I still remember my beginning—when I discovered my voice for the first time. I was coming out of a club, drunk, running to a street musician, grabbing the mic, and just singing. It wasn’t planned—it was survival and instinct. Music became my breath, my only way out. When you have nothing, you create something.”
Your production style is deeply intuitive, often built from field recordings, analog machines, and non-linear structures. What does your process look like when no one’s watching—what happens in that private space where raw ideas become form?
“When I produce, it’s like archiving my life. I work with analog machines and field recordings—I want it raw and unpolished. My tracks are like living memories— moments, moods, places. I don’t plan; I just let it flow. I dance in the studio, play synths, piano, and sing random stuff—just record what feels real.
My uncle Mike Gerald, who was part of the legendary Sounders Department, passed on his analog synthesizers to me. His spirit lives in those machines: the Deepmind12D and Prophet 08. They are part of my creative DNA. My studio is my sanctuary, a place where memories are transformed into sound, where rebellion and survival echo in every beat.”
There’s a quiet kind of defiance in your refusal to follow trends or conform to what’s expected of a female electronic artist. Have you ever felt pressure to present your work differently—or to explain yourself in ways male producers never have to?
I never tried to follow a trend. For me, it was always about
feeling and listening to myself, creating
something real. My sound is a modern interpretation of old-school
electronic music, blended with elements of rituals, film, mythology, and even poetry. My published German poetry book “Der späte Vogel zwitscherte” was an extension of that—a way to document my existence outside of traditional structures, where I translated these in-between worlds into raw, unfiltered words.
Sometimes that way between worlds means isolation, being misunderstood—but that’s my shield—authen- ticity over adaptation. When I started, being in the underground meant you were an outcast. I never wanted the costume; I wanted the raw experience.
“In the context of your past, where control and limitation defined so much of life, what does authorship mean to you now? When you release a piece of music into the world, what are you reclaiming?
Authorship is power. It’s self-determination. Creating music is the only place where no one can control me. I can only control myself. I archive everything: my tracks, my process, my stories. I have secured my work in archives in Germany and South America to make them visible for future generations and to prevent them from being erased. It’s a personal statement, a refusal to disappear.
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Every release is more than just a song—it’s a reclaiming of my story, my voice, my existence. This idea also led me to my academic research on discrimination Against Women in the Music Industry. My findings are not just research—they are a testament to self-determination. I don’t just create; I document. I protect. I remember.”
You’ve said your music feels like a hybrid between a film and a memory—something immersive, imagined, but rooted in truth. How do sci-fi and mythology help you tell stories that perhaps couldn’t be told through autobiography alone?
My fascination with mythology began with my real surname, Korinth, leading me to the ancient city of Corinth—a symbol of independence and resistance. The
Temple of Aphrodite and the fortress of
Acrocorinth represent strength, mysticism, and a deep connection to spirituality.
‘Bride’, for example, is a convergence of influences: Goethe’s ‘The Bride of Corinth’, the story
of
Penelope from Greek mythology, and my oath & heritage. I even wove elements of the Arawak language into the track—a bridge to my roots, connecting past and present.
Mythology is more than just storytelling; it’s a framework where truth and imagination collide. It gives me the freedom to reflect reality through symbolism, allowing stories to exist in the spaces between words. Transformation is my Phoenix, Angel, my dystopian vision inspired by Pat Cadigan. My music is not just sound—it’s an archive of my mythology.
What would you say to other women—or anyone—who comes from a place of restriction or erasure and wants to create something of their own?
Build your own space, even if it’s just a sound card, a MIDI keyboard, and a laptop. Document everything—archive it, timestamp it, secure it. Your story matters. Create your world—even if it’s between worlds. I learned to turn my experience and my past into my superpower. The things that were meant to silence me became my
voice, my Text by: Sergio Niño
sound, my
strength. And that’s the message: your story is your superpower—don’t let anyone write it for you.
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