Behind 'Obsidian Tragedy': The Track That Refused to Be Resolved

There's a specific kind of track that fights you during production. Not because it's technically difficult — because it refuses to do what you want it to do emotionally.

Obsidian Tragedy was that track. I worked on it over three separate sessions across two weeks, and every time I thought I'd found the ending, the track made clear it wasn't done. It kept opening up when I tried to close it. It kept escalating when I tried to pull back.

Eventually I stopped trying to steer it and just followed it. The result is one of the strangest things in the catalog — and one of the ones I'm most proud of.

Where the Name Came From

"Obsidian" as a material has specific properties that matter to me: it's formed from volcanic glass, it's extremely sharp when fractured, and it's simultaneously beautiful and dangerous. The edge of obsidian is sharper than surgical steel. People have used it as a cutting tool for thousands of years precisely because it breaks predictably along fracture lines.

That combination — beautiful, cold, dangerously sharp, formed by destruction — was the emotional register I was working in. "Tragedy" because the piece doesn't resolve into anything comfortable. It ends in a state of sustained tension that I chose not to release.

That choice was deliberate. Not all emotional states resolve. Some just... stop. And music that insists on resolution when the feeling hasn't resolved is dishonest in a way I find harder to forgive than music that stays unfinished.

The Three Sessions

The first session produced the core — a motif built around a descending line that I couldn't get out of my head. It had weight to it. Not in the sense of bass or volume, but in the sense of something you can't undo. I built the first section around it and stopped when I realized I didn't know where it was supposed to go.

The second session, a week later, was where things got complicated. I tried to bring the track somewhere more recognizable — a conventional build, a drop, the architecture that most electronic music uses because it works. The track rejected all of it. Every time I put in a conventional structure, the motif felt wrong inside it. Like forcing a square peg that you could hear was wrong even if it technically fit.

I scrapped most of the second session.

The third session was where I accepted that the track was going to do what it was going to do. I took the descending motif and let it drive everything. No conventional drop. No predictable release. Just escalation and transformation until the track ran out of places to go — and then it stopped.

The Production Problem: Density

Obsidian Tragedy is dense. More so than most things I make. There's a moment in the final third where four or five distinct elements are all happening simultaneously, each of them doing something different rhythmically. On paper that sounds like a mess. In practice it sounds like — controlled collapse, maybe.

Getting that density to feel intentional rather than cluttered took longer than any other single thing in the production. The technique was mostly about frequency management: making sure each element occupied a different part of the sonic space, so they could coexist without canceling each other out. But beyond the technical side, there was an editorial question of which elements were earning their presence and which ones were just noise.

I cut a lot. What remained was things that couldn't be removed without the track losing something it needed. That's the test I use more than almost anything else: can I remove this and still have the track? If yes, it probably shouldn't be there.

The Ending I Chose Not to Write

There's a version of Obsidian Tragedy that resolves. I wrote it. I spent time on it. It takes the final section and brings everything down into something quieter and more settled — a conventional emotional landing.

It was technically better in some ways. Easier to listen to. More satisfying in the immediate sense.

I didn't use it.

The choice to end the track in sustained tension rather than resolution was the most deliberate production decision in the piece. Some feelings don't have endings. The kind of tragedy I was thinking about when I named this track doesn't wrap up. It stays present. Music that pretends otherwise — that manufactures a comfort the emotional reality doesn't support — does a disservice to the feeling it came from.

Ending on unresolved tension felt true. The resolved version felt like a lie I'd have to live with every time the track played.

What It Taught Me

Obsidian Tragedy is the track that taught me most clearly that the production process isn't always about imposing your intention on sound — sometimes it's about recognizing what the sound is already telling you and getting out of the way.

I spent the first two sessions trying to make it something specific. The third session I listened to what it already was. Those are fundamentally different activities, and knowing when to switch between them is most of what production actually is.

The track that fights you is the track that's worth finishing. Anything that comes easily is usually easier for a reason.

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FAQ

What does "Obsidian Tragedy" mean?

Obsidian is a volcanic glass that's simultaneously beautiful and dangerous — formed by destruction, cold to the touch, sharper than surgical steel when fractured. "Tragedy" refers to the deliberate choice to leave the track unresolved. Some emotional states don't end neatly. The title captures both the aesthetic and the decision not to manufacture an ending the feeling didn't support.

Why doesn't the track have a conventional drop or resolution?

Every attempt to build in a conventional structure — a standard drop, a resolved ending — felt dishonest against the core motif. The track was written around a descending line that has weight and permanence to it. Conventional EDM architecture kept making that motif feel wrong. The final structure followed what the track was already doing rather than imposing an external form.

How long did Obsidian Tragedy take to produce?

Three sessions across approximately two weeks. The first established the core motif. The second was largely scrapped after conventional structure attempts failed. The third session — where the approach changed from steering to following — produced the final version.

What's the resolved version, and why wasn't it used?

A resolved version was written and completed. It brings the final section down into something quieter and more settled — a conventional emotional landing. It was more immediately satisfying to listen to. It wasn't used because it felt like a lie: it manufactured comfort that the emotional reality of the track didn't support. The unresolved ending felt true. The resolved version didn't.

Is Obsidian Tragedy part of a series or standalone?

It's a standalone single, released in 2025. It doesn't connect narratively to other tracks in the catalog, though it shares the general approach of UNFINISH's darker output — tracks that prioritize emotional honesty over structural satisfaction.