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“This Is My Masterpiece” was written in 2009 but waited sixteen years to visually exist. Why was now the moment for the vision to finally manifest?
Some works arrive when the world is finally ready for them.
“This Is My Masterpiece” was written in 2009 in Cardiff, Wales, at Screamdelica Studios — a studio we built with our own hands and filled with over fifty songs across five years. It was the last thing we recorded together before everything scattered. The studio was sold. Lives shifted. I crossed the Atlantic to New York. The band didn’t break up so much as it disappeared into the future.
We released the This Is My Masterpiece EP in 2012, on Halloween, and then fell silent. No final speech. No closure. Just a signal cut mid-transmission.
In April 2025, a message arrived from Wales: Where did the music go?
It was gone. Entirely erased from the system. No explanation. No warning.
That absence became the ignition.
We decided to resurrect the catalog — not chronologically, but in reverse, like rewinding a prophecy back to its origin point. This Is My Masterpiece returned exactly thirteen years after its release, again on Halloween.
Back in 2009, we already saw the music video in our heads. We just didn’t have the tools to summon it. Since then, I’ve spent years refining visual language through RIOT, creating cinematic worlds for Tiffany, Coach, LA Galaxy, and the Washington Commanders — learning how images speak when words aren’t enough.
This time, the technology caught up. AI didn’t replace the vision, it unlocked it.
The music video was built alone, late at night, on a single laptop, in the same small hours we once recorded the music in Cardiff. We hid signals inside the film because Bleed Electric has always believed art should reward those who look more than once.
Critics describe your work as “lusciously bent,” “eclectic,” and “a cinematic prophecy.” How do you react to those labels, and which—if any—captures your identity?
“Lusciously bent” feels right. It suggests beauty with a fracture running through it — something seductive, but unstable. That tension lives in our sound.
“Eclectic” is unavoidable. We’ve never believed in staying put. Genres are tools, not borders. If you trace our work backward, the spectrum actually widens. The past becomes stranger than the future.
And “cinematic prophecy”? That one cuts closest. From the beginning, the visuals were already present while the songs were being written. Sound choices were made to serve images that didn’t yet exist. We were scoring films that hadn’t been shot.
Now they’re beginning to be.
When critics hear that, it tells us the transmission is being received clearly.
The new video is described as a collision of reality, hallucination, and digital delirium. What creative or technological breakthroughs made this version possible?
That description is literal.
The video exists in layers: real footage, synthetic hallucinations, and deliberate digital decay. Fashion imagery collides with apocalypse. Flesh meets code.
A robed machine walking like a messiah.
A couple decomposing on a golf cart.
A camera falling through a spiral of reaching hands.
A radiation-pink palm raised against a mushroom cloud.
A monolith that explains nothing.
Each image is a question mark.
Technically, we built a hybrid workflow — AI generation sculpted frame by frame, dragged through stylization, then stitched together with live action, CGI, and analog video hardware, abused until it broke reality in familiar ways. Old glitches. New tools. Same instinct.
It’s future technology filtered through muscle memory that’s designed to make you feel something.
The line “Mother’s dying…” was written in 2009 and resonates even more intensely in 2025. What was the emotional and cultural landscape that gave birth to that warning?
The world was already fractured in 2009. We were just paying close attention.
Some events bend the timeline. After 2001, everything accelerated. Cause and effect collapsed into a blur. Each year added velocity, not clarity.
“Mother’s dying…” wasn’t metaphorical. It was observational.
Bleed Electric has always called its work future fresh. Not because we chase trends, but because we write from pressure points. That’s why the lyrics feel sharper now than when they were written.
If history keeps repeating, it’s because no one changed the pattern.
You’ve called the video a resurrection of a project that temporarily died. What led to that “death,” and what brought Bleed Electric back?
Bleed Electric didn’t end, we went dormant.
There was no breakup. No drama. Just silence.
When our catalog vanished without explanation, it felt symbolic. A system erasing something it didn’t know how to categorize.
That erasure became permission.
We returned with intention: to re-release everything in reverse, peeling the mythology backward until the origin reveals itself. After that comes The Butterfly Effect — a complete concept album recorded before anything else, ending with the very first song we ever made.
And after that?
Don’t be surprised if new transmissions are already en route.
“We are not a band. We are an experiment.” How does that philosophy shape your creative process and how you release art?
We deliberately stay uncomfortable.
We test ideas until they either collapse or evolve. Sound, image, narrative are all disposable if they stop surprising us.
That’s the experiment.
“Mankind ain’t human no more.” What fracture were you sensing then—and how has it widened today?
Look around.
Empathy has thinned. Violence has normalized. Addiction has mutated. People live online — furious at strangers, anesthetized by scrolls, disconnected from bodies and neighbors.
The gap between abundance and survival has never been wider.
Back then, the line was a warning.
Now it’s a diagnosis.
Still, cycles break when enough people get tired of the illusion. Maybe the backlash has already begun.
The upcoming EP “Let The Invasion Begin” arrives on 26 | 26 | 26. What is the significance behind that alignment?
Some patterns arrive accidentally.
The EP opens with a track called “Trinity.” The date revealed itself later. We didn’t choose it.
26 is balance.
2 is alignment.
6 is responsibility.
Tripled, it becomes a directive:
Create something real — without hollowing yourself out.
We hear it as a message that the work is no longer just personal. It has to serve outward.
Plug in. Tune in. Connect.
Bleed Electric blends electronic music, hip-hop, experimental art, and cinematic visuals. How do you approach genre when you’re intentionally trying to defy it?
Genre follows feeling.
If a scene requires violence, we go violent.
If it requires beauty, we go fragile.
There’s a track called “XII: Special Weapons & Tactics” — the sound of a SWAT raid heard through the mind of the target. It’s death metal, pop hooks, and hip-hop coexisting, because that’s what the moment demanded.
“This Is My Masterpiece” could only exist as cinema. It’s the only track we ever made where all three of us sing — no rapping — yet hip-hop still bleeds through the repetition, the cadence, the intent.
Genre is just another language. We use whichever one tells the truth fastest.
After years of silence and myth, what do you want listeners to understand about this new chapter of Bleed Electric?
Bleed Electric was built to outlive its creators.
Our music doesn’t age, it expands.
There are layers here. Signals beneath signals.
We don’t expect everyone to decode it.
We just invite them to step inside.
There isn’t another band like us.
There never was — and maybe never will be.
