I grew up in the poor neighborhoods of Porto, where music arrived as both escape and absence. It was a hideaway from the misery around me, but it was also scarce: a luxury measured in borrowed tapes and rare radio hours. Scarcity teaches you to listen harder. It also teaches you that sound, once found, is worth keeping.

So I kept it. I spent my free hours taping tracks off the radio and dubbing them into mixtapes meant for sharing. My peers mostly laughed at my selections, too unusual, too strange. I did not argue. Growing up in a social neighborhood, I learned early to pick my battles, and at that age music was not worth the fight, especially with friends who had their own reasons to be unimpressed. The tapes argued for me instead.

Then the radio stopped being enough. I moved on to record stores, taking home tapes nobody had asked for, and later CDs, digging for the tracks that never got airtime at all. Same habit, deeper shelf.

I was thirteen when I played a music creation game on my cousin's PlayStation. The other kids went outside. I stayed, layering sounds for hours, discovering that the line between listening and making was thinner than I had assumed. I had spent years collecting other people's music. That afternoon was the first time I wondered what mine might sound like.

But it was only an idea. The console was not a studio. Real production came later, around sixteen or seventeen, when I finally had a computer and a proper program. Everything before that was preparation.

In the years I spent digging, some of the tracks my peers had laughed at began appearing on the biggest radio stations and in clubs, and the laughter stopped. Not everything that passed through the radio the first time made it to the charts. Some of it did, and the people who had laughed were suddenly hearing my taste coming back at them from the speakers. I did not need the argument after all. I had been making it all along, one tape at a time.

In 2018 I released "Intercalado" on Beatport, the first track in a series I called Fluxo Fragmentado: a flux of fragmented pieces meant to form one unified body of work. The name is literal. The track builds a melody that never settles, constantly interacting with the sounds around it, repeating without resolving. I was trying to translate something I had seen: the repetition of landscapes shaped by labor, by villages and small towns where patterns hold because people hold them.

The series continues. Music lets me create and learn every day, and the artists who have shaped the underground and alternative fields continue to inform what I make. Some of them can be found here.

My productions borrow from different genres, though techno runs through them as a constant. I know this industry is difficult. I know that working below the underground line leaves little room to be appreciated as an art form, and that the distance between making something honest and having it heard is not bridged by talent alone. Which is why I value the time you have taken to listen, and the effort it took to reach this page and read this far.