Korfian’s ‘Digital Brutalism’ Is a Mirror to Our Glitching Reality

Athens-based artist Spyros Psarras, better known as Korfian, has steadily built his name through minimalist visuals and experimental soundscapes since 2015. With a background in graphic design and a multidisciplinary approach, his work often feels more like installation than entertainment. Digital Brutalism, his 2025 album, follows that same ethos. It is quiet, stark, and stripped of excess. The album is made up of seven pieces that explore disconnection, digital dependency, and emotional fatigue without once falling into sentimentality.

Korfian’s sound leans toward industrial electronic with ambient elements, but he never settles into the genre for comfort. The production is clean but not lush. The vocals are controlled, even in moments of personal tension. There is no rise and fall in the traditional sense. These songs are steady and often confrontational in how little they give back. That restraint is what makes the album feel so aligned with its themes.

“Apathy Star”: Burnout in Real Time

The opening piece, “Apathy Star,” introduces the emotional center of the album immediately. A slow, metronomic pulse holds the rhythm while Korfian’s voice moves through lines about overstimulation and detachment. He sings about scrolling through pain and feeling nothing. The delivery is neutral and almost clinical. There is no attempt to dramatize. The absence of emotional cues becomes the message.

Rather than build to a moment of release, the piece circles itself. The lyrics return in fragments, the rhythm never changes, and the space between each line becomes more noticeable than the line itself. The fatigue is not performed. It is simply laid out.

“Digital Brutalism” and “348-844”: Structure Over Feeling

The title piece, “Digital Brutalism,” begins with a slightly faster pace. The arrangement is minimal but firm like a structure meant to support weight but not invite comfort. Korfian’s lyrics focus on the loss of clarity within systems that track behavior, filter emotion, and offer a connection that rarely satisfies. His voice stays low in the mix. The lines feel observed, not confessed.

“348-844” takes this further. The title feels like a service number or passcode. The composition features distorted vocal bits, quick-cut glitches, and brief moments of quiet that feel more important than the sound itself. The lyrics are sparse but clear. This is a song about numbing discomfort by giving in to automation. There is no breakdown, and no instrumental swelling. Just repetition, restraint, and static.

“Father.exe” and “Your System”: Personal Collapse in a Digital Frame

By the fourth track, “Father.exe,” Korfian turns slightly inward. The vocal line becomes more exposed, though still controlled. The lyrics shift toward inherited patterns, personal validation, and how self-worth bends under comparison. The structure remains repetitive, echoing earlier pieces, but this time the emotion starts to show through. Not loudly, but enough to notice.

“Your System” builds on that fragility. The sound design becomes more atmospheric. The lines feel like they are directed at something invisible but familiar. Korfian sings about dependence on a structure that both enables and drains. There is frustration in the repetition, but it never boils over. This tension between awareness and helplessness is where the album’s emotional weight begins to settle in.

“Rolos” and “Narita”: Drift into Silence

“Rolos” takes a step away from the narrative. The lyrics are fewer, and the pacing feels suspended. It is less a song than a motion. The space between sounds stretches longer. The texture softens. Korfian uses this moment to let the album breathe without necessarily releasing the listener. It feels like a pause, not a conclusion.

The final piece, “Narita,” continues in that direction. There is no final message, no last push. The vocals are faint. The beat is barely there. If the album begins with emotional exhaustion, it ends with total depletion. Not in a dramatic or tragic way, but as a kind of quiet disappearance. It does not feel like closure, only continuation.

Digital Brutalism is not a project that seeks to explain or resolve. It documents. It listens to the patterns of daily detachment and reflects them back with clarity. Korfian never raises his voice, never leans on big production shifts, and never pushes for sympathy. That’s exactly why this album works.

For anyone drawn to experimental electronic music that prioritizes concept and structure, Digital Brutalism offers something honest. It holds still long enough to let discomfort speak, and that is its most striking quality.

Listen to Digital Brutalism on Spotify, and follow Korfian on Instagram.