Some works don’t belong to their time — or even to the vocabulary that tried to name them. Dragon Soup, by Pep Gaya, is one of those.
In the early 2000s, while “micro-minimal” was emerging as a trend across European labels, Pep was tuned to another frequency. He wasn’t following an aesthetic — he was distilling one.

To call Dragon Soup “micro-minimal” was to diminish it, to overlook the quiet radicalism at its core.
What Pep did was redefine minimalism from within, without slogans, without stylistic mimicry.
In his music, silence wasn’t absence — it was a living substance.
Each delay breathed like a thought.
Each texture didn’t simply sound — it surrounded you, turning space itself into a sentient architecture.

Pep didn’t simplify. He distilled.
He took minimalism, stripped it to its barest framework, and rewrote it from an emotional, almost metaphysical place.
Listening to Dragon Soup today still feels like stepping into a suspended field — a loop that doesn’t repeat, but transforms into its own shadow.

Perhaps he never received the recognition he deserved, yet his work endures as a fracture in time.
While others were making music for the dancefloor, Pep was designing time.
And that gesture — so silent, so radical — continues to resonate with those who understand that true avant-garde doesn’t shout.
It whispers.

PEP GAYA | DRAGON SOUP (L.O.D. REMIX)