Nine Lives Later: Waiting on Lausse the Cat

By Chiara, Design Management Student | UAL

There are artists who make music you love, and then there are artists who disappear and take a little piece of you with them. For me, that’s Lausse the Cat.

I first heard his music the way I think most people did - by accident. A friend played “Redstripe Rhapsody” one night in a flat kitchen, and I remember looking up mid-conversation like, Wait - who is this? It felt nostalgic and fresh at the same time. Jazz-heavy. Lo-fi, but so unique and youthful. Playful and poetic. I had never heard a sound like that before, and it didn’t just catch my ear, it stayed with me. I listened on the bus. I listened at night. I listened when I couldn’t sleep. His music felt original because he used his personal life (or at least what it felt like it might be) in his lyrics, and sampled other amazing songs throughout his 9 minute long melodies. I had never come accross anythig like it before, which made him that much more special.

And when I looked for more music from my new favourite artist, it seemed like he had dissapeared. 

No tour. No album. No interviews. Just a few tracks floating in the digital ether, a mysterious black cat logo, and lyrics that hinted at someone too brilliant to stay still for long. It’s been years now since Lausse the Cat released anything. And yet, he still exists, in playlists, Tumblr text posts, Reddit theories, and quiet online fandoms waiting patiently, or maybe not so patiently, for his return.

As a design student, I find myself fascinated not just by his music, but by the shape of his absence. In a time where artists constantly promote, post, perform - Lausse did the opposite. He dropped a few songs and vanished. No “brand,” no rollout, no strategy. And somehow, that made him feel more real.

But don’t get me wrong, there was a brand. Just a different kind. A cat in the shadows. Grainy saxophone loops. Handwritten notes. Song titles like "Redstripe Rhapsody" and "Motor City" that felt like short stories. His production was smoky, cinematic. His lyrics read like poems left on a bar napkin. It was the kind of world you didn’t just listen to but that you lived in for a moment.

That’s why I decided to make a project around him. I called it “Nine Lives Later” - a fictional comeback campaign, built not just as a rebrand, but as a love letter to what he created. I imagined fake track names, poster concepts, social strategy ideas, even a phone booth called Lausse’s Answering Machine, where fans could call and hear a secret track. It was a design experiment, but also a genuine creative obsession: what would it look like if Lausse the Cat returned?

Because maybe that’s the magic of Lausse. He invites curiosity. His disappearance isn’t a void, it’s a doorway. He reminds us that mystery still matters, that not every artist has to be in your face to be in your heart.

And sure, part of me hopes he sees all of this; the posters, the edits, the reddit threads. That he knows his music still moves people. That he knows some of us are still listening, still waiting.

But if he never comes back, that’s okay too.

Because Lausse the Cat, in some strange, beautiful way, taught me that art doesn’t have to be constant to be unforgettable. Sometimes, a few songs are enough to build a world.

And I’m still living in it.