DJ Turf didn’t rise out of a studio — he crawled out of a swamp.

Somewhere deep in the swamps of the Netherlands, there was a shed called the Turfpit; four warped planks and a shitty creaking door. Inside, synths hummed like flies over rot, and beats leaked through the cracks into the bog water.

That’s where Turf built his sound. With rusted wires, cracking speakers, and the smell of filth soaking through everything. It wasn’t shiny, it wasn’t clean, but it was alive.

When the Turfpit was torn down, he left the ruins behind but took the swamp with him. The filth, the weight, the beats that never die.

Now based in Ireland, he continues to makes beats that sounds like it’s been dragged through the mud, stomped on, and left to breathe. The swamp is gone, but the dirt sticks.

— From the Bog, With Beats