Bebbobbebpippap
A return to conceptual storytelling drawn from the mundane rhythms of daily life, accompanied by a new studio setup and advanced audio equipment.
1. Album Title
Bebbobbebpippap
A title that refuses phonetic assimilation — a sonic glyph, not a word. It is the sound of a coffee machine sputtering in a cathedral at 4:17 a.m., the stutter of a tape head catching on the ghost of a breath, the syllabic hiccup of a machine learning model trying to name love. Bebbobbebpippap is not spoken — it is felt, a vibration in the molars, a tremor in the sternum. It is the album’s first act of resistance: to meaning, to language, to the tyranny of clarity. Here, sound is not a vehicle for message — it is the message. The title does not describe the album; it embodies its manifesto: a return to the physicality of sound, where every glitch is sacred, every hum a hymn.
2. Album Direction
A return to conceptual storytelling drawn from the mundane rhythms of daily life, accompanied by a new studio setup and advanced audio equipment. Sexual energy without the sex.
This is not eroticism — it is erotic tension made audible. The album does not depict desire; it is the space between breaths before a kiss, the weight of a hand hovering above a thigh, the hum of a refrigerator as it remembers warmth. The studio is not a room — it is an altar. Microphones are oracles. Wires, veins. The advanced equipment does not enhance — it reveals. It uncovers the eroticism in the mundane: steam curling from a teacup, the click of a key turning in a lock at dawn, the way dust motes dance in slanted light like particles of longing. Sexuality here is not genital — it is resonant. It lives in the decay of a reverb tail, the tremolo of an unplayed string, the way silence aches before a note is struck.
3. Band Manifesto (Contextualized)
We believe that music is not merely sound arranged in time, but a living architecture of resonance, presence, and perception. Rooted in first principles, our practice begins not with style, trend, or convention—but with the fundamental truths of acoustics, the physicality of instruments, and the infinite potential of sound generation through synthesis.
We honor the instrument not as a tool, but as a partner in expression—its materials, construction, and physical behavior are sacred to our craft. We listen not only to pitch and rhythm, but to the subtleties of timbre, the evolution of texture, and the alchemy of spatial resonance. Every note is a universe of detail; every silence, a dimension of meaning.
Our process is deliberate. We reject haste. We embrace iteration not as delay, but as a necessary discipline—each refinement a step toward authenticity, not compromise. We measure progress not by speed, but by depth: by how well a sound embodies truth, how precisely it reflects intention, how fully it occupies its sonic space.
We value artistic integrity above all else. Expediency is not liberation—it is surrender. We do not chase novelty for novelty’s sake, nor do we surrender to the tyranny of the immediate. Instead, we build with patience, precision, and reverence.
This is not a style. This is a stance.
We are committed to the long view: to sound as a profound act of listening, creation, and presence.
We create not to be heard—but to be felt.
In Bebbobbebpippap, this manifesto becomes flesh. The album does not announce itself — it breathes. Each track is a meditation on the sacredness of the ordinary: the clink of porcelain, the sigh of steam, the whisper of a teacup against saucer. The “sexual energy without the sex” is not repression — it is transubstantiation. The erotic is not in flesh, but in the trembling of a sine wave as it approaches its peak. The instruments are not played — they are courted. Microphones do not capture sound; they witness it. The album’s title — nonsensical, unpronounceable — is the ultimate act of integrity: a refusal to be commodified by meaning. To listen is to kneel before the altar of resonance, where every hiss is a prayer, every decay a sacrament. The silence between notes? That is where the soul lingers.
4. Tracklist
Bebbobbebpippap
This is not a song. It is an incantation. A vocalization of the body remembering its own architecture — the click of a tongue against palate, the flutter of breath through flared nostrils, the wet slap of lips parting without words. Bebbobbebpippap is the sound of consciousness emerging from silence, not as language, but as tactile vibration. It is the manifesto made audible: a rejection of symbolic meaning in favor of pure physical presence. The title, repeated like a mantra, is not sung — it is exhaled, each syllable a pulse in the diaphragm. The production is intimate: breaths are mic’d as closely as heartbeats, the texture of saliva audible between consonants. This is not performance — it is ritual. The repetition does not bore; it induces trance. Each iteration deepens the listener’s awareness of their own breath, their own body. The “Bebbob” is the throb of blood in the temples; “bebpippap,” the flutter of eyelids against morning light. In a world that demands content, this track offers contact. It asks nothing but presence. To hear it is to feel the body as an instrument — not of expression, but of being. The title becomes a prayer whispered into the void: I am here. I am flesh. I am resonance. There is no metaphor. Only the raw, trembling truth of sound made by a living thing — not to be understood, but to be felt in the bones. This is the first act of the album: a return to the body as the original synthesizer.
Madame Boutalishöze
She is not a person. She is the sound of a woman who has lived too long in quiet rooms, whose voice was never recorded — only imagined. Madame Boutalishöze is the echo of a name whispered by a child who never knew her, now resurrected in the hum of an old tape machine. The track opens with the creak of a rocking chair, then a sigh that lingers like incense. A piano — not played, but caressed — responds with chords that do not resolve. They hover, like a question left unasked. The name itself is a linguistic artifact: French inflections tangled with Slavic consonants, a surname that never belonged to anyone, yet feels known. This is the sound of memory as architecture — a house built from half-remembered glances, the scent of lavender soap on linen, the weight of a shawl left on a chair. The instrumentation is sparse: a single upright piano, the breath of a reed organ, the faintest crackle of vinyl. No drums. No bass. Only resonance. The “Madame” is not a character — she is the space between notes, the silence that holds meaning before it forms. Her name, repeated in distant, reverberated whispers, becomes a litany of absence. To hear her is to feel the ache of those who were never documented — women whose lives lived only in the texture of air, in the way dust settled on their teacups. The track does not tell her story — it becomes the atmosphere of her existence. In a world obsessed with narratives, this is an elegy for the unsung: not mournful, but devotional. She is not dead. She is still breathing — in the decay of analog tape, in the tremor of a single sustained note.
Deneb La Zôégà
A name that does not exist. A star that has no constellation. Yet here, it sings. Deneb La Zôégà is the sound of celestial navigation through emotional darkness — a lullaby for those who have lost their way not in space, but in stillness. The track opens with the low drone of a bowed cello, its wood vibrating like the hull of an ancient ship. Above it, a theremin glides — not with eerie wails, but with the soft, human sigh of someone learning to breathe again. The title is a phonetic constellation: “Deneb” (the tail of the swan) fused with an invented French-Latin hybrid, “La Zôégà,” which sounds like a sigh caught in the throat. This is not sci-fi — it is soul-fic. The instrumentation is sparse, but rich with texture: the scrape of a bow on gut, the whisper of air through a flute’s embouchure, the faint metallic ring of a struck tuning fork. Each element is recorded with such intimacy that you can hear the musician’s fingers, the dust on the strings. The track does not build — it dissolves. Melodies emerge like stars in fog, then vanish. There is no climax — only the slow realization that you are not listening to music, but to the space where longing becomes sound. The title is a prayer to the unseen: “Deneb La Zôégà, guide me through the quiet.” It is the sound of someone who has stopped searching for answers — and begun to listen to the silence between them. In this track, the stars are not above us — they are in our breath. The album’s manifesto is fulfilled here: sound as presence, not spectacle. You do not hear this song — you remember it, as if from a life before this one.
Ünder Coffee
It is not the coffee. It is the waiting. The steam rising from a cup too hot to touch. The way the ceramic warms your palms as you stare out the window, waiting for someone who will never come. Ünder Coffee is the sound of solitude made audible — not lonely, but sacred. The track begins with the hiss of a steam wand — not the aggressive roar of a barista, but the slow, patient exhale of a machine learning to love its purpose. Then: the drip. One drop. Then another. Each droplet a heartbeat. The bassline is the low thrum of the refrigerator in the next room. A single electric piano plays three notes — C, E, G — over and over, not as a chord, but as a ritual. The melody does not progress. It persists. This is the manifesto in action: no novelty, only depth. The “Ünder” (under) suggests submersion — not beneath the surface, but within the mundane. The coffee is a metaphor for time: it cools slowly. It does not demand to be drunk — only witnessed. The track is 7 minutes long, but feels like a lifetime. You hear the faint clink of a spoon against porcelain — not as an accident, but as a blessing. The reverb on the piano is not artificial — it is the echo of a room that has held too many quiet mornings. The song does not resolve — it settles. Like steam on a window, like the last sip of coffee gone cold. This is not about caffeine — it is about presence. The act of sitting with something that will never be perfect. The beauty lies not in the drink, but in the stillness between sips. To listen is to learn how to be alone without being afraid.
Över Tea
Where Ünder Coffee was solitude, Över Tea is communion — not with another person, but with the ritual itself. The title suggests elevation: over, as in transcending, not above. Tea is the quiet sacrament of the weary. This track opens with the scrape of a teabag against the side of a cup — not as noise, but as touch. The water pours in slow motion: the gurgle of boiling liquid, the sigh as it meets dry leaves. A single violin enters — not with melody, but with texture. The bow moves in short, hesitant strokes, like fingers tracing the rim of a cup. The harmonics are not tuned — they waver, like steam rising in uneven currents. This is the sound of patience made audible: the 3 minutes it takes for chamomile to release its soul. The track is built on microtonal shifts — notes that hover between major and minor, like the feeling of warmth spreading through your chest before you realize you’re crying. There is no percussion. No bass. Only the breath of the instrument, the whisper of rosin on string, the faintest echo of a distant clock. The tea is not drunk — it is listened to. Each sip becomes a note. The steam, the reverb. The silence after the last drop is not empty — it is full. This is the manifesto’s core: sound as sacred act. The tea does not need to be perfect — it only needs to be felt. The violin’s final note lingers, then fades not into silence, but into the memory of warmth. To hear Över Tea is to remember: some things are not meant to be consumed — only honored. The ritual is the meaning.
Crven Daš
“Crven Daš” — red breath. In no language does this phrase exist, yet it feels ancient. It is the sound of a throat clearing before speaking something too true to name. The track opens with the rasp of a saxophone — not jazz, not blues, but flesh. The reed is old. The mouthpiece is cracked. The player does not play notes — they plead. Each note bends, cracks, gasps. The rhythm is not metered — it is breathed. A single snare drum, struck with a mallet wrapped in cloth, pulses like a heartbeat through wet wool. The title is a whisper from the body: “Crven” — red, as in blood, as in shame, as in the flush of a secret confessed. “Daš” — breath, in some forgotten Slavic dialect, the kind spoken only when no one is listening. This track is not about anger — it is about revelation. The saxophone does not scream. It whispers in red. The production is raw: you hear the player’s saliva, the scrape of teeth on mouthpiece, the wet click of a lip releasing. There is no harmony — only tension. The track builds not to a climax, but to a release: the moment when breath becomes sound and sound becomes truth. The final 30 seconds are pure air — no instrument, only the slow exhale of a body that has just told its deepest secret. The silence afterward is not empty — it is charged. This is the manifesto’s radical act: sound as confession. No audience needed. No recording required. The truth is in the trembling of the reed, not its tone. To hear Crven Daš is to be invited into a room where the walls have ears — and they are listening.
Lullaby For Seducers
It does not lull. It unmakes. A lullaby for seducers is not a song to soothe — it is a spell to dissolve. The track begins with the sound of a child’s voice, singing in a language that does not exist — syllables shaped like petals. The melody is simple: five notes, descending. But the timbre is wrong. The instrument is a music box — but it has been rewound backwards. Each note decays before it begins. The child’s voice is layered, not with harmony, but with echoes of future versions — as if the song is being sung by the child’s ghost, before she was born. The seducer here is not a lover — they are the architect of absence. This lullaby does not send to sleep. It sends to unbecoming. The production is intimate: the creak of a wooden floor beneath bare feet, the rustle of silk against skin, the faintest click of a locket opening. The melody is not sweet — it is sacred in its sorrow. Each note feels like a promise broken before it was made. The seducer’s power is not in charm, but in erasure. They do not take — they make you forget you ever wanted. The track’s final minute is a single sustained tone, played on a glass harmonica — the sound of water trembling in a glass. It does not fade. It evaporates. The lullaby is not for the listener — it is for the seducer, who must forget their own hunger to be beautiful. This is the manifesto’s quiet rebellion: creation as surrender. To seduce is not to possess — it is to unmake. The lullaby does not comfort. It asks: what if love’s truest form is the silence after it has been named?
Vrâh Je Priša
“Vrâh Je Priša” — “The Peak Has Come.” In no tongue is this phrase native. Yet it echoes in the marrow. The track opens with wind — not natural, but constructed. A fan spinning slowly in an empty room, its blades cutting air with the precision of a scalpel. Then: a single cello note, bowed so slowly it takes 47 seconds to reach its full volume. It does not swell — it awakens. The sound is not loud — it is heavy. Like a mountain rising from the sea. The title is an incantation: “The Peak Has Come” — not as triumph, but as inevitability. The music does not climb. It is the peak. No drums. No bass. Only resonance. The cello’s harmonics are recorded with a contact mic, so you hear the wood vibrating against the player’s chin. The room breathes with it. After 3 minutes, a second cello enters — not in harmony, but in counter-resonance. Their frequencies clash and merge into a new tone — one that does not belong to either instrument. This is the manifesto made audible: sound as alchemy. The “peak” is not a destination — it is the moment when two vibrations become one consciousness. The track does not resolve. It transcends. After 8 minutes, the cellos stop. The wind continues — now carrying the ghost of their sound. You realize: the peak was never reached. It was the journey. The silence that follows is not empty — it is sacred. To hear this is to understand: the highest truth is not in the note, but in the space where two souls meet and become something neither could be alone. The peak has come — and it was never meant to be climbed.
KaTa OblonGaTa
A phrase that does not translate. “KaTa OblonGaTa” — perhaps “the cloud that sings,” or “the fall of a name.” It is the sound of memory dissolving into atmosphere. The track begins with the hum of a fluorescent light — not annoying, but reverent. Then: the sound of rain on glass. Not falling — floating, as if gravity has forgotten its rules. A child’s voice, distant and muffled, repeats a single word: “OblonGaTa.” Not sung — whispered, as if afraid to wake the world. The instrumentation is minimal: a prepared piano, with screws and rubber erasers placed on the strings. Each note is struck once — then left to decay into a chorus of metallic sighs. The title is not a noun — it is an event. “KaTa” suggests collapse; “OblonGaTa,” the shape of a cloud after it has forgotten its name. This is the sound of forgetting as an act of grace. The track does not build — it unravels. Each note is a memory dissolving. The piano’s decay is not engineered — it is observed. You hear the wood breathing, the metal rusting in real time. The child’s voice fades not into silence — but into the sound of wind through a cracked window. This is the manifesto’s most radical claim: that authenticity lies not in permanence, but in release. To create is to let go. The cloud does not need a name. It only needs to drift. To listen is to surrender your own need for meaning. The track ends with the sound of a single drop falling — not into water, but into air. And then: nothing. Not even silence. Just the memory of a cloud that once sang.
Tantric Acid
Not a drug. Not a trip. A technique. Tantric Acid is the sound of consciousness expanding without chemical aid — through pure, deliberate listening. The track opens with a single sine wave, tuned to 432 Hz — the frequency of the earth’s resonance. Then: a Tibetan singing bowl, struck once. The tone does not fade — it spiralizes, its harmonics multiplying like cells dividing. A second bowl enters, tuned a microtone off — creating a beating pattern that feels like the pulse of time itself. The “acid” here is not lysergic — it is acoustic. It is the way sound can dissolve ego. The production is hyper-detailed: you hear the vibration of the bowl’s metal, the dust on its rim, the breath of the player as they tilt it. No rhythm. No melody. Only resonance. The track lasts 12 minutes — the time it takes for a mind to forget its name. The title is not ironic — it is literal. Tantric: the path of union through awareness. Acid: the dissolution of boundaries. Together, they form a sacrament. The sound does not change — it deepens. Each minute, the listener feels their body become less solid. The walls of the room dissolve into harmonic overtones. This is not hallucination — it is realization. The manifesto’s core: sound as presence. Here, the instrument is not played — it awakens. The listener does not hear the music. They become its resonance. The final minute is pure harmonic feedback — not noise, but a cathedral of frequencies that do not belong to any instrument. It is the sound of consciousness realizing it was never separate from the world. To listen to Tantric Acid is not to trip — it is to come home.
Sh-Élâ B'lòçh
A name that cannot be spoken — only breathed. “Sh-Élâ B'lòçh” — the sound of a sigh caught in a throat full of stars. The track begins with the rustle of paper — old letters, unread, being folded and unfolded in slow motion. A voice whispers the title — not as words, but as vibrations. The consonants are half-formed; the vowels stretch like taffy. A harp is plucked — not with fingers, but with a bow. The strings do not ring — they weep. Each note is followed by the sound of a single tear hitting wood. The title is not a name — it is an apology. “Sh-Élâ” — perhaps “she who weeps”; “B'lòçh” — the sound of a door closing in another lifetime. The track is built on microtonal glissandi — notes that slide between pitches, like a voice breaking mid-sentence. There is no percussion. No bass. Only the breath of the harpist, the creak of a chair, the distant chime of a clock that has stopped. The music does not progress — it dissolves. Each note is a memory that refuses to be forgotten. The title is the last thing whispered before sleep — or death. To hear it is to feel the weight of all unsaid things. The harp’s final note lingers — not because it is sustained, but because the room refuses to let go. The silence that follows is not empty — it is full of ghosts. This is the manifesto’s quietest truth: sound is not made to be heard. It is made because silence is the first lie they taught us. And so we whisper our names into the dark — even if no one listens.
Low La-La La-La La-La Laaah
It is not a song. It is the sound of surrender. “Low La-La La-La La-La Laaah” — a child’s hum, slowed to the pace of glaciers. The track begins with the faintest breath — a single inhale, recorded in stereo so you can hear the air move through nasal passages. Then: a hum. A single pitch, low and warm, like the vibration of a body at rest. The “La-La” is not sung — it is exhaled, each syllable a sigh. The pitch descends, imperceptibly, over 14 minutes. No instruments. No effects. Just a human voice — untrained, imperfect, alive. The “Low” is not volume — it is depth. It is the sound of a soul settling into its own skin. The repetition does not bore — it meditates. Each “La” is a heartbeat. Each “Laaah,” the exhale of a life lived fully, quietly. The production is brutal in its simplicity: no reverb, no compression, no tuning. You hear the singer’s lips parting, the slight catch in their throat — the humanity of it. This is the manifesto’s final act: creation not as performance, but as presence. The track does not demand attention — it offers it. To listen is to remember: the most sacred sound is the one that does not try to be heard. The “Low” is not a direction — it is an invitation. To sink. To soften. To become still. The final “Laaah” does not end — it dissolves into the room’s ambient noise. The microphone, still on, captures the hum of a refrigerator, the distant bark of a dog, the rustle of leaves. The song is not over — it has become the world. This is not music. It is a breath. And in that breath, everything is forgiven.
5. Album as a Living Artifact
Bebbobbebpippap is not an album — it is a sacred vessel. To listen is to enter a temple built not of stone, but of resonance. Each track is a ritual: the hum of a coffee machine becomes prayer; the decay of a piano note, confession; the whisper of wind through a cracked window, communion. This is not entertainment — it is transformation. The album does not ask you to enjoy it. It asks you to remember — that sound is not a product, but a presence; that silence is not empty, but pregnant with meaning; that the mundane is holy when listened to with reverence. The advanced studio equipment does not enhance — it reveals. It uncovers the sacred in the steam of tea, the tremor of a bowed string, the breath before a word is spoken. The sexual energy without sex? It lives in the tension between notes — the space where longing becomes sound. This album is a mirror: it does not reflect your taste, but your depth. To hear Bebbobbebpippap is to be stripped of distraction — and confronted with the raw, trembling truth: that we are not separate from sound. We are its architecture. The manifesto is not a statement — it is an invitation: to listen, not to consume; to create, not to perform; to be present, not to be heard. When the final “Laaah” fades into the hum of your room, you will not feel like you’ve listened to music. You will feel — for the first time in years — alive. The world does not need more noise. It needs this: the quiet, sacred act of listening — and being heard by the silence itself.