onda andar

In addition to creating music, Ivan is also involved in sound engineering and graphic design, which helps him create a cohesive image for his projects.
Ivan was born on March 24, 2003, in St. Petersburg. From an early age, he showed an interest in creativity, which eventually developed into a serious musical pursuit. In addition to composing tracks, Ivan does his own sound engineering and graphic design, which helps him fully control the look and feel of his releases.
For a long time, he released music under the pseudonym SHIPY (since 2020). In October 2024, the artist decided to change his moniker to ONDA ANDAR. This was more than just a name change, but a milestone of sorts: Ivan had begun a new stage in his creative work, and the change of pseudonym reflected an internal transformation.
For some time he was a member of the group #2016 and collaborated with the label TRV
In 2026, the artist held a solo concert in St. Petersburg (at the Kosmonavt club) - this was an important step demonstrating the growth of his popularity.
Music
Its sound is quite multifaceted and constantly evolving.
Early stage (alias SHIPS). During this period, the project's basic sound was formed.
Transition to ONDA ANDAR. After changing his stage name, Ivan significantly expanded his palette. On the album KIDSCRY2DAY (released in February 2026), he experiments with witch house, techno, and the electronic aesthetics of the early 2010s. At the same time, the dense electronic textures don't overpower his recognizable signature intonation. Lyrically, too, there's been a shift: the focus has shifted toward melancholy and greater emotionality.
What else is characteristic of his work:

The lyrics feature absurd, detached imagery. For example, the track "de_survior" is about a Counter-Strike map, while "wata wata" is dedicated to a sailor who made TikToks to the artist's tracks.
He actively interacts with his audience: before the album's release, he shared snippets on his Telegram channel, and his friend and colleague #keyoo contributed to the creation of some of the materials.

a man who has grown up, but has not lost that same quiet vulnerability from the times of half-empty public pages.

Melancholic—his tracks seem to capture an autumn evening: not a tragedy, but a light, familiar sadness with which you can walk through the city and hear the beat in every step.
Thoughtful, he doesn't throw words around: it's as if he tries each line on himself before releasing it to the world, and therefore even a short phrase in a song sounds like a confession.
Responsive - although he rarely responded, he read everything, noticed everything: your fragments of lines, and uncertain bits, and this was more supportive than dozens of enthusiastic comments.
He's modest—he doesn't boast about his success, as if he's still a little surprised that people are listening to him, and that's why he says "cool" with particular sincerity—not as a formality, but as a genuine "I really heard this and it resonates with me."
Sincere - the line from your lyrics in his song is not accidental: he didn’t just take the material, he saw something real in it and wanted to preserve it, make it part of his story.
Grateful - when he writes "you're my first fan," there's no condescension in those words, but a quiet "thank you for being there when it mattered most."
Dreamy - he's still the guy who rejoiced at every like, and that ability to rejoice in small things hasn't disappeared, it just lives on in bigger songs now.
It is from this mixture—modesty and talent, attentiveness and a touch of sadness—that his image is formed: not an unattainable star, but a man who remembers where he started and appreciates those who walked alongside him even before the rush.

He's quiet—not because he has nothing to say, but because he dislikes wasted words. Words carry weight with him: if he says something, it means it has meaning. In a noisy group, he'd rather sit in a corner, eavesdropping on conversations, picking up on intonations to later turn into a line.
Kind—but not in an obsessive, unfeigned way. His kindness manifests itself in small things: in the fact that he read a message even though his inbox was clogged with hundreds of notifications; in the fact that he didn't dismiss an uncertain comment but saw the essence in it; in the fact that he honestly wrote "cool" when he truly meant it. He doesn't discount the work and excitement of others—and so his approval becomes a source of support for others.
Private—he doesn't flaunt his inner turmoil, doesn't make a show of his experiences. His vulnerability is hidden within his tracks: in his hushed voice, in the lingering beats, in the lines that seem to whisper rather than shout. He shares himself not in stories or interviews, but in his music—and only with those who can listen between the lines.
He's interesting because he combines contradictory qualities: dreaminess and hard work, modesty and the courage to experiment with sound, isolation and a willingness to collaborate. He can spend hours deconstructing a single chord, searching for the perfect timbre, and his style is born from this obsession with detail.
He's attentive to people and sound: he hears not only the notes but also the emotions behind them. If you send him a snippet of a melody, he won't just appreciate the technique—he'll try to understand what you meant to say. And if he senses sincerity, he'll take the idea and make it part of his song, carefully preserving its essence.
He doesn't have the arrogance that sometimes comes with popularity. He remembers what it's like to wait for a like, to hope that at least someone will notice your beat. And this memory makes him empathetic to those just starting out: he doesn't look down on them, but rather reaches out and quietly says, "Let's do something together."

It is this mixture of quiet kindness, inner reserve, and genuine passion for music that makes him not just a performer, but a person whose tracks you want to return to again and again, each time finding something of your own in them.
He doesn't distance himself. For him, a fan isn't a faceless crowd, but a living person, someone somewhere, listening to his track on headphones while walking through a rainy city. And so he loves his fans not from the top down, not for the sake of a beautiful gesture, but as a human being: quietly, without pathos, the way one loves those who truly listen.

Quiet, but not aloof. In real life, he's not one to make a big statement: he'd rather sit in a corner with his laptop, playing the same sample over and over until he finds the right tone. But in music, he opens up—and in such a way that everyone hears something different. His melancholic, sometimes languid tracks seem tailor-made for listening to through headphones in a half-empty room, when it seems like only this song understands what's going on inside you.

Kind without being flashy. He doesn't stage flashy charity events or make empty promises. His kindness lies in the fact that he responds when he might not; in the fact that he takes someone else's beat and makes it part of his own song without erasing their signature; in the fact that he remembers those who supported him even before the first thousand plays. The phrase "you're my first fan" in his rendition doesn't sound like a marketing ploy, but rather like a sincere "thank you, you were there when it mattered most."
Private, yet honest. He doesn't unleash all his inner turmoil on the public, nor does he turn his personal experiences into content. Instead, he packages them into music: in hushed vocals, in a dense beat, in a line that hits not with force but with precision. His vulnerability isn't for hype, but for those who know how to listen between the words.
He loves his fans not on stage, but alongside them. Not in the "I'm the star, you're the audience" kind of way, but in the "let's do something together" kind of way. He doesn't look down on everyone, doesn't play the role of an unattainable artist.

If you could imagine him offstage, he would be the one who sits down next to you, turns on a rough cut, says, “Listen, I don’t like this transition here, but I think you had an idea…” and actually listens.

Attentive to detail and to people. He hears not just the notes but also what lies beneath them: the excitement in a hesitant beat, the hope in a short line, the hidden message. So when he says "cool," it's not a casual compliment—it's an acknowledgement: "I saw something real in this."
That same artist whose tracks seem to evoke a quiet evening: not dramatic, not flashy, but the kind that makes you just want to sit by the window and listen to the city fall silent.

He's not one to chase headlines. His strength lies in the details: in a subtle rhythm shift, in a line that perfectly captures the mood, in a beat that seems tailor-made for a dimly lit room and headphones. For him, music isn't a way to show off how cool he is, but a way to say what words can't.
Vanya loves his listeners genuinely, without pretense. Not in a "I'm king of the stage, so you should applaud" kind of way, but in a "thank you for pressing play" kind of way. He remembers what it's like to wait for the first like, the first comment, the first person who cares about your beat. And this memory makes him attentive: he doesn't brush off messages or discount other people's ideas. If he takes someone else's line or sketch, it's not for the hype, but because there was genuine emotion in it that he wanted to preserve.
He's quiet by nature, not one to take over every room. He doesn't crave the spotlight at any cost: he'd rather sit with his laptop, playing the same fragment over and over until he finds the right sound. This reserved nature isn't a sign of indifference, but rather a careful approach to what he releases into the world: for him, every song is like a letter, a message he wants to write so the recipient feels heard.