There’s a part of me that has always loved reggae.
I’ve listened to it my whole life, in all its forms — from Bob Marley to UB40, from Jamaican roots to pop-infused versions. But what I sought in that music wasn’t sunlight. It was the hypnotic pulse, which in my mind lent itself to illusion, to irony. A storm shadow cast on Caribbean sunshine.

In the 1980s, when I played in Boxedge — my old dark electronic band — I wrote several reggae songs. But they were strange, unusual tracks.
Electronic reggae, sure, but stripped of traditional themes. No redemption, no spirituality, no universal love. Just a beat pulsing beneath dark, sarcastic, sometimes ruthless lyrics.
That was — and still is — another expression of who I am.

Serena Void was born from that place.
She is the reflection of a creative current that had remained in the shadows for so long.
She is the embodiment of a genre I’ve called Cyber Reggae — electronic reggae, disillusioned and dreamlike, with deep basslines, heavy delays, and lyrics that are raw, caustic, sharp, corrosive.

Alongside Lunaria Payne — who represents the more existential, romantic, and lyrical side of my music with her Cyber Noir — Serena Void offers another essential voice. She’s not a “side project.” She’s the other half. And right now, I’m working on the production of her first album.
Two cybernetic angels, two different voices. But the same breath.

Some of Serena Void’s songs — just like Lunaria’s — were born a long time ago.
They already existed — in embryonic form — when I was just a young post-punk with synthesizers and a drum machine. Maybe someday I’ll let you hear those old recordings.
For now, there’s Serena. And she’s alive.