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Category: Interviews

Joel Meyerowitz

Posted on by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 118

Feature · Joel Meyerowitz
Words · Sara van Bussel

Memory, 35mm

Considered to be the pioneer of color photography, Joel Meyerowitz (1938) discusses his artistic path, his transition from painting to photography, the will of capturing every single aspect of reality through art and the picture he wishes he had taken but didn’t. This interview offers profound insights into Joel Meyerowitz’s artistic journey and the history of photography as a medium, delving into the impact of the practice on his personal life and on art in general.

Sara van Bussel You have a long lasting career, and your practice is very rich, with works that span from portraits, to street photography, to landscape, even reportage (911 memorial series). If you had to describe the single thing that they all have in common, what would it be? How would you describe your gaze, in toto?

Joel Meyerowitz I would say that my overall and general way of looking at the world is curiosity. 

I am interested in things that have photographic problems at their heart, such as, how does one find invisibility on the street, so that one could be free enough to make interesting pictures out of the fragmentary conditions that form contemporary urban life. But I also ask the questions: what is a portrait? Who is it of? How does one go about making it, or a landscape, or a still life?  How does one take on a tragedy the scale of ground zero, the 9/11 destruction of the towers? How does a single person do a reportage on something as big as that? 

So I think all along questions about the essential nature of the medium of photography have been what has motivated me to continue searching and responding. If I hadn’t had that kind of open heartedness about the medium itself and I made the same kind of street pictures over and over again for 60 years I probably would have run out of energy after 10 years. Because when you look at the history of photography many great photographers had merely 10 years more or less of active dynamic connection to the medium and then moved along. So for some reason this dynamic medium gave me an opportunity to reframe the question for myself so that I could stay interested.

SVB In the documentary La peau des Rues directed by Philippe Jamet, you talk about how the world of advertisement changes the perception of reality: shaping a fictitious one, tailor made to the consumer. I am fascinated by this idea of reality in general: is a captured reality more  ‘true’ than a constructed one? Is picking a fragment out of a scene from daily life less staged? What is in fact, ‘’truth’’ in photography?

JM There are photographers who use a kind of mise en scène to make their work. They create an environment, whether they build it or they use a found environment and they bring actors in and they have some kind of idea about a subject that they’d  like to talk about or visualize. I’ve seen quite a few of those kinds of pictures, and what always astonishes me about them is how boring  they are, how flat footed, how lacking in real human connection those tableaux vivants really are. They feel staged, as hard as they try to look like the real thing in a real place they always feel like overdramatized but under imagined in some way, whereas working on the street in the tradition of Cartier Bresson, Robert Frank or even Eugene Atget in his way and my own work, these are moments of pure perception, we could say, fleeting consciousness. When I am out in the street I am watching the panoramic movement of everything on the street in front of me, and I am trying to stay loose and open in such a way that when my senses tell me that there is something emerging from the flow of life around me. Relationships that are spread across the street and have nothing to do with each other but to me, from my perspective, where I could put a frame around the piece of the street and join a couple or a trio on one side and a single person somewhere else, if I can see that there is some fleeting meaning, something that is almost indecipherable but when you see it as a finished frame it seems to hold a kind of electrical energy, because it’s reality in the moment of transcendence. This may sound a bit Buddhist and spiritual in some ways but if you do it as I have for 60 years you begin to recognize that there are truths, and they’re really your truths, they are not about truth in general. The fact that I can see certain things because they are my response mechanism, they are in a sense the flavor of my life, they are almost like poetry.

What we love about poems is that if we read the work of one writer from poem to poem there are consistencies, points of view, reverence of life, understanding of nature, a connection to the human endeavors. There is a philosophy at work, and I feel that street photography, or ‘outside in the world photography’ that relates to your own sense of what’s important, and tests that day after day with a slow building up of images, manages to bring up all of this. Over a lifetime there may be 30 or 50 images in all that carry something of who you are and how you see the world. And so it’s this kind of essential distillation of the fragmentary quality of life in the 20th and the 21st century that is put on film or in pixels and held there for people to look at in the future, to understand something about who that person was, who existed in that time frame, and what was it that they saw that gives us some sense of meaning about that time. 

I understood that from looking at Robert Franks book ‘The Americans’, which was made up of all these fragments – 70 pictures – all of them adding up to 1 or 2 seconds of life, and yet they carry with them an incredible meaning.

SVB You talk about the idea that photography to you is capturing a time, freezing History as it unfolds in front of our eyes. As a medium, photography has immediacy as a fundamental power. A picture manages to capture something in a split second, Instead of a painting, which for example takes months if not years.  How do you take this into consideration when you work?  Since I know you originally started as an abstract painter, I am curious about this switch you made. 

JM Re reading this question I realize that my answer to the previous one also relates to this. The only thing I would add here is that I had been a painter, an abstract expressionist painter of the second generation. I started painting in the 50’s and abstract expressionism was already a flourishing concept in painting back then, I was trying to find my way out of that when I returned to New York to take up a life as an artist. But it became clear to me once I discovered photography in 1962 that I really much preferred the reality of the everyday world, and that pushing around blue into a magenta wasn’t really enough for me to stay interested in. It was an argument that no longer had meaning for me. On the other hand photography had a major argument in it. It was not accepted as an art form, it was considered commercial or amateurish, particularly in color, so my big argument was how do I break through the wall of resistance that only black and white was art in photography and try to convince the photography world that color was equal, if not more important, than black and white.

SVB When talking about your work, it is impossible not to come across the so called ‘question of color’, since you are recognized as one of the first to use it in photography. If I understood it clearly, however, the use of color in your practice is a very logical choice, since you see photography as something that, quoting you: ‘’has to document reality to its fullest’’.   Following this statement, I was wondering if you had ever considered film, since it includes all of the element that reality is able to offer: its people, their movement, color nuances. I then discovered you did indeed experiment with film, by producing the movie ‘pop’. How was this experience? What was the fundamental difference with your photographic work?

JM Working with still color film requires a commitment to making thousands of photographs, to really understand the way color works. Black and white is an abstraction and a reduction, and at the time the kind of understanding of photography was that if you pick up a camera and you press the botton what you see in front of you is just the description of what’s there. Description was and is a very important asset to photography. I felt, as a very young photographer, that if description is what photography is really all about but it’s in black and white then is losing the full emotional range and content that color brings to it. 

So my first argument was to try to revise this understanding, and you know, youth is the real avant garde because you don’t really care about what came before, you may love it and learn from it but you have to push away the past in order to make way for the present. So I was looking to not only educate myself but to educate the viewers that I was able to show this work to ( limited, believe me, back then in the 60s) by advancing the sense of what color can do, in the way it describes atmosphere, and skin tones, and the local radiance of the way light bounces around off of surfaces or reflects off of corners and the floor. How variant all of these tonalities are and how artistic this really is, in ways that we don’t actually describe when we look at pictures, we search for the meaning of the picture but yet the color is embedded in the meaning, it lifts the picture up because it renders everything. It’s like the full tonal range of an orchestra, that’s what color I think adds. 

As far as making film, when I made the film about my father it was done for an emotional and social purpose first of all. My father was living with Alzheimer and memory loss, and that felt to me, as it did for many in the 90’s, like it was the scourge that was happening to all of our parents. People who had lived through the Great depression and suddenly as they were aging this disease was showing up. We do not know what it is that brought this huge wave into the population of the world, and I thought as a conscious and loving son that if it escaped me as it was actually happening to my father how many millions of people are facing this. So I thought I am going to take my father out of this assisted living environment he was in, take him off his medication and see if I could shake him back into a normal existence and render that on film. It was really a road movie of my son, my father and myself, three generations of the same family, and the idea was to see how does this guy who is so infantile deal with world at its large? Is there something we can learn from seeing this so that we could be better caregivers to our parents or grandparents or whoever was suffering from this illness?

That trip with the three of us from Florida up to New York City back to the Bronx was almost a month long adventure, it was thrilling to see what happened to my father and the way he managed his own illness, the way he could cover it up and how he could still relate to people. The beauty of it was, it is shot on video, broadcast quality cameras of the 90’s, it showed a kind of everyday all through the day kind of life, of how it was like to live with somebody with this affliction and I truly learned a lot from it. 

I am now my father’s age from when I made that movie and fortunately for me I don’t have the same disease, but I hope that what I did for him – I actually know that the film was seen by over forty million people worldwide – that it was helpful to understand the predicament he, and other people, found themselves in.

SVB Connected to this question is also the idea of post production and the re-working of images. You worked analogically, was there ever manipulation of the image during the printing process? If not, how do you see this aspect in relation to contemporary photography?

JM I’m a very early user of the digital world. I had one of the very first photoshops in 1991, it was almost a beta, I had a digital print exhibition, the first of its kind in any museum at the Art Institute of Chicago in 1993 and even before that in 1968- 69 I had the color enlarger in my own darkroom in NYC, printing 35 mm color and later on shooting 8 by 10 large format. I was making contact prints, I made probably 30.000 color prints myself. So I was an early advocate, because after all technology is what’s moved photography along, it’s a science as well as an artform so when the science aspect of it keeps on adding new devices to it it’s important to pay attention to those things. And I don’t mean just getting new cameras all the time, but in its larger form, how does this medium keep getting better and more interesting. So my 40 years of being in the darkroom gave me the tools to work in digital, I use photoshop exclusively now, I have given up the darkroom, 40 years of chemistry, chance and dark was enough, I prefer to sit at a big monitor and make my adjustments, just as I did in the darkroom, because there you interrupt the stream of light with your hands or filters, in photoshop you do the same thing. I am so deeply connected to a kind of critical sense of the reality of things that I don’t exaggerate, I shoot in a very flat way with a full rendering of what’s in front of me because I want it to be believable, I want the viewer to trust that what I am showing them is the beauty of the everyday world, not some kind of fantasy realm where I pushed things to make them overdramatized. That’s the kind of thing that, when I see it in other people’s work, I think why are you subjecting us to this kind of falsity. 

So I am very disciplined in my use of digital materials and tools.

SVB Relating to our current time, I remember reading in one of you interviews about the naivety that belonged to the sixties, in which fame was not something everyone could get, and thus the role of the photographer was different from today.  I would like to explore with you the idea of control: with the rise of selfies, of an aesthetic narrative that we can construct ourselves though social media, where is the role of the photographer? How does he-she navigate this new possibility given to literally anyone?

JM There is a big difference. Carrying a camera on your phone and using it is not the same discipline as someone who carries a camera around, using it by looking through the lens, setting exposure. It’s a very serious endevor and it takes a kind of discipline to work with it and to believe that what you are seeing and what you subsequently say will allow you to make a print as big as you want, 6 or 8 feet, to be in that moment of time creates each time a specific picture.

It’s really about being there and being conscious in the moment whereas there is a sort of generalizing product that the phone makes. The phone in itself is imperfect, people move it while holding it, the edges aren’t precise etc.  While with the camera, that frame is an articulate space that you are filling with your identity, and after all photography is a search for your persona, your character, and your poetry, is not a generic device like a smartphone which you wave around and click. A real photo takes a real intelligence, one that you do know, and you deepen, and select a picture and then print it. There is an ongoing discipline that allows for the photographer and the photograph to become one, so that when people see a thousand of your pictures they can say ‘that’s a Cartier Bresson’, they recognize the way of looking at the world. And that is truly, where the artform is positioned. 

The clarification of your own sense of meaning, the understanding of the reality of the time you are living, these are all a combined integrated effort on the part of the photographer.

SVB What do you consider a precious advice to offer to emerging photographers today?

JM I would say that we human beings have as part of our species intelligence and instinct.

If your instinct is to respond when you are out in the world, when something makes you turn your head, that is your instinct speaking directly to you, the person next to you will not have the same response, you have to learn to recognize and respect your instinct as a measure to your own identity.

 Learn how to listen to it and turn your camera there at that moment, that is the path towards understanding who you are and how photography can be yours precisely.

SVB Last question. Is there a picture you wish you would have taken but never did?

JM Yes there was. 

In 1996 I spent a year in Europe. I was driving through Ireland and I was on some country road with hedgerows as tall as 12 -14 feet, driving in a car that had American steering in it. I was going around a blind curve and above me, on top of the hedgerows, a man leaned on the wooden fence and vaulted over the fence flying the 10 feet down to the road with his arms extended and his coat flapping. 

I was coming around the corner and had the camera on my lap, because I photographed from the moving car, but I couldn’t manage the turn, the traffic and the camera on time. 

He was Christ like, in the way he descended to the ground and he landed absolutely beautifully, arms out. 

He is forever mid flying in my mind, I hold him there dear, as the one picture that I did not manage to take.That’s my sense of a lost moment. 

In order of appearance

  1. Dominique, Provincetown, 1981
  2. Chuckie, Provincetown, 1979
  3. Paris, 1967
  4. New York City, 1963
  5. Barcelona, 2015
  6. Along the Banks of the Yanngtse, 1978
  7. Achill Island, Ireland, 1966

Daidō Moriyama

Posted on by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 005

Essay · Daidō Moriyama
Words · Daisuke Yokota

Daisuke Yokota on Daidō Moriyama

In 2006, after graduating from a vocational school, I wandered aimlessly without a job, but I continued taking photographs.

At that time, there was a lot of debate about digital vs. analog, a typical binary opposition that arises during transitional periods. Being a darkroom enthusiast, I was completely on the analog side, thinking I would never use a digital camera in my life. But to be honest, there was no clear reason behind this; it was merely an attachment to what I had been doing and a kind of small faith in the photographers I admired.

I had plenty of time, but I had no idea what to do or how to move forward. The only thing I could do was submit my work to competitions.

During my time at school, Kōtarō Iizawa visited as a special lecturer and advised us to apply to as many competitions as possible. If we got no recognition at all, we should reconsider our path. Being a relatively serious student, I followed his advice and applied to as many competitions as I could. I thought at least one of them would accept my work, but in the end, I was rejected from all of them.

For about two years, I remained unemployed, living at home, and calling myself a photographer without any achievements or connections—plenty of time to feel anxious about the future.

I realized that something had to change. So, I decided to educate myself by visiting museums and bookstores in Tokyo. But I had no money, so I couldn’t buy books. Instead, I collected flyers from bookstores, taking multiple copies—one for myself and one to give to friends. This was a nostalgic habit from that era, something I rarely do now.

I can’t remember where I found it, but I still clearly remember the flyer. It was unusually long and horizontal, with a symmetrical mirrored photograph printed on both sides. The deep black image was vague and abstract, carrying an eerie atmosphere. It read: “Goodbye Photography, reissued early 2006!”

“Goodbye Photography” (Shashin yo Sayonara) was a legendary photobook that had always been displayed in the glass cases of secondhand bookstores. I don’t remember the exact price, but it was definitely not something I could afford. I was too timid to ask the shop clerk about it, so I have never actually seen a first edition copy in person.

When I learned that this phantom-like photobook was being reissued, I got excited and came up with a personal plan:

I would go to the book signing event at NADiff in Omotesando, get Daido Moriyama’s autograph, and use that as a turning point. I would completely abandon my analog film style and start anew with a digital camera.

Like many photography students, I had unconsciously developed an absolute standard of what “Moriyama-esque” photography should be. Attending the event was my way of breaking free from that influence—my own symbolic farewell to Daido Moriyama.

Although the idea may seem foolish or even rude, to a young man struggling with his future, it was not a joke. It was a small ritual for independence, something I took seriously at the time.

I don’t remember whether there was a talk show at the signing event; I was too nervous. As I waited in line, I watched Moriyama greet each guest with a few words and a handshake.

What should I say to him?

I must have been desperately thinking about that. When my turn came, I stood there speechless.

In my panic, I stretched out my trembling hand and, without meaning to, gripped his hand too tightly. He must have noticed my tension because he firmly squeezed my hand in return. I was deeply moved.

I decided not to open the book I had just bought. Since I had gone there to sever my ties with Moriyama’s influence, allowing myself to be further affected would have defeated the purpose. In the end, I didn’t look at the book for more than ten years.

Now, I realize something surprising—I don’t own any other Moriyama photobooks besides “Goodbye Photography.”

Back when I was most obsessed with his work, I had no money, so I only read his autobiographies and essays. For photobooks, I relied on browsing at bookstores, borrowing from friends, or visiting libraries.

By the time I started buying more photobooks, I had already performed my farewell ritual, and naturally, I distanced myself from Moriyama’s work.

Why didn’t I buy them?

To young photographers who are debating whether to buy a photobook: if you can, I strongly recommend making the effort to get it.

One more memory just came back to me—there was a photobook called Hokkaido that I used to contemplate buying at the secondhand bookstore Hyakunen in Kichijoji.

It was a large book, expensive, and a bit heavy to carry home. Every time I went to the store, I told myself, “Maybe next time.” I kept putting it off until, eventually, I missed my chance.

Moriyama was around 40 when he shot Hokkaido. Now that I’m almost the same age, I can’t think of a more fascinating book for me at this moment.

I was worried that I might not find a copy anywhere, but after checking, I discovered that a few bookstores still have it. I’ll order it immediately.

And with this, I’ll take another deep look at Moriyama’s work once again.

Koreless

Posted on by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 162

Feature · Koreless
Words · Melis Özek

The Art Of Reduction

Known for his otherworldly soundscapes and meticulous approach to production, Koreless explores the delicate balance between precision and sentiment. The Welsh artist reflects on the power of silence, the art of reduction, and the fluid dialogue between sound, visuals, and intuition: shaping a world where technical mastery and instinctive emotions intertwine.

Melis Özek Various cultural influences can be traced in your work. How are abstract concepts translated into something tangible and audible within the music? The titles of your tracks, for example, seem to carry significant weight.

Koreless Rather than stemming from a deep symbolic or thematic intent, many of my track titles are chosen for their visual symmetry and aesthetic appeal when written. The process of naming feels less about attaching meaning and more about how the words resonate visually and intuitively. It’s typically the final step in my creative workflow, and it can be surprisingly difficult. I often start with placeholders, only to spend a long, deliberative process finding the right fit. In the end, I gravitate toward words that simply feel “right” and possess an innate visual harmony, rather than searching for deeper significance.

As for cultural influences, they inevitably find their way into the music, though I try not to overanalyze them. I believe creativity thrives when it’s rooted in exploration rather than over-intellectualisation. While I’m inspired by my surroundings and experiences — and, of course, the music I consume — I consciously avoid letting those influences dominate my process. Any cultural or personal nuances that emerge do so organically, without deliberate intention. For me, the creative process is at its most exciting when it’s driven by curiosity and discovery, rather than a predetermined concept or heavy analysis.

MO Speaking of titles, let’s go way back! Yūgen—meaning “dark” or “obscure”—captures beauty only partially perceived, with its exact translation depending on the context. Earlier works drew inspiration from this philosophy. What led to its discovery, and how has it shaped the artistic approach to capturing its elusive essence in music?

K When I was younger, my work was heavily influenced by philosophical ideas, and the music I created during that time reflected a stark simplicity and disciplined minimalism. It was around this period that I encountered the word. Though I can’t recall exactly how I discovered it—likely during one of my internet deep dives—it immediately resonated with the ethos I was exploring. It felt like a serendipitous connection as if the term had been waiting for me to find it.

The word’s ambiguity and roundedness perfectly mirrored the essence of the music I was creating—abstract, open to interpretation, and resistant to fixed meanings. It encapsulated the sense of searching for beauty within the undefined and the unspoken. In many ways, it became a conceptual anchor for that creative period, embodying the elusive, intuitive qualities I sought to express through sound. The philosophy of yūgen, with its emphasis on the partially perceived and the subtly profound, naturally aligned with this approach, shaping the way I thought about music as something to evoke rather than explicitly define.

MO Your music often feels like a dialogue between sound and silence. How is space approached in your compositions, and is silence viewed as a sonic instrument as powerful as any other?

K I’m fascinated by what I call the “fridge off” effect—that moment when ambient noise, like the hum of a refrigerator, suddenly stops, leaving behind a serene and almost tangible silence. That void, that absence of sound, is one of the most powerful sonic experiences I’ve encountered. In many ways, I find that silence can have a more profound impact than the addition of sound itself.

There’s a beauty and tranquility in that stillness that I’m constantly striving to capture and preserve in my compositions. However, I don’t consciously overthink this process. I’m naturally drawn to a sense of order and tidiness in my music, which can sometimes come across as “inhuman.” But I’ve come to appreciate that even chaos when presented in an intelligible and structured way, can be a beautiful form of order. Ultimately, the emotional element of my work comes through instinctively—I suppose it’s inevitable, as I tend to be a bit of a softie at heart. Those feelings seep into the spaces I create, blending with the silence to form a dialogue between sound and stillness.

MO What drives the fascination with creating “inhuman” music, and how is this concept balanced with the profound emotions evoked as the foundation of the work? Is there a guiding philosophy behind this juxtaposition, and how is that delicate balance maintained?

K I’m deeply drawn to the idea of order, which can often translate as “inhuman” because humans, by nature, can be messy. I find myself striving for tidiness—a reduction of complexity to something simple and pristine. Early in my work, this simplicity was incredibly stark, but I’ve since realized that even chaos when presented in an intelligible way, can embody a kind of beautiful order. This realization has allowed me to embrace a more nuanced approach to the interplay between structure and emotion.

As for the emotional element, it’s something that happens naturally. I’m a big softie at heart, and that emotionality tends to color everything I create. I don’t consciously aim to infuse emotion—it simply emerges, balancing out the inhuman cleanliness of the music.

I think it’s also worth noting that we’ve long moved past the notion that electronic music can’t be emotional; that debate was left behind decades ago. In fact, I find electronic music to be inherently beautiful, with its capacity for clarity and structure. Interestingly, I see this pursuit of inhuman cleanliness in all music now—even in genres that present as organic or acoustic, like guitar-based music. There’s a shared tendency to approach an almost surgical refinement, which creates a fascinating interplay between the mechanical and the emotional across the spectrum of music.

MO Visuals seem to have always been a key part in your world-building process. Joy Squad and White Picket Fence: They are as precise and evocative as the music they visually embody. How involved is the process of shaping these visual narratives, and how is the relationship between sound and imagery expanded upon?

K I really enjoy the collaborative process of working on visuals—it shares the same hands-on, experimental spirit as music-making itself. While I can’t create the visuals personally, I maintain a collection of inspiring images that serve as starting points or reference material. From there, I work closely with talented visual artists like Daniel Swan, whose refined eye allows them to translate the music into a cohesive visual language far better than I could.

I see visuals as an incredibly powerful way to complete and enhance music that intentionally leaves space for interpretation. Even a simple choice, like pairing a random image with a track, can profoundly shape how the music is perceived and felt. It’s a fascinating, symbiotic relationship between sound and imagery. My approach is largely intuitive and collaborative—I don’t follow a rigid, pre-determined formula. Instead, I focus on curating evocative images that resonate with me, and then I trust the visual artist to translate that into something complementary to the music.

MO Collaborating with artists like Sampha brings unique opportunities to merge creative visions. How have these experiences influenced approaches to music production and performance?

K Collaborating is always an eye-opening experience, especially as someone who finds music-making to be a largely solitary process. Every artist has their own unique, often idiosyncratic, way of working. When I first collaborated with Sampha, for example, I was struck by how completely different his approach was from mine, even though we were using the same tools and software. He would do things that had never even occurred to me, and it was fascinating to see how someone could approach the same medium in such a distinct way.

This dynamic is especially interesting when working with other producers. It forces you to rethink the processes you take for granted and can offer a fresh perspective on your own workflow. Each collaboration is an opportunity to step outside your own bubble, and it has definitely shaped how I think about both production and performance.


MO The reinterpretation of Benjamin Britten’s piece Moonlight brought a classical composition into a contemporary electronic framework. What inspired this reimagination, and how was its original essence preserved while infusing it with a distinct sound?

K I’ve always been a huge admirer of Benjamin Britten’s music, particularly the way his harmonies unfold in Moonlight. The piece struck a chord with me when I first heard it—probably on the radio—and I felt compelled to dive into its harmonic structure. Initially, it was just an exercise in understanding the chords, but as I worked on it, I found myself recursively remaking the piece, shifting elements around, and experimenting. Over time, it evolved into something that felt like a faded memory of the original, still retaining its DNA but with a distinct identity of its own.

Britten’s work fascinates me because it’s often more subversive than it’s given credit for. While many gravitate toward the avant-garde composers of his era, like John Cage, Britten was crafting music that remained staunchly traditional yet deeply beautiful and harmonious. At the same time, he was a complex figure—being openly gay at a time when it was incredibly difficult to live as such—adding layers of depth and quiet rebellion to his legacy. That duality of his music—its surface simplicity and underlying complexity—was something I wanted to explore through my reinterpretation.

The process itself was painstaking but rewarding. I worked primarily with sample libraries, attempting to replicate the orchestration and structure, often failing along the way. Those “failures” eventually led to something unique—an interpretation that began as a distant, mutated version of the original and gradually became more faithful, especially in the final third of the piece.

It was about chipping away at it, letting the reinterpretation grow organically, and embracing the cumulative imperfections. By the end, I felt like I had captured not only a piece of Britten’s original essence but also a reflection of my own approach to creating music. It was less about achieving perfection and more about letting the process shape the outcome.

MO Many tracks seem to begin with a core idea or motif that is extended into hypnotic and immersive experiences. How are these foundational elements identified and built upon, and what is the approach to creating both progression and timelessness within a track?

K My process often starts with identifying a core idea—a motif or sound—and then removing anything unnecessary that might clutter it. It’s about letting that central element exist on its own terms, without overwhelming it. However, it’s a delicate balance: if you leave it entirely on its own, it risks losing its vitality but overloading it with additions can suffocate it. You have to feed it just enough to keep it alive but not so much that it overwhelms.

This delicate dance shapes the progression of a track. I like to keep one main idea gently moving, allowing it to grow organically. The aim is to create something timeless and immersive by focusing on simplicity, maintaining a sense of clarity, and letting the motif take the lead.

MO Your music defies traditional genre boundaries, weaving classical influences, experimental electronics, and ambient textures into something entirely unique. What draws you to this cross-genre approach, and how is the authenticity of each element ensured while contributing to a cohesive sonic narrative?

K I try not to think about genres too much. Some artists commit wholeheartedly to a single genre or the blend of genres, which is incredible, but my approach is less about fitting into a specific category and more about allowing different influences to blend naturally. One reason I’ve avoided using drums extensively is that they often tie music firmly to a particular genre. Removing them creates a kind of fluidity where genres can more easily dissolve into one another.

The result is a cross-genre sound that emerges organically. I don’t intentionally set out to blend classical, electronic, or ambient influences—it’s more about responding intuitively to what feels right. Each element is authentic because it stems from genuine exploration rather than a deliberate attempt to check boxes.

MO Music thrives on intricacy and detail. How are studio productions adapted into live settings without losing their emotional depth?

K Great question. In the studio, you have endless time and the best equipment to refine every subtle detail, but live settings are completely different. The acoustics of a large, untreated space and the sheer volume obliterate much of that subtlety.

What I’ve found is that going back to the very first version of a track—the initial demo, before all the intricate carving and layering—often works best for live performances. Those early iterations are simpler, more direct, and more raw, making them better suited for a live environment. For example, the original demo of Joy Squad was much harder and more straightforward than the final version, and it’s that directness that translates so well on stage. Instead of stripping back a finished track, I base live versions on the “seed” of the song—the essence I captured in its earliest form.

MO Your music is often described as being crafted with architectural precision, with each layer meticulously placed. How do you approach structuring?

K Honestly, there’s no intellectual rigor involved—it’s more about time and a bit of obsession. I spend hours and hours working on tracks, going through countless versions, carving, refining, and sometimes returning to earlier iterations. For example, I might move from version 20 to version 40, only to go back to version 17 because it felt truer to the song’s essence.

For me, the process is less about finishing a track and more about the joy of working on it. It’s almost like playing a game—when I was younger, I was hooked on Farming Simulator, where you meticulously build and manage a farm. Music-making has a similar feel: it’s about endlessly chipping away, tweaking, and experimenting. That iterative process naturally leads to intricate details, but they’re really just the result of my enjoyment of the craft. I’m fortunate to spend my days immersed in this process, and the emotional depth comes naturally from that ongoing engagement with the music.

MO Released in August 2024, Deceltica showcases intricate electronic elements. What was the inspiration behind this track?

K Deceltica was created shortly after I moved to a remote mountain area in Wales, surrounded by sheep farms and a kind of vast, quiet isolation. My studio was set up in the attic, and while experimenting with my synths, I stumbled upon the core of the track by accident. It all happened in a rare creative burst—I worked on it non-stop for about 48 hours, playing it on loop while lying on the floor, almost hallucinating from the lack of sleep.

The entire process felt immersive and intense, which is unusual for me, as most tracks take much longer to shape. The environment undoubtedly influenced the track—it was a rare moment of being entirely engrossed in a piece, letting it evolve organically until it felt complete.


MO “Drums of Death” has such a unique energy, combining club music with raw emotional intensity. Could you walk us through the production process for this track, especially how it came together from your initial idea on the flight to Berlin, to the live debut at Berghain, and now its place on EUSEXUA? 

“Drums of Death” has an interesting backstory. I originally made it years ago while flying to Berlin for a show with Sophie. At the time, I felt my live set lacked something harder and more dynamic, so I created the core of the track during the flight in about an hour. At soundcheck, I gave it a rough mix, debuted it during the show, and then shelved it for years.

When FKA Twigs and I were finalizing her EUSEXUA album, we felt the project needed something harder and more playful. I remembered this track and played it for her—it immediately clicked. We recorded vocals, added chorus melodies, and brought in Tintin to contribute parts. The whole thing came together quickly, in just a day, which is rare compared to some tracks that take months.

This ties back to my process in general. Sometimes, tracks feel like a game of chess, with ideas evolving and developing over weeks or months in the back of my mind. Other times, as with “Drums of Death,” everything just flows effortlessly, and the track practically builds itself.

MO The UK’s musical landscape in the early 2000s to 2010s was marked by the rise of labels like Young and XL, which helped push forward the boundaries of electronic music, indie, and experimental genres. As someone who was right in the middle of it, how did you navigate through this evolution?

K While I was releasing music through labels like Young and XL, I felt more connected to the Glasgow scene during that time. It was a smaller, tight-knit community of friends, which made it more manageable and personal compared to the larger scale of the London scene.

London and the big UK labels always felt a bit overwhelming to me, like looking in from the outside. Glasgow, by contrast, was where I felt grounded—a creative microcosm producing amazing music and offering a space that felt intimate and inspiring. Even now, I tend to keep my distance from big cities, preferring a more hermit-like existence.

MO To expand on this concept of evolution, from earlier EPs to the present, the evolution of sound presents a striking transformation. How have creative philosophies evolved?

K Early on, my music was stark and minimalist, partly because of technical limitations and partly because I liked it that way. My first releases were strictly focused on essentials—nothing more. Over time, I gained more technical skill and began exploring more elaborate compositions, which was a deliberate attempt to break out of my self-imposed simplicity.

However, creativity often works in cycles. After proving to myself that I could make something more complex, I’ve recently felt drawn back to the discipline of simplicity, focusing again on reduction and restraint. Change is essential to keep things exciting—whether it’s stripping back or building up, as long as I feel like I’m exploring something new, I stay engaged.

MO Reflecting on the latest work, where might the music head next, and what concepts or sonic territories remain unexplored?

K I’m feeling drawn toward reduction—trying to make the simplest, purest pieces possible. It’s about embracing limitations and finding beauty in the essentials once more.

Credits

Talent · Koreless
Photography · Gavin Watson
Styling · Calvin How


DJ Hell

Posted on by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · 086

Feature · DJ Hell
Words · Andrea Bratta

Gigolo Living

We are all International Deejay Gigolos! In this exclusive feature, the iconic Helmut Geier, aka DJ Hell, reflects on the rise of his game-changing label—one of the most influential in recent history.

Andrea Bratta Hi Helmut, where are you now? 

Helmut Geier Most of the time, I’m here in Bavaria, but today I’m on my way to Düsseldorf for an exhibition at a museum tonight. There’s a well-known German actor named Lars Indinger, and he’s about to release his second photo book. He takes photos using his mobile phone, and the collection is being showcased at one of the top museums in Düsseldorf. It’s fascinating how his photography has evolved into an art form that intrigues others. His photos capture everyday life, but in very unusual and striking moments, which makes his work stand out. Interestingly, he’s also ventured into the techno scene and even became a techno teacher. I’ve played alongside him quite a bit, so in a way, I’ve become something of a mentor or guide for him in this field, given my experience. He’s a highly regarded actor, known for his work in theater and cinema, with an international reputation. But now, he’s diving into photography and exploring the club world, making a genuine effort to connect and produce quality music. It’s all new territory for him, but we’ve been collaborating on a lot of shows together lately.

AB I guess this is not something new for you, the mentoring bit.

HG Well, no, it isn’t. With Gigolo, I’ve discovered many unknown artists who later became quite famous. There’s a long list of them—people who got their first release on Gigolo Records and were mentored by me. I tried to help them gain more recognition and exposure. This was all back in the ’90s, long before Instagram and social media existed.

AB The Internet has definitely made things a lot easier. But at the same time, I feel like it caused the concept of “scenes” to fade away. What you achieved with Gigolo Records started in a very specific place—Bavaria, Munich—and then grew to have a global impact in the electronic music world. How did you manage that transition, taking something so localized and expanding it worldwide? 

HG The way you framed it immediately brings Giorgio Moroder to mind. He was an Italian living in Munich, and he created the blueprint for house and techno music with Donna Summer. The track I Feel Love—especially the 15-minute Patrick Cowley remix from 1976 or 1977—completely changed the world. I was living in Munich at the time, and that track influenced me more than I realized at the time. What’s fascinating is how, at the same time disco was becoming a global phenomenon, punk music was emerging in England and also changing the world. I think that duality—the rise of disco and punk—laid the foundation for what eventually became the concept of Gigolo Records. I was deeply fascinated by punk, not just the music but the energy, the attitude, and the distinctive look of the punk community. I wouldn’t call it fashion because that wasn’t the point; it was more like a uniform or a symbol. You could immediately recognise someone’s musical taste or affiliations just by how they looked. Disco had a similar kind of identity and symbolism.

Back then, I was going to punk concerts while also frequenting disco clubs, listening to DJs who were already playing dance music. Without knowing it, I was absorbing all these influences—punk, disco, and their distinct aesthetics—and it shaped my perspective. Looking back, I think the seeds of Gigolo Records were already growing in me during those years, almost 20 years before I even started the label. It was this fusion of different genres and scenes that became the foundation for what I later created.

AB When did all the unknown-known seeds from your experiences—as a music listener, fashion enthusiast, and art lover—finally come together and blossom into your vision for Gigolo?

HG  My journey to starting a label wasn’t a straight path. In the early ’90s, I worked as an A&R manager for Logic Records in Frankfurt, whose main act was Snap!—you know, The Power and Rhythm Is a Dancer. It was a very successful and commercial operation, and while I learned a lot about the business—how to operate in the higher levels of the music industry, how to market and sell music—I didn’t enjoy it. I came from the underground, from the avant-garde, from the streets and clubs. I wasn’t interested in just selling music, or myself. Back then, I swore I’d never run my own record label because it felt like it would be all business—office work and endless details—which wasn’t my world. I saw myself as an artist, not a businessman.

But everything changed a few years later. I was on tour with Jeff Mills—we traveled the world together many times and became, and still are, very good friends. One day, on a flight to New York, we were playing at the Palladium, Jeff said to me, “Hell, it’s time for you to start your own label.” He joked that we were all like “DJ Gigolos,” traveling the world, staying in five-star hotels, flying business class, and getting attention everywhere we went. That “Gigolo” idea stuck with me. When I eventually decided to follow his advice, I thought about what to name the label, and the phrase “International DeeJay Gigolo Records” came to mind. That’s how it all started.

When I launched the label in 1996 or 1997, I already had a global network of people sending me incredible demos—unreleased, amazing music. I realized Jeff was right: it was time, and I knew how to do it. But I wanted to do it my way. I ignored the traditional rules of the music business and set out to create my own. And that was the beginning.

I was 100% a fashion lover—completely addicted to it, and I still am. Back in the day, I told my mother she could take a photo of me every single day for an entire year, and I’d have a different look each time. Fashion, music, and art were always my top priorities, and I was determined to connect these three worlds into one cohesive vision. In hindsight, I think I was pretty successful in tying it all together: music, visuals, graphic design, fashion, and art –Even in the way I approached promotion, distribution, and marketing.

AB I think that’s exactly what you managed to achieve. When I think of Gigolo Records, my mind doesn’t associate it with just a label, but more to a lifestyle, an ethos –An early aughts Electroclash living. Of course, music stands right at the core, but Gigolo brought together so many genres and forms of expression over the years. I’m thinking about the early days when it helped define electroclash, the New York City moments, and all the different musical evolutions the label went through. I see echoes of Gigolo’s attitude and legacy in some of the newer artists and scenes, a similar spirit, blending genres and embracing that bold, unapologetic energy. To me, they feel like they’re tapping into the electroclash ethos, borrowing from the influence Gigolo had on labels like Ed Banger or the broader musical progress that emerged in the early 2000s.

HG About 15 or 20 years ago, I was really happy to open doors for labels like Ed Banger in Paris or Kitsuné, and others that followed the path of Gigolo. They caught the vibe and ran with it. Ed Banger, for example, was the hot label in 2005 and 2006—they were on fire. They released hip-hop, funk-inspired tracks, and artists like Mr. Oizo, blending so many styles. It was a huge moment in music. With Gigolo, I always made it clear to my artists that there were no limits. You could create whatever you wanted, and if I believed in it, I would release it—even if nobody else liked it or if it wouldn’t sell. I didn’t care about profit. I cared about supporting the artist. I would push them, book them for shows, and even insist that they open for me at clubs, whether promoters wanted them or not. It was about giving them a platform and sharing their art. Electroclash is another thing I’m very proud of—it was a defining moment for Gigolo. In 2002, it was absolutely ruling the world. Artists from all over came together, and it was this incredible explosion of creativity, genre-bending, and breaking barriers. What excites me now is seeing the new generation rediscovering that energy. Young producers and DJs are embracing the same atmosphere, sound, and ethos of no limitations. Artists like Red Axes and many labels on the rise today are carrying forward that spirit. Their sets reflect the Gigolo philosophy—where everything is allowed. They even play old Gigolo tracks, and it’s amazing how timeless they still sound. Tracks by Bobby Konders, Dopplereffekt, Terence Fixmer, Vitalic, and so many others still feel as fresh as ever. With over 350 releases in the Gigolo catalog, I’m now focused on bringing that music back. We’re working on getting the back catalog fully uploaded to platforms like Beatport, and there are lots of vinyl reissues in the pipeline. It’s exciting to see this music reaching a new audience while still inspiring the old one.

AB Are you planning on bringing back the legendary Gigolo Nights ?

HG That’s the next step, exactly—bringing back Gigolo Nights. Back then, we had the Bavarian Gigolo Night and the Berlin Gigolo Night. Festivals would invite me to curate a Gigolo stage, and we always made it something special. We had unique lighting, visuals, and a mix of live acts and DJs—it was never the same thing. What made it stand out was the unpredictability. You’d never know what to expect. It wasn’t just a DJ playing tracks; there was always something dynamic happening on stage. Different musical styles blended together, and we aimed to create a real experience, not just a performance. People loved it because it felt alive and fresh every time.Of course, I’ll probably never reach those insane moments again—like when A List rappers showed up at a Gigolo event, or Brian Ferry, or even the time I had the chance to work with artists like the Pet Shop Boys. There was a time when I could bring almost any artist I wanted to Gigolo, and that’s something I’ll always be proud of. But who knows? Maybe with these reissues and the renewed energy around the catalog, it’s time to create something just as iconic for this generation.

AB I imagine the crazy stories..

HG Yeah, wins, and losses. But even the losses were iconic in their own rights. I remember  a specific release, Hooked on Radiation, produced by KLF’s Jimmy Cauty, by a band called Atomizer. It totally sounded like a new KLF track, I was so excited because it felt like a fresh KLF release after all those years of silence. I was so confident this was going to change the UK market, so I pre-ordered 10,000 vinyls, thinking people would go crazy when they realized KLF was behind it. But in the end, it didn’t take off the way I expected. Still, it was one of those unique moments where something unexpected happened—KLF suddenly popped up in the mix, and I was thrilled to release that music. Then there were bands like Fischerspooner… I mean, we could talk for hours about all of this. 

AB Even in terms of art direction, the visuals and the look of it, like the iconic Schwarzenegger logo that later evolved into the naked chick logo—it still feels incredibly contemporary today. I’m seeing a lot of graphic designers and labels now repurposing that vibe. It’s clear how much influence that had.

HG These days, no one wants to truly invest in graphic design or unique looks, but back in the day, I paid attention to every little detail. Even when we sent out a white label or promo, it had to look special. I put a lot of time into it, because first and foremost, I had to believe in it, and then people would believe in it too. Every single thing that went out—whether it was an email, a fax, or any promo—was always handled with care, with an artistic touch, and fully connected to the music and the artist. Every cover, every release, was carefully crafted, making sure it felt special. I took great care of everything.

AB Were you working with any particular studio back then? 

HG No, the process was much more spontaneous and immediate: Whenever I found an interesting artist or saw something unique, no matter where they were from, I would immediately reach out and propose collaborations. There was always exciting stuff happening around the world. I was doing as many as 200 shows a year, and there were always fascinating graphic designers in Japan, amazing covers in Australia, or unique analog releases from someone in Italy. It never stopped. There was so much attention, and I was always on the lookout for new things or ideas that weren’t out there yet. I was deeply involved in every cover, every release, every B-side, and the distribution and marketing strategies. I always had a strong vision for how to approach things. 

AB I’m picking up a kind of Warholian vibe here. I think I read somewhere on Resident Advisor that they, correctly, imho, pointed out that Gigolo was, in a way, for Berlin what the Factory was for New York. What were the scenes like in those two cities? Were they different, or were they starting to converge in some way? 

HG A lot of people try to compare Berlin and New York, but in reality, there’s no similarity. Everything was totally different. When Berlin became the mecca for a new generation of electronic music, everyone wanted to move there or copy its sound and look. Without Berghain, for instance, the techno revolution wouldn’t have unfolded the way it did. Back in the ’90s, Berlin was maybe the most futuristic city in terms of thinking and partying. There were no limits; you could go all weekend long. There was so much free space and no rules. Everyone did what they wanted, and it was all about freedom. Of course, it’s changed now, but it’s still the number one city for electronic music. I was there in the early ’90s, working at a record store called Hardwax, buying and selling vinyl. That gave me a direct connection with the earliest Berlin techno producers, DJs, and the emerging club scene. I was immersed in that world, helping to build this new electronic and club music culture. There are a lot of books and documentaries about that era, but I’m proud to have been part of it, shaping the nightlife. I played at places like Tresor, Electro, WMF, and others that don’t exist anymore. I was even a resident DJ at the iconic E-Werk, which, to me, was the blueprint for every other club that followed. It was a unique place, and the crowd wasn’t international at all—it was mostly local Berliners. In the ’90s, Berlin was considered a dangerous place by tourists. People said to avoid places like Kreuzberg or East Berlin at night. But to me, it was never dangerous; it was just an unpolished, gritty city. No one wanted to visit, but those who did found themselves part of something really special. I’m proud to have been there, building the scene. By the mid-’90s, I was traveling to other countries, becoming an ambassador for Berlin techno and its unique energy.

AB Those were the years someone from my generation still reveres as the years of real techno.

HG Exactly, When they started bringing in the Detroit and Chicago legends, it was a game changer. You had the pioneers of Detroit techno and house, like Derrick May and Juan Atkins, alongside Chicago’s house masters, plus legends from New York. It was like a whole new world opening up—an explosion of sound and culture that had never been heard before. It felt like the biggest revolution in electronic music, and I’m proud to have been part of it. The energy, the sound, and the sense of community during that time were truly groundbreaking.

AB Well, Underground Resistance said this best with their Afrogermanic track, no words needed. It was a pivotal period.

HG  But, I mean, we didn’t think it was crazy or revolutionary at the time. We didn’t know where it was headed. Nobody thought it was going to change the world or dominate the music scene. Seriously, no one thought that way. People were saying it was just a summer hype, a very limited community, and that this music wouldn’t last. They thought something else would come along. There was always talk about what the future might hold, but nobody imagined that techno would still be around in 2024 or 2025.

AB And here we are: Techno has never been this big, and mainstream. You lived in New York for different periods. What drove you there, and not in places like Detroit, who had a much more evident link with Berlin, at least music-wise?

HG I knew that in Detroit, there was no nightlife, no real club scene—nothing happening. The city itself was in a rough state in the ’90s; no restaurants, no cafes, just darkness with a lot of homelessness. It was really the last place to be. I went there to meet legends like Jeff, Matt Mike, Submerged, Carl Craig, and others who were my heroes. I also had the chance to play with Kevin Saunderson in Chicago and did some parties with Richie Hawtin in Windsor. I visited, but there was never a thought of living there or doing anything long-term in Detroit.I did have an idea in 2014, though—a German producer like me going to Detroit, living there, and working with underground resistance, Moodymann, Derrick May, and all those guys to produce a techno album. I went for two months and came back with just one track that’ll never see the light of day. I wanted to be the German outsider working with the originators of techno in Detroit, but it didn’t work out. New York, on the other hand, has always been my city. I wasn’t just a tourist; I was involved in the club scene in the early ’90s, and it felt like no other place. I remember playing at Palladium in front of 5,000 people. The Limelight, an old church turned into a techno hall, had this dark, exotic atmosphere with secret parties happening upstairs.New York had this magnetic power that drew me in, and I was lucky to be there, playing techno music. Jeff and I were residents at Limelight, and I even did some producing there. New York’s nightlife was heavily influenced by places like Studio 54, Tunnel, and Webster Hall, where thousands of people would party every weekend. I was highly respected in the scene as a German techno DJ because I brought something different to the table. I lived there for a year in 1993, then returned in 2004 to produce the album New York Muscle.

AB I guess with Gigolo’s evolution, and electroclash’s rise, you were also going for something that didn’t feel strictly “German” anymore, but rather this hybrid of global influences, like something that could exist anywhere.

HG You are in one of the most powerful, energetic cities in the world like New York: You’re bound to create different art and music. I remember during that time, there was a war going on in Afghanistan, and we were watching it on the news every day. It deeply influenced me, the atmosphere of it all—the aggression, the danger of the situation. It was an incredibly uncomfortable feeling, like never knowing what might happen next. There was always police at the train stations, and something was always happening. That tension, that constant energy, definitely seeped into the music I was creating during that time.

AB 2003 Was also immediately post-9/11 NYC, it must have been..complicated to say the least.

HG It was very present. People were still shocked by it, and it was everywhere. I was living near Ground Zero, in a hotel called the Trabeck, a grand hotel. It was within walking distance, and in 2004 or 2005, there was still a huge hole where the towers had fallen. People were still in shock. It was nothing like before—it changed everything. New York totally transformed after September 11, 2001.

AB On a lighter note, let’s go back to fashion because it’s been such a big part of your life. You’ve worked on so many shows—Versace, Yves Saint Laurent, Balenciaga. What’s it like working on music for a runway show? How is it different from selecting music for a club? 

HG That’s a totally different piece of art, for sure. When I do what’s called catwalk music for a 15 to 70-minute show, I really connect with the designer and their concept. It’s very important that the music doesn’t overpower the vision of the designer—it should fit seamlessly into their concept. There are a lot of meetings before the actual work begins. It’s not just about me putting together a mix for them to use. It’s a back-and-forth process, because the designers know exactly what they want, including the music. They’re very hands-on. For example, when Demna from Balenciaga asked me to get involved in one of their art projects, he told me that he loved my early 90s analog hardcore techno stuff. He asked me to create a 45-minute mix of hard techno, acid, and analog productions. I was a bit hesitant because, when I listen to that music now, I hear how raw it was. At the time, I was trying to get closer to the Detroit sound or do something unique. But I didn’t have the gear—the analog keyboards, drum machines—so I did the best I could with what I had. Some of the sounds are pretty digital, even though they were meant to be analog, and the production level was very middle class, I’d say. Back then, I didn’t have the knowledge to do it the best way; there was no computer or fancy gear. It was all live recording. Some of the sounds came out great, but others were rough. But at that time, we just released it. Compared to today’s digital sound and modern production techniques, it feels old-school.I understand Demna’s vision though, and I see why he liked it. Not a lot of people were into that style at the time. Then, a year later, he used Sunglasses at Night for one of his fashion shows—the cover by BFRND. I was shocked! Sunglasses at Night is such an iconic track, Tige released it on Gigolo back in the days, it was itself a great cover version of the original by Corey Hart. But, like a lot of music that’s been overplayed, you sort of reach a point where you’re not as excited to hear it anymore. It was fascinating that Balenciaga picked it for their show. 

AB What are your favourite designers?

HG One name, very easy: Martin Margiela. There were times when he released a new collection, and I felt like every piece, every shoe, every shirt, every coat, was made just for me. It totally fits my personality, my style, my DJing, and my travels. I was seriously obsessed with it. The interesting part was mixing those pieces with second-hand clothes and military uniforms—jackets, shoes, all of that. For many years, Margiela was the ultimate brand for me. And when he moved on, I started looking for something new, and of course, I jumped into Deman, his work with Vetements before and then Balenciaga. I also loved Boris Saberi, a lot, and I can’t forget Rick Owens.

AB You also collaborated with Kostas Murkudis, right?

HG He was so good! Sad he’s not doing his own brand anymore.

AB I also read that you’re working as the designated curator for the Museum of Modern Electronic Music, in Frankfurt. I imagine it’s not too different from what you’re used to doing, in a way, right?

HG I was involved in the concept and ideas many years ago when they first tried to open it. The idea started around eight to ten years ago, but they didn’t have the financial backing to rent the place and renovate it, so it took about five to eight years with many concepts and ideas. Finally, they opened, and I visited about two years ago. I was really surprised at how great it looked and how well they’re managing the museum. It’s really cool. I did an interview there and had a small exhibition. They’re doing a great job, but they should definitely get more attention because it’s an amazing museum that showcases a lot of electronic music culture. There should be more exhibitions about this culture—the machines, the cover arts, the visual art, the music itself. There’s so much you can display in a gallery or museum, and they’ve done it really well.

AB One last question— we talked about how the techno and electronic music world used to be very insular, with its own scenes and places. There was a sense of differentiation back then. But fast forward to today, and there’s essentially one big global scene. How do you feel about that? Do you think there’s been too much standardization in electronic music, especially in terms of festivals and parties? 

HG I don’t agree with the idea that it’s just one scene. It’s split into many different scenes, and right now, there’s a lot of discussion happening, with people expressing diverse opinions. Old-school figures are giving interviews or posting on social media, saying it doesn’t feel right or cool to be a DJ anymore. After the pandemic, everything changed, and suddenly so many artists or DJs with little artistic thinking are successful, mostly because of their social media presence. It’s not about the music anymore, and that’s the big conversation. But I wouldn’t say it’s just one scene. It’s interesting to see hard techno or hardcore techno becoming very successful and popular. I think it’s misnamed, though. To me, this isn’t techno. It’s just entertainment, dance music, or whatever you want to call it. One person referred to it as “the new EDM,” and I think that description fits perfectly. On the other hand, I get why young people are championing it, especially since many of them were locked out for two or three years during the pandemic. Now, they go to hard techno parties, and it’s getting more attention than ever. The downside is seeing all these DJs with zero talent becoming popular. It’s clear when you analyze it—there’s no real artistry. They’re in it just for success, for money, or maybe they don’t even know why they’re doing it. I’ve been in this scene for 40 years, so I watch it from a distance, more as an observer. I don’t take it too seriously, and I don’t have time to listen to bad music. I’m focused on preparing for my own shows, working on new music, and continuing to do my thing. I still aim to surprise people with my sets, mixing different genres and keeping it fresh. I don’t need to be part of this hard techno scene. I do play techno sets, but when I do, they’re in my own style—mixing analog techno with new digital sounds, deeply influenced by Detroit techno and great new producers. There’s so much good music out there that I don’t have time for all the noise. I just call it Kabuki techno or EDM techno—it’s like a circus to me, and I find it kind of funny. I don’t go to these hard techno parties; I only see them on social media, and I’ve never been there myself. I’m too deep into my work in the studio, producing, remixing, and working on new albums. I don’t have time to focus on that scene. But I do understand the frustration. A lot of legendary old-school DJs aren’t getting bookings anymore, and people don’t pay attention to their work. They’re still doing great stuff, but they’re being overlooked, and that’s a tough pill to swallow. I totally get that frustration.

AB Still, there’s an underground that’s alive and kicking, although maybe differently than it used to.

HG To me, electronic music has always been avant-garde. It’s always been about pushing boundaries. You never cared about how much you were going to sell or what the current trend was. The focus was always on experimentation. That’s how it was done, especially in Germany. It was about creating something new, something unique—whether it was with sounds, rhythms, or production techniques. As an artist, the drive was always about exploring new elements, constantly pushing the envelope. That was the secret force behind creating techno music.

Credits

Talent · Helmut Geier
Photography · Maximilian Attila Bartsch
Short Film · Johannes Häußler
Styling · Elisa Schenke
Grooming · Ana Buvinic

Designers

  1. Leather jacket and Trousers T/SEHNE, Shoes BOTTEGA VENETA
  2. Sunglasses MYKITA x 032C
  3. Full Look BOTTEGA VENETA
  4. Suit and Shoes ANN DEMEULEMEESTER, Sunglasses MYKITA x 032C
  5. Full Look MM6 MAISON MARGIELA

Sega Bodega

Posted on by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 102

Feature · Sega Bodega
Words · Andrea Bratta

New Gen Capital P Pop Music With Sega Bodega

Is pop music on life support? Just days after dropping his fourth LP, Dennis, producer-maverick Salvador Navarrete—better known as Sega Bodega—dissects what’s gone wrong in the industry and lays out his antidote. In a sharp, unfiltered take, he breaks down the pitfalls of modern pop, why formulas are failing, and how he’s carving his own lane in the chaos. 

Andrea Bratta  How was yesterday’s big party? I honestly have a little bit of FOMO.

Sega Bodega  It was really fun! I usually don’t like to celebrate stuff, I’m quite bad at it, I don’t want to draw attention to myself as much as I can, which considering my line of work can be difficult sometimes. This time I had to force myself to do something special, but I’m glad I did.

AB Actually, it really came across more as a club night curated by you, rather than a launch party. It seemed like it just casually happened to also be Dennis’ launch party. How are you feeling now that Dennis is one week out?

SB I’m really happy with it. Everytime you release something new there’s always a small number of people who are like “Oh, I didn’t really like this part, or that part, you could have done this or that.” And usually, if I don’t feel confident about something, I can start acting very condescending towards critical comments. But, this time, I just didn’t agree with anyone, at all. I’m confident I made all the right calls with this record –I can really feel that I can stand behind it, and that’s how I know I’m really satisfied with what I’ve done. This makes me very proud. 

AB This record comes after a period where you really opened up to different sorts of endeavors: Different collaborations, launching ambient tweets, working a lot on the production and mixing for other artists. There’s a feeling of heightened confidence throughout the records, it feels cohesive, like it was a long process’ point of arrival. Perhaps that’s why you are so happy and confident about it.

SB At the point where my career is right now, having worked with so many different people, I’ve learned so many different things from so many different artists, in terms of vocals, songwriting, and all that. Of course I applied all this acquired knowledge to my own thing. It’s so hard when you’re working alone and begin second guessing yourself –I could spend something like six months spiraling down on an idea. You carefully, too carefully, consider everything, and then you show the result to someone: In that exact moment you start seeing stuff you weren’t able to before. Everyone needs that other ear. And that’s what I did with Dennis. I was definitely sending it to a lot of friends and asking for their input and advice.

AB Was your process always this open? I guess we could talk a bit about Twitch, speaking of openness. 

SB Yeah, I’d hope you asked about it! It is something that was very interesting to do, on so many different levels. Working on such a platform can forward the artist-audience relationship so much, to the point of almost being an embodiment of the whole dynamic itself. It’s you and them, no mediation –Or almost none.

AB What made you consider trying that out?

SB  It was a very simple prompt, initially. [laughs] A friend told me how much money she makes on Twitch and I was shocked! So I went and tried to build an audience for myself there, I wanted to see if I could do it too. It started as an experiment, so to speak, and all of a sudden, I’m not sure exactly when, I was just really focused on it. I had this span of six months where I think I really focused on this Twitch thing –I gotta say, they felt really like six longer than usual months, but they also allowed me to get a lot done. The very first song on Dennis, Coma Dennis, I made entirely on Twitch. It was a very short stream because I almost instantly did it and realized that it was going to be the first song on Dennis. So I logged off and canceled the stream, because I didn’t want to give that away, I wanted to keep that a surprise.

AB Do you think that platforms like Twitch might become an actual tool for musicians and artists to add new dimensions to their production? Usually the compositional moment can be a very insular one, and maybe sometimes you actually need that solitude.

SB I kinda have a twofold answer to this. From one standpoint, I think it has to be a private thing, because it’s just the nature of it. I personally couldn’t always do it in front of an audience. But I think the educational aspect of working and producing live on platforms like Twitch can be so helpful for people who are just starting off making music. I remember working with my favorite people when I was less experienced. The most reassuring thing was seeing them make stuff that was just not good. They were just trying and making mistakes, like everyone else. I sat there thinking “Oh, this is kind of terrible” And they would keep going, continue trying and then they would go on and make something incredible. It’s easy to think that these really talented, hard working artists only make good stuff all the time. But the truth is that the creative process is always full of bad ideas, and that’s a good thing. That’s the whole point of it being a process, you have to be trying all these different things and some of them will just stick. I remember feeling so liberated, I didn’t have to feel so bad when trying some ideas out and ending up with shitty outcomes anymore, because I knew that even my favorite artist in the world sometimes just ends up with really bad stuff. Sometimes you can try, and try, and try, and this idea will just never really function how you want it to function, so you’ll just have to try again tomorrow. Not a lot of people want to do that, they don’t want to try, try, and try, and try, and try. And that’s the whole point. I guess that really what I wanted to do with this Twitch experiment was telling people that sometimes you just aren’t having a good day, and that’s fine. But you still have to try the next day and enjoy the difficulties of a truly creative process.

AB More often than not you get to this level of awareness only later in your career, it’s an acquired taste, so to speak. And it’s the type of lesson that you can really apply to every creative path. Speaking of ideas, how did you come up with the concept behind Dennis? Was it a trial and error process too or you had the concept locked right away, and that informed everything else? 

SB It slowly formed. I tried to follow the rules that govern dreams to establish the album’s flow. You know, when you’re in a dream, one moment you’re in your childhood home, and then, all of a sudden, you open a door, and you’re in another scene, you’re in a movie. Something else switches and you’re in the middle of nowhere –You’re always jumping from thing to thing, and it makes complete sense when it’s happening in the dream itself. I aways was intrigued by the fact that all of that would be so fucking confusing would that happen in real life. So I tried to just follow that structure, and try to see what would happen if I tried to follow those dream logics in music. I’ve got the song, how do I derail it and go somewhere else completely? And how do I make it make sense at the same time?

AB Was making the album feel as cohesive as it sounds the biggest challenge to it? How did you solve that riddle?

SB I mean, this kind of approach is not something entirely new. Think of Kendrick Lamar’s Damn, that’s a great example of it. 

AB The beat-switches, yeah.

SB The beat just flicks, and that’s a rap thing, and I’ve always been fascinated by it – Sometimes there are three different songs happening in just one track. Kanye does that a lot –Here’s an idea, and now there’s another idea for you, and then we’re back and now we’re gone again– It keeps the listener engaged and on their toes. You can just change the whole song as it goes, and if the result is still cool and strong, if it simply is just more good music, people will be like “Yeeeeeey!!” Bohemian Rhapsody is a perfect example of this too.

AB Chaining one vibe to the other and back –It makes me think a lot about DJing, especially since we mentioned the hip-hop/rap beat-switch. The whole genre’s genesis is deeply linked with DJing –DJ Cool Herc, NYC’s block parties. Are you thinking of transitioning this side of your production in Dennis’ tour live settings? Are you going for more of a proper live set-scenarios, or a DJ/Clubbing vibe? 

SB Yeah, well, I probably will have a strict set-up, that won’t change. But doing the live versions of the songs has been real fun, they’re a bit different. 

AB I’m very curious now, any spoilers? 

SB No spoilers! [Laughs] You gotta come to a show. 

AB Fair enough, and I most certainly will. Perhaps Paris or C2C. Let’s detour a bit from sonic elements for a moment. I wanted to ask you about the extra-musical inspirations behind Dennis. You have been described as a big cinema buff, for example. Any notable leads here? The record feels very cinematic.

SB There are a lot of movies that I would need to quote. One of the things in my bucket list is scoring a movie one day. I really really want to! You know, like a big, colossal score. We’ll see if i can make it i guess. [laughs]

AB What other mediums or ventures have you set your sights upon right now?  

SB Capital P pop music. I want to do a lot of it –I think pop music is dying, it desperately needs some new ideas as it’s really getting kind of stuck. I don’t think I’m gonna be able to listen to phoned-in records much longer, and neither should anyone.  Pop artists need to be trying new ideas. 

AB I strongly agree. Even if they might not know it, even the most distracted listeners are dying for better Pop music, or music in general. I also think that audiences have never been so much more open to “experimental” stuff than they are right now. Maybe it’s because, you know, there’s never been so much music and it also circulates differently –Think of the possibilities you just mentioned earlier for Twitch. How would you rejuvenate the Pop music landscape? 

SB It would depend on the artists I’d be working with, really. You have to see how willing they are to allow you, and themselves, to do what you want, and just ignore the label heads because they’re going to tell you to do something completely different. Maybe I’d Just try not to make pop music, basically just make music for fun without an agenda, and see where it gets us.

AB Do you think that maybe the distinction between mainstream and underground, genres and audience, make still sense today? Everyone basically listens to all sorts of stuff, and everything bleeds in everything all the time. For example, your label technically would qualify as a niche one, but still, you just said that you would happily push some more pop-ish stuff there.

SB You know, I don’t care, I think I’d release anything on my label, I don’t want it to have a sound or an aesthetic. It’s not about that, it’s about each individual artist on it and what they want to do. And if it sounds good, it sounds good –Having A sound, it can be very limiting. 

AB I guess you being an artist that also happens to have become a label head is showing here, it makes me think about a lot of artist-run galleries, how sometimes only an artist can properly represent another artist. And how sometimes artists that end up being represented in more commercial, or rather classically institutionally settings are forced to repeat what starts as their forte, and ends up becoming their prison. 

SB I think that’s the scariest thing that can happen to anybody. Personally, I need to be able to feel that I can derail my sound at any point, because otherwise, I’m just gonna get bored. It becomes boring, no one wants to make the same thing for 10, 20 years. You have to move on from yourself, and that can be kind of hard. 

AB You can really see this wanderer-like attitude in your trajectory, you have a 12 years career behind you where you really did a lot of different things, worked with different artists, you just launched your second label, closed one. Even the Twitch thing, it really feels about pushing yourself even just in your process, not only in the end-result, you know? Experimenting can be a difficult thing. Earlier we spoke about second guessing yourself and coming to terms with making mistakes. Was it difficult back when you just started pushing yourself towards finding your sound through constant experimentation, have you ever felt without points of reference?

SB I think losing the points of references that you get accustomed to is the whole point, it has to be hard, you have to confront the resistance to change in order to grow. That’s what being a human being is all about, really. But, then again some songs just happen, and they feel easy. 

AB You’ve developed the right confidence and trust in your abilities to back up the ambition of constantly challenging yourself. But maybe you had moments throughout your career where you were this same quest for artistic freedom could have been difficult to sustain.

SB I couldn’t have developed those skills and confidence without the moments of struggle. I guess its kind of a clichè but really..I am convinced that this is just a fundamental part of existence..it’s almost scientific. [laughs]

AB Were there some moments in your career that really solidified your conviction? The kind of “I can make this” moments.

SB I guess listening to the music that I’ve been listening to all my life. That’s been the main driver for me, always. I love music and I’ve always been drawn to it. 

AB What are the records that are timeless for you?

SB I’ve always been taking a lot of references from my teens and my childhood. I really still love IDM, Aphex Squarepusher, Crystal Castles, I grew up on them. Sometimes you love something from the past, and then you listen back to it and realize it didn’t age well whatsoever. What else..Placebo. I love Placebo, I still listen to Placebo. A lot of rock music like Interpol, The Strokes. I still pull from them without even realizing it.

AB They are ingrained in your sonic unconscious. Maybe this goes back to why you’ve been so interested in the role of dreams, what they are, and how they function. You’ve been taking a Jungian approach to music, investigating the way our musical collective unconscious operates. I guess visuals played a role in this process too, right? 

SB Sometimes, yes. And sometimes, they did not. It was definitely not consistent. There was no consistency in anything making Dennis. You know, I was in so many different moods when I was working on it, sometimes I’d be more fascinated by a sound, sometimes by an image, others by a lyric.

Credits

Talent · Sega Bodega
Photography · Alessia Gunawan
Styling · Natacha Voranger
Set Design · Rebecca Ilse
Makeup Artist · Anga Borodin from Saint Germain Agency
Hair Stylist · Gabriel De Fries from Saint Germain Agency
Photography Assistant · Marlee Pasinetti





Christ Dillinger

Posted on by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 024

Feature · Christ Dillinger
Words · Andrea Bratta

Making Music In My Sleep

Fame isn’t what it used to be. NYC Virtuoso Christ Dillinger dissects the illusion of underground music in the streaming era, and the strange paradox of modern celebrity—where millions of plays don’t always mean real influence. Is true artistic independence still possible, or has the industry absorbed every rebel into its algorithmic machine? A raw, unfiltered take on music, control, and the fight to stay real.

Andrea Bratta I’m just gonna get straight to it: I loved that you rapped over house beats. There’s something so nostalgic about it — it loops all the way back around and lands as something totally fresh.

Christ Dillinger In 2020, I linked up with PartyBoy. We started talking, and he was the one who told me my voice would sound great over dance beats like this.Between 2019 and now, me and PartyBoy actually made four or five different songs—probably even more. He sent me a bunch of beats, I produced some, and we went back and forth, crafting tracks that were similar to what you guys are hearing now.. But PartyBoy’s a perfectionist, and so am I, so none of those early songs ever came out. The first one we both agreed was a hit was Hoe—that’s the one we finally dropped. And that song blew up.

After that, I started doing shows with him, meeting DJs, and getting deeper into dance music. It felt like having him co-sign me really solidified my place in that world. He also helped me refine my beat selection—picking tracks that matched my voice and my rap style better. I gotta give a huge shout-out to him. Not only is he one of my best friends, but he also played a big role in helping me perfect my sound and develop a better ear for quality dance music. There’s a lot of dance music out there, but not all of it is good, you know? When it comes to house music, my biggest influences have always been legends like Frankie Knuckles, Gypsy Woman, and disco-heavy sounds. I’ve always loved disco—Bee Gees, Donna Summer, all of that. I also really fuck with James Brown. When I make a house track, I want to bring that same energy—like James Brown commanding a stage. I want the performance to feel alive, where I’m rapping every lyric, dancing, and making people feel the music. Even if someone doesn’t catch every word, they can vibe with how I ride the beat, keeping everything high-energy and uptempo.

That’s the approach I take—melding funk with dance music. Even if the beats don’t always reflect that directly, the way I attack them does. I want my words to hit like James Brown, snapping you into the groove. So even if you’re not catching every lyric, the rhythm and energy keep you locked in, just riding the tempo.

AB Yeah, it’s like another element—another instrument. You use it as part of the beat, shaping the rhythm in its own way

CD I go out a lot in New York, and I gravitate toward places that play house music. I don’t really go to rap shows, except for a few artists I personally like. If one of my friends is performing, I always show up. But when I’m going out on a Friday or Saturday night to have fun, I prefer clubs that play good house or dance music.

I listen to a lot of DJs, especially underground artists in New York and beyond—people who aren’t widely known but are killing it in the scene. There are clubs in New York that fly under the radar, places people don’t really talk about, even though house music is one of the biggest genres worldwide. It’s still not mainstream in America, despite having a strong fan base. The average person on the street might not know much about it, but the culture is thriving.

There’s this one club, Gabriella, in Williamsburg—it’s a great spot for house music. It’s a dream of mine to perform there one day. I spend a lot of time going out and listening to DJs in person, watching how people react to their sets. That helps me refine the style of house beats I want to work with.

One of the biggest turning points for me recently was meeting a producer named CP. I started a group with him—he’s in Bass Negative Squad with me. Besides Party Boy and my friend Varg, he’s one of the only producers who can make the exact type of dance beats I love to rap over. The moment I met CP, I made the entire Nuke in the Club album, and right after that, Evil in the Club—we just clicked creatively. He’s also one of my best friends in real life, which makes collaborating effortless.

CP was a huge catalyst for me putting out more dance music. I’ll never stop making house music with him—he’s my go-to.

You can really feel that chemistry on the record. It almost plays like a DJ set—the way the tracks flow seamlessly into each other. Even the way you switch up your flows between songs makes the whole mixtape feel like one continuous, immersive experience.

AB That record almost feels like a DJ set—the way it flows seamlessly from track to track. Even the way you switch up your flows between songs makes the whole mixtape feel like one continuous beat.

CD Yeah, that’s something I’ve always been drawn to. I grew up listening to a lot of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Jimi Hendrix, and one of my favorite things about their albums is how they flow together with no gaps. Back then, they had to record everything in the studio as a continuous piece, and I love that approach. Albums like Late Registration and The College Dropout by Kanye West do the same thing—everything connects from start to finish.

When I make my albums, I structure them the same way. All the beats and songs are connected, and I lay them out in Ableton as one long 20-minute project. I actually rap the whole thing in one go, then go back and cut the tracks up for streaming platforms like Spotify. But if you listen on SoundCloud or YouTube, I always upload the full 20-minute version because that’s how the project was meant to be heard.

House music, to me, is made for long-form listening. It’s not meant to be chopped up into short, digestible clips for TikTok or whatever. The house sets I love—DJ mixes that last two hours or more—take you on a journey. When you’re in the club, there’s that warm-up phase, then maybe an acid house section where things get weird and intense, and eventually, the DJ resolves it, bringing you back into the groove. That tension and release are what make house music special.

But in today’s world, because of streaming and the way music is marketed, artists are pushed to make two- or three-minute tracks. I get that, but I prefer making 10- or 20-minute songs. I haven’t made a 30-minute track yet, but I definitely will at some point. That’s why I upload my house projects as a full-length piece—because that’s how they were created, and that’s how they should be experienced.

AB Yeah, my first encounter with the record was through YouTube, so I got to experience it that way. And for me, growing up, going to clubs was always about house music—or even techno—but house was really at the core of it. A lot of the house music I was drawn to came from the U.S., with DJs like Frankie Knuckles, as you mentioned, but also Terrence Parker, or even some more ghetto stuff like DJ Deeon, DJ Assault.

CD Shout out to DJ Assault. Big inspo.

AB It’s funny you mentioned how, in the US, especially in places like New York with its rich house scene, there were legendary spots like Paradise Garage where house music was born and grew. The connection between house and rap music is so present. It’s interesting, though, because now in New York, the way people think about club music has changed. But listening to records, especially your rap tracks, I can really feel that influence from house music, and how you’ve been exposed to it. The way DJs play, and the approach to creating art through music, it should be long, intentional, and immersive. I completely agree. I don’t get why, in Milan or other more commercial settings, big DJs only play one-hour sets. It doesn’t make sense to me either. You really need two, maybe three hours, to get into a groove and let the full experience unfold.

CD And also, you know, if you think about how clubs and drugs go together, they kind of create this flow where you’re moving through different emotional states. Like, you need that switch between emotions, that contrast, because that’s what makes it feel real.

AB Yeah, I feel like a lot of people take drugs, and every drug comes with this moment of anxiety—like, that split second where you’re like, Oh shit, am I okay? Am I too high? A lot of drugs give you that feeling where, for a moment, you genuinely think you’re gonna die. And that same kind of tension, that anxiety, I feel like it’s in music too. Or at least, it used to be. But now, a lot of music just skips that part.

CD Exactly. Have you ever heard Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd?

AD Yeah, of course.

CD So the second track, On the Run, that track is basically one of the first times a band used something like an 808, like an electronic bass-driven thing, in a song. But more than that, the whole track is just pure anxiety. It never really resolves—it just builds and builds. And then it flows into Time, which is like this explosion of energy, almost like a resolution. That’s what I think is missing in a lot of music now. Everything is so commercialized, and everyone just focuses on the high-energy, euphoric moments—the climax—but they leave out the anxiety, the tension. And that’s such a necessary part of life.

AB Yeah, because if you’re only listening to music that’s about the high, the come-up, the happy parts, then it starts to feel disconnected from real life. Like, we can flood ourselves with dopamine all day—whether it’s through social media, music, drugs, whatever—but eventually, you’re gonna hit a low. And if the art you consume doesn’t reflect that full spectrum of emotion, you end up feeling kind of detached from your own experience.

CD Exactly. I feel like people don’t even fully understand sadness anymore because they don’t sit with it. Like, no one really sits with their thoughts anymore. The second you’re alone, you pull out your phone, you start scrolling, and suddenly you’ve got a million different people’s emotions hitting you all at once. No one’s really in touch with themselves. And I think long-form music—stuff that takes time, that forces you to sit in it—kind of helps restore that. It trains your brain to seek out deeper, more meaningful experiences instead of just chasing quick dopamine hits.

AB That really hits home for me. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot, and I think a lot of people feel it too—this weird paradox where we’re all super connected, but at the same time, it makes us feel lonelier. And when you lose that connection with yourself, you start losing touch with what you actually like, what you actually want. 

CD Yeah, 100%. And that’s what I’m trying to do with my music—bring that depth back, create something that really makes people feel. I think that’s why I’ve found the right people to work with too. Like, Party Boy—he’s got that legendary status, especially in Europe, with how close he is to the Berlin scene. And Varg, too—he’s such a huge influence.

AB Yeah, I was at the show in Paris with you and Varg, and the energy there was insane.

CD That’s what I mean—it’s about creating those experiences where people actually feel something real, something beyond just a dopamine hi. It was crazy. I mean, that show was insane. It was sold out, and then we had a line wrapped around the corner, people outside the building the entire night. Kanye came to that show. Yeah, and Ian Connor. Destroy Lonely, too. Kanye actually came. He’s my favorite rapper, so for him to come to one of my shows, where I’m headlining, is honestly insane to me. It still hasn’t fully sunk in—I’m still trying to process it. But yeah, it was wild. I mean, basically, everyone in the city came out.

AB That must have been surreal.

CD It really was. And for me, being from there, it helped me understand how music works, how America works, and even how the world works. Like, I’m a huge Jimi Hendrix fan—he’s the reason I started making music in the first place. And I always think about how his career took off. He toured in the U.S. for a while, but it wasn’t until he went to London that he really blew up. When his music hit Europe, the reaction was insane, and then that hype traveled back to America.

AB And you feel like the same thing is happening to you?

CD Exactly. Ever since I started playing in Europe and working with more European artists, I’ve been getting way more recognition in the States. That Paris show felt like the peak of that. I had just dropped my album, like, a week before, and now I’m playing this massive show during Paris Fashion Week, with all these big names in the crowd. It was honestly crazy.

AB Yeah, I mean, Paris Fashion Week is becoming bigger and bigger, even in a musical sense. Like, I’m from Milan, and I work in Paris for an art gallery, so I split my time—two weeks here, two weeks there. And Milan is just… slower.

CD: Yeah?

AB Especially during Fashion Week. It’s very institutional—big brands doing their shows, and that’s it. Either you’re rich or working for rich people. You go, see the collections, maybe a fancy dinner, but the afterparties are boring. There’s no underground scene, no younger artists doing something exciting. While in Paris, it’s a whole different energy. There are shows like yours happening, real moments.

CD Paris is like the world stage. I felt really lucky to do that show during Fashion Week because all eyes are on Paris. And me headlining the biggest show of the week—it felt like I was showing the world what’s next. And the craziest part is, I’m just this dude from the middle of nowhere in America, you know? I came from the slums. And now I’m up there, performing at Fashion Week, surrounded by legends like Kanye. I wish I could’ve met Anna Wintour, though, just for the experience. Also, Varg took me to the 032c runway show. I had a great time, met the guy who owns the magazine—he was super chill.

AB To think that here in Europe we still dream of New York. Funny.

CD: That’s crazy to hear.

AB Yeah, New York has that mythology around it. And seeing you so hyped and motivated is sick—it feels like you’re in a headspace where you’re just gonna keep making new, better music. So, what’s next? Anything you can spoil?

CD There’s the record that just got out and Yeah, actually—me and Varg have an album coming out next month. Got a song on it with Skrillex. Another one with Mowlola, and Gabe from Uzi. Plus, I just made this song two hours ago. Shit’s crazy how it all comes together sometimes.

AB Damn, man. You’re on fire. How do you manage to be so productive? It’s like project after project, always something new dropping. Do you have a secret or just a mad work ethic?

CD Well, honestly, I’ve got OCD, so I’m always thinking about music. I’m also a little autistic, so I just get obsessed with it. Music’s the only thing I’ve really ever wanted to do since I was a kid, and it’s like I’m constantly creating. I’ve been making music for, like, five years now. I’ve probably made thousands of songs. Every single day, I make at least five songs. That’s just how I work—always making, always creating. Even before I had any fans or any real recognition, I was putting in work. Like, back then, it wasn’t about the hype. It was just about making the music I love. I don’t even really care if people like it. I make it because I’m a fan of myself. I listen to my own stuff, so I need to keep making more to stay engaged. It’s like I’m my biggest fan. But yeah, I try to put all my music out too. I know my manager doesn’t like that—I’m always trying to drop everything I make, which isn’t always the best move. But I just gotta share it. And some of the songs come to me in dreams, which sounds wild, but it’s true.

AB Wait, dreams?

CD Yeah, for real. It’s weird, but I’ll wake up from a dream and a song will just be stuck in my head. I’ve had dreams where I’m literally rapping the whole song, and when I wake up, it’s all there. Like that song “Nick@Nite”—I had a dream where I was rapping that. So I just write it down and record it. A lot of my biggest songs came from dreams like that.

AB That’s actually insane. You’re making music in your sleep. I think you need a “dream producer” tag or something, like “music made while sleeping.”

CD (Laughs) Yeah, honestly, that’s a vibe. But it makes sense, right? I’m always thinking about music. Even when I’m asleep, my mind’s still working on it. That song I just showed you? I heard that in a dream yesterday morning, so I just woke up and made it.

AB That sounds mad. So you’ve got some global vibes with this one. What about that other song you mentioned before we started speaking on the record? The one about King Leopold and Congo?

CD Oh yeah, that’s another crazy track. I just made a song about King Leopold of Belgium and how he enslaved all those people in Congo. The story is pretty wild, and I felt like it needed to be told in a song. It’s heavy, you know? The whole thing about colonization, the suffering—people need to hear about it. It’s messed up, but I think the song can help raise awareness in some way. Honestly, it’s just something I’ve been learning about recently. I’ve been reading more, trying to understand the history and the impact of it all. And I felt like I had to speak on it. You know, a lot of people don’t even know about that part of history. So I wanted to use my platform to shine a light on it. Plus, music’s the best way to make something like that stick in people’s minds. It’s all about making music that speaks to people—whether it’s about personal experiences or something bigger. Just trying to make an impact with every track.when you look at what he did in the Congo, it was one of the most horrific genocides, yet it’s barely mentioned. People always talk about stuff like Ukraine or Palestine, or the Holocaust, but no one really talks about Africa or King Leopold’s reign. I’ve always been thinking about it, which is why I finally made something about it. And funny enough, I was on a plane watching the new Tarzan movie, and they went to the Congo. In that movie, King Leopold’s there, and they show him enslaving Africans. I thought it was crazy they even put that in a Tarzan movie, but no one’s talking about it, you know? It’s like the narrative doesn’t get pushed. It’s almost like they’re hinting at something dark, but they don’t really delve into it. And you’re right—people just don’t engage with it, like they should. The history of Africa, the real atrocities, gets brushed under the rug in favor of more immediate, sensational headlines. But when it comes to things like Palestine, Ukraine, it becomes this thing that trends for a while, and people talk about it, post about it, but it’s all very surface level. It doesn’t really go deeper than the hashtags. And that’s what frustrates me—it’s tragic when people turn suffering into trends. Everything becomes reduced to these soundbites that lack depth, and people just move on to the next thing, desensitized by it all. It’s the same as the way we consume music today, right? Everything’s instant, short, and to the point, but it lacks the substance, the nuance.

AB Yeah, I completely agree. The way we consume tragedies, issues, or even music nowadays is so detached. It’s almost like it’s become a trend instead of something that demands real attention. And when it comes to music, you were saying something about how it could be used to spread information, make people think.

CD Absolutely. I think music is one of the best ways to spread this kind of knowledge, because it stays with people. Like, with Vietnam—people don’t really talk about that war in America anymore, but songs from that era, like “Voodoo Child” by Jimi Hendrix, or “All Along the Watchtower,” those songs are about Vietnam, right? And they still live on, because they carried the message, the feeling, the soul of that time. Music sticks in a way that facts don’t. So if you want people to understand something, to feel it in their bones, put it in a song. It’s way more powerful than some hashtag. People remember music, it resonates.

AB Yeah, it’s almost like music makes things more tangible, more real. You can’t escape it, it’s in your head. But, I guess, these days, there’s a lot of pressure on artists to just make quick hits. Do you think the current state of the industry—like the rise of streaming platforms—has hurt music’s potential to spread deeper messages?

CD Oh, for sure. It’s so frustrating. Streaming services, like Spotify, are all about playlists, quick consumption. People don’t listen to albums in full anymore. They just skip through, picking out the TikTok songs, the ones they already know. No one goes through an album and feels the artist’s journey, you know? That’s what’s missing. It’s like a formula now: the label wants everything to be radio-friendly, something that’ll fit into a 3-minute slot, and you can’t really tell a story that way. Back in the day, bands like Pink Floyd made 20-minute songs, they didn’t care if they could play them on the radio. They made art, and people had to come to them for it. That’s the kind of mentality I want to bring back. Music should be something you live with, not just something you consume quickly and forget about.

AB I totally get that. It’s about the journey, the narrative. Do you think the internet and platforms like SoundCloud gave artists more freedom before they were overtaken by the mainstream industry? Could that be a way forward, going back to that sense of independence?

CD Exactly. SoundCloud was this great place where artists could be free, release what they wanted, and build a real following. But now it’s like the industry realized, “Oh, these underground artists are getting attention,” so they started swooping in and taking control. They’ve commercialized it, just like they did with the mainstream. It’s like real estate—labels buy up artists like properties, hoping one of them makes it big, and in the process, they burn all the others. It’s such a messed-up system. I’ve had labels come after me even when I was still underground, offering me deals. They just want to control everything, and it’s frustrating because a lot of artists get lost in that cycle.

AB That’s pretty bleak, but it’s the reality, isn’t it? 

CD You have to fight for it, you know? You have to resist the urge to play by their rules. Labels are all about numbers and stats, and they want you to fit into this box. But I refuse to do that. I don’t want to make music for playlists or radio airplay—I want to make music that speaks to people, that has substance. The moment you let yourself get caught up in that system, you lose the art. That’s why I’m focusing on doing things my way. If people want to hear my music, they have to come to me. I’m not putting out short, catchy tunes just to be a part of the trend. I want to create something that lasts, like the songs that captured the essence of their time, like Hendrix or Pink Floyd did. When I make my Congo song, or whatever, it’s not just going to be a quick hit—it’s going to be something with depth, something people can reflect on. . If I’m going to be an artist, I’m not going to do what’s popular. I’m going to put the message in my music, let it live on. No hashtags, no viral moments—just art. If people want the real, they’ll find it in my work. And I think that’s the power of music—if you do it right, it can outlive everything else. My Congo song will be out there forever, long after I’m gone, and that’s what matters. It’s not the same anymore. Back in the day, you’d put out something, and you’d get that natural buzz from people. Now, it’s all about these industry-controlled systems, like playlists and services, to get that same response. The underground, in a way, is being overtaken by all these commercial forces. It’s almost like “underground” is becoming its own genre now, rather than an actual space where artists can grow freely.

AB Do you think the underground still has a role today? Or is it just becoming a category or a label in itself? And what do you think could be a solution moving forward?

CD  The underground, right now, doesn’t really exist in the way we think of it. It’s more like a space where artists who aren’t part of the big industry try to make it on their own, but even then, everyone has to play by the industry’s rules now. You have to pitch your music to playlists, do all the same stuff you’d do if you were signed to a label, but without the label’s support. So, the underground has kind of disappeared, especially with the internet. Things are instantly available to everyone, and the concept of underground, in the true sense, is fading. You’ve got to do it your way. If people buy into your art, great. If not, then whatever. The reality is that a lot of artists sign these deals and end up with fake popularity. You look at their numbers, and it’s all playlist-driven. It’s not real. It’s a facade. But in the past, artists were huge because people genuinely loved their work. Nowadays, that doesn’t even seem to happen anymore unless you’re one of the few really big names.

AB Yeah, that’s exactly it. Everything is so fragmented. People’s fame is now just micro-famous, in pockets. Back in the day, being famous meant you were universally known, but now, you could be huge online in one community and barely recognized outside of it. It’s a different world. But it’s given me an idea for a song… Make Being Famous Great Again.

CD Yeah, I love that idea. It’s funny because fame isn’t even lit anymore—it’s all just smoke and mirrors. People are chasing something that doesn’t exist the way it used to. I might have just found the inspiration for another song.

Credits

Talent · Christ Dillinger
Creative Direction · Ioánnes Papadakis, Rita de Rivera and Aina Marcó
Photography · Ioánnes Papadakis
Styling · Aina Marcó from CAMUFLATGE
Set Design · Rita de Rivera from CAMUFLATGE
Movement Director · Leo D’Aquino
Tooth Gems · Juicy Tooth Gems
Retouch · Alex Petrican
Photography Assistant · R.seventeen
Art Assistant · Camélia Bouziyane
Styling Assistant · Shaun Kalani


Sou Fujimoto

Posted on by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 038

Feature · Sou Fujimoto
Words · Jade Removille

Arch-Architecture: Sou Fujimoto’s Conceptual Simplicity

Few architects have redefined the relationship between nature and the built environment as profoundly as Sou Fujimoto. Renowned for his fluid approach to space, Fujimoto’s work seamlessly dissolves traditional architectural boundaries, embracing organic structures and human-scale interventions. From the ethereal transparency of House NA to the forest-like complexity of the Serpentine Pavilion, his projects challenge conventional notions of shelter, privacy, and spatial fluidity. NR spoke with Sou Fujimoto to explore the inspirations, philosophies, and evolving vision behind his groundbreaking work.

Jade Removille It’s truly a great pleasure to interview you. Your work has been such a significant source of inspiration for me, especially during my studies in Spatial Design at the Royal College of Art a few years ago and your approach to design is something I deeply admire. Your design ethos, particularly in its emphasis on the interplay between nature and architecture, resonates strongly with me. I would like to delve into the genesis of your architectural vision. Could you share how your childhood experiences in Hokkaido have influenced or shaped your perspective on architecture?

Sou Fujimoto I grew up in Hokkaido, and as a child, I often played in the wild forest. At the time, I never considered architecture, but as I began to study it, I realized that my experiences in the woods carried many meanings related to scale, diversity, and something beyond mere functionality. The contrast between Tokyo, where I studied architecture, and the natural environment in which I grew up, was particularly striking. In the heart of Tokyo, in its residential areas, we don’t encounter vast wildlife spaces. However, wandering through the narrow streets of the city, with their meandering paths, felt almost like walking through the woods.

I think this connection comes from the presence of small elements in both environments. In the forest, there are leaves, branches, and small bushes; in Tokyo, small artificial objects, including even the electricity cables, seemed to float in space. I came to realize that the forest is not just a forest—it’s a structure with a human-scale design. It’s a place where you are surrounded and protected by small elements, yet it’s also an open field where anyone can choose their path, their activities, and their way of experiencing the space.

In this way, the forest became an iconic concept for me, representing the essence of architectural thinking and the relationship between architecture and nature. It serves as the foundation for creating something that goes beyond the typical functional approach to architecture.

JR Your first project, the Children’s Centre for Psychiatric Rehabilitation in Hokkaido, Japan (2006), introduced the concept of ‘openness and protection,’ a theme that has recurred throughout your later works. The design aimed to create a space where patients and doctors could interact without hierarchy, offering both openness and privacy. Despite the seemingly accidental nature of the layout, the design process was meticulously planned, resulting in a space that appears spontaneous and unplanned. This deliberate ambiguity allowed for the creation of selectivity and contingency, providing children with irregular alcove like spaces for privacy and freedom. These spaces, while seemingly without function, were embraced by the children who utilised them for play and relaxation. The absence of a central focal point allowed for multiple relative centres to emerge, depending on the occupants’ perceptions and the changing conditions of light and space. Why was it significant for you to design a space where patients and doctors could interact without hierarchy? What impact do you think this approach has on the overall atmosphere and effectiveness of the rehabilitation process?

SF When people hear the term “psychiatric facility,” they often view it as a special, isolated place. However, rather than designing a traditional psychiatric facility, we saw ourselves creating a “place where people live,” a home. It is also a small society, encompassing 50 to 100 people, including staff, where diverse relationships constantly unfold—essentially, an urban space.

In the case of the Children’s Centre for Psychiatric Rehabilitation, one key concept was “a place to hide,” especially since the focus is on children. I envision it as a space where one can “escape” or “hide” for a while, perhaps a “dent” in the middle of a corridor. For example, there are individual rooms where children can retreat to if they wish for privacy. But these “hiding places” are not completely isolated; they are still connected to the overall space, yet slightly hidden. Children, in particular, want others to recognize that they are hiding.

This project is not about confinement but about creating an open, supportive environment. It was designed to offer various emotional possibilities, allowing individuals to choose what they need. Instead of sticking to the conventional notion of a mental hospital, we aimed to create a comfortable residential space based on the necessary functions while breaking away from traditional concepts.

JR How do you perceive the integration of trees and plants in your projects as enhancing the architectural experience, and what challenges do you encounter during the design and construction phases? Inspired by organic structures like the nest, the cave, and the forest, your signature buildings often explore the relationship between architecture and the built environment.  How do you believe this integration contributes to a higher quality of design, and what role does coherence with the existing environment play in shaping your architectural vision for the future?

SF Incorporating more nature into the urban environment is not just a trend; it will become a fundamental prerequisite for architectural and urban design in the coming era. This integration will bring diversity to the living environment that cannot be achieved by architecture or artifacts alone. As respect for diverse lifestyles and consideration for the global environment become more common, it will be essential to explore new ways of fusing nature with architecture when envisioning how to create urban spaces that are both diverse and interconnected with the planet. I believe this fusion of nature and architecture will become increasingly necessary.

JR In your design for the Final Wooden House, Kumamoto, Japan (2005-2008), you described the concept of creating ‘ultimate wooden architecture’ by mindlessly stacking 350mm square lumber. Could you delve deeper into the rationale behind this approach, particularly in regard to your decision to eschew traditional differentiation of lumber according to various architectural functions?

This minimally processed lumber helped create a refreshing variety of spaces. What inspired this unconventional approach, and what key design considerations did you address?

SF In this project, we aimed to create the ultimate wooden structure. Through the design of this bungalow—a small, primitive house—we sought to create new architecture that is both primitive and contemporary.

Wood is surprisingly versatile. It is used in many conventional wooden constructions, not only for structural elements like posts and beams but also for foundations, exterior and interior walls, ceilings, flooring, insulation, furniture, stairs, and window frames. We thought that if wood is truly multifunctional, we could create architecture that fulfills all of these functions with a single process and a single material. This approach is a reversal of versatility.

The 350mm square cedar wood has a significant impact. It transcends the usual concept of “wood” and becomes the “presence” of a completely different material. The 350mm dimension is exactly equivalent to the human body, fully expressing the materiality of the wood. These 350mm increments create a three-dimensional space that acts like a stairway to the floor. This staircase-like space has fascinated me for years because it introduces spatial relativity and creates new sensations of varying distances—something a traditional flat floor cannot achieve.

There is no strict classification of floor, wall, or ceiling here. Spaces considered floors are transformed into chairs, ceilings, and walls depending on one’s perspective. The level of the floor becomes relative, and people reinterpret spatiality based on their position. Occupants are placed three-dimensionally within the space, experiencing a new sense of depth. Rather than dividing space, elements fuse together by chance, creating it. The cedar 350mm squares are endlessly stacked, and in the end, a prototypical space emerges before the architecture becomes fully realized.

I believe this small hut touches on the archetype of what things can be.

JR The House N, Oita, Japan (2008) design features a gradation of intimate private spaces and semi-public spaces. Could you discuss the thought process behind this nested multi-layered design and how it fosters connections between inside and outside environments, expressing the richness of what lies ‘between’ these spaces?

SF In House N, we combined three boxes, carefully considering the relationship between inside and outside. With enough space for a garden, we treated the garden as part of the interior, creating a modern version of a porch. Inside the house, another box was nested within the first to blur the boundary between interior and exterior. When you reach the corner, you find an enclosed space, yet above, you can see countless fragmented pieces of the sky. The combination of feeling both free and protected is similar to the concept I expressed when designing the Children’s Centre for Psychiatric Rehabilitation.

JR I would love to talk about the ORDOS 100 #9 project that you have done in 2009. Located in Ordos, Inner Mongolia and curated by contemporary artist Ai Weiwei, the project challenges the traditional notion of a house as an object, instead conceptualising it as a totality of frequencies within a living space. Could you delve deeper into how you translated this philosophy into the design, particularly with the innovative approach of creating ‘walls of voids’ to blur the boundaries between interior and exterior spaces?

Given the unique environmental context of Mongolia, could you discuss how the surrounding landscape and cultural aspects of the region informed your design approach for the Ordos Project?

SF The idea of creating walls of space originated from House N. The boundary between inside and outside is reimagined as a gradation, producing a variety of spaces through its inherent ambiguity. The relationship between inside and outside has always been a central theme in my work. It questions the very roots of architecture while exploring the connection between nature and architecture. It also examines the relationship between private and public spaces, offering a redefinition of the dynamic between the individual and society, making it more diverse.

For the Ordos project, the vastness of the site was the initial inspiration. The site is expansive, yet it carries the contextual ambiguity of a desert center. It also boasts a rich, beautiful, and sometimes harsh natural environment. In response, we chose not to sharply separate the interior from the exterior. Instead, we aimed to create a range of spaces with varying gradations between them, allowing the entire site—and the house as a whole—to function as one small, interconnected social space.

JR Now delving into one of the most radical residential projects I have seen: House NA, Tokyo, Japan (2015) stands out as a remarkable fusion of transparency and privacy, blending seamlessly into its Tokyo neighbourhood although in contrast with the usual concrete block walls, while redefining residential living. House NA acts both as a single room and a collection of rooms, offering a unique spatial experience. Could you elaborate on how the unconventional layout and integration of the floor plates at various heights contribute to the inhabitants’ sense of connection and privacy within the home?

How did other residents in the neighbourhood react to House NA, considering its radical design featuring transparency throughout?

SF House NA was built on a relatively small site, so we decided against creating traditional, independent private rooms like a living room, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. Doing so would have resulted in just another small house, typical and uninspiring. The client was drawn to creative, unconventional styles, so, through discussions with them, we explored the idea of breaking free from the traditional “this room is for this function” approach. Today, people work on their computers and smartphones in the living room and often move to the kitchen or bedroom with them. There’s no real need to move back and forth between specific rooms all day long, especially in a conventional house with private rooms designed for a single purpose, which can feel claustrophobic and difficult to navigate.

Instead of separate rooms, we created multiple “corners,” offering flexibility. In this design, residents can choose whether to be with others or alone. House NA, in a sense, shares a quality with a “Children’s Centre for Psychiatric Rehabilitation,” where space encourages varied, personal use.

Structurally, the furniture is stacked in a nested arrangement, each piece connected by a staircase (which also serves as a chair). There are steps throughout the floor, but no walls to divide the space. Once inside, all the areas are interconnected, and with ceilings reaching 5 to 6 meters high, the space feels open and expansive. At the same time, the many small elements floating around you create a sense of being enveloped in a soft, airy atmosphere. Living in this house feels less like being in a glass box and more like inhabiting a small, artificial floating object.

JR Your installation The Cloud at the Serpentine Pavilion, London, United Kingdom (2013) seamlessly blends architecture with nature through its translucent structure, reminiscent of a cloud. Relocated in front of the National Gallery of Arts in Tirana, Albania, since 2016, the structure, inspired by organic shapes present in nature, has served as a modern art space for cultural events. 

Once again, man-made and nature merge, in an “artificial nest”. Formed by 20mm diameter steel bars, it is a flexible, semi-transparent structure, where visitors become an integral part of nature and the landscape yet at the same time remain protected inside. What inspired the concept behind this pavilion, and how do you see it redefining the boundary between interior and exterior spaces?

SF In designing the Serpentine Pavilion 2013, we envisioned a topographical space where people could discover new and diverse ways of interacting with their environment—an architecture that was semi-transparent. The lush greenery of the surrounding area, with its vibrant hues, blends seamlessly with the geometric forms of the pavilion. Initially, I imagined a design where the geometry and architectural forms would naturally integrate with the human body.

By repeating simple cubes that matched the size of the human body, we created a form that straddles the line between the organic and the abstract. By smoothing the edges and making the structure ambiguous, we blurred the boundary between interior and exterior. The use of thin steel rods helped create translucent, irregular shapes, while simultaneously offering protection and allowing people to become part of the landscape.

While the grid forms the overall topography, its depth varies across the space, at times creating a thick layer of air, other times a thin one, and occasionally almost transparent areas. The walls, roof, and seating areas were constructed from similar steel frames. The pavilion, as an organic structure, creates an ever-changing topography, allowing people to experience the architecture at their own pace. Each person can find their own favorite spot inside or outside the pavilion, making it feel as though visitors are drifting through a space that exists somewhere between architecture and nature.

JR In the design process for L’Arbre Blanc Residential Tower, Montpellier, France (2019), you’ve collaborated with Manal Rachdi, Nicolas Laisné, and Dimitri Roussel, drawing inspiration from nature to create a building that reimagines the concept of tower living. Could you discuss how the idea of incorporating elements of nature, such as its balconies cantilevering like branches from a thick trunk, influenced the overall design concept and the experience for residents?

How did you achieve a sense of lightness and fluidity in such a tall residential tower, and what were the structural challenges you faced during its design and construction?

SF Collaborating on the L’Arbre Blanc project involved bringing together the visions of multiple architects, each with their own unique perspectives and inspirations. Could you share some insights into how this collaboration initially formed and how the diverse contributions from yourself, Manal Rachdi, Nicolas Laisné, and Dimitri Roussel were integrated throughout the design process to create a cohesive and innovative architectural solution?

L’Arbre Blanc was a design competition organized by the city council of Montpellier in 2013, calling for bold proposals featuring eco-friendly stores and residences that would serve as a beacon to honor the city’s architectural heritage. We were approached by a young architect from Jean Nouvel’s office to participate. I didn’t know them at the time, but after speaking with them on Skype, it felt like a good match, and I was eager to collaborate.

We began with an open discussion about lifestyle and how to adapt the traditional lifestyle of Montpellier into a high-rise building. The city enjoys a warm Mediterranean climate, and I learned that people often eat outdoors, even in winter. The community also enjoys spending time outside to eat, nap, and converse with friends, so it became clear that indoor spaces weren’t the priority. From there, we decided it would be important to include plenty of outdoor space, with large balconies. Rather than jumping straight into artistic inspiration, we focused first on the essentials, and the result was a rich, expansive exterior space.

JR Are there any architects or artists in particular with whom you would love to work with. Who are some of your major influences? Architecture and none. 

SF The artists who have influenced me are innumerable. From Picasso, Brancusi, and Duchamp to Andy Warhol and Richard Long, I have always admired innovative art. The Beatles and Bob Dylan have also played a significant role in shaping my perspective.

I have been deeply influenced by the creativity of natural science, from Einstein to Heisenberg. And, of course, Le Corbusier and Mies van der Rohe, who revolutionized modern architecture, have been a constant source of inspiration for me since the first day I began studying architecture.

Collaborating with Leandro Erlich at the Shiroiya Hotel was a wonderful experience. His perspective on the world, always full of fundamental questions, has been truly inspiring.

I deeply respect Tadao Ando, both as an architect and as a human being.

JR Working in both Tokyo and Paris, you encounter vastly different architectural contexts. How do you approach the challenge of integrating your designs into these distinct urban landscapes?

SF Not only in Tokyo and Paris but across the world, lifestyles and landscapes have evolved over centuries, shaped by ethnic heritage, history, climate, and culture. I believe the most important aspect of architecture is recognising and respecting these diverse cultural accumulations, incorporating this rich history into our projects.

An architect’s true ability lies in understanding the weight of culture and history and finding ways to connect them to the future while remaining sensitive to the local climate and way of life. The essence of my approach is to listen carefully to the incredible diversity of the world, paying close attention to the unique conditions of each context. This attentiveness is what allows me to integrate architecture seamlessly with the surrounding landscape.

JR Cross-cultural influences seem to play a significant role in your work. Can you discuss how you draw upon both European and Japanese cultural elements in your architectural projects, and how do you balance cultural nuances without compromising your design vision?

SF One of the defining characteristics of my architecture is its ability to move beyond cultural differences, returning to the fundamental physical, sensory, and social aspects of human nature. From this foundation, it seeks to reconstruct the relationship between space and people in a new way. Even when a proposal may initially seem unconventional or radical, it ultimately resonates with the core of human experience. I believe this primordial aspect of our work creates a cultural balance that is universally understood across different contexts.

JR I would now love to discuss one of my favourite projects of yours, the House of Hungarian Music, Budapest, Hungary (2021): it defies conventional museum design by prioritising interaction and integration with its surroundings. Inspired by the abundance of trees in City Park, the museum’s circular volume seems to float among the treetops, inviting visitors to engage with music and nature simultaneously. The architecture blurs the boundaries between inside and outside, creating a fluid and immersive experience as visitors meander through the museum. Concerts and events take place under the floating volume, attracting crowds and fostering community around music. How does your approach differ from when it comes to architecturally design a music venue especially in terms of creating spaces that foster engagement with music and sound on a deeper level? What challenges did you face in harmonising the built environment with the surrounding landscape?

SF Since the beginning of the competition, we have been listening to the music of great Hungarian musicians and exploring their cultural backgrounds, as we felt that the House of Music would be a deeply significant place for the people of Hungary and Budapest.

The site’s location within a beautiful forest was a crucial starting point. We asked ourselves how architecture could be seamlessly integrated with nature—how the experience of walking through the forest could gradually transition into an architectural space. We also considered how the glass music hall on the ground floor could foster new activities inside while remaining in harmony with the surrounding forest.

As a result, the large roof—pierced with countless openings—serves as both an architectural translation of the forest and a means of facilitating a gradual transition from the natural landscape to the building’s interior. The outcome is a transparent music hall that extends into a semi-outdoor space, allowing visitors to engage with both music and nature, listening to beautiful sounds amidst the trees.

The greatest challenge was designing a music facility that could coexist respectfully within this environment, preserving and honouring the natural surroundings.

I believe this project has become a powerful symbol of my ongoing exploration of the fusion between nature and architecture.

JR How do you perceive the relationship between music, sounds, and architecture? Specifically, could you share your thoughts on the concept of creating soundscapes within architectural spaces? 

SF This architecture is composed of multiple elements—the whole and its parts, the surroundings and the interior—all in harmony with one another. In this sense, I would say it is very musical.

In particular, the “music hall open to the forest” at ground level—from the outdoor plaza beneath the large roof to the entrance and main performance space—is a special place that seamlessly blends into the surrounding park. Its expansive roof, made of soft golden fragments, appears as a fusion of artefacts and nature, rippling gently into the forest.

For the acoustics, we collaborated with Nagata Acoustics, a world-renowned acoustic design firm, from the competition stage of the project. Throughout all phases of design, we worked to enhance the acoustic quality, creating a space where architecture, soundscape, and landscape harmonise and resonate with one another.

JR Your architectural work often embodies a profound connection between nature, space, and human experience. In light of Goethe’s notion that ‘architecture is frozen music,’ which reveals a universal theme of expression underlying all creative disciplines, how do you perceive the relationship between architecture and music? Are there any musicians or genres that you find particularly inspiring or that resonate with your design philosophy?

SF I am not an expert on music, but I have always loved the Beatles and listened to them often. As a boy, they taught me how wonderful it is to create something new—an idea that still underpins my creative roots.

Glenn Gould’s interpretation of Bach, meanwhile, offers a beautiful connection between the cosmic scale and the human experience.

JR I would like now to delve into the Sky Mountain Haikou Bay No.6 High Standard Seaside Station, Haikou, China (2023).providing a space for travellers to transition between the city and nature. Could you elaborate on how the design concept transforms a nature valley form into an innovative stage for new experiences and social interactions within the pavilion?

SF We believed the Haikou Seaside Stop pavilion would serve as a focal point, offering travellers the opportunity to meander between the city and nature, with spaces designed for social interactions. A valley-like natural form became the stage for a new type of experience and space.

The Sky Mountain design features a gently sloping, valley-like rooftop that transitions smoothly from the city side to the seaside.

All visitor services and TV support programs within the stop pavilion are housed under a single roof, sharing an open floor space.

JR How do you foresee the role of your architectural vision in inspiring future generations of architects, as you continue to integrate natural and architectural elements, even in futuristic projects beyond Japan? Furthermore, what legacy do you aspire to leave through your work as it evolves and influences the architectural landscape of tomorrow?

SF I believe that the integration of nature and architecture is the vision of the future. Various attempts will be made to achieve this. I will be happy if my project can be an inspiration for future architectural thinking. It won’t just be about architectural styles, but will influence deeper thinking about the relationship between nature and artifacts, between individuals and society, and between people. It will also influence more philosophical ideas such as simplicity and complexity, change and eternity, the moment and eternity.

Credits

Talent · Sou Fujimoto wears th products.
Photography · Yuichiro Noda
Styling · Reina Ogawa Clarke

TOCCORORO

Posted on by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · TOCCORORO
Words · Andrea Bratta

NR sat down with Spanish sensation TOCCORORO just before her set at Mucho Flow’s closing club night. Backstage, sipping on a Red Bull and picking at some fruit—fresh from her post-flight beauty sleep (ah, the DJ life!)—she dives into her musical calling, her approach to a set, and what keeps her in love with the game.

Andrea Bratta Hey Claudia, how are you? Thanks for taking the time to speak with me ahead of your show.

TOCCORORO I’m good, thank you! I wish I could have get here sooner, I really wanted to catch Snow Strippers live, but I had to get my beauty sleep before tonight’s performance. I love festivals like this—similar to Unsound—they are really cozy, and I have the feeling everyone here is truly for the music.

AB Yeah, I get it. Some festivals, people just want to see the big names, snap photos..it all feels more like a 360° experience, rather than just a music festival, you know?

T Exactly, but here’s kinda different. I prefer festivals that focus on music, period. 

AB What’s interesting about Mucho Flow is that each venue has its own atmosphere and way of building a different atmosphere for the audience.

T Yes, that was the impression I had, also.

AB I think that this is something that could be interesting particularly for you as a performer—how people move through different spaces, gradually deepening their involvement, until it all culminates here, where we are right now, in the club.

T Yes! I think I’m gonna have a great night here. This room is gonna be insane, there’s such a great line-up.

AB I mean, I’ve got my flight at 9.00, and pick-up is at 6.30, so now that you make me think of it, I wish I had a nap or two too

T You’ll have to pull off an all-nighter, but I wouldn’t worry about it, just enjoy it [laughs]

AB Did you prepare something special for this set?

T  Actually, for this weekend I have some  brand new stuff that I’ve also been testing lately. There are some new tracks and transitions that I want to incorporate and try on this crowd. 

AB How does it feel to test new stuff around? I get to always prepare in advance before interviews, there’s the research phase, “testing” the questions in advance. I rarely get to improvise. 

T Yeah, it’s a bit of a risk, but that’s part of the thrill, right? I like testing how different crowds respond. This time, I’m maybe 60% confident they’ll love it—but I’m also curious to see how it plays with a different audience. I already know it works in other contexts. Like, playing a set in a club isn’t the same as at a festival. Take C2C, for example—the crowd there was pretty young. So when I drop a track that samples a show from my generation, layered with drums and everything, it hits in a fun, unexpected way. It’s got that diva energy, and I can tell it lands

AB One thing I wanted to ask about is the festival’s strong identity—it feels really intentional, with a lineup that brings together both live music lovers and fans of more experimental sounds, while still leaning into that atmospheric, club-like vibe. I imagine your set will spark some interesting conversations with the crowd, though you’ve already touched on that a bit. So maybe we can go a little deeper into your own project—CAOTICA. 

T My party is something really special to me—it’s like a marriage. Nitsa was one of the first clubbing institutions to really support me in Spain—they saw my vision and offered me the opportunity to create my own night, my own party with them.

We started last year, doing a series of three nights with me, Merca & Cardopusher. Each time, we curated a lineup of three artists—it’s not a monthly thing; it happens when it makes sense, when the right energy is there. For me, it has to feel natural, organic. The artists I bring need to align with my vision—I’m not here to push names just for the sake of it. It’s important to me that this party represents what I believe in, and it serves as a reflection of my work. The first two parties leaned toward a more Latin-Club sound, maybe more aggressive, with a strong South American influence. But then, with Cardo, there’s that UK touch—deep, bass-driven, but still carrying Latin influences from his background. There’s always this dark, intense sonic thread that ties it all together.

I am also very very happy to be in the position of introducing and giving a platform to new talent like Blood of Aza. For me, this new wave of artists is really exciting—they’re pushing things in the right direction with a strong artistic vision. Bringing her to her first Boiler Room, her first big festival, and her first gig in Spain—at my party—was something I was really proud of. I’m a huge fan of hers.

Next year, we’re taking things even further. People think CAOTICA is just a Latin club night, but it’s much more than that—it’s everything I truly believe in and feel represented by. The next one is going to be really special—bringing in two legends, two friends, and collaborating with a label I really respect. You should stay tuned for it.

Everyone is welcome in my house. I don’t care about labels, I don’t care about boxes. If you believe in the vision, if you’re pushing the sound forward, I fuck with you.

AB Indeed. You know, some might say that the concept of a “scene” is fading because everything has become so global. Festivals now showcase everything, bringing what was once underground into the mainstream of electronic music. But I think that, while it may have seemed that way for a moment, we’re actually seeing a resurgence—scenes, parties, and more collaborative efforts between artists are making a strong comeback. Even festivals like Mucho Flow, whose focus is having a grassroots approach to music. It’s exciting to witness and be part of. Speaking of scenes, could you walk me through some of your main influences?

T My main influences—well, I have to say, and I’m a little embarrassed to say it, but before starting my career as a DJ, I was actually much more involved in dance. I grew up obsessed with movement. As a kid, I was the type to stay home all day just watching performances, completely fascinated by them. I remember always asking my mom, “When am I going to do that?” I loved the idea of being a musician, a dancer, or maybe both. I was constantly curious, always diving deeper into music.

But at the time, I didn’t really see a clear path into that world. Maybe it was because I was a woman or because I wasn’t surrounded by a community that encouraged me in that direction. I didn’t come from a scene or a party culture—I came from the music industry, but not in a way that felt immediately connected to what I do now. I was the first in my family to take this path. So when people ask me about my biggest influences, I struggle to name just one. I wasn’t looking up to a specific artist or trying to emulate anyone. Most of my friends had been immersed in music since the beginning, but for me, inspiration came from everywhere—movies, fashion, art, whatever caught my attention.

The real turning point came when I was in college. I thought I wanted to work in fashion or film, but I kept feeling like something was missing. And that missing piece was always music. It had been there all along, even when I ignored it. Funny enough, I actually studied journalism—I even considered becoming a music journalist. I loved radio, absolutely hated writing, and wasn’t into filmmaking, but radio shows and podcasts? That was my thing.

After university, I started getting involved in the local music scene in my city. At first, I was mostly surrounded by rappers and DJs—almost all men. And I hate to frame it like I was being “sht out” because I don’t want to victimize myself, but the reality is, at that time, things were different. There weren’t many women in my generation stepping into that space. Things have changed so much in the last five years, and now there are so many incredible female DJs, which is amazing to see. But back then? I was one of the very few.

I started throwing parties with one of my best friends, who’s actually now one of my dancers at Sónar. We put together a party series in Vigo, Galicia, and I handled the creative direction. It was a monthly event, and by the second year, I was fully immersed. At first, the DJ lineup was mostly men—I knew that was the standard. But at some point, I realized we could change that. It wasn’t just about booking DJs; it was about building something new. I reached out to my friends who were already into it, and they helped me learn how to use a controller. I ended up practicing for four hours straight—it just felt natural, like something that had always been inside me. I guess it makes sense, considering I’d been imagining it my whole life.

But honestly, I started feeling even more inspired once I began touring and meeting people in the industry. Seeing different scenes, playing in different places—it all shaped my perspective. Every city, every crowd, every moment on stage has influenced me in some way. I feel like my experience has been built entirely on what I’ve lived firsthand.

AB I mean, the way you talk about it really resonates. You approached music through community—by being surrounded by people, by the energy around you. And in a way, you channeled that community into your own journey.

T This was something that was always meant to be—I just didn’t realize it at first. As a kid, I knew I had a sense of rhythm, but I didn’t quite understand what it meant or where it would lead me. And then, eventually, it all clicked. Like, okay, this is it—this is what I’ve had inside me all along. It’s a beautiful feeling. Finally, for the first time in my life, I know what I’m meant to do. And even if I have to pay the price for it, at least now, I know why.

AB For me, it was the opposite. I resisted things like interviewing or writing, the more journalistic side of things, but it turned out to be what I was actually good at. I went to fashion school because I wanted to work in fashion, but somehow, I ended up where I was meant to be, just like you. And, here we are. Life’s funny. Anyway, I hope you have an amazing show tonight. I’m looking forward to it. It’s been great talking to you. Thank you!

Photography ·
Listen to TOCCORORO Live From Mucho Flow
More information on muchoflow.net

Merlin Modulaw

Posted on by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · Modulaw
Words · Melis Özek

An Exploration of Spatial Sound and Personal Reverberations

From crafting new sonic landscapes to challenging conventional approaches to sound and identity, Merlin Modulaw has carved a unique space. Transcending the confines of genre, culture, and medium, Modulaw seamlessly melds the organic with the artificial, the familiar with the avant-garde. For Modulaw, sound is a force of perpetual fluidity and transformation, a dynamic language shaped by our deepest perceptions and cultural narratives. Innovation, in his vision, is a radical act of recontextualization, breathing new life into the past and dismantling the boundaries between the known and the unknown. This interview unveils the compelling vision of an artist who crafts immersive experiences that redefine the very nature of sound.

From a young age, you’ve been drawn to the intersection of contrasting influences, crafting entirely new sonic landscapes. How was this vision born and what does this relentless pursuit of convergence reveal about the vision of innovation? How does it challenge conventional approaches to sound and identity?

I’ve always been drawn to a wide spectrum of musical histories and narratives. For me, sound is
less about genres or categories and more about fluidity: It’s constantly evolving, morphing, and
finding new forms. I often think of sound in terms of colors, textures, and patterns, and how you can find these elements across different, seemingly unrelated worlds that actually share common threads. This pursuit of convergence is rooted in my fascination with collaboration. Music, at its core, is communal and dialogical, and through collaboration, I gain insights into others’ worlds and perspectives. This interaction shapes my musical language and influences the way I think about sound.

I’m also deeply interested in the semiotics of sound—how we perceive and assign meaning to it, often based on our upbringing and cultural context. For example, bird songs or the sound of a river evoke particular ideas of nature, cleanliness, or tranquility. These associations are built over time and vary across cultures, yet they form a shared language of meaning.

When it comes to innovation, I believe it isn’t solely about pushing technology or creating something entirely new. The Western concept of innovation often emphasizes the future and the new, but for me, innovation can also involve reframing the past: Recontextualizing, reshaping, and reinterpreting it from a fresh perspective. While technological advancements, such as in synthesis or AI, certainly play a role in shaping the future, I think today’s innovation often lies in revisiting and reworking ideas from the past, seeing them in a new light, and creating something relevant for the present and the future.

Your work transcends traditional boundaries, blurring the lines between genres, cultures, formats, and the human and artificial. A whole new sonic experience it is. What are the key sources of inspiration behind this?

My inspiration draws from a confluence of diverse musical worlds. It really started when I was around 14 or 15, being completely captivated by the French touch movement, particularly Ed Banger, along with the vibrant UK electronic music scene. These early influences sparked my fascination with blending contrasting sounds and creating something fresh. Later, my studies in electroacoustic composition and sound design deepened my understanding of sound’s fluidity and manipulation. Key figures like Maryanne Amacher and Natasha Barrett, who works so beautifully with spatial sound and architectural acoustics, have been incredibly influential. I’m also deeply inspired by Dennis Smalley’s ideas of sound morphology and space form, exploring how sound moves and evolves within a space. I’m fascinated by how sounds can trigger different interpretations based on listeners’ experiences and cultural backgrounds. This semiotic layer of sound is central to my work.

In my creative process, I try to maintain a sense of childlike intuition, focusing on instinctive experimentation. When I encounter challenges, I rely on my technical studies. I tend to compose quickly, then organize the sounds into distinct ‘folders,’ like lego pieces, which allows me to later shape them into a cohesive narrative.

Your artistry spans composition, production, performance, and spatial audio, with each element shaping one another. How do you ensure that these diverse mediums are not merely layered but woven together into a cohesive, immersive experience?

For me, it’s about choosing the right format for the right idea. Not every piece of work needs to be
fully spatialized, and not every sound requires visuals to make an impact. Some ideas are stronger when expressed through sound alone, while others need a visual component to fully communicate their depth. The key is to avoid using a medium just because it’s available. It should serve the idea, not just be an effect. When it comes to spatialized sound, it’s about finding the right moment to use movement or specialization, rather than using it just because you can.

Creative exploration extends beyond the realm of music. You venture into new territories such as video works and print, expanding the boundaries of creative expression. How does this vision of innovation translate beyond the realm?

I don’t see music as a standalone entity—it’s part of a larger, immersive world. Video, for instance, is a particularly visceral format because it combines performance, writing, sound, image, and composition. It creates profound, often indescribable emotional moments through the combination of sound and moving image. In this context, music isn’t the final product, but one element within a larger creative experience.

There’s a haunting quality to your compositions, with traces of something just beneath the surface, never fully revealed. Is the process behind this mysterious pull a deliberate act of restraint, or does it emerge organically from the tension between the known and the unknown? What do you hope to evoke in the listener by leaving these fragments just out of reach?

My process is quite intuitive, as I mentioned earlier. However, the underlying idea is centered around the semiotics of sound, the delicate balance between the abstract and the concrete. You can approach this from both sides: by taking a very concrete sound and abstracting it, or by processing an abstract sound to give it form, movement, and meaning.

I prefer to evoke an image that remains open ended, allowing each listener to form their own interpretation. This approach contrasts with film scores, which often dictate the emotions you should feel at a particular moment. I find that limiting. Instead, I lean towards minimalistic sound scores that leave more room for individual perception and emotional response. By doing so, I aim to create a more personal, unique experience for each listener, where the meaning emerges from their own memories and understanding, rather than being prescribed by the music.

XRR Global masterfully blends experimental electronic elements with contemporary rap, creating a sound that feels both groundbreaking and familiar. What was your creative process in merging these seemingly disparate genres, and how do you approach the challenge of making such collaborations feel cohesive?

Rap music, especially today, has this deep focus on sub-bass and distortion, where pushing sounds to the edge and creating that clipped, gritty texture becomes a stylistic choice. This approach is something I also find in experimental electronic and industrial techno music, where distortion and clipping are used to blend sounds like sub-bass, cymbals, and white noise into one cohesive form. I’ve always been fascinated by how these elements can merge and create a unique sonic color and texture, which is where I see the connection between the two genres.

Working with Brodinski has been a key part of this exploration. He shares a similar perspective on merging these worlds with electronic and transitions into rap. Together, we’ve worked on numerous tailor-made projects for vocalists and rappers. The process can vary: sometimes we send out batches of beats, while other times, we’re in the studio together for a week, creating a specific musical world for an artist. There are also moments where we receive acapella and then reimagine the musical world around them.

With Lil Xelly, his bold, experimental approach really pushed the boundaries, and I’m grateful for the trust he placed in us. The creative process begins intuitively, but once we have four or five tracks, we step back and assess what’s missing, what could complete the emotional and sonic landscape we’re building. It’s about finding the right final pieces to round out the textures, colors, and emotions that define the world we’re creating.

The treatment of vocals in the work feels like a narrative device and a fragmented texture — disembodied yet intimate. What fascinates you about dismantling sounds and the human voice to reconfigure meanings?

The voice is a fascinating element because it exists in a liminal space between abstraction and concreteness. Our hearing is finely attuned to voices, the frequency spectrum we perceive is optimized for them. Even without fully understanding words, subtle intonations can evoke emotions, yet this very sensitivity can lead to misinterpretation. A tone might feel urgent,
melancholic, or even aggressive, depending on the listener’s perception. Meaning, then, emerges from this delicate interplay of sound and context. What draws me to the voice is its ability to serve as both an anchor and a bridge. Within experimental soundscapes, the voice offers familiarity; something tangible for the listener to grasp, making abstract sonic textures more accessible. It carries emotional weight even when fragmented, distorted, or stripped of linguistic clarity. By manipulating the voice through reverb, pitch-shifting, or other techniques, it can become something spectral, a memory rather than a presence, while still retaining an undeniable human essence.

What fascinates me most is how meaning shifts through abstraction and disembodiment. A voice, stretched and fragmented, can evoke entirely new associations, altering its perceived intent and emotional resonance. There’s also a dynamic tension between what remains intelligible and what dissolves into texture between voices that feel present and those that feel distant or spectral. This contrast, the play between clarity and obscurity, is central to my exploration of the voice as both a narrative device and a textural element.

Songweaver premiered at Gessnerallee in Switzerland, and the spatial dynamics of a performance space can deeply influence both process and experience. How did the unique architecture of the venue shape your approach to sound, movement, and dramaturgy?

Definitely. The space at Gessnerallee had a significant impact on the performance. It wasn’t a conventional square room but rather a long, elongated space with wooden pillars, which influenced both the visual and sonic design. These pillars became part of the scenography, almost resembling tree trunks, blending into a more organic, naturalistic aesthetic. Instead of a fixed frontal perspective, the layout encouraged a more circular and immersive approach, challenging traditional hierarchies of stage and audience positioning.

Sonically, we embraced this elongated space by arranging two circles of five speakers, forming a shape reminiscent of an “8.” The two central speakers acted as the core, with sound shifting fluidly around them. This setup allowed for an evolving perception of space, sometimes expansive and undefined, sometimes centered and focused.

The dramaturgy was structured into four segments, with two blocks emphasizing spatial audio and darkness, where the bodily presence of the performer was almost erased. The absence of a clear visual focal point left room for the audience’s imagination to construct their own sense of space. Then, in contrast, we introduced performative moments. These shifts between absence an presence, between sonic immersion and physical performance, shaped the dynamic interplay of the room, constantly redefining its perception and energy.

This dialogue between spatial sound, light, and bodily presence became central to the experience, allowing the audience to navigate between abstract sonic environments and moments of human connection.

The Songweaver is a fluid, ever-evolving project that adapts through different formats, from recordings to live performances. How do you preserve the core essence of the work while allowing it to continuously evolve, and what does this process of constant transformation signify in your approach to sound and storytelling?

I think it always comes back to the question of essence: What is it that makes a piece emotionally resonant for me in the moment? It could be a chord progression, a voice sample, or the movement of the drums. Identifying that core element is the starting point, and from there, I allow the work to
evolve through experimentation.

A big part of my process is maintaining a sense of naivety and flow, letting ideas unfold naturally
without overanalyzing in the early stages. I rarely experience writer’s block because I focus on
keeping that state of fluidity alive. Later, I take a step back and assess: What is the purpose of this
piece? Does it function as intended? Does it convey what I imagined? If not, I revisit and reshape it, but without letting the initial vision become a constraint.

This constant transformation reflects my approach to music as something beyond a fixed, final product. Instead, I see it as part of a larger, immersive world—one that can be reinterpreted and reshaped across different formats, whether in recordings, live performances, or other mediums. This adaptability keeps the work alive, allowing it to shift and take on new meanings over time.

It transcends the traditional concept of a digital album. It’s a dynamic exploration of music as a continuously evolving language where the voice takes on a central, transformative role. Rather than simply conveying lyrics or melody, the voice acts as a portal—fragmented, manipulated, and spectral. This interplay of presence and absence creates a profound tension. What does this duality uncover about the human experience of transformation, and how does it invite listeners to delve into the intricate layers of memory and loss?

I started feeling fatigued by the idea of a digital album as the definitive form of a musical work, especially in a time of content oversaturation. With platforms like Spotify, music has increasingly become a commodity, something consumed rather than deeply engaged with as an art form. That’s why I wanted to approach The Songweaver not as a fixed product, but as a fluid, evolving musical world—one that can take on different forms depending on how it is experienced. The digital album is just one manifestation of this, shaped by the way people engage with music in that format, but never the final or only form.

At its core, music is a vessel for emotion. I’m always asking myself: What makes this piece so emotionally resonant? What is the essential element that moves me? Once I find that core, I experiment with recontextualizing it. Stretching, distorting, or reshaping it to see how its meaning shifts. This is something deeply embedded in my process. For example, I love recording with vocalists and then stripping away the original instrumental, placing their voice in an entirely new sonic landscape. Suddenly a song transforms, its lyrics take on new meaning, its emotional weight shifts.

This process mirrors human transformation itself, the way memories evolve over time, how the past lingers but is never static. By manipulating the voice, disrupting its clarity, playing with its spectral presence and absence, it becomes untethered from a singular identity, allowing the listener to project their own emotions and narratives onto it. The voice, in this sense, becomes an echo, a fragment—both familiar and elusive, much like memory and loss.

Consequently, the voices in The Songweaver pulls the listener into its world, suggesting untold stories and emotions that linger in the ether. Here, the voice is not confined to a singular identity. Through techniques like pitch shifting, time-stretching, and ghostly reverberation, it dissolves into something both abstract and universal, becoming a vessel for memory, loss, and transformation. How do you navigate the process of translating such abstract themes—like culture and transformation—into sound, and what role do you envision the listener playing in uncovering the deeper emotional and cultural narratives woven into these vocal fragments?

For me, the voice is one of the most powerful tools in music because it carries an inherent human quality, deeply intimate yet endlessly malleable. In The Songweaver, I wanted to push the voice beyond its conventional role as a mere carrier of lyrics or melody. By manipulating it, shifting pitch, stretching time, layering multiple takes it becomes fluid, untethered from a singular identity. It exists in this in-between space, sometimes recognizable, sometimes dissolving into texture.

This mirrors how I approach storytelling through sound. I’m interested in creating sonic worlds where meaning is not fixed but constantly evolving. The way a voice is processed can completely shift the emotional weight of a piece—when a phrase is slowed down and stretched, it might evoke nostalgia or longing; when fragmented and layered, it might suggest multiplicity, memory, or even dissonance.

Ultimately, this fluidity reflects how we experience emotions, identity, and transformation in life. We are never just one thing—we exist in layers, in echoes, in the spaces between what is spoken and what is left unsaid. The Songweaver is an exploration of that ambiguity, inviting listeners to engage not just with the music but with their own interpretations and emotional landscapes.

Trust & Breakout draws from classical, jazz, and electroacoustic traditions, balancing live instrumentation with meticulous sound design. Strings and saxophones add warmth, while voice fragments and intricate arrangements blur the lines between composed and improvised. How do you navigate this tension between the composed and improvised?

For me, composition and improvisation are deeply interconnected. My process often begins with spontaneous recordings—whether it’s playing the piano in a studio, capturing sound design experiments, or layering textures without a clear endpoint in mind. These initial improvisations create a reservoir of raw material that I later revisit, edit, and sculpt into a more defined structure.

A good example is the track Trust, which started in 2022 as a simple piano improvisation. I found a chord progression I connected with, recorded it, and then gradually built around it adding saxophone layers, stripping elements away, and reshaping the arrangement. In the end, the track became a fusion of four different pieces, blending elements from past sessions into something entirely new. This process of self-citation—reusing, resampling, and recontextualizing my own material—is a recurring theme in my work.

Improvisation allows me to generate ideas freely, while composition is where I refine and distill them. I see it as a cyclical process: creating material without constraint, then selecting and reshaping the most resonant elements. The tension between the two keeps the music fluid, constantly evolving rather than feeling fixed or predetermined.

Collaboration plays a central role in your practice, yet your sonic identity always remains distinct. How do you navigate the tension between dissolving into a shared language and maintaining a sense of authorship? How did these collaborations shape the vision of innovation and expand the sonic landscapes?

I don’t think much about authorship in a rigid sense. For me, collaboration is about dialogue,
creating a shared space where different voices and ideas can interact freely. The process is fluid: sometimes I’ll start with an idea that gets transformed by a collaborator, or other times, I’ll take elements from a session and completely rework them afterward. What I find most exciting is how collaboration brings unexpected textures and perspectives into my work. For example, recording with a saxophonist or a vocalist might begin as a straightforward session, but later, I’ll strip away the original instrumental context and rebuild the track around their performance. This approach allows me to integrate external influences while still shaping the final outcome in a way that feels true to my sonic language.

Ultimately, collaboration expands the boundaries of my sound rather than diluting it. It introduces new possibilities—different playing styles, tonalities, and energies. The way I process and recontextualize these elements ensures that the core of my artistic identity remains intact. It’s less about control and more about curation, knowing when to let go and when to bring everything into focus.

What are the imperceptible details in your music that hold the weight— something buried within the texture that only you know is there?

A lot of these hidden details come from self citation—subtle references to past recordings or personal moments that might go unnoticed by the listener but carry significance for me. It could be a voice sample lifted from an old Instagram video, a sound repurposed from an earlier track, or a texture that holds meaning only because I know its origin. These create a multi-layered world within the music, adding depth even if the listener isn’t consciously aware of them. It’s a way of embedding memory and narrative into the sonic landscape, making each piece feel connected to a larger, evolving story.

The EDM and synth worlds have evolved dramatically in recent years, with new technologies and languages emerging. How do you see your own sound evolving within this shifting landscape, and how do you stay true to your artistic vision while embracing these changes?

With AI and generative tools becoming more prevalent, we’re at a point where entire genres can be replicated algorithmically. Motown, UK garage, or even complex electronic textures can now be synthesized convincingly. But the nature of AI is that it operates on datasets, creating something that reflects the “median” or most conventional idea of a sound. In this sense, it flattens the nuances that make something truly original. Because of this, I think artistry is shifting more toward curation—the ability to make intentional choices, to juxtapose elements in ways that technology alone wouldn’t. The human signature lies in how we contextualize sound, selecting and arranging components to build something deeply personal and culturally resonant. For me, staying true to my vision means embracing new tools while ensuring that the emotional and conceptual depth of the work isn’t lost in automation.

Looking towards the future, what are some new territories or innovative approaches you’re excited to explore in your work? How do you envision pushing the boundaries of sound, and what role do you see innovation playing in the way music connects with culture and storytelling?

One of the directions I’m exploring is expanding music beyond just sound—creating a more immersive, multi-dimensional experience. Next year, I’m working on a publication that will accompany my music, adding a textual and conceptual framework to the sonic world. I’m interested in how print, text, and visual elements can extend the storytelling process, making the work feel more like a living, evolving ecosystem rather than a static album. More broadly, I see innovation not just as technological advancement but as a way of deepening the cultural and emotional impact of music. Whether it’s integrating new media, rethinking how music is experienced, or developing unconventional performance formats, I want to continue pushing towards a more holistic, interconnected artistic expression.

Listen to NR Sound Mix 054 Merlin Modulaw

In order of appearance

  1. Merlin Modulaw, Songweaver. Photography: Le Diouck
  2. Merlin Modulaw, Gessneralle Live. Photography: Lukas Saxer
  3. Merlin Modulaw, Gessneralle Live. Photography: Lukas Saxer
  4. Merlin Modulaw, Songweaver.
  5. Merlin Modulaw, Songweaver. Photography: Latoya Haguinatha Breu

Romeo Castellucci

Posted on by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · Romeo Castellucci
Words · Annalise Kamegawa

A Fight Against Reality Itself

In conversation with NR, director and stage designer Romeo Castellucci speaks about one of his first performances, Cenno. A mysterious work staged only once in a flat in Rome in the early ’80s, it has since been difficult to trace in any concrete way. When asked about it, Castellucci remarks, “In Italian, the word cenno means a little gesture—it’s the minimal gesture. And probably, Cenno was literally a minimal gesture.”

This early experiment foreshadowed a career of theatrical productions that are less about performance in the traditional sense. Instead of a reenactment of narrative he offers something closer to a whisper, a procession of movements, or a thread of energy extracted from some of the most iconic operas and didactic tales. 

Some, like The Rite of Spring, are so complex that they challenge visual perception. Others, like Ma and La Passione, are more restrained, presenting not not much more than bodies on a stage. Yet what unites all these works is a distillation of reality itself. In capturing the narrative within form, Castellucci creates what he calls “a space in which the image calls the name of each spectator.” In this way, theatre for him is neither literature nor mere performance—it is a battlefield of aesthetics, a confrontation with reality itself.

What led you to study painting in Bologna? What were some values or ideas you formed during this period of study, and how did this go on to influence your later career in theater?

At the time, Bologna was the intellectual center of Italy—the most avant-garde city in terms of art and philosophy. It was a city on fire, as it was the most politically engaged, involving itself in these extreme fights. I was barely 18 years old when I arrived there.

Art history became my spinal structure, my intellectual foundation. The Renaissance and the study of Italian art history were disciplines that carried a kind of radicality. Instead of turning to political activism, I engaged in an artistic fight—a fight against reality itself. At every level, the experience of art is a battle and a combat with the very principles of reality. Studying the history of art, painting, and sculpture was the main food of my soul.

I never studied theater, but within the Accademia di Belle Arti, I began to develop an idea of theater from my engagement with performance art. There is a difference between theater and the performing arts. The first is the conception of time and space. Theater embraced an idea of fiction and falsehood—the fake as a discipline. In the end, I found theater much stronger than the performing arts. It’s a much more radical conception of life for me.

Then I started to study Greek tragedy. It was a kind of matrix, a philosophy, for me. Greek tragedy is not only an aesthetic—it’s not just archaeological stuff—it is really living in my flesh and in our society.

Your work pulls from some of the world’s most foundational myths and tragedies. On that note, how did you build your literary foundation?

My study was independent. I was alone at school, and it was very personal. But then I was lucky to meet an instructor, Giorgio Cortenova, who taught the history of contemporary art. that orientate my thinking on the language of the “form”. But for the rest, I was completely alone at school, without friends or companions. However, outside of school, I had a small group of friends, and together we created our first theatrical experience. Previously, I had worked on many installations—paintings, sculptures, and performances. But somehow, without any deliberate decision or choice, theater became my primary activity.

I never chose theater—it happened by chance. In fact, I originally studied visual arts. Despite this, I still feel that, in a way, I am working in visual art.

Theater, for me, can sometimes be a very boring job. As a spectator, when I was young, it was always terrible and so strange. I’m in the middle of it now, in the blind spot, so I cannot judge my work. But very often, theater is just boring. That’s not a snobbish statement—I’m just being honest, as a spectator.

I’m curious, then, where you found the potential in theater if your experiences were always met with boredom?

Not always, but frequently, I was met with boredom. Because normally, theater—both then and even now—is seen as a second branch of literature, a way to illustrate it. But theater has nothing to do with literature. Theater is the art of the flesh.

During my studies, I came across Antonin Artaud. He was a French philosopher and radical thinker. He wrote and worked in the first half of the 20th century and died in 1948. That encounter changed my life.

And music changed my life as well. When I was an adolescent, I heard The Rite of Spring performed live. It was a shock—something really violent. At that age, we need violence, and I found that violence in a form. That, for me, was a revelation.

I discovered that aesthetics could be a battlefield. You can fight through aesthetics, and that was far more interesting than the so-called political fight.

How did your first performance, Cenno (1980), come to be? I had quite a hard time finding any information about it, but I think that’s the nature of it.

It’s very mysterious because it was done one time, in one flat, for one spectator. And then it stopped.

Nevertheless, it’s the foundation of my work. This spectator was—he’s now passed—the Italian critic Giuseppe Bartolucci. Afterwards, he became our friend. It was so important to do Cenno only for him, that one time, in that flat in Rome.

It was very important because the work was terrible, but the discussion was very rich. I remember the discussion better than the show.

Could you share a bit about what the performance was about and the discussion afterward?

I have almost forgotten. It was some mysterious images with strange characters, almost without words. I don’t remember. It’s a bit confusing, even in my mind. In fact, it was something between performance and theater, but it’s difficult to try to describe to you what it was.

I can say something else about Cenno: in Italian, the word cenno means a little gesture—it’s the minimal gesture. And probably, Cenno was literally a minimal gesture.

The performance was done with the founding members of the theater company Socìetas Raffaello Sanzio. In the text The Theatre of Socìetas Raffaello Sanzio (2007), regarding the development of Tragedia Endogonidia, I felt such a cohesion of voice in the company. What were those early years with the company like?

We shared different aspects of the language of theater. Claudia [Castellucci] was engaged in the writing of texts, so at that time, she was basically a dramaturge. Chiara [Guidi] was more focused on how to pronounce the word. I did all the rest—the set, direction, and so on.

I have to mention Scott Gibbons, my musical collaborator. I still work with him, and it’s a strong relationship. He’s very similar to me, like a brother. When we work together, we don’t need to speak or explain things.

You had been practicing from the 1980s until the early 2000s with Socìetas Raffaello Sanzio. Where did the energy come from?

This is a fair question because, without fire, you cannot create work. I refuse the idea of profession—when you are a professional, you can do the “right” thing, but that is not art. It’s decoration.

I try to surprise myself all the time. I believe deeply in the principle of contradiction. I want to work against myself. Every time I create something, it is both the first time and the last time. Therefore, it has to be a surprise. The stage is the most bizarre and strange place in the world. If you are not able to feel the strangeness of this place… it’s strange.

For me, you have to reinvent everything every time—not only concerning issues like material, topic, gesture, and aesthetics, but even the necessity itself. You have to ask yourself, What is the urgency? What is the necessity? What is the danger? I have to feel a danger because it’s a dangerous place. This is just my opinion, but if you are confident in your way of doing things, it doesn’t work.

[Regarding Socìetas Raffaello Sanzio,] we now work separately. Just after Tragedia Endogonidia, we split our beds. We still share the space “Teatro Comandini” in Cesena, but everyone has pursued their own personal work.

Moving into your more recent work, La Passione (2016): it seems like the performers, apart from the musicians, are not exactly actors. Who are they? Technicians?

There are no actors at all. They are technicians and real people who come from the city.

La Passione, which is Bach’s Matthäus-Passion, is a portrait of a city. It was first in Hamburg, then in Lisbon, and now it will be in Florence. The people on stage are real people—citizens of the city—each bringing their own experience.

In a way, it was not created to portray the passion of Saint Matthew or the gospel itself. Instead, it was the gospel as seen through a real person. The passion belonged to a real person, creating a kind of mirrored effect. So La Passione is not just the passion of Christ—it is also a reflection of the passion that exists in everybody in real life. The fact of having a body is a passion. That’s the main idea.

Your works do not simply remake a text but rather use it as a framework for theatrical exploration. What’s fascinating is how this approach allows for a transformation beyond strict interpretation.

When I’m facing a production—maybe something from tradition, La Passione, Hamlet, or so on—I don’t ask myself, “What does Hamlet mean for us?” Instead, I take the reverse perspective: “What do I mean for Hamlet?” Meaning myself, my place as a person, and my place as a spectator.

When I work, I always take the place of the spectator because a director is a spectator too. It changes the perspective—you are surprised every time. You don’t know what is going to happen.

But the most important thing is a question—a question that the spectator can interpret however they want. It’s just as important not to provide answers.

The question of the audience is always very important because it presents a reversed perspective of theater. What I do on stage is not an object or illustration; it is an experience that completely belongs to the spectator. 

It’s such a vulnerable position to be in as well, to know that your work is going to be held by all of these people.

Because I want the spectator—the audience—to have to finish my work. There is space for any kind of interpretation, even spaces that engage the imagination of the spectator. My work on stage is never complete. I always leave open doors. There is also a lack of narration and logic—a kind of hole in the representation.

There is a space in which the image call the name of each spectator.

What do you say to audiences who come to you later asking for answers?

I ask the spectator what they think. To tell you the truth, that is more important. Of course, I have a dramaturgy—I have ideas, a concept, a vision of the form, and so on. But it’s much more interesting to ask a spectator what it means for them. There are many, many different interpretations, even completely opposite ones.

That is good news. You can feel whatever you want because your body is diving into an experience. It’s a good reflection of society when there isn’t a singularity of thought.

Sometimes it’s not easy because the spectator to have to make a decision. The spectator then takes on a kind of responsibility when viewing. There has to be a choice, a strong one.

Now, in a way, we are spectators 24 hours a day. Without any choice, without any question, we just eat pictures. But at the theater or in an art gallery, you have to make a choice. That makes the difference.

With such a long career, I’m sure you’ve been presented with many new technologies. In the Die Zauberflöte (2018) grotto, the set was created with parametric design and CNC. This display is particularly breathtaking in scale and detail. What are your considerations when presented with a new technology?

I use every kind of technique, every kind of technology that exists. I am not superstitious about technology—I just use what I need in the moment. Very often, technology can turn out to be a kind of trivial gadget or something simply demonstrative. 

I worked with the architect Michael Hansmeyer. We had a very good exchange while working on the Grotto. It was large-scale. It wasn’t just an aesthetic choice—everything was based on symmetry, like a mirror (symmetry is a key theme for Mozart).

I did The Rite of Spring with 48 sophisticated programmed machines that performed a dance with bones dust in the air: it was bone ash from cows is used in agriculture as a fertilizer.  Instead of dancers, I created a precise choreography with machines suspended from the ceiling. They were able to spread dust into the air. They created something like spirals, jets, explosions, falls, forming shapes and dancing to Stravinsky’s music. 

That performance involved only machines. There were no people on stage. It was very complicated—we spent a month and a half just programming it to be in sync. That project was the biggest technological push I’ve made. But when I work with machines I deal with the ghosts they represent.

There is a very different emotional impact when you see machines versus a human body.

A machine is frightening because it does one thing with absolute precision—it has a function. There is no space for humanity and no space for doubt. And that is what makes it so unsettling.

The opposite of that is the presence of an animal. I often work with animals—not to command them to do something precise, but because they enter the stage as animals. They are pure beings. They represent chaos. It’s another kind of inhumanity, the opposite of a machine.

An actor is, at the same time, both an animal and a machine.

Your performance Μa (2023) unfolds within the Eleusis archaeological site, a space imbued with the weight of the Eleusinian Mysteries. We discussed earlier how mythology can serve as a framework for building another narrative. In that vein, how do you approach and manage a site so charged with history, mythology, and cultural memory?

It sometimes happens that I get to work in very special places. For example, here at the archaeological site in Eleusis, where the cults of the Mother took place. I’ve also done work in Geneva’s Saint-Pierre Cathedral or the Palais des Papes in Avignon, among many others. In every special place, we must consider the place itself as a character, not just a venue.

You have to work with the phantoms that are present. It’s better to engage with the memory of the space—to become close to it and work with it. Otherwise, you are dead, because the place is much stronger than you. So, we have to deal with their memory, as characters endowed with spirit.

The venues can speak and listen. In the end, the main creative choices will come from the spaces themselves. You just have to listen carefully to the ghosts of the space.

A bit of a silly question, but do you have any interaction with pop culture?

Sure. From a certain point of view, it’s inevitable. We exist in this world. I am not a hermit—I go to the supermarket, I use the internet, I listen to the radio, and I like some of it.

I have no prejudice. If something is good, it’s good. I like Schubert, but I also enjoy pop songs when they have a strange form that can catch my attention. 

In order of appearance

  1. Romeo Castellucci, Cain, overo Il Primo Omicidio. Composer: Alessandro Scarlatti. Premiere: 2019. Photography: Luca Del Pia.
  2. Romeo Castellucci, Hey Girl!. Premiere: 2006. Festival: Festival d’Avignon 2007. Photography: Steirischerherbst/Manninger.
  3. Romeo Castellucci, Hey Girl!. Premiere: 2006. Festival: Festival d’Avignon 2007. Photography: Steirischerherbst/Manninger.
  4. Romeo Castellucci, Genesi. From the Museum of Sleep. Premiere: 1999. Photography: Luca Del Pia.
  5. Romeo Castellucci, Genesi. From the Museum of Sleep. Premiere: 1999. Photography: Luca Del Pia.
  6. Romeo Castellucci, Salzburger Festspiele 2024 / Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Don Giovanni. Premiere: July 28, 2024. Photography: Monika Rittershaus.
  7. Romeo Castellucci, Mystery 11. Eleusis 2023. Photography: John Kouskoutis.
  8. Romeo Castellucci, Mystery 11. Eleusis 2023. Photography: John Kouskoutis.
  9. Romeo Castellucci, Don Giovanni. Photography: Monika Rittershaus.
  10. Romeo Castellucci, Parsifal. Opera House: De Munt / La Monnaie. Premiere: 2011. Photography: Bernd Uhlig.
  11. Romeo Castellucci, Parsifal. Opera House: De Munt / La Monnaie. Premiere: 2011. Photography: Bernd Uhlig.
  12. Romeo Castellucci, Die Zauberflöte. Opera House: De Munt / La Monnaie. Premiere: September 18, 2018. Photography: Bernd Uhlig.

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