Name The Bloody Beetroots
Best known for People call me “the baddest man in electronic music.” I answer to Bob. I also cook.
Current city I live on the road, but I land in two places: Bassano del Grappa (Italy) and Los Angeles, where my team runs base.
Really want to be in One day I’ll open Bob’s—a beachside shack in the Balearics. I’ll serve Mojitos, tell stories, and finally exhale. I’m getting there…slowly.
Excited about Fresh off FOREVER PART ONE (released in October)—I’m stacking ideas for Part Two. Chaos is good. New cuts coming.
My current music collection has a lot of Heavy rotation is metalcore right now, with Kublai Khan TX on top. I still save room for Nils Frahm’s instrumentals for space, and Ed Rush’s caustic, distorted drum-and-bass for pressure.
And a little bit of Making space for electronic punk rock with Bobby Wolfgang, rap-grime-metal with PENGSHUi, and synth punk from N8NOFACE.
Preferred format I live on streaming for convenience, but reflection happens on vinyl. Space and time stretch differently, and it honors the bond between artist and listener.
5 Albums I Can’t Live Without:
1
Mezzanine, Massive Attack
Mezzanine by Massive Attack, 1998. My real doorway into trip hop and the record that pushed me inward. On vinyl, “Angel” sets the tone—sub-bass like concrete, guitars grinding, drums that lope instead of sprint. It taught me that space is an instrument, restraint makes distortion hit harder, and vocals can be texture as much as message. My first Massive show was at the Arena di Verona in Italy—those songs hit center mass, pure pressure. I once met Daddy G at an airport, same boarding gate, and I thanked him for the emotional weight this album put in my life. Real growth moments. Since then Mezzanine has been a north star for weight, patience, and negative space—press play and the city goes dark, the story starts.
2
The Fat of the Land, The Prodigy
The Fat of the Land by The Prodigy, 1997. I was neck-deep in sampling back then—still playing in local punk bands, not yet understanding crossover. This record handed me the key that later became The Bloody Beetroots. It’s a milestone, all muscle and hypnosis, built to yank you into another dimension. It taught me that breakbeats can hit like guitars, that distortion and groove can share the same spine, that attitude is an instrument. Decades later I still reach for it when I write—it steers decisions, tempo, negative space, the bite on a snare. Keith is gone, but this album makes him appear right in front of me every time I press play. I’ve seen The Prodigy live many times; they remain immortal, like the music. Eternal respect for the key this record handed me.
3
Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols, Sex Pistols
Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols—1977. The root of everything I am sits here. Beginning and end of punk. Caustic, fast, necessary. I was born in 1977 and I’ve got the year tattooed on my chest like a flag. I dug the vinyl out of my uncle’s collection as a kid, dropped it on an old turntable, pressed play, and my life changed course. Favorites are “God Save the Queen” and “Anarchy in the U.K.” I guard a French 7-inch in black, white, and blue like a relic. Impossible to leave behind, impossible to forget—some days it hunts me and I’m the prey. Long live Uncle Steve Jones.
4
Endtroducing…, DJ Shadow
Endtroducing—DJ Shadow, 1996. When trip hop, breakbeats, and big beat hit mainstream, I fell hard for this record. “Building Steam with a Grain of Salt” still gives me chills. The whole album became the soundtrack to a period of searching, an encyclopedia I keep rereading to catch the references and the tiny shifts in tone. It taught me that collage can be composition, that space carries memory, that drums can feel like dust in sunlight. It also pushed me to buy my first Akai sampler and hook it to an Atari 1040ST, start chopping grooves, and take my first real steps into beat production. Still a master map in my head.
5
Once Upon a Time in the West, Ennio Morricone
Once Upon a Time in the West—Ennio Morricone, 2016 (compilation, 32 songs!!!). The last record I can’t live without. It’s a compilation—and still not enough—because everything Ennio wrote is master’s level, and it was my real entry point into orchestral music through cinema. This is the Italian sound that runs in my veins, the one I’ve been bound to since childhood. When I strip off what people project onto me, Ennio walks me through the switchbacks of life—deep melodies and harmonies that steady the soul. “Good Luck, Jack,” “My Name Is Nobody,” and the holy weight of “Man with a Harmonica.” I once drove out to Death Valley just to arrive with that theme blasting and step out of the car into silence. Masterful, singular, unrepeatable.
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