay on forever.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the riggers, climbers, and high-angle techs who live in harnesses above the show—the ones on catwalks, roofs, and truss lines bolting the sky together. You’re the people who turned an empty grid into a ceiling of lights, PA, and motion, who double-check shackles, motors, and cotter pins long before doors open and then stay up there while the headliner plays, feeling the structure hum under your boots.

During the set, the crowd only sees lasers and moving heads; you see load charts, sway, and the way a gust of wind hits the rig. You drink cold coffee in a hard hat and know that if a single pin lands in that cup, the answer to “is this important?” is always yes. This track is for the silhouettes in the rafters and the ghosts on the roof—the people who make sure the only thing that drops tonight is the beat, not the rig above it.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the fans. Not “my” fans… just fans. The people who decide, for reasons even they can’t always explain, that some band or DJ or show is worth carrying around in their chest for a while. You don’t just like a song; you build little altars to it in playlists, on jackets, in group chats, on long drives home from work.

You’re the ones who show up early and stay late, who stand in lines for merch that looks suspiciously like rent money, who run fan accounts, make playlists, scream the bridge louder than the PA, drag your friends along “just trust me, you’ll get it live.” You volunteer street team, you help at the booth, you end up behind the table selling pins instead of in the crowd hearing the songs you came for. You stitch whole scenes together with nothing but enthusiasm and a half-charged phone.

Fandom is a sacred thing. It’s a gift you choose to give, not a tax you owe. Your time, your attention, your money, your emotional energy… that’s all power. If an artist treats you like a wallet with legs or a metric on a dashboard, you’re allowed to walk. They owe you more than you ever owe them: honesty, effort, basic decency, a safe room to stand in, and music that at least tries to be worth what you put into it.

So this is a little thank-you note to every fan who has ever carried an artist further than the artist could walk alone—and a reminder that you’re allowed to put that weight down whenever you need to. The whole machine only runs because you choose to care. Never let anyone make you feel small for that.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to everyone today who refuses to let genres calcify—the producers, DJs, crate-diggers, and “what if we just…” troublemakers who ignore the purists and keep welding funk to trance, concrete to club, and wrong sounds to the right groove. You’re the reason the timeline doesn’t get stuck.

When somebody says, “You can’t do that,” you hear it as a dare. You slam breakbeats under prog leads, drop cartoon samples into serious techno, drag gospel vocals through sidechains, and somehow it slaps. This track is on your side: for every mis-labeled playlist, every “what even is this?” comment, every new little micro-genre that only exists because you were bored enough to try it.


updated_utc: 2026-03-01 02:23:31
dedication:
Dedicated to the pyro crews—flame ops, fireworks techs, SFX programmers, and the people who get to make the sky flinch on purpose. I’m not even going to pretend I don’t envy you. You’re the ones who turn a chorus into a core memory with a well-timed burst of heat and light—like the music itself grew teeth for a second. Everybody in the crowd acts tough until the first hit of flame, and then we all remember we’re still cavemen in our hearts. It’s spectacular. It’s art. It’s the coolest job on site and you know it.

But you also carry the part nobody cheers for: the stress, the checklists, the distances, the permits, the hard no’s, and the knowledge of exactly how bad “one mistake” can get. You’re the ones lying awake after a show replaying the one tube that didn’t fire—because you can do that math in your head, and you don’t like the answer. So this is a thank-you for the restraint, for keeping the magic on the safe side of the line, for being the people who can make the night explode and still choose control.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the security teams, pit crews, perimeter guards, backstage sentinels, and venue protectors who hold thousands of strangers safely inside a single shared night. But especially… ESPECIALLY… to the quiet giants with shaved heads, arms like suspension bridges, and a Hello Kitty tattoo peeking out from under a sleeve they pretend is “ironic.”

You’re the kind of protectors who stop fights with a bear hug instead of boots, who talk a panicked kid down from the rail with a dad joke, who make sure everyone gets home whole… whether they walked in sober, stressed, overstimulated, or already halfway sideways. You take hits without throwing them, absorb chaos without becoming it, and hold the line with patience, heart, and a body built out of forklift parts.

This track is for the gentle walls… the ones who could crack a coconut but choose to carry someone’s dignity instead. The festival runs on a thousand kinds of strength, and yours is the kind that sticks with people long after the lights fade.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the dancers, hype crews, stage teams, flag squads, mascots, and everyone whose job is "just be eye candy" for a bigger name on the poster. You're not set dressing. You're athletes, storytellers, and energy generators... holding choreography, timing, facial expressions, and crowd connection all at once while pretending it's effortless.
 
For every rehearsal in an empty hall, every bruise covered in makeup, every night you hit your marks so someone else can look iconic on camera: this one's for you. Even when the billing forgets your name, crowds remember how you made them feel. Feathers up, heads high! You're part of the show, not the wallpaper.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the midnight clerks, roadside angels, and random strangers who accidentally save an entire festival and never even know it. The ones who unlock the gate “just this once,” sell the last can of fuel, lend a flashlight, give directions, or say “yeah, I can help” at 2:17 a.m. without realizing there’s a whole field of people depending on that moment.

You don’t see the crowd you rescued or the stage that stayed lit because you were there. You just go back to wiping counters, or carrying on like nothing happened. But out past the highway, thousands of hearts kept dancing because you showed up and chose to be kind. This track is for every nameless human miracle who kept the night from falling apart and then quietly moved on.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the food trucks, fry cooks, bartenders, concession crews, and night-shift dish runners—the people keeping everybody on their feet while the lineup gets all the credit.

If anyone thinks you’re “just food service,” they’ve never seen what a rave looks like on an empty stomach. You don’t get lasers, you get grease burns; no spotlight, just a heat lamp and a line that never ends. But, when the queue wraps twice, you’re allowed to roll your eyes, swear under your breath, and treat every returning customer as proof you did it right. This one’s for everyone working the window instead of the main stage and still keeping the whole party alive.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to DanceSafe, the Zendo Project and all the vibe guardians (official or otherwise). To the volunteers, peers, and staff who spend their nights sitting with scared, overloaded people and helping them come back to earth without judgment.

You’re the emotional paramedics and calm anchors of the party… the soft places where people can be honest, breathe, drink some water, and land safely. This song is a little love letter to the care you give: no panic, no punishment, just presence. Thank you for keeping festivals kinder and safer from the inside out.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the scene-keepers—the promoters, resident DJs, volunteers, workshop hosts, forum mods, flyer designers, afters parents, and “hey, you good?” humans who keep a culture alive without turning it into a fortress. The ones who remember what it felt like to be new, who answer dumb questions with real answers, who tell people where the water is and which room is safer, who introduce strangers like it’s normal, who make space for awkward joy and first-time courage. You don’t guard the gate. You hold it open.

You turn music into a commons instead of a contest. You build the group chats, the playlists, the ride shares, the local nights, the practice sessions, the zines, the little rituals that make a scene feel like home. You show up when there’s no headline and no clout—just community maintenance—and you do it anyway. This track is for the ones who contribute beyond fandom: the builders of belonging, the friendly infrastructure, the reason people stay long enough to become family.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the runners, response teams, and floater crews—the unsung ground ops getting dumped on by the job, and cleaning up the literal crap so the party never stops. I’m not even going to start listing the things you deal with. I’ve seen it. I’ve smelled it. That’s enough. You’re the ones keeping the party from becoming a biohazard, one quiet, necessary fix at a time.

Appreciating you doesn’t magically make your job easier, but it’s the least I can do besides… y’know… not making it worse. At least now you’ve got a work song for the shift.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the med tent crews, EMTs, nurses, and on-call docs who spend the night hoping to be bored—and staying ready for when it doesn’t go that way. You’re the steady hands behind the noise: the ones who notice when someone’s not okay, who keep your voice calm when everyone else is spiraling, who treat strangers like people instead of problems.

Most of the crowd will never see you, and that’s the best-case scenario. But for the ones who do, you’re the thin, human line between “wild story” and “we shouldn’t have pushed it.” You count breaths and heartbeats while the rest of us count down to the drop.
This track is a small thank you for every night you spent on fluorescent chairs under a buzzing light so that thousands of us could forget, for a few hours, how fragile we actually are.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to nothing. Not everything needs a purpose. This album was supposed to be me taking a break from dedications and just making fun tracks… clearly that didn’t go entirely according to plan, but this one counts.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to me. I made this one because I liked the sound of it. That’s the whole reason. No speech required.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because every once in a while I need to remember that joy is a valid workflow. No lesson. Just a track.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because I still love music. I still love dancing. Sometimes that’s the entire point.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the introverts, the non-verbals, the selective talkers, the overwhelmed, and the ones who learned to speak through machines—samplers, sequencers, chat boxes, MIDI, emojis, patches, and perfectly timed silence. Not because you’re a quirky subplot, but because you’re proof that communication isn’t one shape. Sometimes a sidechain says more than a speech. Sometimes a loop is a sentence. Sometimes the bravest thing is finding any way to be understood.

You end up as role models whether you asked for it or not—showing the rest of us that a voice can be built, engineered, translated, and still be real. If that’s more spotlight than you ever wanted, fair. Consider this a quiet nod from the corner: you made the scene bigger just by existing in it.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because I wanted a song that feels good in my headphones at 1 a.m. No grand meaning, no moral, no homework.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because I’m allowed to make “just a banger” for the fun of it. Consider this my anti-sermon.


updated_utc: 2026-03-02 17:33:22
dedication:
Dedicated to me. I wasn’t trying to teach anyone anything here—I was just chasing a groove until it caught me.


updated_utc: 2026-03-02 17:33:10
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because if I can’t make something I’d listen to, what am I even doing? Also: I promise not every track is a mission statement.


updated_utc: 2026-03-02 17:33:03
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because some songs are for the world, and some songs are for keeping myself sane. This one’s the second kind.


updated_utc: 2026-03-02 17:33:32
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because sometimes I want to make noise that makes my brain go quiet. No manifesto. Just relief.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because I missed the simple version of this: hear sound, grin, hit repeat. That’s it. That’s the dedication.


updated_utc: 2026-03-02 18:15:16
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because I didn’t write a message, I wrote a mood. If you find meaning in it, great, but I wasn’t hunting for one.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
I know I said this album was avoiding dedications, but I’m cheating—again. This one is for the dancers, hype crews, stage teams, flag squads, mascots, and everyone whose job is “just be eye candy” for a bigger name on the poster. Again.

You’re not set dressing. You’re athletes, storytellers, and energy generators—holding choreography, timing, facial expressions, and crowd connection all at once while making it look effortless. For every rehearsal in an empty hall, every bruise covered in makeup, every night you hit your marks so someone else can look iconic on camera: feathers up, heads high. You’re part of the show, not the wallpaper.


updated_utc: 2026-03-04 00:57:20
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because I never stopped loving the drop, the sway, the stupid little grin when the kick lands right. Not every joy needs a justification.


updated_utc: 2026-03-02 18:16:05
dedication:
Dedicated to me—because I’m not always trying to say something. Sometimes I’m just trying to feel something—and that’s plenty.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
I know, I know—two songs for the same group. I’m not even pretending to be consistent anymore.

Dedicated to DanceSafe, the Zendo Project and all the vibe guardians (official or otherwise). To the volunteers, peers, and staff who spend their nights sitting with scared, overloaded people and helping them come back to earth without judgment.

You’re the emotional paramedics and calm anchors of the party… the soft places where people can be honest, breathe, drink some water, and land safely. This song is a little love letter to the care you give: no panic, no punishment, just presence. Thank you for keeping festivals kinder and safer from the inside out.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the guy at the gas station. That energy drink he sells me is the reason this project is getting finished. He fuels the guy making the dedications. That means he’s basically Stagehand Zero. No spotlight, all impact.


updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:53:03
dedication:
Dedicated to the listeners. I know, I know—very original. After all the effort to shine a light everywhere else, it feels almost backwards to end up here. But the truth is, an idea by itself doesn’t go very far.

It needs someone to hear it, to carry it, to give it a moment of their day. Without that, it’s just noise in storage. So even if it sounds obvious, this is for the people who chose to listen—and in doing so, gave this whole thing a reason to exist.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the social media managers, community wranglers, and mods who live in the glow of comment sections so the rest of us don’t have to. You’re part therapist, part diplomat, part janitor with a delete key—mopping up bad takes, redirecting rage, coaxing shy joy into the light, and quietly steering whole fandoms away from cliffs. You write the captions that make chaos look intentional, translate “tonight was a nightmare” into “so grateful for this magical crowd,” and somehow remember to credit the openers, the crew, and the dog in the green room.

And then there’s the most fragile equipment you protect: not the moving lights, not the LED wall, but the headliner’s ego. You’re the shield between them and the worst of the scroll, filtering out pure cruelty while letting enough reality through that they don’t float away. You remind them it’s okay to log off, talk them down from subtweeting a whole continent, and nudge them toward apologies when needed. This track is for you—the unseen psychologists and social engineers keeping the narrative (and a few nervous artists) from cracking under the weight of their own mentions.


updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:47:08
dedication:
Dedicated to the weather whisperers and storm-watch crews: the ops-tower meteorology nerds, radar wranglers, safety officers, and field spotters who spend the night staring at clouds instead of lasers. You’re the ones juggling wind speed, cell movement, lightning radius, and “how mad will everyone be if we call it?” on three different screens at once. Every “we’re good for now” and every “we have to shut this down” comes with a knot in your stomach and a silent prayer you’re wrong in the harmless direction.

And to the spotters who get the call, “We think there might be lightning—can you go climb that giant metal pole with binoculars and double-check?” and somehow answer, “Yeah, sure.” You stand in the wind so the rest of us can stand in the crowd, taking on the burden of being the party’s least popular hero when the sky says nope. This track is for you—the people who pull the plug so we don’t get fried, who choose disappointment over disaster, and who let the rest of us keep pretending storms are just a cool backdrop instead of a hard boundary.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the fire wardens, safety officers, and ops-tower night owls—the ones watching the whole festival from a little room full of radios, weather maps, and blinking LEDs. While we’re losing our minds at the drop, you’re tracking crowd density, and “how close is too close” on a dozen different dashboards. You’re the ones who know exactly how fragile this whole thing is, who carry the weight of being the person that might have to say, “That’s it. We’re done. Shut it down,” and then live with everyone’s anger so everyone else can live, period.

From the field, it’s easy to see you as buzzkills and party cops. From the tower, you’re just people trying to make sure thousands of strangers get to walk back to their cars in one piece. So this track is for you: the unseen guardians in the box at the edge of the site, the ones who will absolutely get called a butt when you enforce the hard stop—and absolutely deserve to know that, underneath the grumbling, that insult is laced with gratitude. You’re the reason the “worst case” mostly stays on paper.


updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:47:23
dedication:
Dedicated to the organizers, backers, and money-people—the ones who probably don’t care what the drop does to your spine, because you’re busy watching what it does to the budget. You’re counting tickets, deposits, insurance, permits, payroll, vendor splits, and the thousand invisible “if this goes wrong, we’re cooked” line items that nobody puts on a poster. You don’t get to live in the fantasy the way the crowd does—you have to make the fantasy survive contact with reality.

And still… you’re funding the arts. Even when it’s messy, even when it’s risky, even when the numbers don’t behave. You’re paying for a temporary city where strangers get to become a community for a night—where a kid finds their first favorite song live, where someone meets their future best friend, where a whole field of people remembers they’re not alone. So this track is a nod to the ones holding the spreadsheet and the dream at the same time: if you’re going to care about the bottom line, thanks for also caring that the lights come on at all.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Inspired by Bobby Lally. Dedicated to the press corps—the reviewers, writers, photographers, videographers, bloggers, zine kids, stringers, and local reporters trying to document something that was designed to disappear at sunrise. You’re out there with a plastic badge and dead phone battery, scribbling notes under lasers, translating bass and fog into sentences that make sense to people who weren’t there. You catch the sets that never get recorded, the openers who stole the night, the little scenes that don’t have budgets but do have heart. In ten years, when the flyer is faded and the links are broken, your words and photos are what’s left.

And yeah—most of you don’t get the glamorous version of this job. You’re not always interviewing legends in a clean backstage lounge. You’re hauling gear through mud, trying to find a place to write where the Wi-Fi works, filing on deadline with your ears still ringing, and getting treated like background noise by people who want coverage but not critique. So this track is a nod to the 99% doing the unglamorous history work anyway—the ones who show up, pay attention, and tell the truth with care. Thanks for being the record keeper for everyone who couldn’t make it.

And to the 1%… if you save me a spot—I’ll carry your gear.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to sponsor relations, VIP wranglers, partnership liaisons, and every “smile-through-it” professional working the festival floor. You’re the ones walking the sponsor village like it’s a diplomatic summit—making sure the branded lounge looks effortless, the photo ops happen on time, the right people feel seen, and nobody important has to notice the duct tape holding the world together behind the curtain. You speak fluent small talk with a headset on, translating chaos into calm: “Yes, absolutely—let me check on that,” while you’re already sprinting to fix it.

And you carry a special kind of pressure: knowing that one poorly-timed tantrum can yank real money out of the whole machine, and somehow it still becomes your fault when it does. You’re the human shock absorber between ego and logistics, between “experience” and reality, between “everything is fine” and “please don’t pull the plug.” This track is for the ones who keep the patrons happy without selling out the soul—who hold the line so the lights stay on and the community still gets its night.


source_doc: Track Dedications.docx
updated_utc: 2026-04-13 13:18:59
dedication:
Dedicated to the safety compliance officers, inspectors, clipboard legends, and “hi, quick question…” professionals—the ones nobody cheers for and everyone secretly needs. The crowd thinks you’re here to kill the vibe, the crew thinks you’re here to kill the schedule, and you’re just here to kill the part where someone gets hurt and the whole festival becomes a cautionary tale.

So yeah, you’re going to get grumbled at. You’re going to get called a narc by someone wearing glitter and a hydration pack. But you’re still part of the crew—the unglamorous co-author of every night that ends with “that was amazing” instead of “that was a lawsuit.” This track is a little nod to the people who say “no” so the rest of us can keep saying “again.”


updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:46:05
dedication:
Dedicated to the catering crews—the cooks, servers, dish runners, coffee saviors, and back-of-house wizards running the one place at the festival where hierarchy actually breaks down. In that line, headliners, interns, stagehands, managers, and drivers all become the same creature: tired, hungry, and pretending they’re fine. You keep the trays full, the coffee flowing, and the vibe just human enough that people remember they have bodies.

Catering is the great equalizer. It’s where egos get humbled by empty stomachs, where a “VIP” still has to wait their turn, and where the crew who carried the whole day finally gets something warm. This track is for the ones feeding the entire machine—quietly, constantly, and without applause—so the show can keep running like it has a soul.


updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:46:46
dedication:
Dedicated to the stage managers, show callers, production managers, and everyone whose job is arguing with clocks. The ones holding the run-of-show in one hand and a radio in the other while the universe quietly decides the schedule was more of a suggestion than a plan. Because somewhere between a surprise speech, a fan invited on stage, a DJ deciding the crowd “needs one more,” and a headliner discovering storytelling, someone still has to make the rest of the night happen.

You’re the quiet mathematicians of chaos—turning a 60-minute slot into 70 minutes, then somehow compressing the next three sets back into reality before the curfew notice arrives. When the crowd sees a seamless night, it’s because you bent time, moved mountains, and politely convinced the clock to cooperate again.


updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:48:33
dedication:
Dedicated to the “perimeter economy” around a festival—the people who aren’t on the bill and aren’t on payroll, but still show up trying to turn proximity into opportunity. Not villains. Just ambition with rent due. The ones walking the edge of the lights with a phone at two percent and a pitch they’ve practiced until it sounds casual: “two clips, one hook,” “one dance video,” “I’ll clean up your bio,” “I can get you seen.”

This track is for the micro-creators selling deliverables, the growth dealers selling reach (the real grinders and, yeah, the ones reaching a little too far), the connectors selling access, and the almost-crew selling commitment—time, sweat, presence—hoping it converts into a door that stays open. You’re part of the ecosystem nobody puts on the poster: the shadow marketplace of hope, hustle, and half-chances. You’re not background noise—you’re the sound of people trying.


updated_utc: 2026-03-22 20:33:56
dedication:
Dedicated to the lighting designers, programmers, operators, followspot crews, rig techs, and everyone shaping what we see. You’re painting with photons—turning math, timing, and muscle memory into color, motion, and mood that hits before the music even has a chance. A huge part of our brain is wired for sight, and you speak directly to it: guiding attention, amplifying emotion, and making a drop feel bigger than sound alone ever could.

Most people will never notice the cues, the palettes, the pixel maps, or the hours spent previsualizing a moment that lasts half a second. They just feel it—and that’s the point. This track is for the ones behind the console and up in the truss, turning darkness into meaning, making sure when the lights hit, they don’t just illuminate the show—they are the show.


updated_utc: 2026-04-02 03:05:48
dedication:
Dedicated to the crew—and to you, if any of these dedications ever made you look up from the drop long enough to notice the hands holding the night together. If you saw a stagehand moving at a sprint, a medic watching quietly from the edge, a security guard de-escalating with patience, a lighting tech painting the air, a bartender surviving the rush, or anybody else doing invisible work—and gave them a nod, a thank you, or even just a second of real recognition—then this one is for you too.

Because that was the whole point. Not just to write about the unseen labor, but to widen the spotlight by even an inch. A festival is more than the names on the poster. It’s built out of passing effort, shared care, and a thousand people doing their job well enough that the magic looks effortless. So this is the final bow: to the crew who made the night, and to the people in the crowd who chose to see them. Love the dance. Thank the crew.


updated_utc: 2026-04-07 21:52:36
dedication:
Dedicated to the honey wagon operators, restroom crews, pump-out teams, and everyone doing the kind of sanitation work that is simply too horrible to commit to words. We all know enough. I don't need to share the details. What matters is this: while the rest of the festival pretends waste just vanishes by magic, you’re the ones making sure a temporary city doesn’t turn feral by midnight.

And yeah, it’s rotten that sometimes nobody wants to sit next to you in the catering tent after a shift like that. That part sucks, and it’s unfair. This track is for the people carrying one of the roughest jobs on site with more grit than glamour, doing essential work that everybody depends on and almost nobody wants to think about. The party stays civilized because you do.


updated_utc: 2026-04-09 01:25:58
dedication:
Dedicated to the grunts—the stagehands, roadies, loaders, push crews, deck teams, cable haulers, case-stackers, forklift dodgers, and “yeah, I can grab that” army at the bottom of the pyramid. The ones who build the stage, flip the room, move the impossible thing, find the missing thing, and somehow become responsible for every other thing the second it stops working. If a festival is a temporary city, you’re the people actually hauling the bricks.

You don’t get to specialize in just one miracle. You get all of them: fast, heavy, dirty, late, under-labeled, and somehow urgent. You’re the hands under the fantasy, the backs under the budget, the reason “we can still make this happen” is more than just a lie people tell on headsets. This track is for the massive invisible workforce carrying the whole pyramid on its shoulders. The show might have stars—but it runs on grunts.


updated_utc: 2026-04-09 01:34:42
dedication:
Dedicated to the lost & found crews, reunification teams, info-desk saints, and everyone working the strange little crossroads where panic gets turned back into relief. You’re the people sorting phones, wallets, keys, jackets, wristbands, inhalers, and the thousand tiny pieces of someone’s night that slipped loose in the dark. Half detective, half therapist, you take “I swear it was right here” and somehow turn it into “okay, let’s figure this out.”

But the real miracle isn’t just the stuff—it’s the people. The friends who got separated, the overwhelmed kid trying not to cry, the exhausted stranger who just needs one calm human and a place to start over. You’re the desk lamp glow in the chaos, building little islands of order inside a city designed to be loud and overwhelming. This track is for the ones who help missing things, missing plans, and missing people find their way home.


updated_utc: 2026-04-14 01:00:01
dedication:
Dedicated to the ADA support crews, accessibility coordinators, mobility teams, platform attendants, interpreters, cart drivers, and everyone doing the real work of making sure the festival is actually for everybody. Somewhere along the way, some people forget what PLUR is supposed to mean the second they hear “ADA,” like access is a special perk instead of the bare minimum for human dignity. You’re the ones pushing back against that—quietly, practically, and all night long—making routes work, making sightlines matter, making space where space should have existed in the first place.

This isn’t pity, and it’s not charity, and nobody deserves a medal for doing the right thing. It’s dignity. It’s belonging. It’s making sure more people get to feel the bass, see the lights, find their friends, and be part of the same shared night as everyone else. This track is for the people who make the festival live up to its own ideals—not with slogans, but with ramps, patience, radios, planning, and actual care.


updated_utc: 2026-04-14 00:59:36
dedication:
Dedicated to the ticketing crews, credentialing teams, wristband wranglers, box-office veterans, and gate staff working the one form of gatekeeping the festival actually cannot live without. You’re the acceptable gatekeepers—the ones with scanners, guest lists, laminates, backups, reprints, sharp eyes, and just enough tyranny to keep the whole thing from dissolving into “but they said I was on the list.” Somewhere between policy enforcement and crowd psychology, you’re the ones deciding who gets in, who waits, who needs help, and who is absolutely trying something.

And no job on site deals with more creative half-truths, selective memory, screenshot mythology, and last-minute “my manager totally fixed this” energy—except maybe VIP relations or artist relations, and even that’s a photo finish. You hear every version of the story, most of them missing a few important details, and still keep the line moving without letting the whole entrance turn feral. This track is for the people guarding the first threshold with patience, suspicion, speed, and a tiny bit of deserved menace. Long live the scanners.


# song_lyrics

lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 17:15:52
lyrics:
He takes a breath, adjusts his hat
Murmurs, "this button maybe that"

First cheap controller, plugged in wrong
He pokes the keys and hopes it's song
The kick's too small, the snare's too late
He slaps the pad like it's the gate

They call him Bobo, stage door bear
He just wants drums to put him there
Can't spell "latency" or "bus"
Just wants noise that feels like us

The meters scream, the waveforms bleed
But bears make beats when hearts in need
Hands shake, but still he says okay
Don't know the rules, I'll drop it anyway
Three, two, one

It's okay to be clumsy, okay to be loud
Okay to feel small in a too bright crowd
He's one of the rookies, first pass crew
Heart in his headphones, learning it through

Hit render anyway
If it feels like him It okay
Hit render anyway
Let the rough edges stay And the music plays

His scent is from 1999
He calls it "Bee-Box", thinks it's fine
He slaps reverb on the master bus
Says "shiny makes it big for us"

Phase alignment failed, low-frequency smear detected

The bass is mud, the top is hiss
The readout says you ruined this
But in his chest the pad feels warm
The off-key lead becomes a storm
He shrugs at graphs and audio tears
Still sounds like fun to this old bear

Key: unknown, Structure: not found

The structure wrong, the form is rough
He doesn't care it his enough
He squints at red and mouths "too bright"
Then whispers "yeah but it feels right"
Three, two, one

It's okay to be clumsy, okay to be loud
Okay to be learning while you face the crowd
All of the amateurs, first pass crew
Hit the button when it scares you

Hit render anyway
And let the music play

He hears them say too loud, too slow
Wrong key, wrong sound, just let it go
Stage-door bear, not engineer
But he still leans in past the fear

Maybe bear can mix a bit
Even if it's wrong, I like it

It's okay to be clumsy, okay to be loud
Okay to stand shaking but oddly proud
We are the amateurs learning the way
We finish the track and we let it stay

Hit render anyway
If it sounds like you, it's okay
Hit render anyway
The song is done
And it's yours today

Render anyway dot em core saved
Yeah, good
Yeah, good


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 17:16:04
lyrics:
[Intro]
Scooter at F-O-H, show file loaded

[Verse 1]
He routes the kick, one to comp A
He trims the bass, HPF thirty, sidechain five
He flags vox A, de-ess mild, plate point-eight
He nudges key bus, minus two at four hundred, widened pads

[Pre-Chorus]
Scooter, Piggy wants more sparkle
Scooter, Animal needs plus six snare
Scooter, Gonzo says tilt bright
Scooter, Kermit wants wedge plus two downstage

[Chorus]
Patch, route, mute, cue
Check, save, roll, go
He keeps the room in time and key
The show that you don't see
Patch, route, cue, go
Lights breathe, the crowd goes, (Oh)
Honor the hands behind the beat
The ghost inside the booth

[Hook]
Scooter! The ghost inside the booth

[Verse 2]
Scooter, Statler says the front rows need more glow
He lifts the house, clears hiss up top, let voices flow
Scooter, Sam wants every word to land just right
He shapes the mids, tucks bleed away, lines cut bright
Scooter, Janice asks for shimmer, just some air
He opens highs, smooths sides a touch, wide, sweet air
Scooter, Rowlf needs warmer tails, let pianos bloom
He softens plates, clears mud below, warm tails bloom

[Pre-Chorus]
Scooter, House to seventy percent, comms are clear
Stand by

[Chorus]
Audio, go, lights, go, video, go
Crowd, go, band, go, cameras, go
House, go, muppetcore, go
Patch, route, cue, go
He holds the line, so chaos sings
The calm beneath your show

[Bridge]
Some hands are seen, his hand is felt
Where panic melts
He lifts a fader, finds the air
Everything glows, the crowd hears magic, we hear care

[Hook]
Patch, route, cue, go
Patch, route, cue, go
Patch, route, cue, go
Patch, route, cue, go
Patch, route, cue, go

[Outro]
Show file saved
Scooter out


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 17:16:24
lyrics:
Fur and static on the motherboard
A googly eye on the circuit board
Piggy's hacking with a hi-ya
The firewall just sang an opera
The code is clean, the lines are straight
But we're the bug that makes it great
The Swedish chef just plugged the sink
Into the main data link

The kick drum's hitting, boom, tis-tis
Fozzy's telling jokes to the abyss
Waka-waka bass drop pending
This whole night is auto-bending

Syncopate the chaos, break the grid
We're the feltware bug that can't be hid
Animal on digital drums
Till the sub-bass hums
We're the update you can't deny
The analog glitch, the reason why
The system's crashing, loud and bright
Puppetcore
Night, night, night, night

Felt and filters, fur and bass
We just took over the whole place

Beaker's meeps are in the sampler
Pitched up high, a vocal mangler
Bunsen's dropping science base
All over the place
Sam the Eagle tried to stop it
Said, this is madness, please just drop it
We just turned his speech to eight-bit
Now he's the hook and he can't quit

The rise is climbing, shh, shh, shh
We're the chaos in the big push
Statler's heckling the algorithm
That's not trance, it's just a spasm

Syncopate the chaos, break the grid
We're the feltware bug that can't be hid
Animal on digital drums
Till the sub-bass hums
We're the update you can't deny
The analog glitch, the reason why
The system's crashing, loud and bright
Puppetcore
Night, night, night, night

You know, it's not easy, being a glitch
Felt stars on a digital sea
Is this real or just a memory
A lonely honk in the data stream
A single analog fuzzy dream

Is the system ready
Aye, No, Aye, Yes
The beat unstable
Yes, Captain, Gonzo
Let's go

Syncopate the chaos, break the grid
We're the feltware bug that can't be hid
Animal on digital drums
Till the sub-bass hums
We're the update you can't deny
The analog glitch, the reason why
The system's crashing, loud and bright
Puppetcore
Night, night, night, night

We broke it
We definitely broke it


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 17:16:37
lyrics:
[Intro]
Hello and welcome to Meepwave Protocol
Please don your safety goggles

[Verse]
In the lab of bass and light, we prototype the night
Oscillators humming, every waveform tight
I'll route the source through filters, then politely press engage
(Meep) Don't worry, beaker, perfectly safe on paper and the stage
		  
[Pre-Chorus]
Prime the snare, align the phase
Let sidechains breathe in glitter haze
Hold your breath, two beats to go
(Meep, meep)

[Chorus]
Run the Meepwave, push the fader
Kick so clean we floor the fader
Glass two hats, burners arise
Chords go wide, we ionize
Meep, meep, meep
We test the joy, then supersize

[Hook]
Click, clack, sample that
Tape stop, grin, then snap right back

[Verse]
I've placed your meeps in samplers A through D, my friend
(Meep, meep, meep)
We'll pitch them 12 and stack in thirds
It's science you can send
Our bass is rolling 16 deep
Our clap is bright and kind
We quantize wonder to the grid
(Meep) Then free it in your mind
		  
[Pre-Chorus]
Riser climbs like, like paper trails
Meter smiles, distortion pales
Count it down, the chest goes tight
Three, two, ignite

[Chorus]
Run the Meepwave, push the fader
Lab coat, rave, and neon vapor
Filter bold and open wide
Felt and steel in perfect stride
(Meep, meep) Meep, meep
We bend the grid and ride the tide

[Bridge]
In the hush, beyond the hum
Every meep becomes a drum
If you listen past the tone
Kindness resonates alone

[Verse]
Is the system stable?
(No)
Do we drop on cable?
(Yes)
Beaker, press the (Beaker) button

[Hook]
Meep, meep, meep, meep, meep
Meep, meep, meep, meep, meep

[Chorus]
Run the Meepwave, push the fader
Kick print stars on the oscillators
Light the room in a minor glow
All our hearts in stereo
(Meep, meep) Meep, meep
We solve the night
Joy is the show
		  
[Outro]
Experiment concluded
Results delightfully conclusive


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 17:16:50
lyrics:
This is the spot where the big things happen
Where all the tiny lights make one big sky
If you can hear the song, you're already home

The wires are tangled and the sound is loud
Big old crowd, bright world buzzing proud
Neon heartbeat like a glowing tune
But it feels like morning in a little room

You're drifting back to where the pavement ends
To the corner where the day begins with friends
Every little laugh, every sidewalk game
Still lives inside you when you hear this name

Home!
Is the place where your feet stand still
While the whole wide world can spin at will
Home!
Is the beat underneath your chest
Every cheer and every breath at rest

You've seen the towers and the distant glow
You've chased the trains where the wild winds blow
But every road that runs beyond the light
Draws a little circle in your heart each night

You're hearing songs from down the block again
Paper kites and chalk and counting ten
Every little hand that used to hold your own
Still beats time softly in this microphone

Home
Is the place where your feet stand still
While the whole wide world can spin at will
Home
Is the rhythm that never fades
Through the growing up and the big parades

You know, sometimes the world feels really, really far away
All these lights and sounds and people
But if you remember the songs, you're
You're still right here, right where you started
Right where you belong

Are we ready to fly? (Yes!)
Are we ready for home? (Yes!)
Then hold on to the feeling

Home!
Is a feeling we always keep
The biggest hug when the world grows deep
Home!
Is a light that we all can share
Every beating heart says, "I am there"
Home!
In the middle of all this sound
We find each other on common ground
Home!
Every sunrise, every crest
One big nest where our hearts can rest


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 17:17:00
lyrics:
Diagnostics, beat locked, one-four-oh
Patch loaded, feltware vee two one
Warning, anomalous giggle detected
Escalating to Googly-Eye Overclock

Static in the rack, felt fiber in the fan
Zip tie halos on the cables like a plan
Orange nose glow, hands on the deck
Clock ticks tight, put the chaos on spec
Rubber duck click as the off-hat chat
Toy tom boing, yeah we quantized that
Grin in the code, stitch up the seam
We bug the machine till it learns to dream

Prime the snare, let the woofer breathe
Bitcrush halo on the lead we weave
Count it down, hold your breath
Three, two

(Reboot!) Googly eyes go wide
Kick so clean that the floor can glide
(Reboot!) Bytewave in our veins
We bend the grid like puppet chains
(Reboot!) Hands up, push that fader
Feltware bug and the room's our shader

Boop-boop, beep-beep, okay
Tape stop grin, then play

Meep stack loaded in the sampler tray
Pitch it up twelve and we let it spray
Spring coil snare with a zipper ghost
Sidechain laugh to the kick we toast

Blue feather daredevil lights the fuse
Laser dot trim on the arp we use
Console says no, we click allow
If it squeaks on-beat, it's music now

Riser in the vents, neon in the plume
Quantized pans bang left then boom
Hold that gate till the chest gets tight
Three, two, ignite

(Reboot!) Push the patch live
Fur-grade filter makes the saws arrive
(Reboot!) Chiptune double on top
Off-hat ducks go squeak, squeak, pop
(Reboot!) If the system frowns
We paint a smile on the low end pounds

Paper lantern moons over felted sea
Toy piano ghosts hum stay with me
Binary lullaby, soft and slow
Hold the code and let it go

Is the bug the feature? Yes
System ready

Boop-boop, beep-beep, okay
Tape, stop, grin

When euphoria turns weightless
Kick prints clean and the bass is ageless
(Reboot!) Gridlines melt
Upload joy in a giggle of felt
(Reboot!) Googly-eye strobe
We're the patch note running the globe

Boop-boop, beep-beep

Kernel panic, dancing anyway
Good night, every-


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 17:17:11
lyrics:
Admin Panic, all channels open
Who approved the banjo driver?

I patched the snare, I checked the clock
But Beaker's meeps are still on lock
Fozzie, timing, tight tonight
Why are your packets late in flight
The kick is clean, the meters glow
But someone fed the banjo I-O
I've got a swamp inside my head
The error light is flashing red

The volume spikes, the buffers bleed
The threads collide at reckless speed
Three, two, I can't, ping

Admin panic, kernel flairs
The trance-kick anchors while they wail
The bass is calm, the rest derails
Engine, overload
The breakbeat screams, the grid exhales
Beat, beat
We hold the floor with syncopated feet

Chain and clap, we crash and learn
The system smiles, begin to turn

I froze the bus, I cleared the queue
But Piggy's kicks keep punching through
Statler heckles, Waldorf groans
I quantize boos to metronomes
The breakers pop, the fans all spin
I route the chaos back to in
If nothing stops, then let it be
The mess is time; the mess is me

The riser climbs, the warning's bright
I hold the core with all my might
Three, two, ignite

You know, this is my life, and maybe that's okay
Maybe the chaos is the beat, the only way

Do we stop the noise? No
Do we amplify the mess? Yes
System embrace

We bend the wires, free the thread
The felt and steel run light instead
The buffers sing, the faults recede
We've got the joy the system needs
We found the groove inside the noise


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 17:17:54
lyrics:
Welcome to the Cyber-Spotlight
Please put your hands together for, Fozzie Bear
Uh, hiya, wocka. A packet walks into a server, delivers

My timing's off. It sure is
He's bombing, get the hook
Latency, my packets
You call that a joke, tragedy
Tragedy, wait, you're right
The timing is the joke

Grab the groan to toms
Gate that boo to noise hats
Rimshot equals snare flam
Bowtie to one-four-oh
Three, two, line

Run the punchline, lock the grid
Turn the heckle into heat, we did
Quantize the crash, keep it tight
The joke's alive, the timing's right

Wocka

Well, that was, loud
I've heard dryer drops from a leaky faucet
Two packets walk into a bar
Cor-rupt-ted-ted, that's my pre-fill
The algorithm's lagging, it can't keep pace
I'm looping your boos all over the place
Bowtie's in sync, the crowd's in the groove
Time to make the punchline move

Get ready for the hook!
Oh no, not again
Three, two, ignite

Kill the latency, shift the feet
Off-grid barbs become the beat
Quantize the crash, keep it tight
The joke's alive, the timing's right

It's not easy
You bomb because you care
You just want to make people laugh
Even, even the ones who boo first

Is he, serious? He's pulling us in
Gotcha, sampled and looped
You're the hype-men now
Audience, ready for the drop
Yes. No, no, no. More, more, more
Hit the punchline

Flip the key, turn wrong to right
Every boo becomes a light
Run the punchline, own the night
We laughed it true, we timed it tight

Wocka

See, timing's everything


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 17:17:41
lyrics:
PEPE: "Hola! OK, very important—"
PEPE: "I fix your song now, okay?"

LEAD: I pull a clean B-minor pad,
LEAD: four-on-the-floor, it’s not that bad.
LEAD: Sidechain the bass, keep lows in line,
LEAD: I’m lining up the mix, it’s fine.

PEPE: OK, but listen, baby, we need clap-clap-clap—olé!
PEPE: Make the snare like twelve-oh-five Ibiza café.

LEAD: I’m setting kicks to hit on one,
LEAD: Hat on the ampersand so it can run.

PEPE: Put a reggaeton on top, okay?
PEPE: Is technically right—just sideways, valé?

LEAD: You say, “More spice! Turn up the sun!”
LEAD: You want three genres in bar one.
LEAD: You’re half correct, but off the map—
LEAD: sidechain your voice, not every clap.

PEPE: (spoken) "Is just little sidechain, okay."

LEAD: My gain’s in red, my brain’s in steam,
LEAD: you’re tap-dancing through my careful dream.
LEAD: Three, two…

PEPE: (Shout) OK, DROP IT, BABY!

SPICY FEEDBACK!
LEAD: You throw ideas from the aisle. / ("SPICY FEEDBACK!")
PEPE: I make it hot, I make it style. / ("SPICY FEEDBACK!")
LEAD: I dodge, I trim, I keep it tight—
LEAD: You’re chaos on the talkback line tonight.

LEAD: Print the take, hit save, don’t crash—
LEAD: He adds the spice, I clean the splash.

LEAD: You say, “OK, very important tip—
LEAD: Put a choir pad under the bass drum kick.”
LEAD: You want a jazz break in my trance,
LEAD: a tuba drop, a line-dance chance.

PEPE: Sidechain the congas to the hi-hat, sí?
PEPE: Is textbook perfect—"confía en mí." /

LEAD: You’re quoting forums from oh-nine,
LEAD: you’re right on paper, wrong in time.
LEAD: You want a key change every bar,
LEAD: and auto-tune on my guitar. /

LEAD: You say, “More drops! No breaks! All hook!”
LEAD: I’m trying to write, not fill a book.
LEAD: Still, little bits of what you say
LEAD: slip in the cracks and start to play.
LEAD: My CPU’s about to fry,
LEAD: but your small sparks still light the sky.
LEAD: Three, two…

PEPE: (Shout) ¡ÓRALE! LET’S GO, OKAY!

SPICY FEEDBACK!
PEPE: You shake the mix like maracas. / ("SPICY FEEDBACK!")
LEAD: I ride the wave and trim the glass. / (SPICY FEEDBACK!)
BOTH: We bend, we laugh, we spin this set—
BOTH: The song ain’t what I planned… and yet.

LEAD: You know…
LEAD: Sometimes your notes hit like a storm.
LEAD: Too many “very important”s in every form.
LEAD: But under all the chaos, I can tell—
LEAD: you just want this silly song to do well. 
PEPE: "So we do key change, horn section,"
PEPE: "And I sing the big drop with affection, okay?"
LEAD: Maybe not everything you demand…
LEAD: But some of your spice still joins the band.
LEAD: I’ll keep the wheel, you crack the joke—
LEAD: we share the track, we share the smoke.

LEAD: Count it in—no fear, no fuss…
BOTH: (shouted) This mix is big enough for us!

PICY FEEDBACK!
BOTH: You light the fuses in my mind.
(SPICY FEEDBACK!)
BOTH: I shape the blast and keep it kind.
(SPICY FEEDBACK!)
BOTH: We trade the wheel but share the ride—
BOTH: Your wild ideas, my steady guide.
BOTH: You bring the heat, I steer the song.
(SPICY FEEDBACK!)
BOTH We make it loud and still belong.
(SPICY FEEDBACK!)
BOTH: From first “OK” to final clap—
BOTH: We turned your spam into the map.

PEPE: "OK... very important..."
PEPE: "was pretty good, no?"
LEAD: Yeah.
LEAD: Spicy Feedback dot tap… saved.


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 17:18:05
lyrics:
Diagnostics, rhythm locked one-five-oh. Parameters rigid
Warning, anomaly detected, subject, Animal

Five clicks tight on the master line
He breaks the sample every time
The kick is straight, the bass is clean
But there's a snare where it shouldn't be
He cracked the source code with a stick
Turned four-on-the-floor to quick
The grid is biting, teeth are bared
He hits the drums nobody spared

The chain is taut, the tension high
The chaos climbs across the sky
We lose control and give it room
Let broken time begin to bloom
Three, two, trance kick hold

Trance kick holds, the snares get faster
Animal
Supersaw sings, the breakbeat's master
Animal
We stomp the floor with syncopated feet

Chain and clap, we crash and learn
The system smiles, it had to turn

Dr. Honeydew, hold the key
Beaker squeaks a me, me, me
Pitch the chains to D below
Let the double-time just flow
Not on time, he rides the feeling
Broken rhythm turns to healing
Stop him? Count your one-two-three
He throws the sticks in circuitry

Riser screams a jet stream whoosh
We're the primal rhythmic push
Hold your core, don't let it slip
Three, two, Animal

Trance kick holds, the snares go faster
Animal
Supersaw, chip-spark, euphoric caster
Animal
We lock the room, no brakes, just feet

Subject, please return to the grid
No grid, no grid, no grid, no grid, no grid
No grid, no grid, no grid, no grid

No more chains
Trance kick runs with Animal's reins
Animal
Fastest drums you'll ever meet
Puppetcore
We broke the rule for you
No more chains

Rhythm report, one-five-oh
Implied three hundred
System is confused
And happy


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:20:21
lyrics:
[Verse 1]
Blue feather in the fiber line
Midnight cape in the server shine
Snare of stars on the lattice light
Gonzo boots up, scans the night
Spam storm flares in the comment sea
Trolls throw stones at a memory
He flips the switch on his cosmic rig
Clean the feed, make the signal big
		  
[Pre-Chorus]
Hands to the sky, heart to the grid
Sidechain breath, don't blink, we did
Hold that gate till the chest goes tight
Three, two

[Chorus]
Fly, Blue Comet, light the code
Cut through noise on a photon road
Fire the filters, felt and steel
Turn the chaos into something real
(Gonzo, Gonzo)
Pulse in the dark where the brave still go

[Hook]
Boop the banhammer, bounce, goodbye
Signal is a sunrise in the sky

[Verse 2]
Glove on the platter, hand on the fader
Quantize hope now, fix it later
He rides the rails of a star made clock
Warps each flame into doves of talk
Checksum choir, quiet and bright
Blue LED on the edge of night
He lifts the deck and the page turns clean
Post with love or don't post a thing

[Pre-Chorus]
Riser climbs like a comet tail
Kick says now and the doubts turn pale
Count it close, kiss the light
Three, two, ignite

[Chorus]
Fly, Blue Comet, light the code
Cut through noise on a photon road
Spin the saws and open wide
Wash the net like an endless tide
(Gonzo, Gonzo)
Blue prints bloom where the wild ones go
		
[Bridge]
In the hush between the pings
Kindness learns to spread its wings
Feathers drift across the stream
Hold the code and keep the dream
		  
[Hook]
Is the grid still healing?
(Yes)
Do we drop with feeling?
(Yes)

[Chorus]
Fly, Blue Comet, light the code
Starlit bass on a silver road
Flip the night to ultra-bright
Every heart a satellite
(Gonzo, Gonzo)
You stomp the trolls, then teach them glow
		  
[Outro]
Protocol complete
Keep the sky clear


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:20:34
lyrics:
Render farm, nominal throughput lavish
Unauthorized node detected: identifier moi
Escalating diva DDoS protocol

Pearls and pixels on the backplane glow
High-gloss shadow on the status row
Pink gloves dancing on the data bus
Every route she touches turns to us

She's not a click, she's the toggle switch
The cache goes couture when she flips that stitch
Render moi in cinema white
Steal the viewport on the night
Camera iris opening wide
Sidechain breath, now hold the tide
Meter flirting, dress the light
Three, two, strike!

Compile the culture (Run!)
Thread the fame till the frames are one
Cache this kiss, deploy!
Every node returns with joy
Latency zero, spotlight one
Pave the feed till the scroll is done
Hiya, hiya

Pings from frogs and eagles fade
She mutes the noise with a velvet blade
Algorithm studies, tries to learn
But every click is her return

She's the filter, she's the trend
A loop of moi you can't suspend
Dress the mix, then tilt the crown
Throughput up, the trolls go down
Razor sparkling, lips go red
Pearls count time while the kick stays dead
Hold your pose, the chest goes tight
Three, two, ignite!

Bandwidth ballet spin, set the frames
Let the lights begin, Seam rip, render, sew
Stitch the beat in a satin glow
Moi-mode: on, the queue bows low
Pave the feed till the scroll is done
Hiya, hiya

When the scroll goes quiet, can you hear moi still?
If no one's watching, would I sparkle still?
Will I matter? Yes!
Is the server steady? No!
Is the diva ready? Yes!
Lights to fabulous success!

Close-up protocol (Go!)
Zoom the heart till the highlights show
Fire the lights, flash, flash!
Every frame a perfect splash
Couture through the core
Metrics melt, they beg for more
Hiya, Hiya

System failure
System fabulous
System failure
System fabulous
Clear!


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:20:49
lyrics:
[Verse]
In a land of fluff and thread
Fuzzy DJs shake their heads
Nom nom echoes through the air
LFOs are chewing everywhere
		  
Crumbs are bouncing off the floor
Sub so thick it shakes the door
Every kick, a plate that clacks
Every snare, a cookie cracks

[Pre-Chorus]
Crunch crunch, filter slam
Wobble like a hungry RAM
Sidechain bites, the meter's red
Puppet rave inside your head

[Chorus]
Nom nom, wub wub, munching sound
Bass drops heavy, shakes the ground
Nom nom, wub wub, can't resist
Furry hands in a cookie twist
		  
Nom nom, wub wub, feel that bite
Big crush crumbs in neon light
Nom nom nom, wub wub, stomp and chew
Snack time bassline breaking through

[Verse]
Strings of felt and googly eyes
Catch the drop, a dubstep rise
Nom nom's king, the rhythm bites
Snacking through the pixel lights
		  
Sub is growling, jars all shake
Wubs are frosting on the cake
Every sweep, the flavors bend
Filter up, then crunch again

[Pre-Chorus]
Crunch, crunch, louder now
Kick and snare, a hungry crowd
Sidechain pumps, the frosting flies
Puppet rave across the skies

[Chorus]
Nom nom, wub wub, munching sound
Bass drops heavy, shakes the ground
Nom nom, wub wub, can't resist
Furry hands in a cookie twist
		  
Nom nom, wub wub, feel that bite
Bit-crushed crumbs in neon light
Nom nom, wub wub, stomp and chew
Snack time bassline breaking through

[Bridge]
No one dances alone no more
Every crunch and every cheer
Keeps the sweetest chaos here

[Chorus]
Nom nom, wub wub, munching sound
Bass drops heavy, shakes the ground
Nom nom, wub wub, hearts on beat
Felted feet and rubber heat

Nom nom, wub wub, loud and bright
Cookie dust in laser light
Nom nom, wub wub, all night long
Chew the chaos, sing along

[Outro]
Render complete... snack file saved


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:20:59
lyrics:
Warning, new protocol detected
Engaging Dutch groove

Forget the grid, we ride the bounce
A crooked swing, a heavier ounce
The kick is fat, the room is tight
Chef is cooking up the beat tonight
No supersaw, no pads in space
Just felt and metal in your face

The tension's rising, hold it back!

SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!

PLAY THE SQUEAK!
PLAY THE SQUEAK!
BOEM KIP!

The lead is stupid but it's locked
Every bar the floor gets shocked
He throws the chicken, hits the pan
This is the new "I don't care" plan
Club is laughing, feet still stomp
Silly top on a deadly thomp

The groove is burning, feel the climb!

SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!

PLAY THE SQUEAK!
PLAY THE SQUEAK!
BOEM KIP!

Groove... saved
BOEM KIP


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:21:09
lyrics:
Booting, feltwear online
Loading, googly eye drivers

Beep beep beep, buffer wakes the room
Foam feet tap like metronome doom
Zip zip strings across the stage
We stitch the night to a neon gauge
Click clack strings in a tidy row
Our hearts go quantize on the downbeat
Go

Patch the laugh, prime the snare
Sidechains thunder in the air
Flip the switch, count it in
Three, two, grin

Reboot
Googly eyes go wide
Felt boots stomp in time
Ride the bite, wave tight
Reboot
Puppet hands up high
Coat the sky with glitter and a lullaby
Reboot
Wires wiggle, lights explode
We're the firmware for the dance floor node

Boop boop beep beep, okay
Boop beep beep, okay
Moons our stage, press play

Clamp clamp clips in a squeaky wheel
Toy drum rim with a rubber duck peel
Patch bay grin, little foam cap crew
If it squeaks on beat, it's true

Velvet crash, zipper hat
Bitcrush halo, hear that
Hold your breath, count it in
Three, two, spin

Reboot
Felted basslines push
Supersaw sunrise through a pixel bush
Reboot
Tape stop, small release
Every glitch a glitter piece
Reboot
Byte byte byte, we bloom
Uploading joy to the lunar room

Binary dreams in a felt cocoon
Paper lantern stars hum soon, soon
Puppet choir soft and slow
Hold the code then let it go

Reboot
Googly eyes ignite
Kicks so clean you can taste the night
Reboot
We laugh in eight-bit bloom
Puppetcore mainframe make more room

Shut down
But the squeak persists
See you at the next moon


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:21:19
lyrics:
If a whisper could tune the world
I'd hold it steady

A little string from my sleeve to the dawn
Tied to a star where the small songs yawn
Why do the roads look silver when it rains?
Maybe the light learned all our names
Hold one note, let it bloom
Hands like lanterns in a room

Breathe in
Heave in
Breathe in
Count to three
If you ask, the night replies
Keep singing to the dark

Color thread across the sky
Pulled from hope we can't deny
If you ask, the night replies
Keep singing 'til the dark turns light
Keep singing to the dark

Color thread across the sky
Pulled from hope we can't deny
If you ask, the night replies
Keep singing 'til the dark turns light
Keep singing 'til the dark turns light

Paper boats in a river of code
Little green dreams on a bright blue node
What if the answer isn't far or grand?
Just a hand that reaches for a hand

Hush, the question holds its tune
Feathers floating past the moon
If we listen long enough
Quiet turns to strong enough

Color thread across the sky
Pull it, laugh, and watch it fly
All our seams and stitches show
That's how all the colors glow


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:21:31
lyrics:
Feltware crew
You ready?
Three, two

It's time to play the synths
It's time to light the rigs
It's time to meet the puppets
We flip the switch tonight

Hands up, hands up, feel the light
Turn it on, turn it up tonight
Feld and bass in perfect time
Drop that beat, drop that beat
Flip the switch tonight
Let the sound take flight
Oh-oh-oh, flip the switch tonight
Oh-oh-oh, let the sound take flight
Oh-oh-oh, Feltware come alive
We drop the beat in perfect time

It's the Feltware Festival!

Gates wide open, sunset glow
Neon hearts and a puppet show
One last check and we're good to go
Kick on one and we run the flow
Three big stages, lights in sync
First hit lands and nobody blinks
All that work for a single sign
When the crowd erupts, everything's in time

It's time to boot the mixers
It's time to shine so bright
It's time to raise the curtain
Drop the beat in perfect time tonight

Hands up, hands up, feel the light
Turn it on, turn it up tonight
Feld and bass in perfect time
Drop that beat, drop that beat
Flip the switch tonight
Let the sound take flight
Oh-oh, flip the switch tonight
Oh-oh, let the sound take flight
Oh-oh, Feltware come alive
We drop the beat in perfect time

It's the Feltware Festival!

Left side... flip that switch!
Right side... flip that switch!
All together... drop that beat!
Drop that beat!

It's time to play the synths
It's time to light the rigs
It's time to meet the puppets
We flip the switch tonight

Hands up, hands up, feel the light
Turn it on, turn it up tonight
Feld and bass in perfect time
Drop that beat, beat, drop that beat
Oh-oh, flip the switch tonight
Oh-oh, let the sound take flight
Oh-oh, Feltware come alive
We drop the beat in perfect time

Drop that beat
Drop that beat

It's the Feltware... Festival
Welcome to the Feltware Festival
Drop that beat


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:21:47
lyrics:
Runner, status on Hogthrob?
Copy, he's uh... still in his dressing nebula
We have sparkles everywhere, zero Link
Doors are open, five to show

Five to show! But his rider said no

I've got a headset, clipboard, lanyard, shoes that never stop
I'm the shadow in the hallway when the strobes are at the top
House left yelling, "Is our hero on the way?"
Wardrobe says he's finding his light in front of three buffets
We've got water at room temperature, not too cold
Fog at knee-high, just like the email from three weeks old
They want the crowd to feel he dropped in from the stars
But I'm the one sprinting between five dressing room bars
FOH is asking, "Can we start the intro tape?"
Lighting's ready with his name in giant pink and cape
I'm on comms saying, "Yep, he's basically here"
But I'm staring at a mirror and a pile of sequin gear

Hands on the fader, tension in the subs
Everybody waiting for that captain of the clubs
I whisper to the dark as the riser starts to grow
Yeah, we're ready to go
But his rider said no

I'm the runner in the rafters, racing through the glow
Making deals with time we don't actually own
Every cue is loaded, every laser primed to blow
We're four from show
The crowd screams "Link!", the timeline flows
The stage lip shakes, the pressure grows
I say we're good, but the crew all knows
He's not on deck... but my rider screams

Okay, we're doing this live

Second wave crowd now, everyone is checked in
I've lapped this backstage corridor six times, maybe ten
He's rehearsing his entrance with a fog machine and fan
Practicing a hair flip like a launch countdown plan
Catering's out of carrot sticks, he's not a happy hog
And sister's intro simulates re-entry through the fog
Lighting wants a walkthrough, FOH wants a line
I'm trading little white lies like it's all by design
Stage right calling, "Can we please proceed to deck?"
Wardrobe shouting, "No, the cape is not correct"
Laser tech is counting down in perfect quarter time
I'm juggling four clipboards and a read-through of his lines

The riser gets ridiculous, the snare is in a sprint
I'm sweating through my laminate while every light is mint
I say he's walking now, but my comms all know
He's still in front of the mirror... and the clock says go

I'm the ghost between the strobe beams, holding up the sky
Taping down the cables so the night can really fly
Name in giant letters, crowd about to blow
We're one from show
The crowd screams "Link!", the riser grows
The snare rolls fast, the tension glows
I say he's close, but the time hand knows
The downbeat drops... but my rider says

Where is he?
He says the fog is two inches too high
We just killed the entire build
Yeah, the whole field heard it, stop
I cannot possibly stride through anything above mid-calf
Copy that. Adjusting the density of your dramatic entrance, Captain

I know he's under pressure to the poster, say his name
If the night goes off the rails, I won't be in the blame
They'll cut a supercut of him in laser, smoke, and heat
No one rolls the credits for the feet behind his feat
I don't need my name in lights or thunder when I pass
Just want the people leaving here to say they had a blast
If they dance and laugh and make it home in one whole piece
Then all my frantic hallway laps were honestly worth the grease

I'm the runner in the shadows, stitching seams of time
Catching all the moments that fall out between the lines
You cheer the hog in spotlight, that's exactly how it goes
I'll be in the wings when the last light blows
Oh, the crowd screams "Link!", the headline glows
The review will say, "What a show!"
That's alright, I know, I know, I know he got to shine
But my rider says

Okay, we're doing this live

Same hog tomorrow, same rider again
Same headset crackle in the dark at the end
I'll take the call, take the hit, take the "No"
Places in thirty... here we go
Oh, here we go
Here we go


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:21:58
lyrics:
This track will outline the proper
Rules of trance and dance floor conduct

One beat per count, maintain the pace
Feet on the floor, no wild displays
Arms at a height that's safe and fair
No sudden jumps that fill the air
Four bars composed with dignity
A measured rise in energy
Prepare yourself, no need to shout
The drop should be very civil
Who said safe? Brass in your face!
Yeah daddy! More boom booms!

This is categorically unacceptable!
May I continue?

A trance event requires control
Please do not hit the mixing desk
Form tidy rows, avoid all bumps
No audience-led primal thumps
We now resume the rule review
Stand still and nod, that motion's due
Contain your joy, respect the beat
The next drop should be quite restrained

I... absolutely refuse
May I continue?

Dance is meant to follow the rules
Structure, order, and decorum
Thank you, my friend... someone civil

A trance event needs discipline
Stay in your lane, keep order in
The drop arrives in four short counts
Please brace yourself, do not let go

I said four counts not
Whatever this is

I... cannot endorse this recording
Good night
Good night


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:22:12
lyrics:
Diagnostics
Tempo locked
BPM aggressive
Session felt bus
All stems in!

Felt and fur on the barricade rail
Blue foam hands and a yarn tail tale
Tall ones bouncing with the tiny crew
Patchwork people in a neon brew
Offbeat heart in a fuzzy chest
Every color in a hi-vis vest
Solo tracks with a shaky tone
We drag and drop—you're not alone

Route the love to a common send
Group the ghosts, let the meters blend
Quantized feet in a four-on-floor
Three, two... render more!

All stems in, master bus glow
Every felted freak in the same I/O
Kicks and squeaks, we belong in the drive
Sidechained out till the hopes survive
Blue or orange, big, small, layer and tide
We bounce as one when the drops ignite
No solo track left outside the song
If you're here—you're in the mix, you belong!

Boop boop, stomp stomp, okay
Every puppet on the bus today
Foam hair frizz in the strobe light haze
Glitter in the gain, clipping on praise
Googly eyes in a sidechain sway
Every odd stem finds its way
Try a little voice in a crowded send
We print you loud when the builds ascend
MIDI hearts on a tangled grid
We warp the shame till the fear is hid

Route your weird to the FX return
Let the reverb teach it burn
Pan your doubt to the left, joy to the right
Three, two... unite!

All stems in, master bus glow
Every fur-lined kick in the same I/O
Highs and meats, we belong in the drive
Sidechained lonely till the love survives
Blue or orange, big, small, layer and tide
We bounce as one in the peak night light
No solo track left outside the song
If you're breathing—you're in the mix, you belong!

Single stem in an empty lane
Muted fader hiding pain
Scheduled clip or sound too wrong?
But every crackle has a song
Bring your hiss and broken tone
We don't leave you on your own
On this bus, no track's too strange
We mix you in, we gain stage... change!
Is the master ready? (Yes!)
Are the stems all in? (Yes!)
Any freaks left outside? (No!)
Bounce it... loud!

All stems in, let the bus on fire
Fur wave walls and a felted choir
Kicks, our squeaks, we belong in the drive
Print this night so it stays alive
Blue or orange, big, small, stack that height
We're one tall waveform in the festival night
From first MIDI note to the final gong
We are the... the Feltware family

We belong!
We belong!
Session saved. Bounce complete
All stems in. Goodnight, beat


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:22:26
lyrics:
Step, step, stop—dark in the block
Signal lost in a half-beat shock
Who pulled the line? Who crossed the seam?
One loose cable in the laser beam
FOH panic, meters blink red
Sidechain shivers like the track's gone dead
Bassline limps with a clipped-out cough
One wrong step and the floor falls off

(Packet... Reroute... Voltage... Low)
Hold the beat, don't let it go
(Contact... Broken... Recover... Slow)
Find the snake, restore the flow

Someone tripped on a cable
And the whole rig shaked
Someone crossed the main lane
And the ground mis-taked
Strobe froze, bass dipped, silence screamed
One little puppet foot killed the dream
But patch it back, lock the strain
We pulse again, we pulse again!

Grid goes wonky, waveform bends
LEDs flicker like nervous friends
Ops calls out: "We're losing the send!"
Crew dives under like it's pretend
Found the fault—one fuzzy shoe
Standing guilty in the blackout hue
He shrugs real small, says, "My bad,"
And half the rig reboots the pad

(Stability... Nominal... Error... Remains)
Tie that knot, relieve the strain
(Frequency drift... Correct... Maintain)
Keep that tempo in the chain

Someone tripped on a cable
But we held the line
Someone jumped through the shadow
But the beat's still mine
Shockwave drop, sub comes alive
Patch that puppet mistake and drive
Lock it tight, route restored
The trance returns—the crowd roars!

Glitch-pop, kick stop, heartbeat caught in a quantum chop
Hands sparks in the rig light gloom
They're soldering drum through a techno boom
(System healing, lights resealing)
(Warm pads kneeling as the groove comes stealing)

Someone tripped on a cable
And we kissed the void
Someone cut the main feed
And the drop got destroyed
But ops stood tall, bass crawled back
We found the fault, rebuilt the track
So stomp that floor, just watch your feet
One step wrong can erase the beat

Someone tripped on a cable
Someone tripped on a cable
Someone tripped on a


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:22:36
lyrics:
Hey, this pin fell into my coffee. Is it important?

High above the subs where the waveforms thin
Three bright Whatnots climb with the wind tuned in
Boots tap rhythms on the truss's frame
Side-chain breath syncing with the crowd's warm flame
Carabiners click like metronome ticks
Load lines hum in harmonic flicks
Gain stage moonlight on aluminum beams
Silent riggers holding up the scene

Every pin is a anchor, every bolt a beat
Every tightened shackle keeps the timing sweet
If gravity glitches or the structure mistrust
They tune the night so the floor stays just

"Is this pin important?" echo on the height
A whispered calibration in the mezzanine of night
"Is this pin important?" signal says affirm
Because every drop you dance to needs a stable waveform

You dance under trust
You dance under trust
You dance under trust

Motors pulse softly like a filtered bass
Arps of fiber shimmer through the rigging space
Their comms crackle low with a bandwidth hiss
Routing safety in the shadows so the crowd finds bliss
The daredevil puppet who should be in the truss light's glow
Is stuck in Media Tent combat, fighting trolls blow-for-blow
So the Whatnots climb alone through the spectral dust
Hard panning courage left and right of the gust

Level check steady, tension stays true
Phase-aligned teamwork in a sky-hung crew
If the load shifts wrong or a bracket combusts
They cue the danger into quiet trust

"Is this pin important?" echo on the height
A threshold barely holding till the riser finds its light
"Is this pin important?" yes, down to every thread
Because if the truss goes offbeat, the drops fall dead

You dance under trust
You dance under trust

Up here
Noise floor falls to zero
Wind becomes reverb
Stars become gain

You dance under trust

Is this pin important?
It pins the night in place
It holds the kick, the lasers
Every rise you chase
Is this pin important?
It keeps the spectrum true
Where Whatnots stitch the ceiling
Above the dance in you

You dance under trust
You dance under trust
Tonight... you dance
You dance under trust
You dance under trust

Is this pin important?
The answer's always yes!


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:22:48
lyrics:
I was just a kid with every poster on my wall
Every track, every remix, knew the B-side call
I bought a GA ticket just to hear that synth line spin
Now I'm inside the merch tent just to buy a pin
"Hey, we're short on hands, you seem to know the songs
Can you jump behind the table? It won't take long"
They gave me a lanyard, a float, and a grin
Now my whole night loops on: "Wanna buy a pin?"

Bass from the mainstage punching through the top
Barcode scanner singing in a syncopated arp
I'm half fan, half crew, in a ten-by-ten
Just trying to keep up with the queue again

"Wanna buy a pin? Card or cash?
What size shirt? Do you want the flash?"
Wanna buy a pin, same line, same spin
Little piece of magic with the logo on the tin
"Wanna buy a pin? Where can I begin?
Hi, how are you? Step in, step in"
I'm just a fan in a borrowed grin
Running on repeat: "Wanna buy a pin?"

Got drunk, joy dancing, I'll take ten of those
They drop half the lanyards, trip over their own toes
Mean, impatient, snapping, "Why's this line so slow?"
Like I can change the BPM of the human flow
Parental nostalgia with a kid on their hip
"Do you have the vintage art from that first tour trip?"
Broke teenagers counting coins in their hand
Asking if the wristbands come with part of the band
Collectors want variants only staff can see
Scammers flash a screenshot like it's VIP
I just smile, hold the line, let the night roll in
"Next up, hello there, wanna buy a pin?"

Kicks from the mainstage bleeding through the seam
POS freezing on the drop like a bad bad dream
I tap the screen twice, pray the charge goes through
I'm the offbeat worker in your floor-on-the-floor view

"Wanna buy a pin? Card or cash?
What size hoodie? Want the foil flash?"
Wanna buy a pin, same script, new spin
Limited edition shows you've been all in
"Wanna buy a pin? Looped on my chin
Yeah, the tote's extra, do you still want it then?"
I'm just a fan in a merch tent din
Stuck on a hook: "Wanna buy a pin?"

Wanna buy a pin?
Wanna buy a pin?
Wanna buy a pin?
Wanna buy a pin?
Card or cash?
Card or cash?
Little metal wallet pin
Card or cash?
Wanna buy a pin?
Card or cash?
Card or cash?
Little metal wallet pin
Card or cash?

"Wanna buy a pin? Card or cash?
Card or cash? Next one, dash"
"What size? What size?" sung like a line
This little booth's got its own kicking rhyme

I hear their set start in a low, muffled thump
See the lasers flicker on the vinyl bump
I know every lyric, but I'm stuck in here
Trading plastic memories for somebody's cheer
Sometimes I glimpse them way down the aisle
Waving to the crowd with that headline smile
I'm folding shirts, can't leave my lane (My lane)
But I'd still do it all if they asked again

I know I'm just the pre-chorus to their show
A tiny little loop where the real songs grow
But I don't think they'd ever take me for a fool
They signed my badge once, called me part of the crew
Yeah, I'm sure they see the line when they pass by fast
They'd help tear down this tent if they weren't on last
I love this band, I love this scene
And I believe they mean it when they say
"We're nothing without our team"
So I stand right here in the neon spin
Heart on my sleeve, hey, wanna buy a pin?

Wanna buy a pin?
Wanna buy a pin?
Wanna buy a pin?
Wanna buy a pin?

Wanna buy a pin? Card or cash?
Little metal echo with the synth and flash
Wanna buy a pin, wear it on your chest
Take a tiny piece of tonight and the rest
Wanna buy a pin, this is where I've been
Front row to the feelings from behind this tin
I'm just a fan who got pulled in
But I'm proud to be the voice that says, "Thanks for coming out
Hope you had a win
Get home safe, okay?
And... Wanna buy a pin?"
Wanna buy a pin?

What, they— what? They already left?
Yeah, I'll help load the van


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:22:58
lyrics:
The kick is pumpin', straight four-on-the-floor
But there's no pocket underneath that roar
All these lasers flashin', locked to the grid
But nobody's hips know what their feet just did
I need a bassline, greasy and tight
Sixteenth-note slides with a little off-white
Quantize light, let the ghost notes bump
Give me that funk, make the woofers thump

Bring that snare, make it snap
Move that clap off the grid
Shake the room, don't play it safe
Push that swing till the walls get chafed

Trance needs funk to be functional
If the groove don't bend, it's dysfunctional
You can stack the saws, make the crowd all jump
But lemme tell ya, baby, it ain't right without the bump
Nudge that grid, let the shoulders drop
When the backbeat smiles, that's when the track goes pop

Synths are risin', but where's the soul?
They dropped the bass, but it left a hole
I'm huntin' pockets in this four-bar loop
Need a clav-stab chicken-scratchin' through the soup
Give me a Rhodes on the off-beat "and"
A little slide guitar that the mix can't stand
Sidechain your pads, that's cute, that's fine
But somebody better put the stank in the line

Kick on one, but the hips on "uh"
Hat on the "e" where it feels like love
Shake the floor, don't hold back
We need that funk attack

Trance needs funk to be functional
If the groove don't lean, it's dysfunctional
You can drop the beat, make the crowd all jump
But lemme tell ya, baby, it ain't right without the funk
Bus that band through a tape-squash pump
If the toe don't tap, you got a mixdown slump

You got the wubs, you got the drops
But funk don't stop, no, funk don't stop
Add some brass, make it blast
Make it sticky, make it last
Push that swing to fifty-five
Watch that straight-edge trance come alive
Now count it in, let the floor go wild
Doctor Teeth just quantized style

Trance needs funk to be functional
Wire that grid to a living pulse
You can light the sky with a thousand lumps
But it ain't Dr. T till the whole floor bumps


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:23:10
lyrics:
Red button glowing
Green room shake
They handed me the lanyard, said
"Harry, make it quake!"

I used to blow up props, now I blow up nights
Backstage with a checklist, color-coded lights
Headset tangled in my hair, eyes wide, wild grin
They say, "Stand by," I say, "When do we begin?"
Cue stack loaded, timecode on the run
Stage boss sweating like the sun owes him one
FOH says, "Easy," I say, "I am easy
I'm just enthusiastically breezy!"

Comms go click, "all departments, clear?"
Harry goes quiet, then you feel him near
Finger hovering, crowd holding breath
One word away from polite death

I yell, "Explosions!"
Hands go higher
Kick hits harder
We feed the fire
Explosions!
Crowd go fever
I don't need a band
I push the big lever

Did someone say explosion?

Lasers in my lap, map taped to the floor
Timers like little hearts all set to roar
DMX is blinking like it's trying to confess
I whisper, "Beautiful," to the lighting mess
Stage manager asks, "You ready?" I'm already counting
(Three, two...) Like thunder in a fountain
Someone yells, "Hold!" and I do (I can!)
I'm chaos with a safety plan

All clear, check
Eyes up, check
Crowd screaming like a synth with no respect
Harry breathes in, clamps down the spark
Then smiles like a match in the dark

Did someone say explosion?

I yell, "Explosions!"
Hands go higher
Bass hits harder
We feed the fire
Explosions!
Crowd go fever
Not a villain
I'm your night's reliever

Left side shaking
Right side roar
Middle about to levitate, begging for more
Harry lifts both arms, freezes the scene
Like he's riding the silence on a laser beam
Okay, okay, I can do it
But do you trust me?
(Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes)
Then someone say... explosions!

I yell, "Explosions!"
Sky goes brighter
Squelch lines screaming
Fuse to the wire
Explosions!
No retreat
155 your heart
Stamping the beat

Last verse, explosion
Nice! Go!


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:23:20
lyrics:
Boots like thunder shake the ground
A warning thump in the sub-bass sound
A shadow moves, but don't freak out
He's the limiter keeping bad vibes out
His presence hums like a grounded line
Keeps the current calm, keeps the crowd in time
A wall of felt, a living shield
Warm as a pad and twice as healed

The bass hits slow like a steady pulse
But the flute sweeps soft, kind and full
He's the low end holding up the night
So the highs can shimmer safe and bright

Gentle giant moving through the crowd
Sweetums here to help you out
He'll tune your breath when the noise gets tight
And guide you home through the strobe and light
No shove, no push, just a steady hand
A walking crossfade through the festival land

Arms like towers, but they cause no fear
He's a safety buffer drawing near
He scans the faces, reads the signs
Knows when someone's drifting out of time
"Hydration check," he softly says
Offering water in his own Sweet way
De-escalation in a felted form
A fortress warm in a swirling storm

His laugh rolls deep like a canyon wide
But his touch lands soft, like the breeze outside
He moves like a guard rail made of care
A silent guardian everywhere

He's every unseen hero on the gate
The ones who work till four, then stay till eight
The lights may shake but he stays calm
A heartbeat keeping the night from harm

Flute sings sweet while the bass stomps loud
He's the safest soul in a chaotic crowd

Gentle giant moving through the crowd
Sweetums here to help you out
He'll find your friends when you're lost in the night
And hand you water under the strobe light
He'll walk you home when you're dazed and slow
A guiding glow through the undertow
Big as a mountain, warm as dawn
The soft security the night leans on


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:23:35
lyrics:
Cluck, check
Lights, check
Wings... up!

Camila struts in, lasers on her crown
Feathers catching neon as the kick comes down
Off-beat bass, pecks steady on the floor
One wing high, she's asking for more
Sidechain bloom on a satin pad
Every puppet in the pit wants what she has

She's got style, she's got class
Queen of the coop with a mirrorball sash
Strings go slack, bell turns green
How's she this shiny on a clean sixteen?

(Feathers up!) Clap on two and four
(Feathers up!) Take it to the floor
Wings in the air, we strut and spin
(Feathers up!) Let the drop rush in
We jump on one, she leads the scene
Making every puppet jealous of the sheen

Cluck, cluck, ba-gawk!
Cluck, cluck, chops ride the lead
Camila in flight at hands-up speed
Cl-cl-cl-cl-cluck, chops ride the lead
Camila in flight at hands-up speed

Red cone flashing like a cue light blink
Metronome step, never off a tick
She rides that bass where the pads hug tight
Even the roosters beg a feature tonight
Little bit of grit on the hi-hats kiss
Engineers nod, "That's the mix"

She's no egg, she's headline clear
Turn the macro, we cheer
Felt and foam can't fake this cluck
Write it in the patch: Camila Cluck, Camila Cluck

(Feathers up!) Clap on two and four
(Feathers up!) Take it to the floor
Wings in the air, we strut and spin
(Feathers up!) Let the drop rush in
We jump on one, she leaves the scene
Making every puppet jealous of the sheen

Cl-cl-cluck!

Three, two, wing

(Feathers up!) Bright and higher now
(Feathers up!) Fly, take a bow
Wings in the air, we strut and spin
(Feathers up!) Let the night roll in (Woo!)

If envy had a metronome
It'd click to Camila bringing everyone home


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:23:45
lyrics:
Check the last truck log, crate B-14 is missing
That's the main laser driver and backup router
We can't start the next set without it
We got forty minutes, anyone have eyes on it?
Uh, my cousin at the gas station just called
Said a big crate fell off a truck on County Road Nine
Who's got a license and a full tank?

Out past the fences, past the floodlight glow
Down a dirt road only locals know
They send big Beauregard to fetch that crate
Lasers wait for no one, and the clock says late
Felt hands steady on the steering wheel
Stuffing in his chest, but the worry's real
Phone at two percent, map barely alive
He mutters soft, "Come on, Beau, we'll survive"
The road hums low like a baseline drone
No headroom left in the schedule home
Every mile feels like a heartbeat skip
Every turn like a kick drum hit

And the road hums low, like a sub note wide
Headlights blinking at four on the floor time
He's racing the dawn, but staying kind
Just a gentle rig tech with a crate in mind

Gasoline and starlight
Rushing through the night
One lost link in the signal chain
To bring the stage to life
Gasoline and starlight
Hope on every mile
Beauregard is gaining staging
The sunrise on their smiles

The flicker of neon in the distance there
Old gas sign buzzing in the midnight air
One car parked, moths in flight
One open door in the middle of the night
Behind the counter, sipping tea
A clerk looks up real sleepily
"Sugar, is this your box out back?
Nearly tripped on it by the snack rack"
Beau lets out a laugh, all gravel and fleece
"Yeah, without that crate, the show would cease"
He signs the form with a felt-tip pen
Loads the gear like a kick drum in again

She hands him coffee
"No charge, sweet pea
Long nights find folks
Who were meant to be"
He fills the tank
She locks the door
Two small signals
In a massive tour

No spotlight shines on the midnight clerk
No crowd roars thanks for quiet work
But heroes live in roadside light
Keeping fragile shows alive at night
Some ride the faders, watch red lights glow
Some drive the missing link the long way home
If the lasers blaze and the drop hits right
There's gas and caffeine in that light

Gasoline and starlight
Racing through the dark
Two small kindnesses collide
To reignite the spark
Gasoline and starlight
Guiding every mile
A crate, a cup, a helping hand
It all becomes worthwhile
Gasoline and starlight
The show will shine tonight

He drives back smiling, crate strapped tight
Main stage glowing in the distant night
No one will know what she did for the show
But Beauregard waves at the neon glow
Out where the freeway meets the sky
The stars keep blinking in time
With the LFO of the night


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:23:56
lyrics:
Render far nominal, throughput glamorous
Unauthorized glam node detected... moi!

Pearls and pixels on the fader glide
Pink gloves drifting through the channel wide
Auto-glam shimmer on the gain-stage line
One tap hits, and the optics shine
She bends the waveform with a velvet flick
Turns every bus into cinematic chic
Hit record, watch the timeline bloom
One moi, and she owns the room

Lens flare rising, shutters align
Sidechain breath on the downbeat spine
Meters blooming, blinding bright
Three, two, ignite!

Compile the couture (Run!)
Thread the beat 'til the stars are one
(Cache glam, deploy!)
Flash the glam (Make noise!)
Flash the sky, make noise
Latency zero, spotlight on
Crash the feed 'til the scroll is gone
Hi-ya!

Fabulous
Fabulous
Fabulous
Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous

Feeds from frogs and critics fade
She cuts the noise with a shader blade
Algorithms swoon in her spectral glow
Every swipe says, "Yes, let's show"
She is the preset, she's the trend
Auto-tuned fame you can't suspend
Dress the rig, crown the scene
Hit one cue—she turns it queen

Risers sparkling, lips go chrome
Pearls count time while the kicks go home
Hold your pose, let the glam ignite
Three, two, bright!

Bandwidth ballet (Spin, spin!)
Start the frames, let the lights begin
(Render, sew, render, glow)
Stitch the beat in a satin flow
(Moi mode on) Queues bow low
Hi-ya!

Fabulous
Fabulous, fabulous
Fabulous
Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous

When the scroll goes quiet
Can you hear moi still?
If no one's watching, would I sparkle?
If the likes all vanish, would I still be me?
Yes
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes
Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-yes!
Yes
Yes
Yes
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, y-y-y-y-yes
Yes
Yes

Close-up protocol (Go!)
Zoom the heart 'til the highlights glow
Fire the lash, flash, flash
Every frame a perfect splash
Couture through the core
Metrics melt, they beg for more
Hi-ya!

Diva-DDoS (All lines busy!)
Flood the sky 'til the stars get dizzy
System load one-ten
She breaks the cloud... then breaks it again

System failure
System status: fabulous
Mwah!


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:24:06
lyrics:
Lew?
Okay, okay, throw the fish
I mean, the fries! Throw the fries!
Ticket printer is... clipping. Input overload
Boomerang Protocol... Active!

Tickets in the printer like a paper monsoon
Line wraps twice from the grill to the moon
Apron tied tight, I'm a spatula knight
Peak hour's comin' like a meteor flight
Fries in the oil, buns on the rack
Serve one out, three orders come back
I throw the burger, it arcs in the air
Perfect delivery, landing right there

Latency in the pantry door
Buffer underrun on the killing floor
The fryer is screaming white noise bliss
A high-pass filter of grease and hiss
Timer beeps, the transients spike
Salt hits air like a snare-drum strike
One goes out, two come in
That's fry math, friend. We never win

Boomerang! Boomerang!
Back for more
One hungry kid?
Now there's four!
Boomerang! Boomerang!
Deep-fried fate
I throw the plate
It comes back straight!

(Hah hah!)
Sauce packets fly like a glitch in the rig
My bandwidth is low but the orders are big
Lid won't close, the compression is tight
Serving up chaos in the strobe-light night
Hot oil pops on a fuzzy hand
Grease burns felt, yeah, that's the brand
Singe on the fur, scorch on the cuff
The mix is raw and the texture is rough

Stock room calling... signal is dead
The master channel is flashing red
Bread count dropping, hope it holds
See that timer? That's my soul
POS stable? System restore
Swipe approved
Open the door
Magic plastic saves the day
Even though the fader is grey

Food must be good, 'cause the tray comes back
One hungry kid leaves, two more attack
Boomerang bites in a paper storm
Every return means the meal was warm
If they keep coming back through the neon haze
Something I threw made somebody's day
We feed the rave so the rave feels right
That's concession love in the ultraviolet night

If you danced tonight till your heartbeat soared
Some crew stood sweating behind a slamming door
If you felt held, fed, safe, or seen
There's a worker out here keeping you clean
Paper hats crooked, pockets full of burns
Still flipping joy every time the queue returns
We live in the rush, in the heat, in the din
Big rave, big heart, deep fryer within

Boomerang! Boomerang!
Don't you stop
Tray spins out
And the crowd shouts "top!"
Boomerang! Boomerang!
Bring it back
Serve it, sling it
Mid-Rush Attack
Food must be good
'Cause they come back twice
Run the Protocol
And keep it nice!

Shift almost done... just one more kid
One last order
Got it
If it comes back to you... it means it was meant to be
Or you just have bad aim
Lew out


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:24:14
lyrics:
[Intro]
Whoa... hey there, star-child
Yeah, the colors are suuuper loud right now
That’s okay—they’re just, like painting the air
You’re not falling—you’re just floating really, really slow
		  
[Verse 1]
Your brain’s a little kaleidoscope spinning too fast 
You feel like this moment will forever last 
But look at my hand… look at this tea
The universe is huge, but you’re right here with me

Right now you don’t need a doctor or guard
We’re here, we’re watching, while the night feels hard
Sit down on this beanbag—touch the fur 
Let the world drift by in a soft, warm blur
		  
[Chorus]
Hold space (Breathe in)
No chase (Breathe out)
The dragon isn’t real, babe, it’s just a cloud
The music is a river—it’s allowed to be loud

You’re safe in the bubble, you’re safe in the soft
We’ll just hang right here till you get un-lost

[Verse 2]
Your pulse feels stretchy, like a rubber band
Let’s slow it down together—hand in hand
Feel the beanbag. Feel your toes
Feel how the whole tent gently glows

Listen to the pads—they sound like rain
Nothing bad is happening inside your brain
Just a little cosmic detour, babe, that’s all
You’re gonna land gently. You’re not gonna fall

[Bridge]
Fer sure... That’s a dark loop, babe
We’re not gonna ride that ride
		  
Look at this orange
Seriously. Look at the texture
It’s like... The orangest orange ever invented

[Chorus]
Hold space (Breathe in)
You’re okay (breathe out)
Your heartbeat’s a drum, babe—steady and slow
Your mind is a kite you can gently let go

You’re safe in the bubble, safe in the soft
We’ll sit right here till the scary stuff stops
		  
[Outro]
See? You’re back
Drink some water
You’re doing great
Namaste, okay?


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:24:25
lyrics:
Boot sequence complete
Cogs online
Feltware Festival
Activate
Three, two, one (Hey)

(Hey, hey) I'm the dance machine
Turn my gears, make my lights go green (Hey)
Felt and steel on the beat so clean, run
I'm the dance machine
(Hey)
(Hey)
I'm the dance machine (Hey, hey)
I'm the dance machine
Turn my gears, make my lights go "ding" (Hey, hey, hey)
Felt and steel on the beat so clean (Run, run, run, run)
I'm the dance machine

I've got rat feet sweeping under your spins
Picking up the night where the glitter lands in
I've got Whatnots clipped to the trussline beams
Caught a pin check, keeping time, keeping dreams
I saw a leading man freeze right on two
But I held the grid 'til the drop punched through
I've got a daredevil stuck in comment wars
So I mute the noise and I open doors

I don't breathe (I don't breathe), I sidechain
I don't blink (I don't blink), I pulse again
My veins are cables, my nerves are comms
My bones are truss and my heart is drums
Every hand, every role, every unseen scene
Feeds the heart of the machine

(Hey, hey, hey) I'm the dance machine
With cables, crew and a kick drum team (Hey)
(Hey, hey, hey) Every shift makes the night run clean
From the gate to the drop
I'm the dance machine
I'm the dance machine

I've got a limiter wall with a Sweetums grin
Catching the hits so the peace stays in
A walking crossfade, a grounded hum
Holding the line so the hearts can drum
Janice in the bubble where the fear turns soft
Counting every orange 'til you get un-lost
Breathe in, babe, yeah, it's a cosmic detour
The pads are rain and the landing is sure

I don't judge (I don't judge), I align (I align)
I don't shout (I don't shout), I hold the line
Every stumble, every save, every small unseen
Turns the gears of the machine

I heard a rigger's heartbeat skip in the dark
I saw a roadside clerk relight the spark
Beauregard ran the night back into one
Signal restored when the set said "done"
I don't fall, I reroute

(Hey, hey, hey, hey) I'm the dance machine
Turn my gears, make my lights go "ding" (Hey)
(Hey, hey, hey) Felton steel on the beat so clean
From the rat pack to the truss line
From the med tent to the main line
From the gas pump to the peace again
I'm the night and you're my friend

Every pin was important
Every worker was a spark
The machine sleeps
But the trust persists
(Hey)
I'm the dance machine
I'm the dance possessed


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:24:43
lyrics:
We're the ghosts in the glowstick jungle
Bags on our backs while the basslines rumble
Grabbers out, dodgin' (dodging) your heels
You chase the drops
We chase the spills

Kick drum hits, you scream and soar
We feel the pulse through the stains on the floor
Your breakdown hits, ours never stops
We're syncing trash cans like sidechain drops

Candy wrappers, cigarette ends
We're the under-track that never bends
No spotlight sweep, no shout or cheer
Just rat pack footsteps in your ear

Rizzo and the rat pack
Kings of the grime
Cleaning up the chaos
One beat at a time
Under your feet
Yeah, we're runnin' (running) the scene
Invisible labor
The night won't see

DJ drops, crowd goes feral
We weave through the feet like a backline barrel
Powder on the ground, cups in a wave
You call it "flow"
We call it "grave"

Your riser hits and the crowd ignites
We lift three bags in the strobelight's bite
You're chasing bliss on a sawtooth climb
We're sweeping glitter off the kick's punchline

Glow bands snap, bins overflow
We're the quiet tide beneath your show
You dance in drops, your friends get free
But someone's gotta (got to) scrub the beat

When the night runs long
And the floor runs wild
We're still here
Every mess compiled
Not for glory
Not for fame
Just takin' (taking) pride
In the low-end game
'Cause (because) every perfect moment
Needs someone behind
Cleaning the joy
That you leave behind

Alright boys
Level it out

Rizzo and the rat pack
Kings of the grime
Sweeping up the mayhem
In triple-time
Under your feet
Yeah, we're steering the scene
Invisible engine
That keep it clean

Rizzo and the rat pack
Nightshift brigade
Making room for sunrise
In the mess you made
If the floor still shines
When the dawn's routine
Thank the little rats
You've never seen

Hey, if trance is all about layers
We're the cleanup layer. Respect it
Look at this, half a pretzel. Breakfast!
Alright, rat pack, wrap it up before the sun judges us


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:24:54
lyrics:
At the edge of all the bass and lights
There's a white tent glowing in the night
Felt gloves folded on a rolling tray
Masks pulled down, just waiting
Hoping it stays that way
We've got charts, meds, sutures, tape
Enough to patch a dozen kinds of fate
Monitors hum and a soft green line
A little felt hospital in the noise and shine

We trained for the worst, we drilled every scene
Ran mock codes under fluorescents, antiseptic clean
Now we sit by the flap while the kick rolls by
Listening to the radios and an unbroken sky

If the phones don't ring
If the radios sleep
If the only thing we treat
Is a blistered felt feet
Then boredom is victory
Silence is a win
A hundred tiny "almost"
Kept outside this tent of tin
We're ready for chaos
But we'd rather stay unseen
In a night built on frenzy
We're rooting for routine

We get glitter in an eye, a twisted knee
A kid who danced too hard and forgot to breathe
A dehydrated puppet with a shaking hand
We trade their wristband scan for a water and a fan
We tape ankles, hand out ice and care
Check vitals and the pulse of the kick out there
Once in a while, someone's really not okay
We switch from comfort mode to "clear a path, make way"

We know the protocols, we've marked every aisle
We've mapped the shortest routes in felt and tile
But every time the cones stay calm and clear
We trade a surge of adrenaline for one more quiet year

If the gurneys stay parked
If the sirens don't sing
If the worst thing we see
Is a lost phone ring
Then boredom is victory
Empty cots a prize
A field full of music
And no ambulance lights
We're built for the panic
But we're praying for no call
In a night made for stories
We hope nothing big at all

You chase the drop, we watch the waves
Every hand in the air, we count as safe
Because if you make it home with just tired feet
No stitches, no sirens, no white sheet heat
Then we did our job without a single show
And you'll never know our names, and that's how we know

Boredom is victory
Quiet is kind
An uneventful shift
Is a fest over design
If our log reads "minor"
If our night reads "slow"
If the big red bag
Never has to go
Then boredom is victory
Zero is the score
We'll pack the tents at sunrise
Never wanting more

We're the steady little heartbeat
Behind your roar and rust
Doctors in a canvas room
Keeping watch because we must
So dance like there's no broken
And love like there's no harm
We'll be here just in case
Hoping we never sound the alarm

So dance like there's no broken
And love like there's no harm
We'll be here just in case
Hoping we never sound the alarm


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:25:56
lyrics:
Attention, Feltware City
Tonight's schedule includes
Special guests
Three, Two, One

We got lab coat warnings, "This may tingle" smoke in the air
You'll hear one word meeps get chopped, my throat in the MPC, I swear
We got a sax in the back room banding truth through neon haze
You'll hear one note, whole room remembers why it came

This one's a cameo blink and you'll miss it
Guest pass magic quick flash then it shifted
From the strange to the smooth
From the swing to the scream
When the count hits you'll hear what we got

We got guest pass lights fast bass in the bones
You'll hear eight bar miracles and wild little tones
We got rules and spice and science gone wrong
You'll hear the whole festival shout "put it in a song"
We got paws in the air and a glitch in the plan
You'll hear one more time from the front to the van
Hands up cameo, don't blink
Feltware city and it runs in sync

We got low end and any color four strings shaking the floor
You'll hear Floyd bend one note and the whole place wants more
We got waka waka party break, bad jokes good crash
You'll hear the punchline flop and the bass comes back
We got a chef speaking nonsense like it's perfectly in time

Even cameos carry the night
Aa quick hand a short song a borrowed light
Okay, one more. Go!

We got guest pass lights fast bass in the bones
You'll hear swing, scratch, techno and champagne tones
We got diva steps and drama dancing the stage
You'll hear Feltware cameos let 'em out the cage
We got last song, lying through the teeth
You'll hear encore, start a riot underneath
Hands up cameo, don't stop
Feltware city till the sun comes up

Special guests
Cleared for takeoff
Crew to stations


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:27:31
lyrics:
Ahem
Listen up
We are back on schedule
This is very serious
Trance is not a joke

Rule number one: you must be patient
We do not rush, we build slowly
Tiny hi-hats, a humble kick
Respectable synths
Nothing too silly yet
And if anyone freestyles again
I will file a complaint with the universe

These are the rules of proper trance
Stand up straight, pretend you do not dance
Fold your arms, try to keep your stance
Then the break hits, you have no chance
These are the rules of proper trance
Look disapproving while you're in a trance
Very important, take this seriously
While you lose control of your dignity

Rule number two: melody matters
It must ascend, heroically, of course
A noble lead line over noble chords
Absolutely majestic, absolutely ridiculous
If it does not lift the soul
It is merely "music"

Rule number three: hands must rise
At exactly the right bar line
If you shout early, I will frown
If you shout late, I will frown harder
And then we all shout "Hey!"

This is regrettable
Do not forget
Trance must be pure
And also fun
I am extremely against
How much I like this
Okay, one more drop


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:28:06
lyrics:
They say, "Pepe, five minutes"
I say, "Okay, make it three"
They say, "We need a miracle"
I say, "Okay"
Tiny body, big stage
Las manos arriba
You ready for el rey, okay?

Okay

I'm small, pero mando
Red suit, yo brillo, comando
I step on stage like "move, excuse"
I wink one time, whole front row lose
They say, "Pepe, behave"
I say, "Mira, I behave later"
She say, "Too spicy"
I say, "You'll thank me, okay"

I don't walk, I strut on beat
I make the dembow feel complete
If you shy, I fix that fast
Eye contact, then shake that (okay)

Pepe in the party, okay (okay)
Pepe make it spicy (olé)
Tiny body, big sway
Turn the dembow to a wave (okay)
Pepe in the party all day (okay)

Señorita in the front row, "Hola, soy Don Guapito"
She dancein' lentito, then I go poquito a poquito
She say, "Pepe, take my photo"
I pose, perfecto, otro, otro
I point at the DJ like, "Yes, my friend"
Then I point at myself like, "Also, I'm him"
I kiss the air, mwah, no shame
Crowd screams back when I say my name

I'm not humble, I'm helping you
By letting you witness the things I do
If you don't like it, cool, okay
You still gonna dance either way (okay)

Pepe in the party, okay (okay)
I improve your night, you're welcome (olé)
If you don't like it, cool, still move that way (okay)
Tiny body, big sway, Pepe all day (okay)

Left side (Pepe!)
Right side (Okay!)
Front row (Pepe!)
Back row (Okay!)
Pepe (Pepe!)
Pepe (Pepe!)
Okay (Pepe!)
Okay (Okay!)

Relax, I'm professional, mostly

Pepe in the party, okay (okay)
Pepe make it spicy (okay)
Tiny body, big sway
Turn the dembow to a wave (okay)
Pepe in the party all day
(All day, all day, okay, okay)
Pepe in the party, okay (okay)
I improve your night, you're welcome (olé)
Don't like it, cool, still move that way (okay)

Pepe all day (Okay)


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:29:07
lyrics:
White coat, rubber gloves
Clipboard stacked like doves
Now Beaker, stand quite still
Science needs your squeals (Mee, mee)
Wires tangled on the floor
Coffee rings on lab door
Controlled chaos, that's the key
Precision plus stupidity

We're cooking up a beautiful malfunction
Tiny little clicks in every function
If it buzzes, pops, or starts to smoke
That's the sound of a really good joke
Dr. Honeydew says, "This may tingle"
Flip the switch, hear the atoms mingle

Jar of pickles labeled "tones"
Laser pointed at the cones
Perfect, now we add some fizz
Purely for the science of it (Ah-ha)
Beaker tap-dances on the board
Every misstep gets recorded
Remarkable, each terrified shriek
Is peaking right where I like to be

We're cooking up a beautiful malfunction
Tiny little clicks in every function
If it buzzes, pops, or starts to smoke
That's the sound of a really good joke
Dr. Honeydew says, "This may tingle"
Flip the switch, hear the atoms mingle

Observe when Beaker presses here
The entire lab disappears (Mee?)
Room resets in neon haze
Clipboard shakes
But he just says

We're cooking up a beautiful malfunction
Tiny little clicks in every function
If it buzzes, pops, or starts to smoke
That's the sound of a really good joke
Dr. Honeydew says, "This may tingle"
Flip the switch, hear the atoms mingle

Mee, mee


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:27:03
lyrics:
Meep
Meep, meep
Meep, meep, meep, meep, meep, meep, meep
Check, check
Mic no, deck yes

Red tie, crooked lab coat stain
Words in my head like a rattling chain
Everybody talks in perfect beams
I spit out steam and emergency meeps
Hands shaking over a dusty deck
One button blinking like it knows what's next
I can't say "hi," I can't say "please"
So I load my throat into the MPC

Tap the pad, hear my voice unbend
My meep turns metal like it wants revenge
Pitch it up, slice it clean
Now my mouth is a bright blue screen
Turn the gain where my fear can fit
Root my panic to the kick drum hit
If I can't talk, I'll make it peak
Count me in, let me speak

I got more than meep
Turn it up, let me freak
From the tweeters to the deep
This is how I speak
I got more than meep
Feel the floor, feel it peak
Every beat, every beep
Is the language I keep

More than meep
More than meep
This is how I speak

Sample my shake and pitch it high
Throw my worry across the sky
Layer my stutter with a siren tone
I was background noise, now I own the room
Sidechain my lungs to the four-on-floor
Let the sub say what I'm aching for
They yell "careful," I yell "play"
I find whole sentences in the feedback spray

I can't say "I love this," not with my jaw
So I drop a chord and let it do the "aw"
I can't say "I'm scared," not in plain air
So I filter sweep until you feel I'm there
Cut the silence into pieces tight
Quantize my courage to the strobe light
If you listen past the squeak
You'll hear me, me, me

I got more than meep
Turn it up, let me freak
From the tweeters to the deep
This is how I speak
I got more than meep
Feel the floor, feel it peak
Every beat, every beep
Is the language I keep

More than meep
More than meep
This is how I speak

I used to hide behind the back row noise
Now the whole place moves when I make my choice
Every glitch, every stray note
Is a secret message in the smoke
If I could talk, I'd say "I'm here"
So I let the pads hold what I can't make clear

Meep, meep, meep, meep, meep, meep
Not a joke
Not a leak
Not a beep
It's me

I got more than meep
Turn it up, let me freak
From the tweeters to the deep
This is how I speak
I got more than meep
Feel the floor, feel it peak
Every beat, every beep
Is the language I keep

Let the quiet one speak
Let me speak


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:26:38
lyrics:
Little green speck on a giant stage
String lights shaking with the bass waves
I tap this mic with a nervous hand, say
"Is anybody out there feeling the same?"

Been that small voice humming in the background
Now I'm out front staring at a sea of crowns
Feet in the mud glow, glow sticks in your fingers
Every shy heart here, yeah
I feel it with you

You and me, we've both been waiting
For a song that says it plain
That it's okay to be a little different
And still sing your name

We're all in this together
Hands up, hearts in the weather
Green lights over main stage
Shine on every face
We're all in this together
Right now, right here, forever
If you've ever felt alone
If you've ever felt alone
Let this crowd become your home

I see paint streaks, homemade signs in the front row
Every color, every story in the same glow
You lift me up every time that the beat hits
Funny little voice, big love in the kick drum

If you cried in the car on a long drive
If you laugh just to hide what you can't hide
Let this moment be a clear sky
Let our voices climb

You and me, we've both been waiting
For a song that says it plain
That it's okay to be a little different
And still sing your name

We're all in this together
Hands up, hearts in the weather
Green lights over main stage
Shine on every face
We're all in this together
Right now, right here, forever
If you've ever felt alone
If you've ever felt alone
Let this crowd become your home


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:29:18
lyrics:
Gonzo the Great, let the record speak
Crowd's packed in, lights start to fade
I tap the mic, "Y'all remember the name?"
If Central Ops asks, I'm not here
Okay, hi, let's get weird

I've been stuck in the comment storm
Banning trolls in my cape 'til my eyes feel warm
Stream still rollin', chat still loud
I took five minutes and I stole the crowd
Used to launch out a cannon just to feel okay
Now I launch a backspin and the lasers obey
Crate so deep, need a map, not a plan
Dust on the wax, gold under my hands
They ask, "Why you always go so hard?"
I grin, "Because normal's the scariest part"
I cut that break, let the booth go bright
And the whole place leans in like, "Oh, he might"

Step aside, let me clock back in
Same old needle, brand new spin
I've been gone, but I never left
Count it down and hold your breath

Gonzo the Great, let the record speak
Hands on the plate, make the vinyl shriek
Back from the break, yeah, I control the room
Every scratch I make goes boom, boom, boom

Gonzo, Gonzo, Gonzo
Gonzo, Gonzo, Gonzo
Gonzo, Gonzo

Freak for the freak beats, oddball king
Flip that kick, let the hi-hat sing
Crossfader dancin', left-right fling
Turn the whole crowd into trampoline spring
Warp that trance line, bend that tone
Chop that vocal like a megaphone
You still gotta hear 'em shout my way
I slice three cuts in a single display (Hey)
And if you see me lookin' over my shoulder
It's 'cause my radio's still screamin', "Gonzo report"
I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm—
Back in support

Step aside, let me clock back in
Same old needle, brand new spin
I've been gone, but I stayed this great
Time to show you how I got this name

Gonzo the Great, let the record speak
Hands on the plate, make the vinyl shriek
Back from the break, yeah, I control the room
Every scratch I make goes boom, boom, boom

Gonzo, Gonzo, Gonzo

Hands in the air, now freeze like this
I paint the sky with a backspin kiss
Kick to the chest, bass in your bones
I juggle these drums like I juggle my shows
One more flare, then a blindfold slide
Beat still ridin' like a carnival ride
You want proof? Just watch that platter
Every wild idea I had, now it matters

Gonzo, Gonzo
Okay, five minutes is up
One more
Gonzo the Great, let the record speak
Hands on the break
Gonzo
Back from the break
Gonzo

Gonzo the Great
Gonzo
Back from the break
Gonzo
Media check, I'm comin' back
Gonzo
Be nice in the chat
Gonzo
Gonzo, Gonzo, Gonzo
Gonzo, Gonzo


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:28:57
lyrics:
Backroom blue light, sticky floor
Velvet rope but we slip through the door
He's half-asleep in a folding chair
Sax on his lap like he don't care
One eye open, crooked grin
Bands too stiff so they call him in
He just shrugs, straightens up his tie
Lifts that horn and tilts it to the sky

Kick drum slow, brass breathes on cue
Sidechain swing in a midnight groove
No speech, no speech, just truth on wax
Then

Zoot in the backroom, wake it up
Lean on a note 'til the whole place jumps
Late night legend, right on time
Bend that line, make it mine
We don't leave 'til the ceiling cracks
When Zoot blows sax
Yeah, when Zoot blows sax

Yeah, when Zoot blows sax

Bartender freezes mid-pour now
Cards on the table, deal slows down
He hits a run like a runaway train
Crooked and perfect, sweet and strange
Old gold suit in a neon haze
Dance floor shakes on every phrase
He don't talk but he tells the truth
In every bent blue bar proof

Upright walks, muted keys stay tight
Then the sub line crawls under the night
We clap like tourists, off by a hair
He just smiles like he's been there

Zoot in the backroom, wake it up
Lean on a note 'til the whole place jumps
Late night legend, right on time
Bend that line, make it mine
We don't leave 'til the ceiling cracks
When Zoot blows sax
Yeah, when Zoot blows sax

Yeah, when Zoot blows sax

Eyes half-closed but he never misses
Back alley blues and velvet kisses
He drags the pocket, lets it breathe
One bent note and the room believes
More, more, more

Backroom
Wake up
Blow that, blow that sax

Zoot in the backroom, wake it up
Lean on a note 'til the whole place jumps
Late night legend, right on time
Bend that line, make it mine
We don't leave 'til the ceiling cracks
When Zoot blows sax
Yeah, when Zoot blows sax

Yeah, when Zoot blows sax


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:27:54
lyrics:
Step on the stage, feathers and shades
Pick in my hand, crowd in a haze
Pink suit shimmer, sub on deck
Floyd pepper, who's next?

They said, "Floyd, you're a puppet, stick to funk on TV"
I just laugh, tune low, let the groove answer for me
Garage kids two-step, G-house heads nod slow
Bassline crew jumpin' when I drop that low-low
Mustache drippin', pink suit sharp
From the Rainbow to the rave in a midnight car
From felt to festivals, same four strings
I just bend until the whole room sings

Swing those hats, let the pocket breathe
Don't rush the magic, watch it weave
When the subline smiles, the floorboards know
Three, two

Any genre, any night
I tune it low and make it right
Two-step swing to bassline burst
Pink suit sub, hit you first
Any color, any groove
Low end tells the truth
Low end, pull it back then shove
Pink suit turn the room to mud
Any color, same love
Low end, pull it back then shove
Pink suit turn the room to mud
Any color, same love

Left hand walkin', right hand slap
Fur on the fretboard, hats in the back
Old jazz wrist with a new school twist
I slide one note, whole club go split
From smoky lounges to varese nights
I stitch that pocket, I stitch it tight
You hear that low hum climb your spine
That's me, pink dude, redrawing the line

Kick steady, swing stays mean
I paint the pocket evergreen
If you can feel it, you already know
Three, two

Any genre, any night
I tune it low and make it right
Two-step swing to bassline burst
Pink suit sub hit you first
Any color, any groove
Low end tells the truth
Low end, pull it back then shove
Pink suit turn the room to mud
Any color, same love
Low end, pull it back then shove
Pink suit turn the room to mud
Any color, same love

One note, two notes, whole floor floats
Hear that pocket tight coat
I wrap 'round your ribs like a velvet line
Warm in the chest, heavy in time
No fireworks, no tricks, no excuse
Just a bass that talks and a room that moves

Filter up, let it grin
Crowd leans in, here we spin
Hands up, hold that breath
Three, two, one
Pink hand, black pick
Big sound, that's it
Champagne sip, same drip
Every bar, that's lit
Low end (Low end)
Pink suit (Pink suit)
Same groove (Same groove)
Tell the truth (Tell the truth)

Any genre, any night
I tune it low and make it right
Two-step swing to bassline burst
Pink suit sub hit you first
Any color, any groove
Low end tells the truth
Low end, pull it back then shove
Pink suit turn the room to mud
Any color, same love
Low end, pull it back then shove
Pink suit turn the room to mud
Any color, same love

Same old Floyd, new stage glow
Any color, let it roll
Pick goes down, crowd still moved
Low end told the truth


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:27:43
lyrics:
Mop bucket moonlight
Wristband glitter
Hi-vis drip
Trash bag shimmer
Crowd say "rewind"
I say "selecta"

Badge on my vest say crew
But they queue like I headline too
I'm the rat in the rafters, backdoor master
Slide past staff with a grin like "Who's you?"
Got a cart like a custom whip
Glow sticks stuck in the side, that's drip
Pick up cups, pick up tips, pick up kicks they left
Every lost left shoe? That's rent
Spill in the pit? I glide right through
Two-step swing while I mop my room
You chase the drop, cool, do your thing
I make room for the kick to hit like boom

Rats in hi-vis, rats in hi-vis
If it spills on the floor, that's my business
Rats in hi-vis, rats in hi-vis
From the bins to the booth, that's my witness
I sweep, then I spin
Turn the mess into mix, let it rinse
Two-step when it kicks, don't trip
Rats in hi-vis
I clean up the chaos, then I remix

Lanyard swinging like a chain
Snack wrist deep in a chip bag rain
Backstage floor, that's my terrain
I tag my name in a cola stain
USB full of doubles and VIP
Cue point set, never miss that switch
No dropout, no panic, no "Where'd it go?"
I got backups on backups, let's roll
Once they breathe and the loud gets thin, lights drop
Rat Pack holds it down while I clock my slot
Staff tent corner, a little pad on a crate
Swing so clean, make the tired folks wake

Rats in hi-vis, rats in hi-vis
If it spills on the floor, that's my business
Rats in hi-vis, rats in hi-vis
From the bins to the booth, that's my witness
I sweep, then I spin
Turn the mess into mix, let it rinse
Two-step when it kicks, don't trip
Rats in hi-vis
I clean up the chaos, then I remix

Who keeps the floor so fresh?
(Riz-zo)
Who makes the mud sound plush?
(Let's go)
Who got crumbs in his crown?
(This rat)
Who flips the lost and found into sound?
(Play that)
Who call rewind on the drop?
(We do)
Who makes the clean-up never stop?
(That's you)

Night shift, no sun
Just candy on the tongue and a half-warm bun
Every dropped drink? That's drum fuel
Every squeak on the floor? That's a groove tool
Every sweeper sidechain make room for the kick
Every bag tied tight like a perfect clip
They see a mop, I see a build
They hear a spill, I hear a fill

Rats in hi-vis, rats in hi-vis
If it spills on the floor, that's my business
Rats in hi-vis, rats in hi-vis
From the bins to the booth, that's my witness
I sweep, then I spin
Turn the mess into mix, let it rinse
Two-step when it kicks, don't trip
Rats in hi-vis
I clean up the chaos, then I-

Badge clipped low, tail unseen
When the lights come up
I'm a rumor in the steam


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:29:35
lyrics:
Waldorf, was this show a mistake?
Absolutely, Statler
Good, let's stay
What's the tempo?
BPM, who cares about BPM?
Somewhere between five and five hundred

Sat down late, seat smells funny
Paid too much, where's our money?
Guy in front's head's a blocking crime
Like the big fall in that never lands on time
Fries are soggy, drink is warm
This place should come with a legal form
The stage looks cheap, curtain's shook
We'd leave right now if we weren't so hooked
Now they got fiddles, fine, that's us
Then a robot kick drum tried to start
And what's with all the lasers, son?
It's like the sun filed a complaint and won

Wind up speech?
Longer than a tax form
Frying pan hiss?
Sound like a kitchen storm
Hands up?
My hands are fine right here
Countdowns?
Three, two, why are we still here?

Boo, hiss, what is this?
Your steam whistle coughs up angry mist
Stamp your feet, shake your cane
This is art, we feel the strain
But hey, wait, hold the phone
That fiddle line just hit the bone

The singer's flat, dancer's lost
Robot polish is paying the cost
That DJ pressed one button there
In my day, we worked for our despair
They tried to handcuff the fiddle run
It slipped the cuffs and kept on runnin'
They hooked a breathing pump to the bagpipe too
That's not music, that's plumbing, you fool

And yet the crowd won't stop
Unfortunately, neither can the big wallop
We came to mock, we came to sneer
Why's our foot tapping in here?
We came to boo, we came to scold
Why's that hook actually kinda bold?
Don't make it good, don't make it tight
We are trying to hate you, please don't be alright

Boo, hiss, try again
I've seen better plots on a napkin
Too damn loud, food's still bad
Worst night out we've ever had
But oh, no, don't make it good
That wallop hit like it really should

(Stomp, stomp, clap, clap)
We hate this show
(Stomp, stomp, clap, clap)
But don't let go
Was it awful? Mostly
Was it worth it? Don't quote me
Punk says now, EDM says wait
So they argued and accidentally made it great
If the lasers blind us, we'll boo the light
But we'll still be here next Thursday night

Boo, hiss, one more time
This mess is almost kinda fine
Nine parts nonsense, one part gold
That's how legends get retold
We'll complain 'til we're in the ground
But we'll buy tickets when you're back in town
We hate your bang parts, we hate your noise
See you next week, you terrible boys

That was terrible
Absolutely
Same time next week
Front row
So we can boo louder

So we can boo louder


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:28:53
lyrics:
(Hands up)
(Paws up)
Who ordered the fuzzy DJ tonight?
Turn that fur way up
Let's go

I'm your bear from the bargain bin
Got dad jokes and a cheesy grin
Came to drop paws on this kick and snare
Least I think that's mine... is that my hair?
Got a honey pot drink in a plastic cup
Tried to stage dive, they held me up
"Is it crowd-surfing or bear attack?"
Security's confused, they just step back

I said "any single bears in the crowd tonight?"
Just me?
Wow
That's awkward
Alright
DJ, Save me from this flop
I beg ya, too late
Here comes the

WAKA-WAKA DROP IT
Bounce that floor
Don't stop it
Left paw
Right paw
Shake
Bad jokes
Good beat
Earthquake

WAKA-WAKA LOSE IT
Laugh so hard
You groove it (woah!)
If the punchline kinda sucks
Blame the DJ
Turn it up

I told the crowd "you look well-fed"
They booed so loud, I DJ'd instead
"Anybody here from out of town?"
That's everyone, it's a campground
Said "make some noise if you hate my set"
They screamed so big, I'm famous, yet
I asked the lights guy "how's it sound?"
He turned me off, best joke in town

I'm the only act with a picnic rider
Just chips
Dip
Jar of cider
Promoter said
"Bro, that's not the norm"
I said "I'm barely human"
I'm a

WAKA-WAKA DROP IT
Bounce that floor
Don't stop it
Left paw
Right paw
Shake
Bad jokes
Good beat
Earthquake

WAKA-WAKA LOSE IT
Laugh so hard
You groove it (woah!)
If the punchline kinda sucks
Blame the DJ
Turn it up

Okay real quick
If you're having a bad day
Just remember
Somewhere out there
There's a bald bear trying to rock a wig

WAKA-WAKA
Cut that track up
Smack that track up
WAKA-WAKA
If the joke falls flat
We just bring the bass back


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:27:18
lyrics:
Animal
You ready?
We call
You answer

Yo
Animal
You in the house?
I said Animal
You in the house?
Who's the king of chaos on the kit?
Who's the wild one?
Never gonna quit

Animal, Animal, where you at now?
Show me something, make 'em say "wow"
Animal, animal, shake that stage
Let that fury jump out the cage
Animal, Animal, where you at now?
Show me something, make 'em say "wow"

Animal, can you play it soft?
Can you keep it cool?
Keep it aloft?
Nah, forget that
Tear it apart
Hit 'em in the chest
Straight from the heart
Roll that floor, yo

Animal, animal, where you at now?
Show me something, make 'em say "wow"
Animal, animal, shake that stage
Let that fury jump out the cage

Okay, animal
Follow my flow
Left, right, left
Now, go!
Hit 'em with a roll if you feel this vibe
Yeah, that's the rhythm we ride

Animal
Animal, Animal, where you at now?
Show me something, make 'em say "wow"
Animal, animal, shake that stage
Let that fury jump out the cage

Animal on the kit
Crowd in a trance
I call your name
You make 'em dance


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:26:51
lyrics:
Lasers up
Feathers sharp
Spotlight snap
Sync your heart

Left wing
Right wing
Snap neck
Head swing
Slide beak
Sharp peek
Four counts
Hard lean
Camilla on the center line
Beak tilt
Eyes lock
Tight spine
Crew drops
Low squat
Claws trace the floor
Pop chest
Pop hips
Hit 8
Hit 4

Pivot on the talon
Triple spin in the dust
Heel-peck
Heel-peck
Jump on the thrust
Shoulder twitch
Wing glitch in a staggered row
Sixteen hits clean
Then a freeze on the blow

Camilla's clockwork cluck crew
Tick-tick-tick on cue
Every stomp
Every twitch
Dead true
Eight wings wide in a razor V view
Drop low
Then rise
Then strike
Feathered fury locked tight on the mic
Crowd screams
But they move straight through
Camilla's clockwork cluck crew

Row one
Necks roll
Row two
Toes fold
Row three
Jump split
Snap back
No slip
Double kick
Tail flick
Slam in a line
Knees knock
Claws clock
Perfect design
Slide in a circle
Heads bob
Then stop
Wave from the captain
Whole flock pop-pop

Camilla calls a combo with a blink and a clack
Backflip bird
Land clean
No crack
Fast feet
Floor beat
Feathers in flight
Six bars straight
Not a breath
Just bite

Camilla's clockwork cluck crew
Tick-tick-tick on cue
Every stomp
Every twitch
Dead true
Eight wings wide in a razor V view
Drop low
Then rise
Then strike
Feathered fury locked tight on the mic
Crowd screams
But they move straight through
Camilla's clockwork cluck crew
Camilla's clockwork cluck crew
Camilla's clockwork cluck crew

Left claw
Drag
Right claw
Drag
Slow head
Turn
Sharp gaze
Burn
Three-count glide
Then a mid-air twist
Land in a lattice
Zero drift
One breath held
Beaks shut
Eyes wide
Then burst, full sprint in a feathered slide

Camilla's clockwork cluck crew
Tick-tick-tick on cue
Every stomp
Every twitch
Dead true
Eight wings wide in a razor V view
From the barnyard straight to mainstage proof
They write every beat with a feather and hoof
Last hit
Last split
Last view
Camilla's clockwork cluck crew


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:26:11
lyrics:
Spotlight, boa swing
Pink glass, diamond ring
Step back, make space
Kick drum, start the chase

Mirrorball in my compact
Lip gloss, combat boots, contact
Front row losing their minds
For sequins and tulle, yeah, and flashbulb fights
I walk, floor gets jealous
Heels hit, world says, "Yes, I'm special"
You talk, I fix my lashes
That's the sound of status

Hands up, I wanna see that glow
Glitter on your tongue, let your inner diva show
Count it down with me
Three, two, one, go!

Hi-ya! I hit the beat like that

Strut, spin, pose, impact
Say my name like you're on a catwalk too
Hi-ya! I make the drop go boom
Hi-ya! Sparkles in every room
If you feelin' extra, this one's for you

Photo flash on my fan club
They chant every move, hands up
Side eye, then a hair flip
Whole crowd follows the whip
I jump, bass jumps with me
Piggy power on ten, you see?
No slouch, we don't do that
Press play, back to back

Hands up, turn the runway to a rave
Own every step you take like the world was made
Count it down with me
Three, two, one, behave!

Left, right, hit that light
Walk, walk, own the night
Pose and chop on the beat, don't stop
Say moi, moi, say moi, moi
Moi, moi, moi, moi, moi, moi
Now everybody drop!

Hi-Ya! I hit the beat like that


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:26:24
lyrics:
Børka-børka-børk
Flip-flop fricka frack
Rubber chicky squad
We go clap, clap, clack

Skidda skadder skillet
Spinner spooner spoof
Whisker disco dumpling
Booma-bimma roof
Flipper flopper flapjack
Tikka-takka tune
Salsa in the saucepan
Jumping to the moon

Børka-børka-børk
Shimmy shamma shoom
Hands up, hands up
Feeling zoom, zoom, zoom
Rubber chicky speakin'
Squeaky squiggle squeal
Ticky tocky tikka
Tell me how you feel

Børk børk boom
Shake-a-da room
Chicky go squak, when the beat go vroom
Børk børk boom
Spinning that spoon
Up in the pot like a bass typhoon
Børk børk boom
Forks in the air
Whip it, flip it, pan everywhere
Børk børk boom
Kablam kabloom
Rubber chicken talking, clear the room

Tinga linga tongs
Jigga jogga jam
Saucy lopsy lasagna
On the ceiling, bam
Floppa-fritti fritter
Shimmy on the plate
Kick a pairing hop
Feeling great-ø-great

Børk børk boom
Tippy tappy toes
Stirry stirry stew
Til the whole pot blows
Rubber chicky singing
Sqweeka sqweeka sky
Give me one more squiggle
We go fly-fly-fly

Børk børk boom
Shake-a-da room
Chicky go squak, when the beat go vroom
Børk børk boom
Spinning that spoon
Up in the pot like a bass typhoon
Børk børk boom
Forks in the air
Whip it, flip it, pan everywhere
Børk børk boom
Kablam kabloom
Rubber chicken talking, clear the room

Børk børk!

Shake-a-da room
Chicky go squak, when the beat go vroom
Børk børk boom
Spinning that spoon
Up in the pot like a bass typhoon
Børk børk boom
Forks in the air
Whip it, flip it, pan everywhere
Børk børk boom
Last big boom
Rubber chicken echo out the room

Børk børk
Bøøm!


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-20 18:29:51
lyrics:
Welcome back
Yeah, this is the quiet tent
Nothing to solve right now
Just a little soft reset
You're not in trouble
Your nervous system is just doing parkour
For sure, we can work with that

Your thoughts are fireworks stuck on repeat
A bright little storm with no off-switch beat
But look, my hand's still here, so are you
And the floor is a fact that will not move

Sip this water, tiny, boring, real
Feel the cup, feel the weight, feel what you feel
The night can be loud, the mind can race
But you don't have to run to be okay in this space

Soft reset (breathe in)
No test (breathe out)
The panic is a wave, babe, let it crest, let it pass
You're not breaking, you're buffering, you're coming back

Stay here (breathe in)
Right now
We'll sit in the soft till the sharp gets dull
You don't have to be brave, you just have to be full

Name one thing you can touch, yeah, that's enough
Tarp above us, beanbag under, hoodie cuffs
Wiggle your toes like you're checking the lights
Little signals to the body, we're home tonight

Hear the pads like warm rain through a fan
Hear the sub like a heartbeat from the land
If your brain tells stories, let it tell them slow
We're just turning down the contrast, letting edges go

Ope, there it is
That's the spooky carousel
We are not buying a ticket
For sure

Look at my fingers, count 'em
Now look at that wristband
It's the most aggressively neon bracelet ever made
If a panic thought shows up
Tell it, "Thanks for stopping by"
And don't open the door

Soft reset (breathe in)
You're set (breathe out)
Your heartbeat's a lantern, steady and low
And your mind is just a kite you don't have to tow

Stay here (breathe in)
Right now (breathe out)
You're safe in the bubble, safe in the soft
We'll wait with you till the loud lets off

See, you're still in your body
Drink a little water
Maybe eat something small
You did a hard thing, and you did it gently
Proud of you, for sure


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-21 02:07:29
lyrics:
Attention
Feltware City
Tonight's schedule includes
Special guests
Three, two, one

We've got
We've got, we've got

We've got a patriot with a rulebook yelling "proper" over kicks
We've got a shrimp in a red suit making heat out of six
We've got a lab coat, warnings, "this may tingle," smoke in the air
We've got a quiet little meep turned into language on the snare
We've got green lights and doubt, a small voice trying to be brave
We've got vinyl in the booth, wild hands cutting up the wave
We've got a sax in the backroom bending truth through neon haze
One note, whole place remembers why it came

This one's a cameo, blink and you'll miss it
Every voice gets a minute to lift it
From the strange to the smooth, from the swing to the scream
When the count hits

We've got guest pass, lights fast, bass in the bones
We've got eight-bar miracles and wild little tones
We've got rules and spice and science gone wrong
We've got a whole festival shouting "put it in a song"
We've got Boo and his cardio jokes on the drop
We've got drums that answer back when the MC stops
Hands up, cameo, don't blink
Feltware's the city and it runs in sync

We've got low end in any color, four strings shaking the floor
We've got rats in hi-vis turning cleanup into an encore
We've got two old punks in the rafters heckling builds like "why?"
Then the beat hits right and they hate it but they buy
We've got a fuzzy DJ swinging jokes like a cymbal crash
We've got a furred hurricane drummer turning animal into flash
We've got a dance crew clockwork count so clean it feels unfair
We've got a runway runaway, high kicks, high gloss, crowd in the air
We've got a chef speaking nonsense like it's perfectly in time
And when the night gets heavy
We've got a soft reset, slow breath, quiet sigh

Even cameos carry the night
A quick hand
A short song
A borrowed light
Okay
One more
Go

We've got guest pass, lights fast, bass in the bones
We've got swing, scratch, techno, and champagne tones
We've got diva steps and drama dense on end veins
We've got Feltware cameos, let 'em out the teeth

Hands up, cameo, don't stop
Feltware City 'til the sun comes up
Hands up, cameo, don't stop
Feltware City 'til the sun comes up

Special guests
Cleared for takeoff
Back to work


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-21 02:08:24
lyrics:
Crowd packed tight
Hands up high
Felt in the air
Stitch in the sky
Hey!

Badge on my wrist says "Feltware Pass"
Threadbare shoes still built to last
Stage lights glare on a fleece-lined throne
Every string they pull hits straight to the bone
Kermit on the banner, Miss P in the flames
Gonzo in goggles, rewriting the games

Dance mode on at Feltware
Flip that switch in my chest (Woo!)
All these puppet gods
Got the crowd possessed
Stitched-up kings of the night
Making monsters of the shy
Dance mode on at Feltware
We don't walk, we fly

Foam heads bouncing, Velcro hearts race
Fur in my mouth, glitter on my face
Animals screaming, faster, more
My feet turn rockets, I'm glued to the floor
Beaker in the booth, losing his mind
Bunsen in the lasers, breaking the design

Dance mode on at Feltware
Flip that switch in my chest (Woo!)
All these puppet gods
Got the crowd possessed
Stitched-up kings of the night
Making monsters of the shy
Dance mode on at Feltware
We don't walk, we fly

Left, right, rip the seams
We are living memes
Soft hands, hardcore soul
Pull my strings, lose control

Dance mode on at Feltware
Flip that switch in my chest (Woo!)
All these puppet gods
Got the crowd possessed
Stitched-up kings of the night
Making monsters of the shy
Dance mode on at Feltware
We don't walk, we fly

Crowd stitched tight
Hearts on thread
'Til the felt runs out
We're dance mode fed


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-09 01:23:08
lyrics:
“Stream is live… three cameras hot.”
“Chat’s moving fast—keep it clean.”
“Schedule’s tight. Balance the feed.”

At a pop-up festival stitched from light and wire,
one diva wants the whole sky—
and one daredevil has to keep the whole map on fire.

He’s got a dashboard full of stages, names, and time,
a hundred little moments trying to climb the same line.
Clips of joy, lost-and-found, a meet-up by the gate—
He threads the night like signal
through a crowded, changing rate.

He pins the plan, he cues the posts, he rides the rolling wave,
Not feeding every flare-up,
just boosting what’s brave.
“Keep the story bigger than a single set,” he says—
The kind of calm you only get
when you’ve lived through worse.

Then heels on the plywood—storm in the hallway glow,
lip gloss like a warning light,
eyes sharp as a strobe.

“Those comments. Gone.”
“Pin my name.”
“Say I’m next.”
“Say I’m flame.”

“We can steer the room.”
“We can’t stop the sea.”
“But we can make the spotlight…
and keep it clean.”

MAKE IT SHINE! (HEY!)
MAKE IT LOUD! (HEY!)
ALL EYES UP—RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!

PIN THE FEED! (HEY!)
COUNT IT DOWN! (HEY!)
GLAM ON TOP, LET THE LIGHTS GO POW!

MAKE IT SHINE—MAKE IT SHINE—
HANDS UP HIGH IN A PERFECT LINE!
MAKE IT LOUD—MAKE IT LOUD—
THIS IS MY MOMENT—WATCH ME NOW!

The crowd roars easy.
The cameras obey.
But the chat… keeps churning
either way.

The feed is a mirror and mirrors cut deep,
One bad line can crawl
where a thousand hearts sleep.
She sees a clip go sideways, misread, re-posted twice—
And anger hits her chest
like feedback on the mic.

“Block them all.”
“End the thread.”
“Make them sorry.”
“Paint it red.”

He watches the numbers—knows what rage will do:
It multiplies in silence,
it recruits.
So he opens a new window, floods it full of gold—
Fan cams, soft smiles,
and a story retold.

“We don’t win by swinging.”
“We win by moving on.”
“Let the love be louder.”
“Let the mean be gone.”

She hates the math of it—
attention is a ration—
But she feels the room is real,
not just a comment section.

MAKE IT SHINE—(HEY!)
KEEP IT KIND—(HEY!)
LIGHT THE SKY BUT DON’T LOSE YOUR MIND.
MAKE IT SHINE—(HEY!)
KEEP IT KIND—(HEY!)
TURN THE CHAOS INTO SOMETHING FINE.

Behind the screens, behind the gloss,
there’s a person trying not to crack.
And behind the posts, behind the plan,
there’s a worker holding the night intact.

“If no one’s watching…”
“Do I still… matter?”

“They are watching.”
“But you don’t have to fight them.”
“Let me hold the feed.”
“You hold the sky.”

“…Fine.”
“…But make it fabulous.”

So they split the difference—
a pin for the diva,
a heart for the festival.

SHINE! SHINE!
KIND! KIND!

Three… two…

…keep it clean—

MAKE IT SHINE! (HEY!)
KEEP IT KIND! (HEY!)
SPOTLIGHT UP AND THE CHAT FALLS IN LINE!

PIN THE FEED! (HEY!)
HOLD THE SKY! (HEY!)
LET THE WHOLE DAMN FESTIVAL FEEL ALIVE!

MAKE IT SHINE—MAKE IT SHINE—
WIDE OPEN HEARTS ON A SILVER LINE!
KEEP IT KIND—KEEP IT KIND—
WE TURN THE NIGHT INTO A BETTER TIME!

“Stream stable.”
“Sentiment up.”
“Spotlight achieved.”

She got her moment.
He kept the world.
And somewhere in the scroll,
kindness learned
to hold.


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-07 02:32:37
lyrics:
“Ops to tower—weather watch live.”
“Stand by.”
“Lightning ring ten miles out.”
A festival is a pulse in the dark.
Speakers breathe.
Steel hums.
And sometimes the sky leans down
to see who’s really running the night.

On the tower deck a Whatnot’s tied off,
chin in his collar, binoculars up.
Far off, the clouds keep opening and closing,
white in the black like a blade being shut.
Below him the field is a body in motion,
hands in the air, wristbands lit blue.
The kick still rolls. The wash still shimmers.
No one looks up—
but a few of them do.

Bunsen has radar blooms on the tablet,
green and yellow, a rim of red.
He checks the wind.
He checks the distance.
He checks flash-to-bang in his head.
“Kermit,” he says, “we are in the window.”
Not all clear.
Not called.
Just that narrow strip where one small choice
turns a live show
into a haul.

The show can survive a late truck,
a dead DI, a bad cable run.
The show can survive a blown breaker,
a missing cue, a headliner not done.
But lightning does not take notes.
Lightning does not care who’s on.

Go… no-go…
Go… no-go…

GO / NO-GO
quiet on the comms.
GO / NO-GO
waiting on the storm.
GO / NO-GO
hold the field, hold the breath.
One word keeps a thousand hearts
from turning panic into death.
GO / NO-GO
say it low, say it slow.
We don’t win by stealing one last drop
when the sky says no.

“Okay—but listen—
what if we wheel that giant fan out there?”
“Out where?”
“At the storm.”
“…No.”
“Like, scientifically.
Whoosh. Problem solved.”
And somebody laughs.
Then somebody else does.
Because laughter is ballast
when your hands want to shake.
And sure enough, some runner drags a fan case out,
points it at the horizon
like prayer with a plug.
For one full second
everybody lets themselves love the joke.

Bunsen checks again.
The Whatnot keeps watch.
Ops logs the distance.
No one says much.
In the tower light
faces go still.
Pros know procedure.
Pros know luck is real.
Please let it slide north.
Please let it break.
Please let the red ring thin
before we have to make—

GO / NO-GO
the whole floor waits.
GO / NO-GO
the whole rig shakes.
GO / NO-GO
then the line pulls wide.
The red ring loosens, fades, unwinds.
GO / NO-GO
and somebody points and says,
“Told you. Fan did it.”
“Mm. Yes.
Revolutionary science.”
GO / NO-GO
charts and crew and time.
GO / NO-GO
we get to keep the night.

“Tower to ops—cell is moving off.”
“Copy.”
“Lightning hold lifted.”
“All units resume.”
Then the kick comes back
like a pulse returning to a wrist.
The crowd shouts like nothing almost happened.
The lights bloom gold against the steel.
And high above it,
the Whatnot keeps watching.
Because this kind of night runs on skill.
On timing.
On people who keep looking out.
And on the small, quiet faith
that sometimes the sky lets go.


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-09 01:24:34
lyrics:
[Intro]
[Ops tower ambience, low sub hum]
In the Ops tower, the maps glow green
Coffee, clipboards, and a constant low-frequency hum
A friendly watcher sits like a metronome
Calm enough to make panic feel embarrassing
[Radio FX: Copy. Clear lane. Stand by.]

[Verse 1]
Kermit’s got a headset and a tight little smile
One eye on the schedule, one eye on the crowd
The warden points down with a pen like a laser
Egress is a promise you keep when it’s loud

[Call-and-response]
Yes… but that cable can’t cross the lane
Yes… but we’ll ramp it—flat—no strain
Yes… but the ramp needs signage, now
Yes… but we’ve got hands—tell me how

[Pre-Chorus / Tension build]
Every “but” is a boundary
Every “yes” is a fix
The show is made of a thousand tiny choices
None of them glamorous, all of them physics

[Drop / Acid chant hook]
[Crowd chant, chopped vocal]
YES—BUT! YES—BUT!
KEEP IT MOVIN’, KEEP IT SHUT!
YES—BUT! YES—BUT!
SAFE LANE CLEAR, DON’T CUT!
[303 opens on “BUT”]

[Verse 2]
[Duct-tape reality montage]
Gaff tape halos and a zip-tie crown
Two techs sprint by like they’re dodging the moon
A barrier shifts three inches left
And the whole site exhales in tune

[Call-and-response]
Yes… but haze can’t block that sign
Yes… but we’ll pull it back in line
Yes… but capacity’s near the edge
Yes… but we’ll meter the gate—no pledge, just ledge

[Bridge]
[Beatless, intimate]
Kermit looks out at the sea of hands
And for a second, he doesn’t see a party
He sees a temporary city
That only works if the boring people win
[Quiet]
Yes… but I don't want them to go home
Yes… but that’s the job
Yes… but… okay. We do it right

[Final Drop / Resolution]
[Chant returns, bigger]
YES—BUT! YES—BUT!
ROUTE IT CLEAN, DON’T PUSH YOUR LUCK!
YES—BUT! YES—BUT!
BORING NIGHT? THAT’S A TRUCKLOAD OF LOVE!

[Post-drop]
Boredom is victory
And victory is quiet under the big drops

[Outro]
[Radio FX: Ops, all clear]
The watcher sips coffee
Kermit finally breathes
And the machine keeps dancing

[Outro chant]
Yes / But / Yes / But / Yes / But / Yes / But / Yes
/ You’re a butt / Yes / But / Yes / But / Yes / But


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-22 21:37:30
lyrics:
Heart of the ledger
Mind of the machine
machine
The Medici of the Neon Renaissance

He’s J... P... Grosse...
Keeper of the gates...
He’s J... P... Grosse...
Holder of the dream...

Glowstick ocean
Neon tide
He scans the sky
From the inside
Bass in the ground
Wind in the wire
Counting exits
Watching wires
Showfile says green
Gut says amber

He doesn't dance
He calculates
Checks the ledgers
Checks the gates
Every what-if
Gets a name
Every risk
Burns in red

He’s J P Grosse
He holds the line
He’s J P Grosse
Rain or shine
He’s J P Grosse
Keep it alive
He’s J P Grosse
Guard the dream tonight

Radios cross
Signals collide
Barricade flex
By the speaker side
Runner says
Card lines froze
POS blinking
Red red red
Crowd keeps moving
Bass keeps growing
He just nods
Run it again

Run the line
Run the gate
Check the backup
Check the load
“Probably fine”
Is not a phrase

Clear...?

He’s J P Grosse
Hold the night
He’s J P Grosse
Keep it tight
He’s J P Grosse
Hold the ground
He’s J P Grosse
Don’t shut it down

Invoices behind my eyes
Sponsor calls
Weather lines
Insurance breathing
Down my neck
Numbers ticking
Like a threat
Every cheer outside the tent
Is a risk I carry
Every “one more song”
Is a line I bury

Someone has to do it
And tonight...
I'll wear the suit

He’s J P Grosse
Hold the line
He’s J P Grosse
Rain or shine
He’s J P Grosse
Keep it alive
He’s J P Grosse
Guard the dream tonight

He’s J... P... Grosse...
Keeper of the gates...
He’s J... P... Grosse...
Keeper of the dream...

Balance sheet, trembling
Crowd, alive

Green

Custos Somnii


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-09 01:24:11
lyrics:
[Verse 1]
Pressed vest, laminated pass on a lanyard,
Clipboard, coffee ring, rain on the badge.
Assigned to the Wub-Wub Tent at eight-oh-five,
Editor texts me: “File it fast.”

Photo pit at the rail, earplugs in,
Security says, “Two songs—then you’re gone.”
Wi-Fi’s a rumor, battery’s fading,
And the schedule changed twice before dawn.

Breaking story: frog in a bucket hat
Lost his glasses in the crowd again.
My mic says “Serious News Network,”
Crowd just screams, “DROP IT THEN!”

[Pre-Chorus]
I came for facts,
I got strobes and smoke.
I asked for quotes,
I got punchlines and jokes.

[Chorus]
Breaking news on the dancefloor—
This just in: I can’t keep score.
Every drop’s the biggest ever,
Every set’s the best so far.
I write my notes under lasers,
Try to interview a star—
Headline reads:
“I Survived
The Feltware So Far.”

[Verse 2]
Interview with a penguin DJ—
One loud squawk, then he dives away.
PR appears like a loading screen:
“Approved questions only. Keep it clean.”

Chicken crew on the side-stage riser,
Clucking straight in four-four time.
I ask, “How does the set feel live?”
Slime to the face—and the camera goes live.

Sound bleed from three directions,
Sub-bass shaking all my notes.
I’m trying to catch one usable sentence
While a bear tells jokes through clouds of smoke.

[Pre-Chorus 2]
I came for facts,
I got foam and heat.
I’m chasing truth
Through a moving beat.

[Chorus]
Breaking news on the dancefloor—
This just in: I lost my notes.
Every review turns into
Weather reports on flying goats.
I rate the thunder of the speakers,
Crowd says, “Wrong—rewrite that quote.”
Headline reads:
“Critic Trapped
Inside His Own Live Post.”

[Bridge]
(Spoken, anchor-calm, slightly distorted)
“This just in: local newsman spotted
typing a verdict on his knee
behind a generator.
Witnesses report he… kind of loves it.”

(beat softens, warm synths)
I don’t want to kill the wonder.
I don’t want to fake the praise.
I’m just trying to tell the truth
In a pop-up city built in haze.

Chasing angles, chasing minutes,
Chasing what survives the dawn.
Trying to praise what moved your chest
Without selling someone on.

Because somebody has to write it down
When the lights turn sweat to art.
And if I sound too sharp sometimes,
It’s because I care what lasts in hearts.

[Chorus]
Breaking news on the dancefloor—
This just in: I’m losing track.
Gave five stars to a tomato
Who booed me off the Astro-Stack.
Stamped “urgent” on a rave report,
Filed it under “strange but smart.”
Headline reads:
“Newsman Finds
A Beat Inside His Heart.”

[Final Chorus]
Breaking news on the dancefloor—
This just in: I stayed till dawn.
Typed my column in the chaos,
Every paragraph half-gone.
But the byline starts to shimmer
Under confetti, foam, and sparks—
Final read:
“He Came to Judge…
The Fest Rewired His Heart.”

[Outro]
(Spoken, newsroom calm)
“In conclusion: it’s loud, ridiculous…
and against all evidence—
it matters.”

(tiny synth tag)
“This just in…”


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-07 02:58:58
lyrics:
Velvet rope. Velvet lights.
Plastic city, private night.

“Welcome, darlings. You’re safe in here.”
“Try the bubbles.”

VIP in a pocket of hush and gold,
While the mainstage thunder shakes the walls.
Cufflinks shining, shoes in the dust,
He looks like “trust,” and he talks like “of course.”

Sponsors smiling with a travel-tired gaze,
“Is it always like this?” through the strobe haze.
Johnny nods like it’s part of the pitch,
While his comms light up with a dozen small glitches.

Guest list shifting, logo wall late,
Meet-and-greet window starts to drift.
He tops off flutes, stays light on his feet,
Makes a schedule slip feel like a gift.

He de-esses drama, keeps consonants clean,
EQs the ego till it sounds serene.
Soft on the surface, hard on the frame—
He protects the brand without naming blame.

“Copy. I’m on it.”

He’s the velvet firewall, holding the line,
Turning bad news into boutique shine.
Keep it classy, keep it funded, keep it kind—
While the festival runs on borrowed time.

And if the bass bleeds through the walls tonight,
He’ll call it “texture,” call it “vibe,” call it “light.”
Keep it classy, keep it funded, keep it kind—
Johnny Fiama makes the panic feel fine.

Noise complaint floating in on a tray,
“Can you lower that?” from three stages away.
A VIP says, “My signal’s dead,”
He smiles: “Darling, digital detox—rest your head.”

“Ops, I need a favor—soft and fast.
And tell the bar: two more cases, glass.”
Hard count drifting, table hold gone,
He makes a near-miss feel like it all belongs.

He crossfades blame, keeps hands unburned,
Moves the spotlight where it won’t get turned.
Every complaint becomes a cue,
Every “no” becomes “let me work that through.”

He never says “problem.”
He says “moment.”

He’s the velvet firewall, holding the line,
Turning bad news into boutique shine.
Keep it classy, keep it funded, keep it kind—
While the festival runs on borrowed time.

And if the schedule slips and the phones ignite,
He’ll call it “mystery,” call it “build,” call it “night.”
Keep it classy, keep it funded, keep it kind—
Johnny Fiama makes the panic feel fine.

He sees the kids in the far-off glow,
Thinks: that’s why we do this show.
Not the lanyards, not the logo wall—
The moment strangers feel less small.

“I know you didn’t come for spreadsheets…
…but somebody has to.”

He loves the dream—
He just can’t let it break in public.

Snare rolls like silverware,
Chords bloom in lacquered air.
He checks his comms, he checks the room—
A toast becomes a pressure valve, the lounge becomes a little cocoon.

“Ladies and gentlemen—
you’re about to witness something unforgettable.”

He’s the velvet firewall, holding the line,
Turning bad news into boutique shine.
Keep it classy, keep it funded, keep it kind—
Let the night survive contact with the bottom line.

And if the crowd roars like a living sky,
He lets it happen—then quietly pays the price.
Keep it classy, keep it funded, keep it kind—
Johnny Fiama keeps the dream alive.

Velvet rope. Velvet grin.
Crisis out… another in.

“Of course you’re VIP, darling.”
“You all are… for tonight.”


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-07 02:34:34
lyrics:
Safety briefing.
No one listens.
Go ahead—boo me.

Steel-toe boots in the gravel
Clipboard badge, hi-viz gray
I scan your wristband
“Buzzkill”
You laugh, then drift away
Gate count rising
watch ingress
You hit front rail
I track rail stress
You pose for selfies
with warning signs
Duck lips and duct tape
crossing my lines
You dodge the med tent
eyes all glass
Bass keeps rolling
I hold egress

Red tag. (STEP BACK.)
Wind hold. (STAND BY.)
Clear lane. (MOVE NOW.)
You want the rush? I want you alive.

Not your monster at the gate—
I’m the reason you walk out straight.
You boo my name—then scream my name
When the storm rolls in, when the rig can’t take.

Not your villain in the vest—
I’m the one who stops the mess.
Call me cold—call me cursed—
I just want you breathing when you rave.

Case in egress
Forks in mud
“We can cheat it—
good enough”
Fire door chained
A-D-A blocked
Somebody shrugs, says
“Lose the log”

Span-set twisted
rushed load-in
“Sign it later”
check the pins
Sparks spit low
close to skin
You call it showtime
I call it sin

Fire lane. (CLEAR.)
Gate count. (CHECK.)
Barricade BOH-ing—watch that flex.
You want the drop? I want no wreck.

Not your monster at the gate—
I’m the reason you walk out straight.
You boo my name—then scream my name
When the storm rolls in, when the rig can’t take.

Not your villain in the vest—
I’m the one who stops the mess.
Call me cold—call me cursed—
I just want you breathing when you rave.

You’re not a problem—
you’re someone’s whole world in a wristband glow.
When the chorus hits, I see you light up.
I want that light to make it home.

But when the lights go red, crowds need a villain—
So boo the dragon.
I’ll wear it.
Darling...
…I’ve got the face for it.

Not your monster at the gate—
I’m the reason you walk out straight.
You boo my name—then scream my name
When the storm rolls in, when the rig can’t take.

Not your villain in the vest—
I’m the one who stops the mess.
Call me cold—call me cursed—
I just want you breathing when you rave.

Chant my name like it’s a threat.
(Uncle Deadly.)
If you need a monster, I’ll be the one
that keeps you alive.


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-21 02:09:54
lyrics:
VIP wristband, same plate in my hand
Headliner yawning in shades, reaching for the lemonade
Site admin in black, gaff tape on the name tag
Rigger kid, dust on his shoes, loading fries on his tray too

Catering line
We're all the same in the catering line
Big font on the poster, tiny name on the spine
Same tray, same time, stomach's got the badge tonight
Catering line
Drop your ego in the catering line
Only thing that matters is you make it on time
Forks up, that's our sign

Tour manager half awake, stealing sauce for a later break
Lighting nerd checking pings, typing with a plate that clinks
Runners racing with cans of fizz, gossip softer than the fridge
We all wait for the word, "Food's up" is the magic heard

Catering line
We're all the same in the catering line
Big font on the poster, tiny name on the spine
Same tray, same time, stomach's got the badge tonight
Catering line
Drop your ego in the catering line
Only thing that matters is you make it on time
Forks up, that's our sign

Headliner laughs with the rigger
Same stain on the hoodie, same hunger trigger
Crew chief passing the tongs like a crown
For three minutes, everybody's hometown

Catering line
We're all the same in the catering line
Big font on the poster, tiny name on the spine
Same tray, same time, stomach's got the badge tonight
Catering line
All the world meets in the catering line
From the top of the bill to the last in the grind
Forks up, that's our sign


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-10 20:33:28
lyrics:
The scripts are torn, the flats are barely standing,
The night itself feels overbooked and demanding.
I chase the order through the fray and sparks,
While velvet curtains tremble in the dark.
Cue lights blink like warnings through a fever,
Paint is cracked, but still I play believer.
Every breakdown has a moment to start—
And mine begins backstage with a smiling heart.

Count the heads, check the scene,
Make it perfect, make it mean.
One more breath and one more guess—
That’s the gospel of the stress.

WAKE UP! The spotlight’s on the mess!
HOLD ON! Through the theater of stress!
It’s loud and it’s weird and it’s falling apart,
But the chaos is just the beat of my heart!
STAND BY! There’s no clean way to confess!
LIGHTS UP! On the beautiful wreck!
It’s cracked and confused and absurd from the start,
But the chaos is just the beat of my heart!

The run sheet bleeds, the timings all deform,
I smile and call it “part of the performance.”
I stretch a minute ninety seconds wide,
Just to keep the panic somewhere I can hide.
The props go missing, the entrances keep shifting,
A joke falls dead, but somehow still we lift it.
I stitch the seams with gaffer, prayer, and nerve,
And bow like everything went as rehearsed.

Mark the spike tape, check the rail,
Turn the breakdown to a tale.
One more save and one more guess—
That’s the romance of the stress.

WAKE UP! The spotlight’s on the mess!
HOLD ON! Through the theater of stress!
It’s loud and it’s weird and it’s falling apart,
But the chaos is just the beat of my heart!
STAND BY! There’s no time left to confess!
LIGHTS UP! On the beautiful wreck!
It’s cracked and confused and absurd from the start,
But the chaos is just the beat of my heart!

FIVE dead punchlines nobody should hear!
FOUR extra Muppets appearing in the rear!
THREE good cues that we somehow got right!
TWO puppeteers colliding out of sight!
ONE working show… against all odds!

WAKE UP! The spotlight loves the mess!
HOLD ON! To the miracle of stress!
It’s loud and it’s weird and it’s falling apart,
But the chaos is still the beat of my heart!
EVERYTHING WORKS OUT!
Against all sense and all acclaim—
We lit the dark and called its name!


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-03-21 02:08:48
lyrics:
EPK on my lock screen
Battery red
Smile on
Rent due
Weekend ahead

Lanyard blank but I walk like I'm staff
"Yo you need visuals? I can cut that fast"
Gimbal kid, light kit, lens on loan
"Two reels, one hook, make your drop get known"
"Need a dance clip? I got dancers on call
One chorus, one take, make your stream numbers crawl"
"Need cover art? Need type? Need a new brand glow?"
Everybody got a service in the after show
"Press shot, one-sheet, bio cleaned up nice
I'll make you look like the poster—same price"
"PR blast, blog hit, little radio spin
Just sign right here, let the 'moment' begin"

They hear "pitch" in my voice, I know, I know
But I'm trying to sell a ladder in a floodlit show
One handshake, half a smile, "hit me up sometime"
Then I'm back in the lot chasing a deadline

We the noise in the parking lot
Tryna turn static into a shot
They hear "spam," we hear "work"
Tryna be signal, signal, signal
They see hustle as overflow
We see rent with nowhere to go
Undervalued, overworked though
Tryna be signal, signal, signal

"Bro I can get you on a playlist"—sure, okay
"Got a guy, knows a guy, knows the curators, hey"
"Radio promo, college town, late-night slot
They'll love that hook if you trim that top"
"Mix and master by Monday, make your low end hit
I'll clean that mud, make the kick feel big"
"Need stage content? Need a recap cut?
I'll catch your set, make it look like it blew up"
Some of us real, some of us reaching
Some of us tired of always preaching
But every "no" still stings like a snare
And we keep showing up like the bass is there

Not on the flyer, not in the green room light
But I'm here with a laptop in the cold night
You worked years for that stage, I get it, I do
I drove hours for a "maybe." That's true

You see "clout." We see "clients"
You see "pitch." We see "groceries"
You see "move." We see "move in"
You see "no." We see "not yet"

We the noise in the parking lot
Tryna turn static into a shot
They hear "racket," we hear "plots"
Tryna be signal, signal, signal
They see hustle as overflow
We see rent with nowhere to go
Undervalued, overworked though
Tryna be signal, signal, signal, signal

"Two clips, one hook... I'll send it tonight"
(Yeah... tonight)


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-09 01:23:44
lyrics:
[Intro — cue system / dark stage]
Blackout.
Standby L-X.
Cue stack armed.
(soft ticking pulse)
Three…
Two…

[Verse 1 — third person, controlled]
Four in black at the edge of the truss,
Headsets low, not saying much.
Eyes on the board, fingers on “go,”
Timecode rolling under the show.
Front wash dim, backlight cold,
Color chase mapped in a grid of gold.
You hear the rise, you feel the room—
They shape the air before the boom.

[Pre-Chorus — cue language]
Standby one.
Standby two.
Strobe on the bar—
Wait for the cue.
Hold that frame.
Let it breathe.
(tight whisper)
…now release.

[Drop / Chorus — result]
You see the moment hit the sound,
Light comes up—the world turns loud.
On cue—on time—no wasted move,
You feel the drop—they built the view.
Flash—fade—color in the air,
You hear it different when it’s there.
On cue—on cue—run it through,
The sound you feel is shaped by view.

[Verse 2 — VFX heavy set]
Laser fans cut through the haze,
Pixel maps in shifting phase.
Beams align on every kick,
Frame-locked hits—clean and quick.
LED walls in sync with tone,
Every color not their own.
They don’t play—they translate it—
Turn the rhythm into space you sit in.

[Pre-Chorus 2]
Standby white.
Standby blue.
Kill the wash—
Bring the hue.
Count the bars.
Hold the line.
(tight)
Hit on nine.

[Drop / Chorus]
You see the moment hit the sound,
Light comes up—the world turns loud.
On cue—on time—no wasted move,
You feel the drop—they built the view.
Flash—fade—color in the air,
You hear it different when it’s there.
On cue—on cue—run it through,
The sound you feel is shaped by view.

[Bridge — connection / philosophy]
(half-time feel, softer)
You think you hear it—
But you see it first.
A flash in the dark
Makes the moment burst.
A color shift
Can bend the tone—
Make a small sound
Feel overgrown.
They don’t change the music—
They change the frame.
And suddenly everything
Hits your brain the same.
[build rising]
Sight and sound—
They blur the line—
What you see
Rewrites the time.

[Final Drop — bigger]
On cue—on time—run it clean,
Every hit exactly seen.
Flash the white—then cut to blue,
Feel the drop—they aimed it through.
You hear the sound—but see the proof,
They don’t perform—they move the truth.
On cue—on cue—watch it land—
Light in motion—perfectly planned.
[Outro — system close]
Blackout.
Cue stack cleared.
(soft)
Good show.


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-02 03:09:38
lyrics:
Before the lights
Before the sound
Before the crowd
Shakes the ground
Take a breath
Take the view
Love the dance
Thank the crew

Truss in the sky
Lines on the ground
Cables like rivers
Running through sound
Hands on the faders
Lights on cue
You feel the drop
They built it for you

Every spark
Every view
Every beat
Built for you
Every hand
Passing through
Love the dance
Thank the crew

Hands up high
We see you
Hands up high
We see you

"Thank you crew"

THANK THE CREW
THANK THE CREW
LOVE THE DANCE
THANK THE CREW

Gate lights flashing
Scanning you in
Security smiling
“Have a good spin”
Water and med tents
Standing by too
You feel the night
They’re watching you through

Every spark
Every view
Every beat
Built for you
Every hand
Passing through
Love the dance
Thank the crew

THANK THE CREW
THANK THE CREW
LOVE THE DANCE
THANK THE CREW

Tonight we're thousands
But not alone
Every stage
Every home
From the rail
To the booth
Love the dance
Thank the crew

Hands up high
All of you
Love the dance
Thank the crew

THANK THE CREW
THANK THE CREW
LOVE THE DANCE
THANK THE CREW


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-08 01:06:16
lyrics:
Diesel hum. Blue light. Gravel grind.
Midnight miracle on borrowed time.

Backlot diesel, service lane,
Plastic city, chemical rain.
Crowd sees lasers, smoke, and stars,
I see backed-up banks of portable hearts.
Tank gauge twitching, route sheet bent,
West gate line at critical length.
Blue juice low and the paper gone,
One bad hour and the whole thing’s wrong.

Pump hose ready, gloves on tight,
Another quiet war on a Saturday night.
You call it gross, I call it late,
One more job between the dream and failure state.

Tank full. Pump on.
Fresh water running thin by dawn.
Restock. Rotate.
Hold the line before it breaks.

“Service copy.”
“On my way.”
“Do not open.”
“Too late.”

Pumps and panic, hotline glow,
Nobody sees me till it overflows.
Backlot saint in a reflective coat,
Keeping one more dream afloat.
You chase the drop, I stop the flood,
Keep the whole damn city standing in the mud.
Pumps and panic, radio hot—
You don’t say my name
till the whole thing stops.

South bank backed up, east row dead,
Somebody’s banging on a plastic shed.
Queue line snaking, tempers bright,
Handwash dry in the sodium light.
Tipped one unit by the merch lot fence,
Another one blocked by a sponsor tent.
Runner on comms says, “Can you swing?”
Buddy, I’m out here saving civilization from a smell with teeth.

Black water heavy, fresh tank low,
Need a clean turn fast on the outer row.
Ground crew nods like they know the score,
Because they’ve seen this movie four times before.
I pump, I prime, I clear, I spray,
Keep disaster one thin wall away.
If dignity’s real, it lives back here
In neon muck and a biohazard smear.

West bank. Red.
North lane. Blocked.
Paper dead.
Keep it stocked.
Call comes in—
“Need one more.”
Yeah, no kidding.
That’s what I’m for.

Pumps and panic, hotline glow,
Nobody sees me till it overflows.
Backlot saint in a reflective coat,
Keeping one more dream afloat.
You chase the lights, I clear the rot,
Keep the whole damn fairy tale from tying in knots.
Pumps and panic, radio hot—
You don’t say my name
till the whole thing stops.

I cut between the fences near the food-truck line,
Take one second. Breathe. Step into the light.
A couple kids are laughing, glitter on their cheeks,
Arms round each other like the whole world’s sweet.

I give a little wave.
“Hey. Y’all good tonight?”
Nothing.
Not rude—
just straight through me, like I’m part of the site.

They turn back to the music.
Back to whatever song saved their week.
And I head back to the truck thinking:
Yeah. That tracks.
Keep it clean. Keep it moving. Don’t take it personal.

Pressure rising in the line,
Acid chewing through the spine.
Blue beacon, gravel spray,
Service route becomes ballet.
Vac tank hum and engine whine,
One more rescue, right on time.

“Ops to service—status check.”
“Containment stable. Stand by next.”

Pumps and panic, hotline glow,
Nobody sees me till it overflows.
Backlot saint in a reflective coat,
Keeping one more dream afloat.
You can keep the fireworks, keep the sky—
I’m the reason half this city gets through the night.
Pumps and panic, radio hot—
You don’t say my name
till the whole thing stops.

Pumps and panic, one more round,
Holding up the edge of town.
Plastic kingdom, barely sealed—
I’m the one out back
keeping fantasy real.

“West bank stable.”
“Copy.”
“Fresh water inbound.”
“Copy.”
“Overflow avoided.”
“…Nice.”

Diesel hum. Blue light. Gravel grind.
Morning always comes
for the ones behind.


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-11 15:32:27
lyrics:
Roll risers
Lock the casters
Felt on steel
Mud on wheels
Five-minute miracle
Make it real

Road case rattle, gravel spit
Push the next world into it
Strike the drape, clear the deck
Lift by lift and check by check
Soft hands, hard hats, tape on seams
Dragging tomorrow through tonight's machine
Downstage marks and upstage haze
We build the sun between the plays
Backline waiting, snakes laid straight
Patch it fast and pray it's late
Crowd sees color, fire, and sky
We see the minutes screaming by

Push, lock, lift, turn
Cue the next thing, watch it burn
Spike, swap, roll, fly
Make it magic, don't ask why

Steel and stitches, sweat and signal
We build the next world while the last one's still warm
Hands on wheels and hearts on timing
Turning dead air into a storm
Clear the deck and bring it breathing
Case by case and line by line
Steel and stitches, changeover gospel
No one sees the hands on time

Wrong way dolly, missing pin
Somebody swears the scrim won't spin
Stage right shouting, "Where's that throne?"
Check the dead case by the cone
Gaffer prayer and ratchet faith
Cable ramps and a coffee shake
Soft little monsters, steel-eyed grins
Doing the gods' work in worn-out skins
Line check buzz and comms go hot
Half the world's here, half is not
But if the cue hits clean and wide
Nobody knows what almost died

Push, lock, lift, turn
Earn the cheer you'll never earn
Tape, mark, brace, swing
Build the miracle between everything

Steel and stitches, sweat and signal
We build the next world while the last one's still warm
Hands on wheels and hearts on timing
Turning dead air into a storm
Clear the deck and bring it breathing
Case by case and line by line
Steel and stitches, changeover gospel
No one sees the hands on time

They scream for the lights, they scream for the drop
We hear the headset telling us not to stop
And for one short breath when the deck goes wide
We look at each other like, "Yeah, still alive"
Felt in the fingers
Steel in the spine
Built in the dark
So the dream hits on time

Steel and stitches, sweat and signal
We build the next world while the last one's still warm
Hands on wheels and hearts on timing
Turning dead air into a storm
Push the heavens, pull the wreckage
Roll the wonder into line
Steel and stitches, changeover gospel
We raise the magic every time

Deck is live
Copy
Send 'em


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-04-09 01:34:35
lyrics:
[Intro]
“Ops to Lost & Found—stand by.”
“Copy. Desk live.”

At the edge of the city-that-isn’t-a-city,
a desk lamp makes a halo at 3 AM.
Bobo builds a little order out of bins and patience—
so missing can become maybe home again.

[Verse 1]
Five hundred phones in a midnight stack,
Keys like chimes in a plastic pack.
Wristbands, wallets, broken screens,
Little panics, little dreams.
Bobo’s calm in the headset glow,
“Color and case—what row, what show?”
Time and place, last thing you saw,
He takes the fear and gives it form.

Zip-bag hiss, stamp on the tag,
Barcode beep in the blue-white black.
Soft but steady, keeps it clean—
Kindness with a routine.

[Pre-Chorus]
Tag it.
Bag it.
Log it.
Bhin.
Chain of custody—breathe in.
Don’t chase the spiral, don’t feed the dread—
We build the road that leads you back.

[Chorus]
Return channel, hold the line,
Lost and found at closing time.
Return channel, soft and slow,
Desk lamp in the afterglow.
Fast feet, calm hands, heartbeat low—
We bring you back what you thought was gone.
Return channel, hold the line—
Maybe lost is just not found yet.

[Drop 1 – Liquid Lift]
(chopped vocal fragments)
“Return channel…”
“Hold the line…”
“Not found yet…”

[Verse 2]
Sweetums comes in, shadow tall,
Sets down a bag like it matters all.
“Found by speakers… shiny… clasp…”
Bobo nods and takes it back.
Locket. Photo. Letter thin.
Some things don’t feel like things in bins.
Some things land with extra weight—
So he guards them like they can’t wait.

Then Sweetums fills the doorway again,
Carrying a Whatnot with untied hands.
“I lost my friends… I was over there…”
Bobo points softly to a folding chair.
“Sit with us a minute. You’re safe right here.”
Sweetums adds, proud and clear:
“Also… gas mask.”
Bobo sighs, “Why is it always the gas mask?”

[Pre-Chorus 2]
Tag it.
Bag it.
Log it.
Bhin.
No fast-talk shortcuts getting in.
Tell me the sticker, the scratch, the crack—
If it’s really yours, you’ll know it back.

[Chorus]
Return channel, hold the line,
Lost and found at closing time.
Return channel, warm and low,
Desk lamp in the afterglow.
Fast drums, slow breath, steady glow—
We bring you back what you thought was gone.
Return channel, hold the line—
Maybe lost is just not found yet.

[Bridge – Half-Time]
Some losses aren’t phones or keys.
Some losses shake in human knees.
Sometimes what’s missing isn’t a thing—
It’s the part that says, “I’m okay. I can breathe.”

Bobo lowers his voice a shade.
“If the room feels too big, we can do more than search.”
He nods toward the quiet lane,
Sanctuary lit like a softer earth.
Sweetums nods, mountain-serious:
“I carry gently.”

At a festival, safety isn’t only fences.
Sometimes it’s a desk lamp.
Sometimes it’s a tired bear
who stays kind at 3 AM.

[Build]
Set the panic down somewhere.
Send a little hope back there.
Bring the drums in.
Keep it bright.
Guide it home through the night.

[Final Chorus]
Return channel, hold the line,
Lost and found at closing time.
Return channel, bright and warm,
A little harbor in the storm.
If you lost your world in the neon frost,
We bring you back what you thought was lost.
Return channel, hold the line—
Maybe home is built this way.

[Outro]
Bobo stacks the final bins,
Checks the log, clicks off the pen.
Sweetums carries one more soul out the door—
Not lost anymore.
Just found.


lyrics_format: plain
updated_utc: 2026-05-06 04:01:59
lyrics:
First one in,
coffee steam on his fur,
lanyard swaying,
name tag blurred.
Checking ramps,
taping down every wire,
little map
folded into his binder.
“Need an arm?”
He just offers a paw.
Quiet nod.
No applause at all.

Rowlf on the rail, holding room in the rush,
Clearing a lane when the crowd starts to push.
“Take what you need — it won’t take from the view.”
That’s the quiet work that carries people through.
We all move together, but not all the same.
He guides you in without making it his name.
Here in the glow and the echoing drums,
A little kindness makes the public become.

Side-stage light,
list of needs on his phone.
Text comes through:
“I can’t stand here alone.”
He finds you fast,
jacket shielding your face,
breathing slow
at the edge of the bass.
“Tell me when.”
He waits through the high.
Crowd erupts,
but he watches your eyes.

Rowlf on the rail, holding room in the rush,
Clearing a lane when the crowd starts to push.
“Take what you need — it won’t take from the view.”
That’s the quiet work that carries people through.
We all move together, but not all the same.
He guides you in without making it his name.
Here in the glow and the echoing drums,
A little kindness makes the public become.

Stranger lifts a strap from a wheel.
“I got you.”
Friend he’s never met, but it’s real.
“All of you.”
Water in hand,
wristband checked,
space on the platform,
breath in your chest.
It isn’t pity.
It isn’t a prize.
It’s making the doorway
the right kind of wide.
You nod once.
He nods back too.
No one rescued —
just room made for you.

Rowlf on the rail, holding room in the rush,
Clearing a lane when the crowd starts to push.
“Take what you need — it won’t take from the view.”
That’s the quiet work that carries people through.
We all move together, but not all the same.
He guides you in without making it his name.
Here in the glow and the echoing drums,
A little kindness makes the public belong.


