Your artistic moniker is quite a loaded and self-aware choice. How does that identity shape the music you create, particularly with a track like ‘Bestial’?

Yes, “Senior Dunce” is meant to confront the very idea of expertise, elitism, and conformity. It’s a character born out of years of being misunderstood, underestimated, or simply ignored. With a track like Bestial, I wanted to embody that contradiction—someone labeled a fool by society but who holds a wild, unfiltered truth. The name gives me permission to be unapologetically honest, to explore chaos, and to question what it even means to be “intelligent” in a broken system.

How do your experiences of alienation and suppression tie into the contrasting feelings of wildness and pride in the track?

I’ve lived much of my life feeling like an outsider—at school, in business, even in music circles. That kind of alienation builds a deep pressure inside, but eventually, it either breaks you or explodes into something powerful. Bestial is that explosion. There’s pride in surviving the suppression, in still having a voice that roars. The wildness is not just rage—it’s freedom. It’s reclaiming instinct in a world that tries to tame you.

You worked with Gimpado and brought in Cheshy for vocals, so what was the collaborative process like?

Gimpado and I have a long-standing creative tension—we challenge each other, which is exactly what I need. He pushes the structure; I bring the emotional chaos. With Cheshy, her voice carries both fragility and power, which was perfect for this track. I gave her very little instruction—just a concept and a mood. What she delivered was instinctive, raw, and exactly what Bestial needed. It was less about control and more about trust and mutual understanding.

With over 20 years in the industry, across sound design, club culture, and education, how do you balance technical precision with raw emotion in your music?

Honestly, I no longer see them as separate. Technical precision is just another language for emotion. A perfectly tuned filter sweep can ache. A dissonant synth can scream. In my earlier years, I separated the two, but now I treat the DAW like a body—I give it bones, blood, nerves. The key is not to over-polish. Let the scars show.

Korea’s music scene can be very image and perfection driven. How does your work challenge that norm?

I wear imbalance proudly. I purposely avoid glamour, avoid “clean.” I think there’s a kind of violence in perfection—it erases the human. My visuals are uncomfortable. My sound is often broken. I want to make people feel something real, even if it’s awkward or ugly. In Korea, where polish is often the standard, I try to be the scratch that wakes you up.

What’s next for you?

I’m building a full-length audio-visual album—part film, part album, part manifesto. It’s my most ambitious project, and probably my most personal. I’ll rarely perform live, but when I do, it will be an event—an act of confrontation and communion. Senior Dunce isn’t here to entertain. He’s here to disturb, to provoke, and, hopefully, to awaken something in people who also feel misplaced.

Follow Senior Dunce on Instagram.