Merimon is not a band. It is not a person. It is not even a sound—yet it is all sounds at once. A shapeshifting entity of noise, static, and fractured melody, it exists in the static between stations, the hum of broken machinery, the scream of a distorted signal fighting to be heard. No one knows who—or what—creates Merimon’s music. Is it a lone mad scientist of sound, a collective of anonymous provocateurs, or something not human at all? The project has no genre, no rules, no allegiance to structure—only the relentless pursuit of sonic disintegration. One track might be a storm of glitched industrial fury; the next, a drifting ambient nightmare that whispers in frequencies just beyond comprehension. Merimon does not perform. It manifests. It does not release albums—it leaks transmissions, scattered like cryptic clues for those willing to listen past the point of comfort. There are no interviews, no social media, no faces. Only the noise remains. Some call it experimental. Others call it chaos. But those who truly hear it know: Merimon is not music. It is a disturbance. A ripple in the fabric of sound itself. And it is listening back. Turn up the volume. Or turn it off. It makes no difference to Merimon.