SYZRAW isn’t just a music project — it’s a rupture. A reset. A rebirth. A genre switch. A statement of identity in flux. It’s the sound of creative liberation in its most chaotic, cinematic form.
After years of producing under the alias CHENDA, I found myself standing at a stark emotional and creative crossroads. CHENDA brought me success I never could have imagined — millions of streams, a loyal fanbase, unforgettable shows, international collaborations, and real connection through music. I owe so much to that era. The sound I built there was grounded in melodic genres: future bass, chill trap, and especially melodic dubstep. These tracks were designed to lift people up — ethereal pads, swelling leads, uplifting vocals, cathartic drops, and harmonies that healed. I poured my sensitivity into those songs, and they carried me through some of my most vulnerable years.
But I changed.
At some point, I stopped resonating with the softness that defined CHENDA. My internal world had become louder, darker, more chaotic — not in a destructive way, but in a real way. I had new feelings that didn’t belong to a pad or a breakdown. My headspace was less about soaring melodies and more about pulsing, twisted textures. There was tension building under the surface. Creative pressure. Emotional noise. And I knew the sound I was using no longer matched the person I was becoming.
That’s when SYZRAW was born.
This isn’t a rebrand. It’s a transformation. A full-blown, high-voltage rupture from everything familiar. SYZRAW doesn’t just mark a change in aesthetic — it represents a radical genre shift. One where I’ve moved away from the melodic and cinematic tones of CHENDA and stepped directly into a darker, faster, glitchier world — one where UK garage, UK bass, UK dubstep, and early Y2K rave culture now sit at the center of my sonic palette.
It felt like returning to raw electricity.
SYZRAW is not a departure from emotion — it’s a different language for emotion. I still feel things deeply. But now, I express that depth through distortion, tension, decay, and rhythm. The shift to UK-inspired sounds wasn’t just about tempo or tone — it was about honesty. UK garage gave me that sense of off-kilter groove, unpredictability, and swing. UK bass and dubstep brought the weight — sub-bass frequencies that vibrate under your skin, syncopated drums that feel like broken machines, and spaces between the hits that breathe with anxiety and power. These genres let me be angry, confused, excited, manic, obsessive — without needing to explain it all in a chorus.
CHENDA was about healing the wound.
SYZRAW is about sitting in it, feeling it pulse, and dancing anyway.
There’s a particular kind of bravery in starting over, especially when the world already knows you one way. The art of restarting isn’t polished or strategic. It’s messy. It’s raw. You’re demolishing your public identity and rebuilding it in real time — and you don’t know if people will come with you. But that’s what makes it powerful. This isn’t calculated. It’s necessary. It’s survival through sound.
I didn’t want to carry old expectations into this new space. I needed a clean break — visually, sonically, spiritually. SYZRAW is stripped down and rebuilt from scratch. The branding is different. Black and purple dominate the palette — colors that feel royal and violent and raw. The textures are grainy, filmic, and fast. The music isn’t built for playlists. It’s built for impact.
And then there’s the Y2K influence — an era that wasn’t just aesthetic, but emotional. The early 2000s were a time of uncertainty, glitch, and experimentation. People were still adjusting to the digital world. There was an unease in the air, but also a limitless sense of curiosity. It mirrors how I feel now. Everything’s overstimulated. Everything’s curated. But in that chaos, there’s still something authentic waiting to break through. That’s where SYZRAW lives — in the tension between overload and truth.
The sounds I use now are a reflection of that tension.
Garage drums that swing and stutter.
Metallic basslines that roar like rusted engines.
Glitchy textures that sound like corrupted files.
Vocals that aren’t perfectly tuned, but intentionally broken.
Synths that don’t resolve.
Delays that stretch forever, like a thought you can’t shake.
Think RL Grime scoring a psychological horror film.
Think ISOxo if he grew up inside a broken radio.
Think Skrillex meets Burial in a dream about digital ghosts.
This isn’t just genre-hopping for fun. This is me translating how I actually feel in a world that rarely slows down long enough to let anyone feel anything. These sounds are my way of processing anxiety, overstimulation, urgency, memory, and emotional intensity. SYZRAW is the sound of trying to stay human in a digital world that constantly pulls you away from yourself.
And it’s not just music.
SYZRAW is designed as a transmedia universe — one that spills into fashion, visuals, short films, lore drops, and immersive live performances. I want every element to feel connected. No song exists on its own. No visual is random. There’s a cinematic spine holding it all together — like a nonlinear film unfolding in audio form.
The live show I’m building isn’t just a setlist. It’s an environment. A space where the audience and artist dissolve into each other. Where the visuals react to the music in real time. Where the show isn’t “watched” — it’s experienced. It’s a rave and a ritual. A glitch and a prayer. You’re not just attending — you’re entering something.
The fashion side is evolving too. Grainy textures, tactical layers, futuristic silhouettes. Outfits that look like they were pulled from a Y2K war room or a post-apocalyptic music video. I’m working on limited capsule collections that tie into specific releases — drops that feel like artifacts from the SYZRAW world. Everything from sound design to visuals to physical merch is part of the same ecosystem.
This all means rethinking success.
When I was CHENDA, success was numbers. Streams. Playlists. Labels. While I’m still proud of that work, SYZRAW has forced me to ask deeper questions: What if success isn’t mass appeal? What if it’s resonance? What if just one person hears a track and feels seen, feels less alone, feels something rise inside them that they didn’t know how to access — is that not the most powerful metric of all?
I want SYZRAW to be a safe house for people who overthink, overfeel, and overflow.
For people who are told they’re “too much.”
For people who don’t feel heard until the bass hits just right.
For those who find clarity in distortion.
For people like me.
The music industry loves to package people. To sanitize art. To polish vulnerability into algorithmic perfection. But that’s not why I make music. And it’s not what SYZRAW stands for.
SYZRAW is about the mess.
The noise.
The shadow.
The glitch in the system.
The scream you didn’t think anyone else could hear.
So if you’re still here — thank you.
You’re witnessing a moment that won’t happen again.
A version of this project, and of me, that’s raw and real and still taking shape.
You’re part of a transformation — not just observing it, but inside it.
This is the beginning of a new era. A darker one. A louder one. A braver one.
Welcome to SYZRAW.
