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“Yes, I have a disability. But I am not a disabled musician, or a musician with a disability. I’m a musician.” Tim Palm
Meet Tim Palm: 27, Swedish, electronic music producer, tech wizard, stage adventurer and owner of a setup he affectionately calls the “Spaceship” which is one part DIY engineering, one-part expressive tool, and one hundred percent Tim.
His love for music runs deep, not just as something he listens to or plays, but as something he builds, reshapes and reimagines. For Tim, music isn’t confined to instruments or studio walls; it’s everywhere, in everyday sounds, fleeting emotions and spontaneous moments. He creates with a kind of playful intensity, weaving together melody, rhythm and texture through his Spaceship setup he’s customized entirely for himself. His music world is one of freedom, experimentation and connection, where live shows feel like conversations, tracks capture real-life fragments, and technology bends to fit creativity, not the other way around. And at the centre of it all is his self-built Spaceship that transforms his ideas into sound with fluid, real-time precision.
Tim laughs when asked if he handcrafted the entire Spaceship from scratch. “It’s like LEGO,” he says. “I didn’t invent the bricks, but I chose the ones that make sense for me.” Some pieces are custom-coded, some are hacked together, others off-the-shelf, but the result is a setup that moves with him: agile, flexible and wide open to possibility. And for Tim, possibility is the whole point.
Tim’s Spaceship is a practical bespoke electronic rig consisting of two iPads, a synth, a loop controller, a mic and a handful of controllers running through a laptop. It’s a system built for spontaneity. “I wanted to make something where I could do whatever I want, whenever I want,” he says. No preset tracks. No safety net. Just ideas, translated instantly into sound. But he’s not interested in controlling the music. That would imply some kind of dominance over it. What he’s chasing is fluency. The ability to go from feeling to sound without stutter. “Like practicing guitar so you can finally play what’s in your head. I just do it with buttons, loops, and tech that lets me move freely.”
There’s a quiet rebellion in Tim’s approach. Not the kind that shouts, “I’m different!” from a rooftop, but the kind that calmly builds its own rooftop and confidently invites you up to listen. No time is ever spent considering disability, after all, who cares? This is about music, raw talent and sharing that with the world. And there are plenty of people to share it with. Tim has a wide social circle, thrives in front of a crowd, and embraces the stage with ease whether it’s a cozy local venue, a regional festival or an international spotlight. With his music, he effortlessly draws crowds into his world . . . . “It’s a conversation without words,” he says with a grin, and it’s beautiful.
Live shows are where Tim’s system truly lights up. Not because of choreography or lighting cues but because every performance is a two-way street. “It really is like a conversation,” he explains. “I play something, they react. That reaction makes me feel something, so I play something else.” No script. Just connection.
Sometimes the crowd wants high energy, sometimes low. Sometimes it’s five people in a sleepy bar. It doesn’t matter. “If it’s quiet, I might try something wild. Test out a weird idea. See what happens.” Every performance is different. Not for the sake of difference, but because each one is different.
Has he ever felt like the music industry isn’t set up for people who work with music like he does? “I don’t think the music world is a problem,” he says. “It’s built for anyone who wants to express themselves.” Tim’s philosophy is simple: just do what feels right. Even if it’s not what you’re “supposed” to do.
Tim’s music has been described as playful and free, and that’s no accident. But he doesn’t write it that way to feel free. It’s the other way around. He’s already free. The music just reflects that. “It’s not a method to gain control,” he says. “It’s who I am.”
That attitude starts in the studio, where his one golden rule is “make music for myself.” The rest: promotion, marketing, strategy, all of that can be flexible, he’s willing to compromise. But the music? That’s sacred. It’s where he lets himself exist with no filters. If you sense joy in his songs, it’s real. If you hear a bit of chaos, that’s real too.
One of his most personal tracks is the delightfully cryptic AEG aed? the first single he ever released under his name. It opens with a recorded moment of confusion, where he forgets which chords he’s playing and blurts them out in Swedish. Instead of editing it out, he kept it in. “I wanted it to feel like you were there in the room with us,” he says. It’s not the flashiest song on his album, not engineered for clubs or radio. But it is Tim. And that’s what made it the perfect debut.
His album The Unknown Sea is a sonic moodboard of layered textures, feelings, conversations and accidents. It didn’t begin in a studio. It began on a stage in Finland, where Tim invited a friend to jam with him live. No setlist. No rehearsal. Just pure improvisation. Something sparked. They recorded it. Later, they gathered more friends, hit record again, and just… played.
You can hear the room in those tracks, the casual chatter, the ambient clatter, maybe even the rain on the windows. It’s subtle, almost invisible, but it’s there and it shapes the music.
“We weren’t writing songs. We were capturing moments,” he says. “And then condensing them into something that still holds that feeling.” Think jazz session meets sonic scrapbook. Imperfect on purpose.
There’s been talk about accessibility in music tech. Tim’s take? Focus on customization. Not watered-down “easy” interfaces. Real tools, adaptable to real people.
“One version of accessibility may not necessarily work for everybody. It’s not about making things simple,” he says. “It’s about letting people change things to fit them.” One of his most important tools is a loop controller he built himself, just a few arcade buttons in a 3D-printed box. Not flashy, but perfect. For him. Forget the idea of universal gear. “Even guitars come in different sizes. Why shouldn’t electronic music tools?”
Asked what would make the music world more open and welcoming, Tim takes a big step back to look at the bigger picture. “It’s not just ramps or access points,” he says. “It’s how a space feels.” Lighting. Layout. Room to move. The vibe of the bar. The comfort of the bathroom. The first impression when you walk or wheel in. Not wheel in via a back door through the kitchen out of sight. No! This seems like an afterthought. It does not feel good.
Good design makes people feel like they belong. And that feeling matters whether you’re performing or dancing or just listening. “If the space feels good,” he says, “you feel good. And then everything flows better.”
One final very important thing: Tim isn’t interested in being labelled. Not as a symbol, not as a story, not as a musician with a twist. He’s a musician! That’s the whole sentence. The Spaceship isn’t a metaphor. It’s a tool, his tool. And his songs aren’t messages, they’re expressions.
There’s clarity in that. No extra layers, no need to overexplain. Just one person doing things their way and inviting you to listen.
Subscribe to Tim’s YouTube channel https://www.youtube.com/@TimPalmMusic
Follow him on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/timpalm.music