Category: Music
Rainy Miller
Between Noise and Narrative: Tracing the Raw Vein of Expression
Rainy Miller didn’t enter music through the front door. No training, no grand epiphany, no polished ambition. His story begins not in a studio, but on the streets of Preston, in the shadow of the UK grime wave that surged through the city in the mid-2000s. He was barely a teenager when music, almost by cultural necessity, became part of his language.
It was raw, instinctive, DIY in the truest sense. There were no lessons in harmony, only the urge to speak, to echo, to belong. And from this chaotic, makeshift entry point, Rainy found his voice — one shaped less by technicality, more by emotion.
This wasn’t about perfection. It was about emotion. Like life is about. And in many ways, that early, unstructured beginning still echoes through his work today: emotionally charged, intimate, deeply human. As he puts it, “We weren’t worried about being perfect, we were just expressing ourselves.”
In a world obsessed with polish, Rainy Miller reminds us of the beauty in imperfection and the power of simply expressing, wherever you are. In this conversation, Miller reflects on his beginnings, his pull toward Preston, and the way music becomes a vessel for the things that are hardest to name. His process is tender, instinctive, often elliptical—unconcerned with rules or industry books. Life has to be lived. That’s what Rainy is about.
This spring, Rainy’s taking it on the road, channeling his emotionally charged sound into a run of intimate European shows. From Berlin Atonal (April 25) and Peckham Audio in London (May 1) to The Flying Duck in Glasgow (May 2), Lisbon’s ZDB (May 8), and Disgraceland in Middlesbrough (May 11).
Melis Özek How did your journey into music begin? Was there a defining moment?
Rainy Miller My journey into music began gradually. I wasn’t trained in music at all, nor did I have any initial urge or outlet to pursue it. there was this huge wave that swept through Preston, the UK grime scene back in 2006, that took over the city massively. I was around 11 or 12 years old at the time, and everybody got into writing bars and rapping.It was city-wide, more of a culture. You would actually be the odd one out to not be doing it. That was my initial introduction to music, recording with a rudimentary approach. Because of how young we were and our limited access to equipment, it was DIY by nature. It was free of restrains.
What was interesting is that due to the nature of the music and our lack of technical musicianship, we immediately fell into a school of thought focused on emotion, instead of calculating musicality. That was probably a bit of a blessing, because we weren’t worried about being perfect, we were expressing ourselves. It was an experimental, organic way of stepping into music, just playing with what was out there and seeing what we could create.
MO Your work carries a distinct sense of place—Preston isn’t just a backdrop, it feels embedded. How does Preston shape the creative process?
RM Well, this is interesting because I’ve spent a lot of time moving between Preston, Manchester, and back to Preston again. For some reason, I always end up back in Preston – and I’m living here again now. Due to the nature of the music I make, which always revolves around personal thoughts, all of my music has been contextually bound to times when I’ve been in Preston.
I’ve never really written music about times when I’ve been in Manchester or anywhere else. Preston gives me the entire context for my music. There’s this weird magnetism that keeps pulling me back, whether it’s living here or writing about experiences from here.
I think I’m drawn to the underdog mentality of the place. Preston is a second city in the northwest, and unlike other prominent music cities that have already established their sonic identity, Preston feels more ambiguous. It doesn’t have a clear musical flag in the ground yet, and I find that really intriguing.
My music isn’t intentionally trying to sound like Preston, but the city is naturally embedded in my work because my experiences here shape the narratives. When I write, the location and its memories are fundamental to drive the sense of musicality. The city is in the music itself – not because I’m trying to make it sound like a specific place, but because my personal narrative is so deeply rooted here.
It’s almost like Preston isn’t just where I’m from – it’s a fundamental part of how I understand and express my experiences through music.
MO The North has its own rhythm, its own sense of space. How does that translate into your compositions, your pacing, your textures?
RM I’m not a trained musician, so I don’t sit down looking for specific chords or thinking about musical keys. Instead, I lean into the backdrops, stories, and contexts of places to drive the piece. For me, what comes before making the music is the narrative behind I’m making the music about.
Naturally, the musicality is driven by location and feeling – what I need to portray based on what happened at a specific time in a specific place. Because many of these stories come from when I was in Preston or at home, the city’s essence naturally flows into the music. It’s not a calculated process, but an organic one where the rhythm and pacing emerge from the emotional landscape of the experience.
MO Your music feels deeply immersive, almost like a constant soundtrack that weaves through various narratives.Can you share more about the sources of inspiration and influences that shape your music? How does your creative process unfold behind the scenes?
RM I’ve always had a civic pride in language and accent, inspired by artists like Ian Brown from the Stone Roses. While their music might be different, I’m drawn to their approach to lyricism – people like John Cooper Clarke, Richard Ashcroft, and Sean Ryder. These artists pushed forward a narrative for the North.
My creative process is almost like scoring films in my head. The music has to come from how this movie in my mind plays out to capture the right emotion. I do a lot of field recording, which I borrowed from artists like Space Africa. I use granular synthesis to create musicality from tones found in physical places – using sheets of ambience and resampling things.
For instance, I can’t play guitar, so I’d borrow a friend’s guitar and tune it to a song that carried the emotion I wanted. By tuning it that way, I’d naturally find things within the same key that had the right emotionality. It’s about using the nuances of a lack of technicality and turning them into a strength that feels unique.
The inspiration comes from personal context, from the stories and emotions embedded in specific moments and places. It’s about creating a sonic landscape that reflects those internal experiences, using whatever tools and techniques feel right in the moment.
MO Your music seamlessly blends pop, ambient, and drill, yet it feels deeply personal rather than defined by genre. Is this fusion intentional, or does it emerge organically through your creative process?
RM The blending of genres isn’t intentional in the way you might think. It’s really about using different genre characteristics to express specific emotions. When there’s noise music in my tracks, it’s because that moment needed to convey a sense of frenetic anger. When I use Midwest-style guitar parts, it’s to carry vulnerability or a specific emotional weight.
I was heavily influenced by artists like Space Africa, Blackhaine, Croww, and Iceboy Violet, who use ambient textures like shades of paint. For me, genres are just tools to express emotion. I’m not trying to create a genre-defying sound – I’m using whatever musical language best communicates the feeling I want to express at that moment. It’s less about the genre and more about the emotional character of the music.
MO Your debut album Limbs introduced listeners to your unique sound. Looking back, how did the creative process for this album shape your evolution as an artist? What were the key moments that defined its direction?
RM Limbs was a pivotal moment for me. It was the first time I really got back into lyricism after making more beat-driven music that wasn’t fulfilling me. I realized I couldn’t fully express myself without lyrics, but I didn’t want to rap and couldn’t sing traditionally. That’s where auto-tune became crucial.
I was massively inspired by Frank Ocean’s Blonde and Blood Orange at the time. They showed me how to use auto-tune to create a unique linguistic language. The album also taught me about song structures – I studied pop writers like Bon Iver and Frank Ocean to understand how to construct songs that serve a purpose.
It was essentially my first step into finding my voice – literally and figuratively. I was learning how to express myself through music in a way that felt authentic and emotionally true.
MO A Choreographed Interruption and Fire, And Then Ashes followed Limbs, each exploring different sonic territories. How did the process for these projects differ from Limbs, and how did your sound evolve between them?
RM These projects were transitional for me. With A Choreographed Interruption, I was leaning more into very personal, intense lyricism. It felt like I was clearing out the last of my pop sensibilities – getting those final pieces out of my system.
Both projects were about shedding a certain skin as an artist. I was moving away from trying to write “good” music and instead focusing on writing music with a genuine purpose. They were less about creating something polished and more about artistic intention and experimentation.
It was like I was gradually stripping away the layers of what I thought music should sound like, becoming more comfortable with more experimental approaches. These albums were about breaking down traditional song structures and finding my true artistic voice.
Each project was a step in my evolution – from the more structured approach of Limbs to the more experimental, purpose-driven work of these later albums. It was a process of discovering what I really wanted to say and how I wanted to say it.
MO 2023 was an incredibly productive year with 3 singles and 2 albums. What inspired the flurry of work during this time, and how did these projects come to life? Were there particular influences or moments that drove this creative output?
RM I think it was about being given a purpose to write. The scenes we’d been involved in at that point were really exciting, and it felt incredibly easy to make music. We were working super collaboratively, which was new for me – I’d never really written music so collaboratively before.It got me out of working in such a personal way and allowed me to abstract things into a wider context. A Grisaille Wedding record, for instance, was written with quite a lot of fictionality – something I’d never done before. It became easier to write when I wasn’t having to be so directly personal or worry about how the songs might affect my family.
The collaborative environment and the freedom to write more abstractly meant my productivity was through the roof. It was about finding a new way of creating that felt less emotionally constrained.
MO Your collaborations with Space Afrika have been key. How has working together shaped the sound and creative process, and what does this fusion of work mean personally?
RM Working with Space Afrika was massive for me. It wasn’t just about them specifically, but about the entire Northwest scene. When I met them, everyone had such rich and deep knowledge of music. They opened up entire worlds to me – introducing me to noise music, ambient music, forward-leaning electronics.
They essentially opened the door to something I’d been looking for musically for a long time. Being able to grind down our creative endeavors against one another gave us these really nuanced, unique edges to how we create. It felt like we were solving a puzzle together.
While the core context of my music didn’t change, the palettes they introduced me to were the greatest musical influence I’ve experienced. It completely transformed how I thought about creating music.
MO You’ve collaborated with artists like Blood Orange, Blackhaine, Actress, and Mica Levi—each with their own distinct vision. How have these collaborations shaped your approach to music? Are there specific lessons or creative shifts that have emerged from working with such diverse voices?
RM These collaborations meant I had to wear different hats – becoming more focused on production and engineering. Working with artists like Blackhaine and Croww was about lending myself to something bigger than just my own work.
With Blackhaine, I wanted to contribute to something that felt larger than my individual perspective. It became another tool in my creative arsenal, allowing me to engineer for other artists like Ice Body Violet and work more broadly in production.
These collaborations expanded my skills, letting me work as an engineer and producer. It wasn’t always easy – collaboration has to feel right – but it opened up new ways of thinking about music creation.
MO The visual world around your music is deeply immersive. How do you see the relationship between sound and image in your work?
RM For me, music is always derived from image or memory first. There’s always a visual aspect before the music is made. Because my music has been so personal, it’s always tied to specific physical times and places.
I’m obsessed with binding context to things. If you’re making a song about something, you should be able to take a picture that embodies the same feeling, or make a film that captures the same emotion. It’s all driven from the same context.
The visual and musical elements are interconnected – they’re different expressions of the same emotional landscape. The musicality is derived from emotion and visual experiences from the very beginning. It’s about creating a complete artistic experience that tells a complete story.
MO Your song titles feel like glimpses of a larger story—elliptical, almost cinematic. How do you approach naming a track?
RM I like finding context for the song titles, but I also enjoy shrouding things in a bit of mystery. Because my songs are often personal, I want to cloak them slightly so they don’t feel too raw.
Take ToddBrook as an example. ToddBrook is a place near Derby where a dam burst in 2019. The song is actually about a day when I had an emotional reaction that felt like my mind was breaking open- like a dam bursting. So the title ties back to the experience, but in a loose, contextual way.
I always try to add layers of context, like adding muscles to a skeleton. The more context you wrap around something, the more it can move and breathe as its own entity. It’s about creating intrigue while maintaining a connection to the original experience.
MO Self-directing your videos gives you full control over how your music is visually interpreted. How does your approach to filmmaking differ from your approach to music? What inspires the visual language of your work, and how does your creative process unfold from concept to execution?
RM The approach to videos are simple – just me, a camera, and a camera stand. I’ll figure the rest out later. Take the Vengeance video, for instance – it was the first time I used movement on camera, and that movement was literally emulating how I physically moved on the night the song was written.
I don’t know how to edit videos or understand frame rates, and that doesn’t matter to me. It’s about serving the purpose in the most accessible way possible, in the most honest way I can. Artists like Klein inspire me – where technicality is irrelevant, and everything is driven by emotion.
It’s about creating a visual representation that captures the emotion, without technical perfection. Just pure, honest expression.
MO Fixed Abode is more than just a label—it’s a statement of intent. What sparked the idea to create it, and was there a specific moment or frustration with traditional structures that pushed the creation?
RM I created the label around COVID. When I had Choreographed Interruption ready to release, we sent it out and found that labels either weren’t interested or were keeping artists on hold for an unpredictable period of time.
I realized this way of working didn’t align with my creative ethos. So I thought, why not create a label where we can release music entirely on our own terms? The logo is an adaptation of an asterisk, playing with the idea of terms and conditions in contracts.The name Fixed Abode is a play on the UK phrase about not having a home. For me, it was about creating a forever home for art from the Northwest – a place to release music without having to play by traditional industry rules.
MO Joseph, What Have You Done? took five years to take shape. Can you walk us through how the album evolved? How did time change its meaning? Who is Joseph?
RM The album’s journey was long and evolved significantly. It started around 2020, initially sparked by a documentary called Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus. At first, it was going to be a highly conceptual, biblically referenced album with a specific approach.
The biblical references remained a consistent visual and thematic language throughout the album’s development. The title Joseph, What Have You Done? itself suggests a biblical narrative, though the meaning is deeply personal rather than strictly religious.
But life happened. As I went through personal changes over these years – moving from a fragile mental state to a more stable one – the album’s purpose shifted. It became more about personal catharsis. Now it’s structured in three acts: the first deals with darker, more vulnerable material; the second explores falling in love and out of love. At last, the third appreciates the people to surround me.
The five-year process wasn’t just about musical composition, but about living through experiences that would provide the album its depth. You have to live a bit of life to write a meaningful record.
MO This album feels like it exists between past and present, personal and universal. What was the emotional core of this record for you?
RM The album is essentially a journey through different emotional states.It’s about traversing from a fragile mental state to a more stable place. The record is chronological, showing my emotional evolution over five years. It’s deeply personal, but the biblical and contextual references allow me to abstract it slightly, making it feel more universal.
MO Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus was a key inspiration for this project. What about that film resonated with you? Did it shape the way you thought about narrative in music?
RM The documentary opened up fascinating connections for me. It explored folk music, folklore, and Christian evangelism in the American Midwest. I was drawn to finding parallels between that region and the North of England – how similar the towns feel, how their folk tales resonate.
Medulasa described my work as Northern Gothic after hearing an earlier record, which perfectly captured what I was trying to do. I became obsessed with the Southern Gothic elements and wanted to create a mirror to that in the North of England.
I pulled some lyrics directly from folk tales in the documentary, tying them to my own memories. It was about creating a collage of experiences, splicing references into something that stands alone as its own narrative.
MO The Fable / The Release explores the idea that memories—real or imagined—shape our sense of self. Can you elaborate on this?
RM The song drives from a memory I’ve had since being very young – a potentially traumatic experience. The fascinating thing is, I’m not even sure if it’s a real memory or something I imagined.
There’s a voice note about delirium that runs through the record, and the song explores this complex relationship with memory. It stems from an experience from my childhood that’s so distant and unclear that I can’t distinguish whether it actually happened or if it’s something I’ve constructed in my mind.
What’s crucial is that regardless of whether this memory is real or fictional, it has physically affected me and changed how I’ve grown mentally. The song isn’t about definitively proving what happened, but about understanding how these undefined memories shape us.
I’m interested in the idea that memories – whether factual or imagined – can be equally powerful in forming our sense of self. The song is essentially about not needing to dig up the past, understanding that revisiting certain memories can be harmful. It’s about letting go.
The song is strategically placed in the record at a point of transition, representing a moment of understanding that some memories, real or imagined, shape us but don’t need to define us forever. It’s part of a broader journey of emotional release and personal growth that runs through the entire album.
This exploration speaks to a larger theme in my work – how we construct our identity through fragments of memory, perception, and imagination. It’s about the blurry lines between what’s real and what’s remembered, and how those lines ultimately shape who we become.
The approach is very much in line with my overall artistic philosophy – using context, references, and personal experiences to create something that feels both deeply personal and universally resonant.
MO With live premieres across the UK and Europe, how does the work translate into live settings?
RM Live performances are actually more aggressive than the record. They’re a way for me to physically exercise the emotional baggage of writing. It becomes less about performing for an audience and more about expelling emotions.
I tend to black out a bit during performances – it’s like an hour of purely exhausting myself emotionally. The only time I get nervous is when performing in front of my family, because the music is so brutally honest and touches on potentially emotional subjects for them.
MO Beyond Joseph, What Have You Done?, what’s next for you and Fixed Abode?
RM For Fixed Abode, we’ve got some exciting things coming. There are a few artists I’ve loved for years who are returning to make music. We might potentially work on an album with Richie Culver.
I’m also looking to collaborate more. I’ve been discussing potential collaborations with Puce Mary. After such a personal record, I’m excited to collaborate and perhaps create fictional pieces.
The aim is to expand. Not just musically, but as a creative platform that can support various artistic endeavors.
In order of appearance
- Rainy Miller
- Rainy Miller
- Rainy Miller
- Joseph, What Have You Done? Artwork
Courtesy and Toxe
DJs, producers and multi-hyphenate Courtesy and Toxe dive into a warm, free-flowing conversation, spanning from the interplay between public architecture and sound to the Dutch Golden Age’s visual storytelling, weaving through the Danish art scene—and, of course, the pulse of music. A meeting of minds where genres blur, influences collide, and creative instincts take center stage.
Toxe I started making music when I was really young—around 15. My brother got me Ableton back then and really pushed me to start. He was the one who initially got me into it, but after a while, he stepped back, and I was able to explore and discover things on my own. My latest album leans heavily into lyrics and singing, which is something new for me. But I’m not looking to stop with music itself; I’m always finding ways to build on it. I also recently graduated with a degree in architecture, and I think that mindset—of constantly adding layers and depth—applies to everything I do.
Courtesy I read that both your parents are artists, which, honestly, made me a bit jealous.
Toxe They’re very local artists in Gothenburg, where I’m from—and actually, I’m in Gothenburg right now. My dad’s a sculptor, and my mom does a bit of everything, though lately, she’s been making costumes for theater. They both work a lot with scenography and public art projects.
Courtesy This feels like a very Scandinavian thing. In the Danish art scene, a lot of young artists I know are involved in public sculptures and similar projects. But in Germany, none of my artist friends or anyone from the scene here would ever do something like a town hall sculpture. In Scandinavia, contemporary artists take part in these traditions, due to the funding and cultural focus.
Toxe That’s probably true, I think for many public building projects here there is always part of the budget set aside for public art or something of a requirement. I like public art in the same way i like pop music, it’s for the people and more integrated into everyday life where it can really make big impact.
Courtesy There’s this Danish artist, Poul Gernes, who was a 1960s provocateur. He did a lot of school and hospital decorations, as well as some iconic public commissions. One of his most famous works is a building in Copenhagen called the Palads. It’s this pastel pink cinema right in the middle of the city—anyone who’s taken the train into Copenhagen would recognize it.The building itself is kind of controversial. It was originally an old station building, probably built around 1900 or earlier, and it had that classic architecture of the time. When it became a cinema, they decided to do this big PR stunt—they completely covered the building in construction materials so no one could see it and then commissioned Gernesto to transform it. He painted it this bold, almost garish pastel pink and many other off colors that looked absolutely wild. When they revealed it, it caused a huge stir. Something like that would never happen today in a Scandinavian city—they’d be much more cautious. But back then, it was a major statement. Now, they’re planning to tear it down, which is bittersweet. I’ve been involved in a project documenting the building for a book. I wasn’t doing traditional architectural photography, since that’s not my thing, but I was capturing portraits of the building.
Toxe You’re also a photographer, right?
Courtesy I do photography as part of my art practice, but not in the sense of being a photographer, if that makes sense. This project is an example of the kind of town hall or public art commissions that feel so distinctly Scandinavian.
Toxe I hadn’t really thought about it specifically as a Scandinavian thing, but it’s probably true. Even though I’m very different from my parents in what we make and how it looks, I think they’ve definitely influenced me—particularly in terms of working with space and spatial ideas. They’re very sculptural and focused on things like architecture or engaging with existing spaces and places in the city. I think that influence really shaped me, more than anything else.
Courtesy Why did you study architecture?
Toxe When the pandemic hit, I thought, This is the perfect time to study. I’d always wanted to study at some point, but, you know how it is—when you’re DJing and working on projects, it’s hard to find the time to stop and do something like that. The timing just worked out. So, in 2021, I moved to Amsterdam to study, and I spent the last three or four years there. I just finished this summer. Did you study?
Courtesy I studied a few different things but didn’t finish most of them. I did complete a bachelor’s at the conservatory, though. Otherwise, I spent some time studying psychology and cultural studies— art history and similar topics—at a master’s level, but I didn’t finish. But it’s fine..You’re not gonna get many jobs from reading Judith Butler or Foucault.
Toxe It’s a good addition to what you’re making, similarly to the way I studied architecture. It wasn’t like a classic, technical school. It was more of an art school, you know? We read a lot about architectural theory, and people were exploring all kinds of things. It felt less strict—more like something you could add to any art practice, or even use if you wanted to be a writer or do research. It was very open in that way.
Courtesy I think one of the first art history books I read was Gombrich’s The Story of Art. It kind of ends up being the story of architecture and art: Since the Renaissance, all the artists were architects too. You can’t really talk about one without the other—the influence is so intertwined, with the same people designing buildings and creating art. So unless you go to a really technical school, those two things are kind of unavoidable—they’re just linked together.
Toxe Of course, totally—I fully agree. It feels like such a valuable thing to have studied. There’s so much interesting reading that really adds to how you see the world.
Courtesy How was it to write lyrics for your album?
Toxe Um, I think writing lyrics is probably the newest part of my whole music-making process. Singing and using my voice is something I’ve always done, even before this album. Like, I’m always humming or singing when I make melodies or harmonize—it’s just a tool I use when I produce. But this is the first time I’ve actually put my voice directly into the production, so that part felt more natural. The lyrics, though—that’s what’s really new for me. I didn’t originally plan for them to be in Swedish; it just kind of happened. I think there are a lot of sounds in Swedish that fit my voice really well. Plus, I have this strange, awkward relationship with the language because I haven’t lived in Sweden since I was 18. My Swedish feels very simple, very teen-like, and I actually like that awkwardness. It works for this kind of poppy, teeny-sounding record. The lyrics are simple and repetitive, and I really like how that turned out. I feel like this is just my first attempt, though, and I want to do more of it. I’ve always loved paying attention to lyrics when I listen to music, and now it feels like this whole new world has opened up. But yeah, lyric writing is definitely the most awkward part for me. It’s also what I struggle with the most, but I like that. I like when something feels a little awkward, difficult, or uncomfortable. It’s a good challenge. Did you sing or write lyrics before?
Courtesy I have an awful singing voice, so that’s never gonna happen. But this is the first record I’ve done with lyrics—not my voice, but still. When I started working on the album, I wanted to include lyrics, so I started paying a lot more attention to poetry. I was reading a lot and kind of absorbed that. I’ve had this idea for a while, though—that I wanted to collaborate with writers I know. Not songwriters, but friends who are art critics, artists with writing practices, or authors. This album felt like the perfect opportunity to make that happen. For example, I commissioned a text from Sofia Defino Leiby—she’s an American artist, a painter, but she also writes and released a book last year. I gave her a theme to work with, which was breadcrumbing. You know, when you’re dating someone or in a situationship, and they’re just giving you the bare minimum—little breadcrumbs—to keep you hooked. I had this idea for the first song, gave Sofia the concept, and she wrote a longer text for it. Then I worked with a Singaporean singer Sophie Joe, she’s this really technically amazing singer—and we edited the text together into the song. I did something similar with the Danish author Lucia Odoom. I asked her to write a song as well, and then I edited it down to fit. It was a really interesting process.
Toxe So they all kind of just wrote a whole text, and then you edited it down?
Courtesy They wrote a whole text, and then I edited it. I worked closely with the vocalists, recording them in my studio and shaping the final piece. Of course, I also wrote all the music. I did this with four different writers for the album, so you end up with these longer texts that sit somewhere between songs and poetry
Toxe There are so many ways to work with words and music—it’s really exciting. Even doing something like that, or writing for others, feels like it would be so much fun. It’s like this whole new world that’s opened up, and I’m really excited about it.But for me, compared to what you’re describing, the way I made my new album was pretty different. I just hummed nonsense over the songs first, like placeholder sounds, and then I translated that into words. It wasn’t this thing where you start with a full text and then shape it into a song, or chop it up and structure it. It was more about fitting real words into the nonsense sounds I was already making.
Courtesy What was the name of that beautiful Scottish band that used nonsense lyrics a lot?
Toxe Cocteau Twins? Yeah, I mean, I guess that band just kept it that way—leaving it as nonsense sounds. But I think a lot of people’s process starts like that. You kind of just sing nonsense. For some people, it’s very much like, “I’m writing a poem, and then I’m putting it into a song,” or, “I’m freestyling words as I go.” For me, it was really hard to just freestyle words. I think it’s because I’m also thinking a lot like a producer. It makes more sense for me to hum things first, and then construct the words afterward. It’s kind of a mix: it’s intuitive because I’m just singing freely, but the word aspect feels very deliberate and organized—like a producer’s approach.
Courtesy Do you work very much in the grid as a producer? Like, in terms of 4/4 timing and the way you compose—how structured are your songs?
Toxe Yeah, I think so. My songs usually have a clear structure, but they evolve and change in different ways. I wouldn’t say I’m too rigid, but I’m definitely structured. I’ve never been the kind of person who had a lot of instruments around me when making music. I’ve always worked on my laptop, so I never really jammed with people or recorded live instruments. I guess that naturally makes my process more “griddy.” Adding a human voice does make things a bit more fluid, but in general, my approach is pretty structured. I did make a soundtrack for a movie once, though, and that was very different. It involved a lot of field recordings and creating ambiances, more about capturing moods than following a strict grid. It was for a small film my friend made and something I released on PAN Records a few years ago. That was the first time I really stepped outside of that grid-focused approach, but in general, my work is very laptop-based and structured. What about you? How do you approach it?
Courtesy No, it’s all over the place for me. I work with a lot of musicians, and it’s kind of complicated for them to work with the material I make because it’s so disjointed. Even for the singers, it’s probably a bit of a nightmare, but we figure it out in the end. I don’t really stick to a set grid, and a lot of the basslines aren’t in 4/4—like, they end up being kind of poly-rhythmic without me intending for it to be that way. It’s just what sounded good at the moment. The basslines, for instance, won’t be in 4/4, which makes mixing tricky for some dj’s. Some songs on the album, I think, sound really great like that, but it doesn’t always translate well if you’re someone like a DJ using the loop function to mix in. It just won’t work because everything is kind of going over an awkward number of bars. The length of the vocals or different instrumental parts doesn’t line up the way you’d expect, which makes it hard to mix in a conventional way.
Toxe I get what you mean—it’s not like I’m producing or making songs with the club or mixing in mind either, or even how it’s going to sound on speakers. It’s more about what feels right in the moment.
Courtesy And what about your new album, Toxe2?
Toxe It just kind of happened, really. I initially wanted to do a self-titled album because it feels like my first, and more personal”. But the title actually came about because of the artwork I created. I was really into movie logos and entertainment media—those flat, logo-style texts that capture the emotion and story of a film or game. So I started creating a logo for the album, just for the sake of having one, and it turned into something that felt right, which then became the album name.
Courtesy It for sure streamlines questions of authorship! [laughs] I did an EP called The Violence of the Mood Board, which plays with the idea of authorship and critique. If you’ve ever seen mood boards—whether for fashion, a photoshoot, or some creative project—you’ve probably noticed how they often appropriate images from photographers, visual artists, and other sources without any credit. A friend of mine, an art critic, Jeppe Ugelvig, wrote an essay, which touches on how the fashion industry tends to appropriate images from artists and incorporate them into fashion mood boards or campaigns without giving credit. But the critique goes both ways: the imagery used in the EP artwork from that record came from Sofia Defino Leiby, a visual artist and painter who makes collages and sometimes appropriates imagery from fashion. It highlights this reciprocal relationship between art and fashion, where both sides borrow and recontextualize without clear ownership. In the context of music, particularly dance music, the conversation around authorship, sampling, and originality is always complicated. It’s an ongoing discussion that doesn’t really hold much weight, but it’s still something I find fascinating. Fashion, too, is full of contradictions—it’s a space where appropriation is widespread and accepted, yet often ignored. It’s all part of this broader critique I’m interested in exploring, not because I’m particularly invested in fashion, but because it’s a field that’s deeply messed up in its own way. I’ve worked with smaller brands that I’m friends with, where I made music specifically for them, and I consider those collaborations more artistic. Then there are the situations where I’ve been paid to have my music used in a fashion show or ad. But the worst part is when bigger fashion brands steal your music—they’ll use it in their shows, and when they post the video online, they’ll change the music just enough to make it hard to prove legally. It’s a really shady move, and unfortunately, it’s something that happens all the time. It’s just part of the gross side of the industry.
Toxe I’ve only had stuff where people buy my music for runway shows, not really commissions. So, I don’t think I have a deeper relationship with fashion in that way, not really.
Courtesy Yeah, I get that. It feels like fashion’s kind of stuck right now, especially with the big houses just doing the same thing—studio shoots with celebrities, no real creativity. A few years ago, there was more excitement around it, but now it’s like everything’s watered down, even from brands like Balenciaga, where it feels more like behind-the-scenes stuff than actual fashion. It’s only the small, up-and-coming brands that feel fresh and interesting, but the industry as a whole doesn’t seem to be pushing boundaries at the moment. I wanted to know—what did you end up writing the lyrics about? Just going back to that, what are the songs about? Anything in particular?
Toxe Well, I think the general themes are very much like love songs, and also just isolation and loneliness. A lot of it reflects that phase of my life where I was just alone a lot, especially in Amsterdam. I didn’t really have a private life there, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing because I like being alone a lot. But yeah, the topics really revolve around that—isolation and those feelings.
Courtesy Unrelated question, but do you like Dutch art? I recently fell in love again with the old Flemish masters, like Jan van Eyck, that’s why I am asking. I was at the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin recently, I go there often actually, and they have some great Dutch painters, along with Renaissance pieces, like the Italians and others. I really enjoy painting a lot. As for architecture, is there a particular architect or movement you’re into? I’ve been reading a book recentlythat explores architecture and politics in Germany from 1918 to 1945. It focuses especially on the Bauhaus movement and the Nazi response to it, and how architecture became so politicized in Germany. It’s really intense, especially considering recent events in Germany. But I love architecture because it can tell you a lot about a city. You can even see when a city was bombed, just by looking at how much modern architecture there is. You can also learn a lot about a city’s political history by which buildings have managed to survive.
Toxe It’s hard to say if I have a specific favorite architect or movement, but over the past year, I’ve been reading a lot of Beatriz Colomina, if you’re familiar with her. She’s an architectural theorist, and her work focuses more on the relationship between mass media and architecture. It’s been really interesting, especially in terms of understanding how the two—media and architecture—interact and shape our perceptions of space. She talks about this a lot in her book Publicity and Privacy, where she compares the work of architects like Le Corbusier and Adolf Loos, analyzing their different practices. Later, she shifts focus to modernism and mass media, particularly the transformation of domestic space. She explores how buildings, once transparent and open, have become spaces that are now staged for representation, and how we’ve become experts in crafting our own public personas. Colomina dives deeply into privacy, examining how our intimate spaces—the home, personal life—have become increasingly public. We’re all constantly exposed to representations of other people’s private lives, especially in today’s digital age. For example, I can see your house in the background here, on Zoom, and we all now live in a world where our homes are often seen as a backdrop for our online selves. We’re more exposed to curated representations of spaces, like in movies or social media, than to the actual physical spaces themselves. What interests me most is how this affects how we perceive and interact with space. We live in an age where the domestic space is both staged for online consumption and yet made to appear intimate, personal. It’s like we’re living in a movie set, framing and presenting our surroundings for an audience, but at the same time, this display of intimacy can be flattened, reduced to signifiers—symbols of our lives rather than their true essence. It’s fascinating how the domestic becomes a kind of branding tool, where we curate and perform intimacy for an online audience.
Courtesy I just finished Understanding a Photograph by John Berger, and he explores this really interesting distinction between commercial photography and private photography. What’s fascinating is how these two have completely merged now, especially with social media. The purpose of both has shifted, and it’s so relevant today. His perspective really adds to how we think about the act of capturing moments and their meaning. It reminds me of Susan Sontag’s writings on photography as well. Both she and Berger, contemporaries in their time, were essentially in conversation about media theory and the staging of images. Like, photography has always been a performance in a way—there’s no such thing as an “authentic” photograph. Every image is an interpretation or edit of a moment. And that’s why I think it’s so uncomfortable to have my photo taken. It’s not just a snapshot of me; it’s someone else’s aesthetic or interpretation of me in that moment. It’s their perspective imposed on me, which is a strange and unsettling feeling. I think people often believe there’s some kind of inherent truth in a photograph that doesn’t actually exist. It’s more of a constructed narrative—every photo tells a story, but it’s never a completely accurate reflection of reality. It’s like every image has been filtered through the lens of someone else’s view.
Toxe Yeah, exactly. It’s fascinating how this has evolved. We’ve always been staging ourselves in some way, whether through portraits or still lifes in historical paintings, where possessions and settings were carefully chosen to present a certain image or status. But now, in the age of social media, it’s like that process is happening in real-time, constantly being updated and shared. The line between what’s real and staged is so blurred. It’s almost like authenticity is no longer a fixed concept—it’s become performative in itself. The act of presenting your life, your home, your possessions, and even your emotions online is a performance, but it’s also embraced as “authentic.” It’s not about hiding the fact that you’re performing; it’s about making the performance feel genuine, relatable, or aspirational. Everyone is curating their persona, but at the same time, that curation is seen as real, as part of who they are. It’s a strange paradox, right? The performance becomes its own form of truth. And in this digital age, we’ve all become experts at shaping and performing these narratives about ourselves.
Courtesy That shift in how authenticity is viewed is so interesting, especially in creative fields like music. Ten years ago, there was so much emphasis on being “authentic” or “original,” as if it was a standard to strive for. Musicians were expected to have their own voice, and if you weren’t presenting something unique or deeply personal, it felt like you weren’t really succeeding. But now, as you said, it’s almost like that concept has been diluted, to the point where it’s not even about striving for authenticity—it’s more about how you present yourself, the world you build around your art. Now, it’s about the whole package—creating a brand, a persona, a narrative that feels coherent, whether or not it’s “authentic” in the traditional sense. And I think that’s what’s made the music scene, and even creative industries in general, so much more about curation and perception than about the work itself. It’s like people are less interested in whether the music is original or authentic and more focused on how it fits into a larger narrative or how it can be consumed. The idea of “authenticity” in the traditional sense feels almost outdated in comparison. It’s less about what you’re doing and more about the image you project while doing it
Toxe It’s fun to surprise people. I totally get that thrill of proving people wrong, of having them think one thing about you, then completely flipping it.
Courtesy It’s really contemporary, though, because even when I started my record label, the last one, Kulør, we had this big record with what was considered fast dance music at the time. It resonated a lot with people who are now in their late 30s or so, and up until a year ago, I was still associated with that sound. But since then, I’ve explored a lot of different genres. My approach to music is very eclectic. Yet, I’d have people, particularly men, come up to me and tell me I wasn’t being true to myself, saying things like, “Be yourself.” It was like they had this one snapshot of me—this moment that captured a version of me and they wanted me to always be that person. But for me as an artist, that’s not interesting. If people are expecting me to stay in that one frame, they’ll always be disappointed, because I can’t be reduced to that singular snapshot or sound they want me to fit into.I think in the art world, especially in contemporary art, there’s more acceptance of evolution in an artist’s practice. But in the dance music community, there’s still a lot of resistance to change. Some people have very rigid ideas of what authentic music is and what’s “acceptable.” It’s definitely a generational thing. That’s why movements like the ones at parties, like the deconstructed club oneS Dan booked in Berlin, where there were DJs breaking norms and pushing boundaries, always upset people. That kind of music still pisses people off in the dance music community today. It’s like, once you challenge these long-held ideas of what’s “authentic,” it causes friction.
Toxe Yeah, exactly! It’s fun to pull people along, surprise them. When they start expecting too much from me, I just get this feeling like, ugh, I can’t breathe. It’s suffocating. But I totally get that thrill of proving people wrong, of having them think one thing about you, then completely flipping it. It’s a nice feeling, like breaking free from their expectations and showing them something unexpected.
Courtesy A lot of artists I like in visual art are really trolly as well. Do you think that this recent conversation about expectation, staging, and the distinction between the private, intimate, and public – and what is given to people for consumption – connects to the art of DJing or performing? I definitely think about the audience I want to play for. When I DJ, I mix different genres, blending experimental music with classic house tunes. I’m always considering the dance floor, but it’s not about playing what the crowd expects at that moment. I focus on what the future of the dance floor could be. It’s not about playing commercially functional music – I know that right now, hard techno is popular, but that doesn’t mean I’ll play it just because it works. I’m not interested in it. For me, it’s about being mindful of what works, but also not playing music I find boring, even if it’s effective. That’s really important to me.
Toxe For me, I feel like I’m a pretty bad DJ in the sense that I just play whatever I want to play. Of course, I’m mindful of the situation I’m in, but when I DJ, I see it more as an extension of the music I make. I’m just trying to create a context for people to understand what I’m into by embedding my music into that wider musical world. If it’s a party, I want to make people dance and have fun, of course. Regarding performance, I’m very much a loner. I make music alone, and I really prefer to keep the process private until it’s finished. I don’t collaborate much, and I don’t share anything until I feel it’s ready. So, going from that private, intimate space to public performance is a big shift for me. It’s about translating something deeply personal into a public spectacle, and that transition is interesting, though difficult and weird at times. It makes me feel somewhat detached from myself, as you become a product, especially when you’re aware of using your own image and being very public. But there’s still a distance, especially online, since I haven’t performed live in front of large audiences yet. Now, with this album, I want to figure out how to perform live, especially with singing, and be on stage more.
Courtesy I’m curious—do you enjoy hanging out with groups of people? Growing up, did you have a friend group, or did you prefer individual friends? For me, it’s definitely individual friends. I’m not a group person at all; a dinner with four people max is ideal, and anything more than that starts to feel stressful. Unless I’m at a party or actual club.
Toxe The idea of a large group dinner doesn’t attract me at all.
Courtesy It’s interesting because, for someone who performs, people often expect me to be more social, but I just don’t thrive in big groups. I collaborate a lot, but my collaborations are usually limited to a max of three people in a room—me and two others. That’s when it feels like a really beautiful dynamic, but I don’t want anyone else around. I do enjoy performing, though, because it’s different. When I’m on stage, I’m controlling the room. I’m the one guiding the energy of the entire space, and I find that really interesting.
Toxe No, exactly. I’m curious about how this transition works, because DJing is one thing—you’re just controlling the room and the sound, and it feels more technical that way. But then when it comes to singing live, it’s a completely different experience. It’s much more personal, more exposed in a way. I wonder how you navigate that shift, from being in control of the energy through music to sharing something so intimate with an audience.
Courtesy How do you feel about microphones? Because they fucking scare me.
Toxe I don’t know yet. I definitely need to have some kind of rehearsal or something to get into it. I’m excited though because I like the challenge and the uncomfortable feeling, but yeah, it feels awkward for sure. Like, I haven’t really sung live much, maybe once or twice, so it’s all pretty new to me. I didn’t even consider it when I made the album—like, “Oh, I want to make a vocal album and perform.” It wasn’t part of the plan. Now, I’m trying to figure out how to do it in a way that makes sense for me.
Courtesy Any shows planned?
Toxe I’m heading to the US now and will be in New York for the rest of the year. I think I’ll start doing live shows in 2025.
Courtesy What are you doing in New York?
Toxe I’m planning to work there for a bit—I might have a job at an architecture studio. I’ll be doing that while working on music, preparing for my live, and traveling a bit. I might want to move there long-term, so it’s a bit of a trial phase for me. You’re in Berlin, right?
Courtesy Yes. Which is kind of like New York, like a kind of sad New York now. No jobs, but the same prices, almost like.
Toxe You’ve been there for a while, right?
Courtesy I’ve been here for about eight years, so I’m kind of stuck here now, a little bit. I think it’s going to be the one, though. Yeah, I’ve built a family here now.
Toxe Do you have kids?
Courtesy Yeppp!
Toxe Whaaaat? Wow!
Courtesy I have a daughter that’s three years old, so the moving around has stopped.
Toxe It’s beautiful. Do you think motherhood affected your music?
Courtesy It’s really just about time management. I am in a way much more productive than before. Now, I don’t have the same kind of time, and it’s frustrating because your whole perception of time changes when you become a parent. A lot of people use it as an excuse to not make art, or they just don’t have the resources. But the reality is, you have limitations unless you choose not to spend time with your kid, which isn’t an option if you’re trying to be an active part of their life. You really have to prioritize and be efficient with your time. And when I do have those days where I can just work, it’s honestly amazing.I think some people can have the structure without it, but for me, it gave me the structure and motivation I needed to become a proper artist, instead of just kind of floating around.
Toxe Yeah, that makes sense. Also because you’re not doing that just for yourself anymore.
Courtesy Exactly, I do it for her too.
Credits
Talent · Courtesy wears SIA ARNIKA
Photography · Pablo Manrique
Styling · Yannic Joel Hohaus
Makeup Artist · Naomi Gugler
Hair Stylist · Rebecca Schmitz from Nina Klein Agency
Styling Assistants · Diana Lukashuk and Stella Jennifer Roswitha Wiechers
Talent · Toxe
Photography · Michael Wolever
Styling · Michael Wolever and Toxe
Photography Assistant · Tucker Van Der Wyden
Suzanne Ciani
LFO Spirituality
A true pioneer of electronic music, Suzanne Ciani has spent over five decades shaping the sonic landscape with her groundbreaking approach to synthesizers. From composing in the late ’60s to redefining live performance with her immersive quadraphonic shows, her artistry transcends time. In this conversation, she reflects on her journey—from breaking barriers in a male-dominated field to finding her voice in modular synthesis, the impact of the ocean on her compositions, and the evolving relationship between technology and human expression. Ciani shares insights into the fluidity of sound, the importance of creative freedom, and the enduring resonance of her music in a rapidly changing world.
Gaia Grisanti Hello Suzanne. How are you?
Suzanne Ciani Good morning. Just about to wake up, but everything is good! What about you?
GG Excited for this interview to begin, I am a big fan of your artistic production. It all started when you curated the live music performance at the Acne Studios’ Fall Winter 2023 Show in Paris. It really seemed like the sound was threading through the flow of the fabrics, almost establishing the textures, the weight, music became almost a physical presence. How did this collaboration start?
SC I got a call from Acne Studios, asking me to produce a soundtrack for their new collection. They gave me complete freedom. I was excited because I find freedom to be a fundamental ingredient for my performance, plus the fact that I love playing live because I really like to stay in the moment. One of my missions has always been to demonstrate the performability of electronic instruments without using a keyboard and to impact the design of these instruments. I can easily adapt to sudden things, following and pacing the flow. I played with the Moog where I have a module that allows me to move the sound in quadraphonic space.
GG After being a piano student and a composer for some years, you approached the world of electronic music in a period where women were not really allowed to experiment with that.
SC In the Sixties, women composers were not really seen as credible and composing music was quite an intimidating prospect. In those years, composing meant mainly working with an orchestra. And that involved conducting: standing and getting the result you want. My teacher was an Italian man who firmly told me that women basically had no right to be on the podium and conduct. Hearing that wasn’t easy, but that moment was what channeled me towards a new door.
GG What happened after?
SC Every time you meet a closed door you have to pivot and look for a different path, until you find your unique one. You have to invent new possibilities. So I instinctively adopted electronic instruments as my own voice. Then my goal was to get enough money to buy a new Buchla 200 for myself in a period when institutions and not individuals were owning these instruments and in a field where women were not commonly involved.
GG As human beings, we tend to focus too much on the past and get stuck with regrets or nostalgia. Likewise, when we focus too much on the future, we can feel overwhelmed by feelings of anxiety or anticipation. In the meantime we forget the now. How did you find your own voice and learn to stay in the present moment?
SC Back in the Sixties in California, I started working with Don Buchla (pioneer in the field of sound synthesis. Ed.). I called him the Leonardo Da Vinci of electronic music instrument design. He didn’t use the word “synthesizer” because it had a connotation of being related to a keyboard instrument, but Don Buchla was more interested in the more elaborate voltage control of all parameters of the sound. I fell in love with a new possibility that gave me the freedom to be on my own and experiment independently..
GG You have always considered the synthesizers almost as living beings, defining them as “machines with a brain”. Tell us more about your relationship with these mechanical humans you have always been surrounded by.
SC Well, I grew up with them. Actually I grew up with the piano, when I was a composer of classical music. That is until I met Don Buchla. When Don Buchla and I started working together, he made a distinction about the machines: those instruments have an inside and an outside. I was in charge of the outside, moving the Knobs and dials, while an engineer was in charge of the inside. Technology was collaborative: it involved the artist that worked on the sound/performance and the technician who took care of the circuit board inside of the machine. In the end, every analog modular instrument is unique and you have the option of curating your own configuration of modules.
GG How crucial was it to find the right mentor at the right time?
SC You know, Don Buchla wasn’t very friendly at the beginning. He fired me the first day.
But I just came back the day after saying that it wasn’t fair. And I stayed. Don Buchla was also very shy, he wasn’t really sharing his thoughts with me, but he found his way of expression through the instruments. We found our common ground in the machines.
GG I guess spending time alone and really getting to know your personal self has been important for your personal development. And it is especially nowadays with all this pressure of sharing and showing, of having to attend everywhere to prove oneself relevant.
SC When you are making music it really comes from a private place and then it goes out into the world. If you respond to what people like, you are lost. Don Buchla, the designer of my instruments, never ever bent his ideas to the market.
GG Was there a moment or a place that represented a turning point in your career?
SC Japan played a big role in my career. Back in the Sixties , a musician couldn’t publish any music independently and you had to have a record company to release your music. I went to all the record companies in the US and in Europe but they didn’t understand what my music was. They thought I should sing because I am a woman. Then I went to Japan and they listened to the music. There I got my first record deal; that was a launching moment. When I went back to the US there was still no place for my music in the music store, because they couldn’t really find a category for this electronic instrumental sound.
GG After some time though, your music was ultimately labeled as New-Age.
SC In my second album I had a song called “The Velocity of Love” and when it was played on the radio it got a huge response even if nobody knew what it was. Some radio people started to sponsor my concerts and did a lot of airplay. Finally that genre took off and was labeled as “New Age”.
GG What made this genre special at that time?
SC New Age was a very controversial name, it could be massage music, meditation music, relaxation music or simply instrumental music. It seemed to be part of a cultural shift towards healthiness and “spirituality.”
GG Has the process of producing music been working as a therapeutic form for you?
SC The stepping stone for my music was the ocean and that immense space that is unpolluted by human inventions and noise. The ocean was my canvas. My first album was called “Seven Waves.” Now, at last, I’m living on the ocean and so there is some kind of happiness going on here.
GG In recent times AI is taking over our lives, leading to new explorations and forms of relationships. Looking at fashion and art, a Neo Space Age is approaching and space travel is expected to be booming again. You have explored this symbiosis of the organic and the artificial several years ago. Where do you think this fascination for futuristic, escaping scenarios comes from?
SC I think there is no replacement for human relationships, I believe AI is going to cause a lot of misery and desperation if you unlearn how to communicate.
In the Sixties and Seventies live performance and technology were not in a good place, the audience didn’t know that the instruments were producing the sound, they were asking where the sound was coming from, where the tape recorder was. To them there was no reference point.
Now the audience sees and understands what is going on when I play because I have a video camera focused on the instruments and also my young fans own and play these analog modular instruments. I believe technology has to be a support but not a replacement.
GG In your latest album “Golden Apples of the Sun” you used synthesizers like Buchla 200e and Moog One, but the addition of your voice and whispers makes it a truly immersive experience. You really get to meet with your inner senses, feeling some sort of deep fulfillment. Does all this come from a deeper connection with your inner nature?
SC In my previous album “Seven Waves” I also used an instrument called the Vocoder to loop in my breath because I found the vocal presence very personal and I wanted to put part of myself into it. My voice has been used a lot in sound design, I even had a tool called the Voice Box that is used for processing voices and other sounds. But I am glad that you appreciated it.
GG Are there any composers that you like at the moment?
SC Yes there are quite few and there are a lot of women dedicated to this instrument. I met Caterina Barbieri several years ago who is performing live on analog modulars and I like her a lot. Also Lisa Belladonna and Floating Points.
GG I believe you are one of the most contemporary artists playing nowadays, although your first album “Seven waves” was released in 1982. You said that most of the instruments on Seven Waves no longer exist and that that recording is an historic footprint in the evolution of music, unique to its time yet still valid today.
SC When I was growing up in the music industry the main idea was that if you turned 40 it was all over. But, you know, I believe that there is no clock.
Credits
Talent · Suzanne Ciani wears BOTTEGA VENETA.
Photography · Yudo Kurita
Styling · Shaojun Chen
Koreless
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
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
- Leather jacket and Trousers T/SEHNE, Shoes BOTTEGA VENETA
- Sunglasses MYKITA x 032C
- Full Look BOTTEGA VENETA
- Suit and Shoes ANN DEMEULEMEESTER, Sunglasses MYKITA x 032C
- Full Look MM6 MAISON MARGIELA
Sega Bodega
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
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
Mucho Flow Festival 2024 Guimarães
Guimarães breathes different air during Mucho Flow. The city—a UNESCO-stamped history lesson of medieval charm and serpentine alleys—undergoes a subtle, intentional rewiring. There’s a low-frequency thrum beneath the cobblestones, a collective hum of anticipation. The festival feels curated—not in a hyper-branded, algorithmic way, but with a deliberate touch, as if each act was chosen not just to fill a slot but to complete a circuit. Live music diehards, experimental sound-scapers, and club kids orbit around a shared axis of sonic exploration.
Between sets, the crowd spills into the streets like smoke escaping a room—only to gather itself again, folding back into the next venue like a recurring dream you can’t quite shake. There’s something spectral about it. Mucho Flow doesn’t just stage performances—it conjures a language. One built on shared frequencies, sidelong glances, the tacit codes of experimental sound and improvised aesthetics. It’s what Sarah Thornton would call subcultural capital, but here it feels less academic, more lived—felt in the way people move, dress, speak without needing to explain.
The city’s venues serve as emotional coordinates: CIAJG with its brutalist echo, Teatro Jordão’s plush nostalgia, the minimalist CCVF, the chipped elegance of São Mamede. They don’t just host—they haunt. Dotted across Guimarães like pressure points on a map, they pull you through the city’s dark arteries. You don’t attend Mucho Flow. You drift through it. Between a late-night bar, a staircase conversation, a courtyard cigarette.
It isn’t a festival with borders. It breathes. It evaporates. It reforms somewhere else.
In Guimarães, the festival pulses against a backdrop of tiled facades and baroque silhouettes, casting silhouettes of tomorrow’s sound against the texture of yesterday’s stone. It’s a place where friction becomes fuel—where the soft violence of distortion slips easily into the grace of a medieval alleyway. Tradition holds hands with rupture. Beauty hums beside abrasion.
Mucho Flow feels like an affair whispered rather than advertised. There’s an intimacy to it, a charged closeness, like being folded into something sacred and fragile. The boundary between stage and floor dissolves; what’s performed becomes shared. It’s not about headliners or recognition—it’s about resonance. Gabber, jungle, ambient drones, deconstructed club, folk mutations—all colliding like weather fronts in a sky that won’t settle.
The audience doesn’t just listen—they lean in. There’s a quiet literacy in the room, an alertness. No one needs translating. Newcomers and cult favorites coexist without hierarchy, because here, curiosity is the only currency that matters. And everyone seems rich with it.
The festival’s diversity defies tidy summation. In the fog-drenched Lynchian haze of The Jordao Theater Auditorio you get an almost opera-esque experience with the likes of Rita Silva, Nadah El Shazly’s voice at sunrise, or Bianca Scout’s performative immersion. Across the Jordao Galeria and Vila Flor’s walls you get out of the dream sequences and into the action with live sets by Snow Strippers, Angry Blackmen, University, Florence Sinclair, and more. A jolt to the senses in different directions, with sonic detournements all having in common one thing: An in your face approach to live music. Each night closes with a club sequence: Gabber Eleganza, TOCCORORO, DjLynce, Alex Wilcox, Crystallmess, Violet. The momentum builds, collapses, regenerates. The only issue would be the lack of sleep. But that’s what all festivals are all about, don’t they?
The first night begins with hesitancy. Outside Teatro Jordao, the air is wet and electrically charged. My first cigarette tastes like metallic fog. People are dressed like ghosts from a nightclub that doesn’t exist yet. No one I know. Good. Mucho Flow isn’t about reunion—it’s about detachment. The opener struggles to ignite the room, fragmented between local catch-ups near the bar and out-of-towners scanning the scene. Then Florence Sinclair recalibrates everything. Avoiding cameras with paranoid grace, he becomes a conduit on stage—unrelenting, eyes obscured by a durag, pulsing forward with uncompromising presence. The crowd yields. The club energy locks in. Cashless bars, quiet alliances, subtle nods exchanged in corners. Thornton’s theory at work again—subcultural identity forged in shared frequencies.
Still House Plants follow. Slacker swagger meets glacial dissonance. A sound more at home in a gallery than a nightclub. Someone calls it “California post-rock elegy” before realizing they’re from London. The loops fracture. The party stretches. The line between set and sunrise begins to blur.
I get lost in the street on my way to Jawnino, an Italian searching desperately for a Negroni. That’s because I love clichès, but maybe this is an unnecessary detour. The Vila Flor venue surprises me with its architecture, and how people responded to it: Have you ever seen a pogo and a seated audience in the same room, inches from one another? No? Well, you should have been to Mucho Flow.
My battery is running low, but i had to check Crystallmess’ set: Even though it is by now the 5th time i listen to her DJ, she always finds a way to surprise me. Icon.
Day two shifts gears. The crowd now surges with energy rather than observation. At the hotel, a group of Berliners say they came just for Crystallmess—and are still recovering. “You don’t get nights like that back home,” one says, already on his second beer. Papaya follows with forty-something musicians unleashing beautiful, cathartic noise. The younger crowd takes over, the older ones still reverberating from the night before. The festival avoids retro revivalism, instead inhabiting a pre-indie, post-genre liminal zone of raw experimentation.
At night, the concert halls give way to club transformations. Rita from the festival team shares Mucho Flow’s beginnings—cramped rooms, high-risk bookings, a taste for the unknown. The dressing rooms buzz with burlesque charm and lived-in chaos. Artists drift through in towels and glitter. Phones become DJ decks. Sharpie graffiti fills the walls. It feels like a séance backstage. A cabaret run by witches.
Gabber Eleganza melts me at 5AM. I’m unsure if I’m alive or in a rave-sponsored hallucination. On the cobblestones outside, someone plays Snow Strippers on their phone at volume 3. No one speaks. We just listen.
Morning. Church bells, clean sun, €1.20 espresso. Guimarães returns to itself, but I don’t. I walk slower. I observe less, feel more. I realize I’ve been reporting from a distance—an anthropologist at a séance. But Mucho Flow doesn’t want to be understood. It wants to be surrendered to.
So I stop writing.
And let the frequency take me.
Outside, a handful of us perch on a bench, finishing final cigarettes. Someone plays a track from the night before, barely audible. It’s enough.
Guimarães, by daylight, resumes its identity. But for those touched by the temporal dislocations of Mucho Flow, something lingers. The realization comes: the people here aren’t observing. They’re experiencing. And that is everything.
It’s not about understanding.
It’s about surrender.
And perhaps, in that surrender, lies the true essence of Mucho Flow.
Credits
Words · Andrea Bratta
Photography · João Octávio Peixoto
More information on muchoflow.net
In order of appearance
- Snow Strippers
- Angry Blackmen
- Crystallmess
- Hypnosis Therapy
TOCCORORO
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!