Satin Jackets reunite with long-time collaborator Tailor for their new single “Criminal”. The two have built a remarkable track record together, releasing fan favorites like “Relapse”, “Spell” and “First Thing “on Eskimo Recordings, followed by “Somewhere in Paradise” and “Oceanside” on Golden Hour. Now they return with “Criminal”, a song about watching a lost love change from afar and feeling powerless to do anything about it. The production takes a slightly rougher edge than the smooth “Oceanside”, with a punchier beat and Luis Calçada once again on bass duty. With its shimmering synth layers, heartfelt vocals, and a groove that balances melancholy with momentum, “Criminal” captures the timeless Satin Jackets formula in a fresh light. Tailor’s voice carries both warmth and longing, while the production blends emotion and rhythm in perfect harmony. “Criminal” marks the first release after Satin Jackets’ album Cruise Control and closes the year 2025 on a strong note. It continues the success story between Satin Jackets and Tailor and sets the tone for what’s to come. Watch out for 2026! * * * Satin Jackets & Tailor — CriminalNew release out November 21, 2025!Criminal

**Two years into the AI revolution.** The first time was magical. A conversation with a machine that didn't just respond but understood, that remembered context and spoke with something approximating warmth. Then came the images, sublime visions conjured from nothing but text, digital paintings that seemed to capture something ineffable about beauty itself. This was two years ago, when artificial intelligence felt like witnessing a new dawn break over the horizon of human possibility. Now it's daylight, and we can finally see what we've created. The fascination hasn't disappeared entirely. But it's changed, acquiring an aftertaste that grows stronger with each passing week. Those AI generated images that once mesmerized now carry a peculiar taint, an uncanny wrongness that's difficult to articulate but impossible to ignore once you've noticed it. Like the faint smell of machine oil on something that should be organic, it marks these creations as fundamentally other. **The Flood** Scroll through any social media feed today and you'll encounter it: an endless deluge of machine made content, increasingly sophisticated, increasingly indistinguishable from human creation. It's becoming the new baseline reality. I keep wondering who benefits from this transformation? Who's driving the relentless push to replace authentic human expression with algorithmically generated hallucinations? The question isn't whether we can create these things. Clearly, we can. The question is whether we should, and what we lose when we do. Is a video of a cat falling off a chair still charming when that moment was never captured, when no cat ever fell? Can we genuinely connect with an influencer's lifestyle when not only is that lifestyle fictional, but the person themselves has never drawn breath? Even Spotify now hosts thousands of AI generated tracks and they're thousands more added every day. Some don't seem to care, as long as the dopamine hits keep coming. But for others, including myself, the effect is hollowing. Each AI generated post, each synthetic moment of manufactured emotion, leaves behind a residue of emptiness, a sense of being manipulated and used. There's resistance, of course. Comment sections fill with "AI bullshit" memes wherever the artifice is still detectable. But that window is closing. Soon enough, we won't be able to tell the difference at all. **The Economics of Replacement** Set aside the philosophical concerns for a moment and consider the raw economics. The major AI companies are burning through billions, budgets that rival the GDP of small nations. They're lobbying to restart nuclear power plants to feed data centers the size of small cities. The monetization strategy isn't fully formed yet, but the investment continues, relentless as a tide. These systems have consumed the entire Internet. Every book ever digitized, every song ever recorded, every photograph ever uploaded, all of it ingested, processed, analyzed. The machines have studied humanity's creative output with an attention to detail no human could match. Give an AI ten songs by any artist, and it can generate the eleventh. Provide it a novelist's complete works, and it will write a convincing sequel. Some argue that true artists reinvent themselves with each creation, doing something machines cannot replicate. But The Beatles reinvented themselves perhaps once or twice in their career, not with every single track. Having a signature style isn't a weakness. It's what makes an artist recognizable. And it's precisely what makes them vulnerable to AI replication. **The Great Transfer** This is where we arrive at the crux of the matter. The creative economy, the ecosystem that has sustained photographers, designers, composers, writers, and countless other artists, is being systematically redirected toward AI companies. The machines are positioning themselves as the new creators, and the real ones are being edged out of their livelihoods. Why hire a photographer when a subscription to an image generator costs less? Why commission a composer when an AI can produce royalty free music on demand? This isn't a moral argument about the rightness or wrongness of technological progress. History is full of such transitions. The automobile made horses largely obsolete for transportation. Industries evolve, disruption happens, creative destruction is capitalism's signature move. But here's what should concern us: When these machines were trained on my music, on your writing, on everyone's creative output, when they absorbed and analyzed the work of millions of human creators, they weren't granted the right to repackage and sell it. Yet that's exactly what's happening. The head of GEMA, Germany's music rights organization, recently asked an AI music platform to create a song about 99 red balloons. The result was, unsurprisingly, a clear derivative of Nena's iconic hit. Now we understand why certain ultra wealthy tech leaders and radical politicians are calling for the abolition of intellectual property law. It's the last legal barrier standing between them and total market capture. **Brave New World** Can this be stopped? The honest answer is probably not. Too much capital has been deployed, too much political influence accumulated. The momentum may be unstoppable. So imagine the destination. A world where films feature no human actors, where stories are algorithmically tailored to your individual preference profile, analyzed and stored by platforms that know you better than you know yourself. Where music becomes an infinite stream of sounds calibrated to your current emotional state, measured in real time by your smartwatch. Where every moment of interest, every potential purchase, is curated by systems optimized for engagement and conversion. In this world, all those people who spent years or even decades refining their talents, mastering their crafts through sweat and tears and passion, are simply gone. Their skills, their perspectives, their irreplaceable human experiences will be deprecated. The fascination remains, tinged now with something closer to unease. The dawn has broken, and in the clear light of day, the beautiful and the ugly have become impossible to separate. We're left with a question: In our rush to create machines that can do everything humans can do, will we want to live in the world they create? The artificial intelligence revolution is here. The question is no longer whether it will transform creative industries. It already has. The question is whether we'll recognize what we've lost by the time it's too late to get it back.

When I set up this site, I mentioned in my welcome post that I wanted to share insights from the world of music. Not only the creative side, but also what happens behind the scenes. This post is about that. If you are interested in understanding the music business a bit better, feel free to read on. * * * **Thoughts on the Artist’s Balancing Act.** There is a romantic myth that artists should live and die by their muse alone, that money, contracts and percentages are distractions best left to the people who know their way with it. It sounds comforting, even noble. But more often than not, it is the opening line in a long story of lost rights, recoupment traps and deals that glitter just long enough for someone else to cash in. The truth is harsh but simple. An artist who wants to survive long term has to be business minded. Not because it is enjoyable. Not because creativity and commerce naturally belong together. They rarely do. But if your career does not work economically, it eventually does not work at all. A song might be timeless, but rent and groceries are not. Some artists might come from a background where these trivial financial realities might not apply to them but let us assume you are not one of them. That is where the balancing act begins. The creative mind dreams in chords and moods, while the business mind deals in numbers and legal terms. One is driven by inspiration, the other by self preservation. And yet both have to coexist if you want to keep making music on your own terms. It is possible to surround yourself with people who handle the business. Managers, labels and publishers all promise to take care of the dull stuff so you can stay in your studio realm. But the music business, for all its glamour and nostalgia, remains a business of brigandage. Everyone along the food chain takes a cut, and if there are too many mouths feeding off your work, there might not be enough left for you at the end. That is why aligning interests is crucial. A label wants to maximise profits just as much as you do, although their idea of success may not look like yours. Advances, for instance, can seem like a lifeline but often they are simply a way to bind the artist. You receive a sum upfront, sign away rights for a certain period, and before you know it, your freedom is tied to a contract until the advance is recouped. Sometimes that point takes a long time or even never comes. The rights, however, are still gone. This brings us to contracts, those cryptic documents that can decide the fate of years of your work. A good rule of thumb is that if a lawyer wrote it, and they usually do, you should have your own lawyer check it. The other side’s attorney was hired to tilt every clause in their client’s favour. Only another professional can tell where the balance can be redrawn without shattering the deal. It also enables you to make a conscious decision if you want to go forward with the deal or pass. There is no shame in the latter even if it feels like you let an opportunity slide. One door closes but another one might open up eventually. A good music lawyer is not cheap, and you will not find them through a quick search online. They usually come through recommendation, a word from someone who has been through it before. But they can be worth every cent. A single well negotiated percentage point or a clear reversion clause can repay their fee many times over. When choosing partners such as labels, managers or distributors, do not only look at their creative pitch. Ask how their accounting department works. Those are the people you will be dealing with long after the showcase dinners and friendly emails are over. Your music rights are your bank account, and like any asset, you should know when they revert to you. The sooner, the better. If a deal doesn‘t live up to your expectations, you will want to be able to pack up your things and move on. That kind of freedom takes leverage, which most do not have at the start, but you build it by staying alert. The emotional side of all this is often overlooked. Creative people resist business thinking not because they are naive, but because it can feel like stepping into a minefield. Negotiating, monitoring royalties or reading financial statements demands a different kind of attention. It can drain the same mental energy that fuels songwriting. The ability to shift between those two modes of thinking is a skill to master. Some artists learn to protect their creative time and treat business hours like studio hours, both necessary and equally sacred. In recent years, a new kind of artist has emerged, the self-managed and self-released musician who handles everything alone. This independence is empowering but at the same time exhausting. It requires not only creativity but also an understanding of marketing, data, budgeting and long term strategy. The modern artist has become their own label, promoter and analyst. It is a freedom that comes with responsibility. Streaming platforms have made numbers part of the creative process. Data now informs decisions once made by instinct. Skip rates, saves and playlist placements can tempt artists to adapt their sound to fit the algorithm. Some call it a feedback loop, others a trap. The challenge is to use that information without letting it dictate your art. Metrics can guide, but they should never lead. Another topic worth addressing is the idea of the team. Every manager, label or publisher will talk about being part of the same family. In truth, each party has its own incentives, its own goals and timelines. The team exists only as long as interests align. Recognising that early helps maintain a clear head when the contracts and compliments start to flow. Ownership is another pillar that deserves attention. Catalogs have become one of the most valuable assets in modern music. Artists are now selling their rights for sums that would have seemed unimaginable a decade ago. That shift has made one thing clear: long term ownership can far outweigh the short term benefits of a quick deal. Your rights are your pension, your legacy and often your best leverage. Yet business in music still runs on trust. The best deals often happen through reputation and relationships. People work with those they believe will deliver and behave ethically. In a culture obsessed with data and hype, trust remains the real currency. A good reputation is slow to build and quick to lose. There are some people you can trust. It's imperative to find them and maintain the relationship. Education also plays a growing role. Many artists still learn the hard way through bad contracts and missed royalties. But that is changing. Workshops, mentoring programs and online communities now help musicians understand publishing, streaming and copyright. A more informed generation is emerging, one that sees business knowledge as part of the creative toolkit rather than its enemy. Complete independence, however, is not always the answer. Freedom can be paralysing when there is no structure or feedback. Sometimes a fair partnership can create the stability needed to take creative risks. The key is knowing when to share control and when to protect it. A healthy deal is one where both sides can win without one side feeling owned. If something feels off during negotiations, listen to your gut. Ask questions. If the answer does not make sense, there is a reason. Contracts are not meant to be incomprehensible, and a promise that sounds too good often is. Never sign what you do not understand or what feels wrong, no matter how tempting the offer. It may seem like a lot, and it is. But at the end of the day, no one will ever care about your career as much as you do. Success is not just about writing great music. It is about protecting the space to keep doing it. The business does not have to kill the art, but only if the artist learns how to keep the business in check. In this industry, creativity might light the fire, but it is business sense that keeps it burning.

I still remember the day I bought my first 12-inch from **Booka Shade**. It was 1997, the record was called _“Silk”_ on the Dutch label **Touché**. I couldn’t have guessed it then, but that early vinyl would end up marking a point on the map for me. I kept an eye on their path as they went on to form **Get Physical** with **M.A.N.D.Y.** and eventually broke through worldwide with _“Body Language.”_ I was impressed watching them go from that first record in my hands to global recognition, but I never imagined I’d one day step into the same circle with them. **Booka Shade** It all started a few years ago when they asked if I’d be up for a remix. We met in Berlin-Wilmersdorf, not at a scene bar but a place that was small, cozy, and unpretentious. Sitting across from Arno, it hit both of us how long we’d been in this game. The conversation was easy, respectful. They treated me like a peer, not a newcomer or a hired hand, and that meant something. The first remix went well enough that it led to two more collaborations, one on their label and one on mine. **Jazzanova** A few years after I first discovered Booka Shade, I also came across **Jazzanova** through their now-legendary _Remixes 1997–2000_ compilation. Their 4Hero remix of _“We Who Are Not As Others”_ was unlike anything I had heard before: breakbeats colliding with jazz, sound design that felt both futuristic and timeless. It knocked me sideways in the best way. A couple of years later, their track _“No Use”_ with Clara Hill showed a softer, more soulful side of that same brilliance. Fast forward, and suddenly I was at lunch in Prenzlauer Berg with the team at **Sonar Kollektiv** , Jazzanova’s label. The connection came through a mutual contact, and the meeting felt effortless, like old friends catching up rather than a first encounter. They told me they were planning a series of remixes of Jazzanova’s debut album, and _“No Use”_ was part of it. For me, there was no debate. It was an honor, and I wanted to handle the track with satin gloves, giving it a fresh coat of shine without losing the heart of the original. **Poolside** And then there’s **Poolside**. Their sun-drenched West Coast sound had been a touchstone for Satin Jackets from early on, so when Jeff Paradise dropped me a line saying he’d be in Europe for shows and suggested a studio session, I didn’t hesitate for a second. At the time, Booka Shade had a room at the **Riverside Studios** , one of Berlin’s best-known complexes. Arno generously offered it for the session with Jeff. Before we got there, though, I met Jeff for breakfast at the **Michelberger**. I remember sitting with a cup of tea, slightly nervous, until he came down with an easy smile. After a casual hello, we walked over to Riverside together. We spent two days in that studio, writing, refining, and eventually carving out what became _“Pull Together.”_ The track later landed on **Ninja Tune** , one of the most respected independent labels on the planet. For me, that was bucket-list territory, the kind of dream you quietly carry as a producer but don’t really expect to tick off. **Looking Back** These collaborations and remixes weren’t just career milestones, they were reminders of how music weaves people together across decades and continents. From buying a 12-inch in ’97, to reimagining the songs of the artists I admired, to trading ideas over breakfast with someone whose records shaped my own sound, it all feels like a single line running forward. And being part of that line still fills me with gratitude.

I first came across the **Nu Disco wave** in the late 2000s, and it hit me like a brick. Chords, vocals, beats, all coming together in a way that just felt alive. Just like back then. At the time, I was listening to **Downtown Party Network** ’s _“Days Like These”_ and following artists like **Aeroplane** and **Flight Facilities**. That’s how I found **Eskimo Recordings** , based in Ghent, Belgium, the label where Aeroplane was releasing tracks. One of my favorite moments was hearing their remix of _“Paris”_ by Friendly Fires. Pure bliss. I started making tracks in that vein just for fun. The years before, I had been working in TV and advertising music, but the financial crisis of 2009 wiped out most of my contacts. Around the same time, **Soundcloud** was emerging as a new platform to share music. A community formed quickly, with people commenting on each other’s tracks and DJ mixes. A&Rs were scouting talent, keeping an eye out for new discoveries. It was exciting to be part of something global, connecting producers, DJs, and industry people in real time. I kept producing, slowly gaining traction. Around that time, a new YouTube channel, **Majestic Casual** , appeared. They curated new music from emerging artists in a fresh way, with their iconic logo and moody photos, and quickly gained millions of followers. One day, they posted a track I had just uploaded called _“You Make Me Feel Good.”_ It shot to **number one on Hype Machine** , which was huge at the time. That caught the attention of an A&R at Eskimo Recordings. _“You Make Me Feel Good”_ kept racking up plays, and before I knew it, I was signing the track. Suddenly, I was releasing on the same label as Aeroplane in 2013. From there, I just kept working, night and day. My studio was in the countryside, in the middle of nowhere. My only distractions were road bike rides around the nearby lake or hikes in the woods. Over the years, I worked closely with the Eskimo A&R, mostly over email, sometimes on a call, or during occasional trips to Ghent. It wasn’t just sending files back and forth. We discussed arrangements, mixes, artwork, release plans, and sometimes just music in general. Forming that working relationship, step by step, day by day, made me feel like part of a bigger team. Even though I wasn’t an employee and came from a different country, it felt good to contribute to something larger than myself. The **debut album,_Panorama Pacifico_** , was released back in 2016. Eskimo invited me to Ghent, a beautiful city, and showed incredible hospitality. They took me to restaurants I’ll never forget. The label boss pulled me aside and said, _“Tim, I don’t think I need you too close, but I think we can do good business together.”_ That felt like a quiet nod that I was legit. After the first album, I wasn’t sure I could do another one. Each release came with its own highs and lows: doubt about whether the tracks were strong enough, moments of emptiness after finishing something I had poured myself into, and the pressure of knowing the next step was already waiting. Yet somehow, the energy to go on never disappeared. **Album number two,_Solar Nights_** , followed in 2019, and a third, **_Reunion_** , completed my decade with the label. With each project, I learned to refine ideas, trust the process, and keep creating even when the path forward wasn’t always clear. Those moments of uncertainty were balanced by bursts of inspiration, and eventually, the reward of seeing a finished album made it all worthwhile. Nine years went by, and by the end of it, I felt it was time to move on, to do my own thing and become the captain of my own little ship. It wasn’t an easy decision, so I decided to take one extra year to keep at it. But the need in me kept growing, and the only salvation was a fresh start. Over the years, I had also come to feel that the Satin Jackets brand had grown strong enough to stand on its own, no longer needing to be tied to a label. Looking back, those ten years with Eskimo helped to shape **Satin Jackets**. They were full of hands-on experiences, lessons about production and the music business, and growth that only comes from long-term collaboration. I’ll always be grateful to the people at Eskimo Recordings. And on a lighter note, they also introduced me to some of the best restaurants I’ve ever been to. If you ever go to Ghent, try them out. * * * Satin JacketsFor a decade now the name Satin Jackets has been synonymous with sublimely laidback Balearic house and sun kissed disco. The brainchild of German producer Tim Bernhardt who, following a successful career producing house music under a variety of different aliases, launched Satin Jackets as a vehicle to explore his lifelong love of disco and the clean, polished productions of artists like CHIC and Trevor Horn. “I had always been fascinated by just how glossy people like Nile Rogers made their music,” Bernhardt explains.Eskimo Recordings

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Dear Friends & Music Lovers, After months of anticipation, the **“Cruise Control” Double LP vinyl is finally here!** Most pre-orders have already shipped, and now it’s your chance to secure a copy while they last. Unfortunately, there’s a bit of a downside for our friends in the US. Due to the new tariffs, the carriers we normally work with have suspended their services, so we’re unable to ship directly at the moment. You’ll find all the details here: -> Read more about US shipments The good news: selected US-based record shops have stocked up in time, making it easy to grab one without international shipping. Now for something more uplifting: with summer break behind us, I’m back on duty, working on a series of **fresh new remixes from the “Cruise Control” album.** The plan is to bring them together on a 12-inch release. More details soon! Thank you, as always, for being part of this journey with me. Your support means the world and keeps the spirit alive. Cheers, **Tim of Satin Jackets**

I took the S-Bahn out to Potsdam with no real idea of what to expect. The ride was long enough to let the city fall away, giving me time to think, maybe overthink, about what might come of the session. At Potsdam Hauptbahnhof, Thunder was waiting. He waved as I stepped off the train, and we started walking together through the beautiful streets towards his studio in the old **Rechenzentrum**. Once a computer center, now a place full of artists and musicians. It felt right before we’d even played a note. Inside, his dimly lit studio was warm and neatly structured: guitars, amps, cables, and a height-adjustable desk in the center with a wide-screen monitor on top. We were all set. After a little chat, he picked up a guitar, letting a riff fall into the air. I sat down at the keys and followed, not forcing anything. The song began to take shape without much talk. That’s always the best sign. We called it **“On My Own.”** The name just seemed to fit. I imagined slipping into my Satin Jackets outfit for the video filming later that day. It’s a little ritual that helps me shift into performance mode while Thunder leaned into the microphone. His voice carried something raw and open, and my chords wrapped around it just enough to give it a frame. We filmed it right there with his Osmo Pocket camera. No plan, no set. Just Thunder on guitar and vocals, me on the keys, the studio around us. It didn’t feel like we were making a “video,” more like we were just documenting a moment we didn’t want to lose. When we finally put it online, I thought maybe a few people would connect with it. But then the views started climbing. Slowly at first, then steadily. At some point it passed a million, which still feels a little unreal. For a video born in an old Potsdam computer center, it was more than we could have asked for and a nice confirmation that we were on the right track. Looking back, it wasn’t about chasing numbers or headlines. It was about a walk from the station, a room full of instruments, and two musicians figuring something out together. The rest just followed. * * * **So High: From Sanssouci to the Rooftop** A few months later we met again, this time in the middle of summer. Potsdam looked different under the sun: brighter, calmer, even more beautiful. We had a bigger plan now. Instead of just capturing a moment in the studio, we wanted to shoot something more deliberate, with a small team and a new track we’d been working on called **“So High.”** The idea was bold: set up in front of the **Orangerie at Sanssouci Palace** , that endless stretch of steps and terraces, and let the music breathe in a place that looked almost Mediterranean. For a while it felt like it could actually work. We unloaded some gear, started setting up, and imagined how it would look on camera. But it didn’t take long for reality to catch up. A couple of officials approached us, polite but firm. No permit, no filming. German bureaucracy at its finest. That could’ve been the end of the day, but Thunder quickly called a few of his mates back at the **Rechenzentrum**. Within no time, they came through and offered us the rooftop. An hour later we were back in familiar territory, climbing stairs instead of palace steps, setting up against the open sky. The rooftop turned out to be the better stage. The city stretched out in front of us, the perfect summer light catching the instruments, the air carrying every note across. Thunder stood with his guitar, the skyline behind him, while I worked the keys, feeling the height of it all. It was less polished, less official, but more direct. The video for **“So High”** came together there, appropriately named, with nothing more than Potsdam’s rooftops and the blue sky above. In the end, being turned away at Sanssouci didn’t feel like a setback. It felt like the story steering us where it needed to go. After those two collaborations, I felt something deeper than just satisfaction. I felt reassured. Thankful that this is my job: to be in rooms and on rooftops with people like Thunder, chasing songs that didn’t exist the day before. To be an artist, a producer, and still surprised by where the music leads.