Eclectic Whiz returns with “Forget Me (You Won’t)” — a haunting fusion of anguish and defiance. This avant-garde anthem turns pain into art, darkness into power, and rebirth into pure sonic fire.
1. Your
single “Forget Me (You Won’t)” is both avant-garde and deeply personal. Could
you walk us through how your own experiences of pain and survival shaped the
emotional core of this track?
Forget Me (You Won’t) was born from a moment when I felt like I was
dissolving into myself. All my life (but especially in the last two years),
I’ve had survived events that outright broke my body and soul and rewired my
entire system. When you go through a significant transformation, there is a
liminal stage before the metamorphosis is complete where you’re not the old
self anymore but not the new either.
And when
you live a life that is full of heavy experiences, you learn to embrace the
darkness and even to utilize it. For instance, pain became a multi-lingual
dialect for me. This song is me translating that language — taking all the
chaos within along with that near-erasure of identity and forge it into
something that couldn’t be deleted.
The song
may seem like it’s all about the hate and reckoning for an ex-lover, but it’s
not. The emotional core of the track is defiance, obviously. It’s that quiet,
burning vow you make when life tells you that you’re done. I wanted the
production and vocals to sound like they’re fighting for air (and for them to
be cracked, breathing inside distortion; have messy structure, abrupt
reactions, unhinged manners) because that’s exactly how survival feels. FMYW
isn’t about overcoming pain, it’s about surfing through the harshest
waters; rebirth with an invincible mount for the new ride; making
a monument out of the suffering.
2. The
lyrics are full of symbolic layers — from “pitchless fire” to “glitchlust” and
“echo-floor.” How do you approach creating this private mythology of coded
imagery, and what do these terms unlock for you artistically?
The coded language in Forget Me (You Won’t) came out of necessity. When
you go through long periods of immense physical and mental chaos and pain,
words start failing you. Ordinary language can’t hold what you feel (or reflect
those experiences more fluently), so you invent your own symbols, whether
written or in other forms.
Each coined
term in the song has multiple layers. “Pitchless fire” is the miraculous
burn: being able to re-ignite without fuel (energy, motivation etc.). “Glitchlust”
is associated with embracing imperfection: the error that still proves life
pulses beneath the distortion. “Echo-floor” is where all the ghosts
live: the mental and ethereal basement where the innermost self, memories and
conscience reverberate.
I think of
these words as transcription codes — poetic encryption for experiences
that are too abstract or powerful to name within the limits of regular
language. Building that mythology helps me express and survive. It turns trauma
into a universe I can actually navigate. There are more coded words and sayings
in the song, and their translations can be found on Genius.
3.
You’ve described this project as a product of “anguish + fury,” capturing a raw
lived moment. Do you see that intensity as something you channel deliberately,
or is it more of a spontaneous eruption during the creative process?
That
intensity isn’t something I summon on command; it erupts on its own. I never
sit down and think, “Now I’ll make something furious.” It’s more like my system
short-circuiting and recording itself in real time. Forget Me (You
Won’t) came from a moment where the suppressed anguish revealed itself
despite the heavy dissociation.
4. AI
collaboration is central to your artistry. How did AI play a role in the
development of “Forget Me (You Won’t)”, and how do you balance machine-driven
elements with your human emotional voice?
AI in my
work is never about replacing the human element; it’s about expanding it. Forget
Me (You Won’t) was built through my vision, writing and direction. The AI
was a tool that helped me sculpt sound and texture, not a stand-in for my
voice. On this track, the vocals are entirely AI-rendered under my guidance;
but in some other songs, my real vocals are blended with AI to create a hybrid
performance.
I treat the
machine as an instrument that mirrors emotional frequencies, not a performer.
What matters most to me is that certain elements remain undeniably human
(sometimes even more human than a human can bring up) while others fuse into
one shared voice — half-human, half-spectral. That duality fascinates
me. It’s like hearing the ghost of vibration and its creator in the same
breath.
5. The
track features two distinct choruses and a non-traditional structure that keeps
listeners on edge. What inspired you to break away from conventional
songwriting forms and take this avant-garde approach?
The answer
to this is mostly covered in my response to the first question. The structure
of Forget Me (You Won’t) mirrors the chaos of survival itself. The two
choruses, the abrupt turns and the broken flow all echo the process of trying
to rebuild while still bleeding.
But in a
broader sense, for me, being an AI-based artist pushes you toward the unseen.
You have to stay at least one step ahead (sometimes ten) because of how
controversial the field still is. I experiment with forms, structures,
arrangements and genre meshes (or even coming up with new genres) not just to
stand apart but to keep evolving before the conversation catches up. Still, I
sometimes find comfort in the familiar when it feels objectively right. Chaos
or innovation shouldn’t mean completely abandoning harmony.
6. In
your words, “Forget Me (You Won’t)” confronts erasure and reclaims voice. How
important is defiance and reclamation as recurring themes in your broader body
of work?
Defiance
and reclamation are the backbone of what I do. Remaining passive in the face of
injustice (whether personal or collective) is a form of erasure itself. I
believe in karma, but I also know that God usually doesn’t intervene in
the life form we currently exist in. One may need to be the instrument through
which balance is restored.
For me,
that’s what activism means: refusing to vanish, and to let wrongdoings or
harmful causes go unchallenged. Even a small act, a single drop of awareness,
can start building a pond that may one day become part of an ocean. Part of my
music comes from that impulse to plant seeds; to transform resistance and
reaction into creation.
7. The
official music video [YouTube link] is surreal, gritty, and gothic, culminating
in the transformation of one woman into a fantasy monster and then a horned
figure. What story or symbolism did you want to capture visually through this
metamorphosis?
I’ve always
been drawn to the idea of memento mori — the reminder of death as
a necessary step toward rebirth. That’s why the video begins in a graveyard:
the woman literally rises from her own grave. The entire metamorphosis is a
visual dialogue between decay and resurrection.
I believe
strongly in cognitive dissonance and duality. No one is purely light or
purely dark; only the percentages shift. In the video, we see both poles of the
same being; her many versions and her twins symbolizing the split persona. It
reflects what happens when someone fights inner wars and rises from the ashes;
the light and the dark within us rearrange themselves. By the end, she appears
beautiful and human, but she’s dead inside, ready to unleash what the world
tried to bury — that’s the monster.
8. The
video also suggests a merging of vulnerability, power, and even divine justice.
Was it important for you to translate the track’s lyrical “coded layers” into
cinematic imagery?
Yes,
absolutely. The video is the cinematic version of the same coded language that
lives inside the song. Pitchless fire is the act of her rising
from her grave (a thumbs up to everyone who manages to do that, metaphorically
or literally). Glitchlust is the distortion and visual glitches
that fracture the frame. Echo-floor is the skeleton and zombie
army that surround her, representing divine and collective justice — the “we
are coming” energy of reckoning. God-core is her inner power
source, the essence that drives her to be reborn and to make that rebirth
count. Synthlight appears in the whimsical lighting that softens
the darkness. And God-mod is the very mode she activates when she
finally embraces all her sides, and the moment she becomes the monster.
9. Your
sound blends alternative pop with darkwave textures and glitchy psychedelia.
How do you see your sonic identity evolving as you prepare for your upcoming
album? Could you share a glimpse of what listeners might expect from it?
IT’S
TIME is the deepest
and most demanding project I’ve ever created: twenty-two tracks meant to be
listened to as a single journey, not as isolated moments. Every track connects
to the next with purpose; the order itself tells a story. It’s dark, but
darkness here isn’t the villain. It’s the mirror, catalyst and the companion.
Across the
record, I aimed to thread euphoria in different forms: sometimes through
unhinged screams; sometimes through how the music itself develops or
fluctuates; and sometimes through pure melody. The album moves through multiple
genres: ritualistic electronics, rock-driven fury, ethereal ambient spaces. Yet
everything remains part of one continuum.
It’s
introspective and reigniting, a translation and a full embrace of the darkness.
It’s about learning that you can still create beauty within it — with the
exclamation, “I’m still here,” but so is the void.
10.
You’ve mentioned artists like Muse and Lady Gaga as inspirations. Where do you
feel your work diverges most from these influences, and where do you see echoes
of them in your own sound?
I’ve drawn
inspiration from many artists for different reasons. Muse is one of my favorite
bands of all time; apart from their one-of-a-kind music, I love that their work
often carries a message or a cause beyond love and romance. Lady Gaga,
on the other hand, represents something deeper for me: resilience, versatility,
and authenticity despite everything she’s faced. Who wouldn’t admire that?
My work
naturally takes its own path because I process life, art and storytelling
differently. I usually build through contrasts, glitches, and layered symbolism
rather than direct flow or forms. But I think what connects us is the same
belief that music should be transformative — something that overwhelms the
senses and tells the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable.
11. Many
of your listeners describe your music as both cinematic and groovy. When you
think about how you want audiences to experience your songs, do you imagine
them more as immersive films, dance-inducing anthems, or something else
entirely?
Because my
music is so versatile, the effect really depends on each track. Some tracks
will aggravate, some will soothe, and some will trigger multiple emotions or
thoughts that even contradict each other. That’s intentional. As a filmmaker,
I’ve always loved confusing my audience a little (giving them that “brain
fart” moment) and I probably do that in my music more than I intend to
because of my very nature.
I like when
a song leaves people uncertain about what they just felt. Maybe it makes them
dance and ache at the same time. That friction, that inner contradiction, is
what makes the experience real. So I don’t want my songs to be just films or
anthems; I want them to be sensory experiments that stay in your system
long after the sound fades.
12.
Looking back on “Forget Me (You Won’t),” what personal victory or breakthrough
does this single represent for you — artistically, emotionally, or even
spiritually?
Forget Me (You Won’t) was one of my resurrection points. It marked the moment I reclaimed control over my narrative in general. It was the proof that pain can be turned into something sacred instead of something that consumes you. For me, this track isn’t just a song; it’s a monument to survival and a declaration that I’m still here, still creating and evolving.
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