Six Missing is the ambient music project of Austin-based artist and composer TJ Dumser. Blending emotional sound design, field recordings, and immersive storytelling, his atmospheric compositions foster reflection, mindfulness, and presence. His work lives at the intersection of texture, emotion, and intention—featured in meditation spaces, wellness communities, and streaming platforms.
Through albums like Here For Now, Gentle Breath, and the forthcoming Without Mind, Dumser invites listeners into sonic spaces that breathe—offering music not just to be heard, but to be inhabited.
He sees music as a form of memory and a means of returning to ourselves—quietly, gently, in the moments between everything else.
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Photo Credit: Andrea Mendoza
WHAT FIRST INSPIRED YOU TO START CREATING MUSIC? WAS THERE A PARTICULAR MOMENT OR INFLUENCE THAT GOT YOU STARTED?
I've always been drawn to the invisible things—the moods that hang in a room after a conversation, the weight of a moment that lingers longer than it should. Music, for me, became the most honest way to translate those feelings into something tangible. There wasn’t one defining moment when I decided to become a musician. It was more like answering a call that had always been there, humming quietly underneath everything. As a kid, I remember wandering into the attic of my grandparents' house and finding my uncle's old Gretsch guitar surrounded by vinyl records. That moment—dust in the sunlight, the smell of old wood and paper—felt sacred. Holding that guitar connected me to something larger than myself. Ever since, creating music has felt less like a choice and more like a way of moving through the world with intention and attention.
WHAT’S YOUR CREATIVE PROCESS LIKE? DO YOU HAVE ANY RITUALS OR ENVIRONMENTS THAT HELP YOU GET INTO THE RIGHT HEADSPACE FOR MAKING MUSIC?
My process is more about preparing the space than forcing the outcome. I usually start by lighting incense or Palo Santo—not because it’s routine or ritualistic, but because it creates a threshold into presence, marking a transition from the noise of the outside world into a quieter, more intentional state. I don’t outline or map out songs in advance. Instead, I let the sounds find me. I listen to the room, to the breath between notes, to the hum of old gear warming up.
My studio becomes less a workspace and more a listening chamber, where the music emerges out of presence, not pressure.
YOUR MUSIC IS OFTEN DESCRIBED AS AMBIENT AND MEDITATIVE. HOW DID YOU DEVELOP THIS SOUND, AND WHAT DRAWS YOU TO CREATING IMMERSIVE SOUNDSCAPES?
I didn’t set out to make ambient music. It found me in a season where silence felt more truthful than words.
Early on, I was drawn to layers, to texture, to the spaces between sounds. I realized that traditional song structures sometimes boxed in the emotions I was trying to express. Ambient music offered me a different kind of architecture—a place where mood, memory, and movement could flow freely.
Creating immersive soundscapes feels natural because that's how I experience the world: not in straight lines, but in waves of feeling, texture, and temperature. I want the listener to feel like they’re stepping inside the music, not just observing it. Sound is a living atmosphere. It's a place you can breathe.
YOUR MUSIC HAS BEEN FEATURED IN MEDITATION AND WELLNESS SPACES. DO YOU APPROACH COMPOSING DIFFERENTLY WHEN THINKING ABOUT MUSIC’S IMPACT ON MINDFULNESS AND WELL-BEING?
Yes—deeply. When composing for mindfulness, I shift my mindset from asking What can I say? to asking What can I hold? The goal isn't to direct the listener or to force a particular emotion. It's to create a safe container for whatever needs to arise. Maybe that's stillness. Maybe that's grief. Maybe that's peace.
I think a lot about how the pacing, texture, and decay of a sound can mirror the cycles of the mind—how the music can encourage breath, invite slowing down, and offer a moment of relief from the noise of the outside world. It's less about filling the space and more about honoring it.
MENTAL HEALTH IS A MAJOR CONVERSATION IN THE CREATIVE WORLD. HOW HAS YOUR PERSONAL JOURNEY INFLUENCED THE WAY YOU WRITE AND RELEASE MUSIC?
Music has always been a form of survival for me.
During periods of anxiety, depression, and burnout, music wasn’t just an outlet—it was a tether back to myself. Albums like Gentle Breath and Without Mind weren’t crafted from a place of ease; they were grown slowly from the need to find stillness inside chaos. Because of that, I no longer approach music as a product to release, but as an offering.
A gentle reminder—to myself and to anyone listening—that it’s okay to slow down, to not have all the answers, to simply be. In many ways, my music is a conversation with the parts of myself that needed the most compassion.
YOU’VE MENTIONED THE IDEA OF CREATING A MULTI-SENSORY EXPERIENCE AROUND MUSIC. CAN YOU SHARE HOW THAT PLAYS INTO YOUR UPCOMING ALBUM WITHOUT MIND AND HOW LISTENERS CAN ENGAGE BEYOND JUST HEARING THE SONGS?
Without Mind isn’t just something to listen to—it’s something to inhabit. For this project, I wanted to create a full-bodied experience that touches more than just the ears. That’s why I partnered with Goyo to create a custom paper incense blend specifically designed to pair with the album.
When you light the incense and drop the needle, the room itself becomes part of the experience—the scent, the smoke, the sound all layering into an atmosphere you can breathe in, sit inside, and remember later.
It's about crafting a threshold into presence—a way for listeners to move beyond passive hearing and into active feeling.
WITH WITHOUT MIND ON THE HORIZON, WHAT DO YOU HOPE LISTENERS TAKE AWAY FROM THE PROJECT?
I hope Without Mind gives people a place to rest—to let go of striving, naming, or fixing. The album is about being present with what is—the way a river accepts a stone without needing to reshape it. If it offers listeners even a few moments of slowing down, of breathing more deeply, of remembering that they are allowed to simply exist... then I’ll feel like it’s done its work.
WHEN COMPLETING A PROJECT, HOW DO YOU TYPICALLY DECIDE ON A RELEASE SCHEDULE?
Releasing music feels a lot like gardening to me—you don’t force something to bloom. I think about the energy of the record: Is it a winter album? A dusk album? A deep-summer, windows-open kind of album? I try to honor the emotional season the music belongs to and align the release with that feeling.
At the same time, I think about the listeners—about where they might be emotionally and seasonally—and when they might most need the kind of space this music creates. It’s less about algorithms and more about emotional timing. Letting the music enter the world when the world feels ready for it.
WHAT’S ONE PIECE OF ADVICE YOU WISH YOU HAD WHEN YOU WERE FIRST STARTING OUT AS A MUSICIAN?
I wish someone had told me: You don't have to outrun yourself to be an artist. In the beginning, it’s easy to fall into the trap of perfectionism—believing that unless a song is polished, monumental, definitive, it’s not worthy of being shared. But in truth, it’s the cracks, the unfinished thoughts, the vulnerable attempts that carry the most weight. Art is a living thing, and living things are never perfect. They grow. They stretch. They break and rebuild. Every piece of music, even the small and imperfect ones, is a stone in the path forward. I wish I had been gentler with myself earlier—and trusted that the act of creating is enough.
COLLABORATION CAN BE POWERFUL IN MUSIC. ARE THERE ANY ARTISTS OR PROJECTS THAT HAVE SHAPED YOUR APPROACH TO COMPOSING?
Collaboration has been a cornerstone of my growth—not just creatively, but personally.
One of the first artists who gave me a real opportunity was Robot Koch, inviting me to contribute a remix early in my career. That simple gesture of trust showed me how expansive and welcoming collaboration could be. Working alongside artists like St. Lucia, whose genius for production and layering has been deeply inspiring, has sharpened my understanding of how sounds can be woven into something luminous and immersive. And then there are artists like Alaskan Tapes, whose elegant restraint and ability to say so much with so little has left a lasting imprint on the way I think about texture and space. And most recently with The Album Leaf, I got a chance to learn from one of the best in the genre.
Every collaboration, whether direct or through influence, reminds me that music is a conversation—and that the most beautiful moments often happen when you listen as much as you play.
HOW DO YOU BALANCE CREATIVITY WITH THE BUSINESS SIDE OF MUSIC?
Balance, for me, comes from recognizing that protecting my work is part of loving it. Tools like Songtrust help me manage the administrative side—so I can stay focused on creating without fear of losing the rights to what I build.
Understanding publishing and copyright isn’t about selling out. It’s about safeguarding the emotional spaces we work so hard to create, ensuring they can reach the people who need them most.
WHAT’S NEXT FOR YOU AFTER THE ALBUM DROPS? ANY LIVE PERFORMANCES, VISUAL ELEMENTS, OR NEW PROJECTS IN THE WORKS?
I’m working on bringing Without Mind to life through intimate live performances that incorporate reactive visuals and create a full sensory atmosphere. Beyond that, I'm continuing to explore new collaborations, and building sonic environments where music, scent, and light meet to create experiences that aren't just heard—but felt.
There’s also more music on the horizon—always.
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