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.
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.
ABFor 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!
An Exploration of Spatial Sound and Personal Reverberations
From crafting new sonic landscapes to challenging conventional approaches to sound and identity, Merlin Modulaw has carved a unique space. Transcending the confines of genre, culture, and medium, Modulaw seamlessly melds the organic with the artificial, the familiar with the avant-garde. For Modulaw, sound is a force of perpetual fluidity and transformation, a dynamic language shaped by our deepest perceptions and cultural narratives. Innovation, in his vision, is a radical act of recontextualization, breathing new life into the past and dismantling the boundaries between the known and the unknown. This interview unveils the compelling vision of an artist who crafts immersive experiences that redefine the very nature of sound.
From a young age, you’ve been drawn to the intersection of contrasting influences, crafting entirely new sonic landscapes. How was this vision born and what does this relentless pursuit of convergence reveal about the vision of innovation? How does it challenge conventional approaches to sound and identity?
I’ve always been drawn to a wide spectrum of musical histories and narratives. For me, sound is less about genres or categories and more about fluidity: It’s constantly evolving, morphing, and finding new forms. I often think of sound in terms of colors, textures, and patterns, and how you can find these elements across different, seemingly unrelated worlds that actually share common threads. This pursuit of convergence is rooted in my fascination with collaboration. Music, at its core, is communal and dialogical, and through collaboration, I gain insights into others’ worlds and perspectives. This interaction shapes my musical language and influences the way I think about sound.
I’m also deeply interested in the semiotics of sound—how we perceive and assign meaning to it, often based on our upbringing and cultural context. For example, bird songs or the sound of a river evoke particular ideas of nature, cleanliness, or tranquility. These associations are built over time and vary across cultures, yet they form a shared language of meaning.
When it comes to innovation, I believe it isn’t solely about pushing technology or creating something entirely new. The Western concept of innovation often emphasizes the future and the new, but for me, innovation can also involve reframing the past: Recontextualizing, reshaping, and reinterpreting it from a fresh perspective. While technological advancements, such as in synthesis or AI, certainly play a role in shaping the future, I think today’s innovation often lies in revisiting and reworking ideas from the past, seeing them in a new light, and creating something relevant for the present and the future.
Your work transcends traditional boundaries, blurring the lines between genres, cultures, formats, and the human and artificial. A whole new sonic experience it is. What are the key sources of inspiration behind this?
My inspiration draws from a confluence of diverse musical worlds. It really started when I was around 14 or 15, being completely captivated by the French touch movement, particularly Ed Banger, along with the vibrant UK electronic music scene. These early influences sparked my fascination with blending contrasting sounds and creating something fresh. Later, my studies in electroacoustic composition and sound design deepened my understanding of sound’s fluidity and manipulation. Key figures like Maryanne Amacher and Natasha Barrett, who works so beautifully with spatial sound and architectural acoustics, have been incredibly influential. I’m also deeply inspired by Dennis Smalley’s ideas of sound morphology and space form, exploring how sound moves and evolves within a space. I’m fascinated by how sounds can trigger different interpretations based on listeners’ experiences and cultural backgrounds. This semiotic layer of sound is central to my work.
In my creative process, I try to maintain a sense of childlike intuition, focusing on instinctive experimentation. When I encounter challenges, I rely on my technical studies. I tend to compose quickly, then organize the sounds into distinct ‘folders,’ like lego pieces, which allows me to later shape them into a cohesive narrative.
Your artistry spans composition, production, performance, and spatial audio, with each element shaping one another. How do you ensure that these diverse mediums are not merely layered but woven together into a cohesive, immersive experience?
For me, it’s about choosing the right format for the right idea. Not every piece of work needs to be fully spatialized, and not every sound requires visuals to make an impact. Some ideas are stronger when expressed through sound alone, while others need a visual component to fully communicate their depth. The key is to avoid using a medium just because it’s available. It should serve the idea, not just be an effect. When it comes to spatialized sound, it’s about finding the right moment to use movement or specialization, rather than using it just because you can.
Creative exploration extends beyond the realm of music. You venture into new territories such as video works and print, expanding the boundaries of creative expression. How does this vision of innovation translate beyond the realm?
I don’t see music as a standalone entity—it’s part of a larger, immersive world. Video, for instance, is a particularly visceral format because it combines performance, writing, sound, image, and composition. It creates profound, often indescribable emotional moments through the combination of sound and moving image. In this context, music isn’t the final product, but one element within a larger creative experience.
There’s a haunting quality to your compositions, with traces of something just beneath the surface, never fully revealed. Is the process behind this mysterious pull a deliberate act of restraint, or does it emerge organically from the tension between the known and the unknown? What do you hope to evoke in the listener by leaving these fragments just out of reach?
My process is quite intuitive, as I mentioned earlier. However, the underlying idea is centered around the semiotics of sound, the delicate balance between the abstract and the concrete. You can approach this from both sides: by taking a very concrete sound and abstracting it, or by processing an abstract sound to give it form, movement, and meaning.
I prefer to evoke an image that remains open ended, allowing each listener to form their own interpretation. This approach contrasts with film scores, which often dictate the emotions you should feel at a particular moment. I find that limiting. Instead, I lean towards minimalistic sound scores that leave more room for individual perception and emotional response. By doing so, I aim to create a more personal, unique experience for each listener, where the meaning emerges from their own memories and understanding, rather than being prescribed by the music.
XRR Global masterfully blends experimental electronic elements with contemporary rap, creating a sound that feels both groundbreaking and familiar. What was your creative process in merging these seemingly disparate genres, and how do you approach the challenge of making such collaborations feel cohesive?
Rap music, especially today, has this deep focus on sub-bass and distortion, where pushing sounds to the edge and creating that clipped, gritty texture becomes a stylistic choice. This approach is something I also find in experimental electronic and industrial techno music, where distortion and clipping are used to blend sounds like sub-bass, cymbals, and white noise into one cohesive form. I’ve always been fascinated by how these elements can merge and create a unique sonic color and texture, which is where I see the connection between the two genres.
Working with Brodinski has been a key part of this exploration. He shares a similar perspective on merging these worlds with electronic and transitions into rap. Together, we’ve worked on numerous tailor-made projects for vocalists and rappers. The process can vary: sometimes we send out batches of beats, while other times, we’re in the studio together for a week, creating a specific musical world for an artist. There are also moments where we receive acapella and then reimagine the musical world around them.
With Lil Xelly, his bold, experimental approach really pushed the boundaries, and I’m grateful for the trust he placed in us. The creative process begins intuitively, but once we have four or five tracks, we step back and assess what’s missing, what could complete the emotional and sonic landscape we’re building. It’s about finding the right final pieces to round out the textures, colors, and emotions that define the world we’re creating.
The treatment of vocals in the work feels like a narrative device and a fragmented texture — disembodied yet intimate. What fascinates you about dismantling sounds and the human voice to reconfigure meanings?
The voice is a fascinating element because it exists in a liminal space between abstraction and concreteness. Our hearing is finely attuned to voices, the frequency spectrum we perceive is optimized for them. Even without fully understanding words, subtle intonations can evoke emotions, yet this very sensitivity can lead to misinterpretation. A tone might feel urgent, melancholic, or even aggressive, depending on the listener’s perception. Meaning, then, emerges from this delicate interplay of sound and context. What draws me to the voice is its ability to serve as both an anchor and a bridge. Within experimental soundscapes, the voice offers familiarity; something tangible for the listener to grasp, making abstract sonic textures more accessible. It carries emotional weight even when fragmented, distorted, or stripped of linguistic clarity. By manipulating the voice through reverb, pitch-shifting, or other techniques, it can become something spectral, a memory rather than a presence, while still retaining an undeniable human essence.
What fascinates me most is how meaning shifts through abstraction and disembodiment. A voice, stretched and fragmented, can evoke entirely new associations, altering its perceived intent and emotional resonance. There’s also a dynamic tension between what remains intelligible and what dissolves into texture between voices that feel present and those that feel distant or spectral. This contrast, the play between clarity and obscurity, is central to my exploration of the voice as both a narrative device and a textural element.
Songweaver premiered at Gessnerallee in Switzerland, and the spatial dynamics of a performance space can deeply influence both process and experience. How did the unique architecture of the venue shape your approach to sound, movement, and dramaturgy?
Definitely. The space at Gessnerallee had a significant impact on the performance. It wasn’t a conventional square room but rather a long, elongated space with wooden pillars, which influenced both the visual and sonic design. These pillars became part of the scenography, almost resembling tree trunks, blending into a more organic, naturalistic aesthetic. Instead of a fixed frontal perspective, the layout encouraged a more circular and immersive approach, challenging traditional hierarchies of stage and audience positioning.
Sonically, we embraced this elongated space by arranging two circles of five speakers, forming a shape reminiscent of an “8.” The two central speakers acted as the core, with sound shifting fluidly around them. This setup allowed for an evolving perception of space, sometimes expansive and undefined, sometimes centered and focused.
The dramaturgy was structured into four segments, with two blocks emphasizing spatial audio and darkness, where the bodily presence of the performer was almost erased. The absence of a clear visual focal point left room for the audience’s imagination to construct their own sense of space. Then, in contrast, we introduced performative moments. These shifts between absence an presence, between sonic immersion and physical performance, shaped the dynamic interplay of the room, constantly redefining its perception and energy.
This dialogue between spatial sound, light, and bodily presence became central to the experience, allowing the audience to navigate between abstract sonic environments and moments of human connection.
The Songweaver is a fluid, ever-evolving project that adapts through different formats, from recordings to live performances. How do you preserve the core essence of the work while allowing it to continuously evolve, and what does this process of constant transformation signify in your approach to sound and storytelling?
I think it always comes back to the question of essence: What is it that makes a piece emotionally resonant for me in the moment? It could be a chord progression, a voice sample, or the movement of the drums. Identifying that core element is the starting point, and from there, I allow the work to evolve through experimentation.
A big part of my process is maintaining a sense of naivety and flow, letting ideas unfold naturally without overanalyzing in the early stages. I rarely experience writer’s block because I focus on keeping that state of fluidity alive. Later, I take a step back and assess: What is the purpose of this piece? Does it function as intended? Does it convey what I imagined? If not, I revisit and reshape it, but without letting the initial vision become a constraint.
This constant transformation reflects my approach to music as something beyond a fixed, final product. Instead, I see it as part of a larger, immersive world—one that can be reinterpreted and reshaped across different formats, whether in recordings, live performances, or other mediums. This adaptability keeps the work alive, allowing it to shift and take on new meanings over time.
It transcends the traditional concept of a digital album. It’s a dynamic exploration of music as a continuously evolving language where the voice takes on a central, transformative role. Rather than simply conveying lyrics or melody, the voice acts as a portal—fragmented, manipulated, and spectral. This interplay of presence and absence creates a profound tension. What does this duality uncover about the human experience of transformation, and how does it invite listeners to delve into the intricate layers of memory and loss?
I started feeling fatigued by the idea of a digital album as the definitive form of a musical work, especially in a time of content oversaturation. With platforms like Spotify, music has increasingly become a commodity, something consumed rather than deeply engaged with as an art form. That’s why I wanted to approach The Songweaver not as a fixed product, but as a fluid, evolving musical world—one that can take on different forms depending on how it is experienced. The digital album is just one manifestation of this, shaped by the way people engage with music in that format, but never the final or only form.
At its core, music is a vessel for emotion. I’m always asking myself: What makes this piece so emotionally resonant? What is the essential element that moves me? Once I find that core, I experiment with recontextualizing it. Stretching, distorting, or reshaping it to see how its meaning shifts. This is something deeply embedded in my process. For example, I love recording with vocalists and then stripping away the original instrumental, placing their voice in an entirely new sonic landscape. Suddenly a song transforms, its lyrics take on new meaning, its emotional weight shifts.
This process mirrors human transformation itself, the way memories evolve over time, how the past lingers but is never static. By manipulating the voice, disrupting its clarity, playing with its spectral presence and absence, it becomes untethered from a singular identity, allowing the listener to project their own emotions and narratives onto it. The voice, in this sense, becomes an echo, a fragment—both familiar and elusive, much like memory and loss.
Consequently, the voices in The Songweaver pulls the listener into its world, suggesting untold stories and emotions that linger in the ether. Here, the voice is not confined to a singular identity. Through techniques like pitch shifting, time-stretching, and ghostly reverberation, it dissolves into something both abstract and universal, becoming a vessel for memory, loss, and transformation. How do you navigate the process of translating such abstract themes—like culture and transformation—into sound, and what role do you envision the listener playing in uncovering the deeper emotional and cultural narratives woven into these vocal fragments?
For me, the voice is one of the most powerful tools in music because it carries an inherent human quality, deeply intimate yet endlessly malleable. In The Songweaver, I wanted to push the voice beyond its conventional role as a mere carrier of lyrics or melody. By manipulating it, shifting pitch, stretching time, layering multiple takes it becomes fluid, untethered from a singular identity. It exists in this in-between space, sometimes recognizable, sometimes dissolving into texture.
This mirrors how I approach storytelling through sound. I’m interested in creating sonic worlds where meaning is not fixed but constantly evolving. The way a voice is processed can completely shift the emotional weight of a piece—when a phrase is slowed down and stretched, it might evoke nostalgia or longing; when fragmented and layered, it might suggest multiplicity, memory, or even dissonance.
Ultimately, this fluidity reflects how we experience emotions, identity, and transformation in life. We are never just one thing—we exist in layers, in echoes, in the spaces between what is spoken and what is left unsaid. The Songweaver is an exploration of that ambiguity, inviting listeners to engage not just with the music but with their own interpretations and emotional landscapes.
Trust & Breakout draws from classical, jazz, and electroacoustic traditions, balancing live instrumentation with meticulous sound design. Strings and saxophones add warmth, while voice fragments and intricate arrangements blur the lines between composed and improvised. How do you navigate this tension between the composed and improvised?
For me, composition and improvisation are deeply interconnected. My process often begins with spontaneous recordings—whether it’s playing the piano in a studio, capturing sound design experiments, or layering textures without a clear endpoint in mind. These initial improvisations create a reservoir of raw material that I later revisit, edit, and sculpt into a more defined structure.
A good example is the track Trust, which started in 2022 as a simple piano improvisation. I found a chord progression I connected with, recorded it, and then gradually built around it adding saxophone layers, stripping elements away, and reshaping the arrangement. In the end, the track became a fusion of four different pieces, blending elements from past sessions into something entirely new. This process of self-citation—reusing, resampling, and recontextualizing my own material—is a recurring theme in my work.
Improvisation allows me to generate ideas freely, while composition is where I refine and distill them. I see it as a cyclical process: creating material without constraint, then selecting and reshaping the most resonant elements. The tension between the two keeps the music fluid, constantly evolving rather than feeling fixed or predetermined.
Collaboration plays a central role in your practice, yet your sonic identity always remains distinct. How do you navigate the tension between dissolving into a shared language and maintaining a sense of authorship? How did these collaborations shape the vision of innovation and expand the sonic landscapes?
I don’t think much about authorship in a rigid sense. For me, collaboration is about dialogue, creating a shared space where different voices and ideas can interact freely. The process is fluid: sometimes I’ll start with an idea that gets transformed by a collaborator, or other times, I’ll take elements from a session and completely rework them afterward. What I find most exciting is how collaboration brings unexpected textures and perspectives into my work. For example, recording with a saxophonist or a vocalist might begin as a straightforward session, but later, I’ll strip away the original instrumental context and rebuild the track around their performance. This approach allows me to integrate external influences while still shaping the final outcome in a way that feels true to my sonic language.
Ultimately, collaboration expands the boundaries of my sound rather than diluting it. It introduces new possibilities—different playing styles, tonalities, and energies. The way I process and recontextualize these elements ensures that the core of my artistic identity remains intact. It’s less about control and more about curation, knowing when to let go and when to bring everything into focus.
What are the imperceptible details in your music that hold the weight— something buried within the texture that only you know is there?
A lot of these hidden details come from self citation—subtle references to past recordings or personal moments that might go unnoticed by the listener but carry significance for me. It could be a voice sample lifted from an old Instagram video, a sound repurposed from an earlier track, or a texture that holds meaning only because I know its origin. These create a multi-layered world within the music, adding depth even if the listener isn’t consciously aware of them. It’s a way of embedding memory and narrative into the sonic landscape, making each piece feel connected to a larger, evolving story.
The EDM and synth worlds have evolved dramatically in recent years, with new technologies and languages emerging. How do you see your own sound evolving within this shifting landscape, and how do you stay true to your artistic vision while embracing these changes?
With AI and generative tools becoming more prevalent, we’re at a point where entire genres can be replicated algorithmically. Motown, UK garage, or even complex electronic textures can now be synthesized convincingly. But the nature of AI is that it operates on datasets, creating something that reflects the “median” or most conventional idea of a sound. In this sense, it flattens the nuances that make something truly original. Because of this, I think artistry is shifting more toward curation—the ability to make intentional choices, to juxtapose elements in ways that technology alone wouldn’t. The human signature lies in how we contextualize sound, selecting and arranging components to build something deeply personal and culturally resonant. For me, staying true to my vision means embracing new tools while ensuring that the emotional and conceptual depth of the work isn’t lost in automation.
Looking towards the future, what are some new territories or innovative approaches you’re excited to explore in your work? How do you envision pushing the boundaries of sound, and what role do you see innovation playing in the way music connects with culture and storytelling?
One of the directions I’m exploring is expanding music beyond just sound—creating a more immersive, multi-dimensional experience. Next year, I’m working on a publication that will accompany my music, adding a textual and conceptual framework to the sonic world. I’m interested in how print, text, and visual elements can extend the storytelling process, making the work feel more like a living, evolving ecosystem rather than a static album. More broadly, I see innovation not just as technological advancement but as a way of deepening the cultural and emotional impact of music. Whether it’s integrating new media, rethinking how music is experienced, or developing unconventional performance formats, I want to continue pushing towards a more holistic, interconnected artistic expression.
Enter the transcendent realm of Tati au Miel, the artistic persona of Tania Daniel. A true multidisciplinary whose practice spans sound, performance, visual art, and technology; Tati au Miel masterfully weaves narratives that explore transformation, identity, and renewal, all while challenging conventional norms. Their practice, deeply informed by spirituality and introspection, bridges the tangible and the ethereal, inviting audiences to navigate the delicate interplay between the personal and the collective, the physical and the digital.
From their debut project, The Exorcism of Tania Daniel, which set the tone for their introspective explorations, to the dreamlike audio-visual installations of Rêverie and immersive performances like Formations for Eternity, from Seed to Skin, The Fantastical World of Tati au Miel, the artist reflects a commitment to introspective themes, experimental soundscapes and evocative visuals. An invitation to experience a world that is both deeply personal and universally resonant.
In this conversation with NR, Tati au Miel delves into the inspirations, challenges, and philosophies that fuel their ever-evolving artistic practice. They reflect on the courage required to embrace vulnerability, the intricate relationship between technology and humanity, and their pursuit of turning the ephemeral into something timeless. Discover an artistic vision that transcends boundaries, resonates with the soul, and redefines how we perceive and feel the world around us.
The name Tati au Miel evokes a sense of nurturing quality and creates a contrast with the complex or raw topics tackled within the work. How did it come about?
So interesting because I hadn’t thought of it that way before, as nurturing or creating contrast with the complexity of my work. It actually came about quite naturally. My name is Tania Daniel, and Tati au Miel feels like an evolved version of myself, a reinterpretation of my name. For years, people have called me Tati, and being French Carribean, the association with honey felt intuitive. Honey has a symbolic energy tied to deities and nurturing qualities, so when the name came to me, it just clicked. It wasn’t something I overthought or deliberately planned, it simply felt right.
Your practice spans across sound, visual art, performance, and technology, often blurring the lines between disciplines. How do you navigate the intersections of these mediums, and how does each influence or challenge the others in your creative process? Is there a particular moment or experience where you felt one medium truly transformed or expanded the possibilities of another?
I’ve always approached my work through sound and a sonic lens, which might stem from my struggle with words and writing. Sound feels so immediate and sensory to me. Even though I was never formally trained as a musician, DJing when I was younger became my way into sound creation.
When I was younger, I spent a lot of time sewing and designing costumes, which I think influenced my creative process. For example, I would make music and listen to it while sewing, letting the two practices feed into each other. Over time, I’ve come to see different mediums as having distinct energies that complement one another.
Recently, I had a vivid experience where one medium transformed another. For an exhibition in Canada, I created a dark chiffon fabric cabin and performed inside it. The physicality and mood of being immersed in that installation directly influenced the sound and performance. Now, the recording is displayed alongside the piece, creating a dialogue between the two.
For me, it’s always about exploring how different works can affect one another and holding space for the energy they create together. Even if it feels abstract at first, the interplay between mediums becomes clear when experienced as a whole.
How would you describe the central themes or philosophies that guide your practice, and how do you see these evolving over time?
I approach art from a pure, almost childlike spirit. Whenever I create, I feel genuinely happy and excited, even if the sound itself is described as dark. It usually comes from a place of deep introspection and playfulness.
Living as an artist means I’m constantly encountering new themes and reflecting on them. My spirituality plays a significant role in this. I am Buddhist but grew up in a Christian family, so there are layers of influence that have followed me throughout my life. These references naturally find their way into my work. Over time, it feels less like I’m consciously choosing these themes and more like they’re embedded in my way of living and creating.
Your music often blends experimental soundscapes with emotive, personal narratives. How do you approach the process of composing music, and what role does storytelling play in shaping the sonic atmosphere of your work?
It’s a mix of everything. While revisiting my portfolio recently, I noticed recurring existential and philosophical themes. This wasn’t deliberate,it reflects my curiosity and the way art helps me explore questions without clear answers.
For me, art embodies feelings or understandings that don’t need finality. This is why my work often delves into timelessness or spirituality. I’m not drawn to linear narratives, like a love song or heartbreak story. Instead, I focus on the energy of emotions, like the essence of love, rather than its storyline. Experimental music allows for this fluidity,it doesn’t have to be defined or linear. It exists as a spectrum of ideas and emotions that connect in unexpected ways.
Rêverie, a state of being lost in one’s thoughts or daydreams. Rêverie weaves together the sonic, physical, and digital realms through a series of interconnected sculpture, sound, and virtual pieces. How do these diverse elements come together, and what’s the creative story behind them?
Rêverie was a deeply personal project and my first solo exhibition, which made it even more exciting. The idea developed gradually during a residency at World Creation Studio in Montreal, a space that has been a long-time supporter of my work.
For this project, I wanted to try something new, so I decided to work with ceramics for the first time and explore how they could integrate with extended reality. I created ceramic sculptures, some of which I 3D-scanned to exist both physically and virtually.
The exhibition space was designed to feel immersive and dreamlike. Visitors entered a fog-filled room where they encountered sand typography created by a friend, sculptures placed throughout the space, and a soundscape I composed. There was also an interactive sound sculpture, a chime made from 3D-printed objects. Using a motion sensor, visitors could play the chime, creating their own sounds and engaging with the installation.
The project’s title,Rêverie, reflects its dreamlike quality and the exploration of realms between physical and digital, tangible and intangible. It was a way for me to blend technology and materiality, creating spaces that felt both personal and expansive.
Your music, such as in tracks like My Heart, incorporates a distinct fusion of electronic, experimental, and organic elements. How do you balance these diverse sonic textures, and what does the blending of genres represent within your broader artistic vision?
For My Heart, the process began when Cecilia, the singer, sent me vocals and piano tracks. I stripped everything back and built the song around those elements. Even though I didn’t initially know the lyrics, I felt connected to their energy.
When blending genres, I approach it similarly to how I DJ. Since I started making music through DJing rather than formal training, my process is rooted in curiosity and experimentation. My sound naturally leans experimental, even when I try for something more club-oriented.
Over the past few years, my Tati au Miel project began to feel heavier and more intricate, which led me to start a new side project, Haitian Prince of Music. This project allowed me to explore different sounds,drum-driven, ambient, and inspired by artists like Boards of Canada. It helped me realize I can explore any genre as long as I give it the right context.
This freedom excites me. Whether under Tati au Miel or another alias, I can push boundaries and create across genres without feeling confined to one style.
Many of your projects seem to challenge conventional formats of performance or art. Can you discuss how you approach breaking traditional boundaries, and what inspires you to create in such multidisciplinary ways?
The first thing that comes to mind is when someone asks, “Oh, you’re an artist? What do you do?” and I say I do more than one thing. Their reaction is often, “You can’t do that.” I hate that response because it’s 2025, we live in a time with access to so many tools and opportunities. It feels like a calling to push boundaries and explore new ways of creating.
I think of that expression, “Our ancestors ran so we could walk.” We’re in a moment where we don’t need to limit ourselves to replicating what already exists. Personally, I feel driven to take untraditional routes and challenge myself with each project.
Over the past four years, since becoming a full-time artist, I’ve made it a point to include an element of curiosity or learning in everything I do. Whether it’s experimenting with a new medium or diving into an idea’s roots, I constantly strive to create work that moves beyond conventional frameworks.
With technology evolving so quickly, the possibilities feel endless. Tools that were once difficult to access are now at our fingertips, and I’m excited to embrace that momentum to reimagine how art and performance can exist.
Your work often explores the intersection of the personal and the collective. How do you navigate the balance between your personal identity and the themes you aim to communicate to the audience, particularly in collaborative works?
I think there’s something inherently communal about being human. While my identity is specific,I’m Haitian Canadian, trans, and able-bodied, sharing who I am creates connections with others, even if we don’t share the same background.
For example, practicing Zen Buddhism has deeply influenced my perspective. Over the past two years, I’ve attended silent retreats and visited temples, especially in New York and Vancouver. What I love about Zen is its openness and communal nature, you meet people from all walks of life who share the same values. That sense of shared understanding mirrors how I present my work. Those who resonate with it will connect, no matter who they are.
That said, one challenge I’ve faced as an artist is being tokenized as a Black artist. While I’m proud of my identity and think it’s important to share, I don’t want my work to be reduced to that lens. This has motivated me to push my practice further, creating complex, layered pieces that can be appreciated for their depth and artistry beyond labels tied to my identity.
Can you take us through your current residency at MONOM, the renowned spatial sound studio and listening space in Berlin? What specific projects or ideas are you exploring there, and how does the space’s unique focus on spatial audio influence your creative process?
I’ve been at MONOM for a few days now, and it’s already been such a rewarding experience. This residency is unique because the team reached out to collaborate with artists, creating a piece together through discussions and shared ideas. That approach felt very natural for me, as I tend to develop work intuitively after being in a space and sensing its energy.
In our initial conversations, we discussed themes like spirituality, which often appear in my work. As I began working, the piece started to take shape as a kind of prayer. It’s inspired by wind, silence, white noise and the idea of a slow-building listening session that invites people to sit with the energy of the space and immerse themselves in the sound.
For me, this project is about being present and responsive to the space and the people around me. Even when performing live, I adapt based on the soundcheck or the energy of the venue. Spaces like MONOM allow me to explore this dynamic fully, crafting something that feels rooted in the moment.
With regard to spatial influences, The Akhet Edizione performance at Fondazione Casa Morra is part of a larger showcase in Naples. What role do you feel the venue and its historical significance play in shaping the energy and message of your performance? How does this specific performance engage with the concept of time, space, and place, especially within the context of Akhet, which suggests a moment of transition or creation?
That performance was my favorite show to date. Interestingly, my previous favorite was my first performance in Milan. I feel deeply connected to Italy, it has a unique energy I always tap into. The Italian electronic scene is incredibly supportive of avant-garde and unconventional work, and the audiences are a perfect balance of curiosity and openness.
The venue, Fondazione Casa Morra, was extraordinary. It’s a beautiful museum, and I had the privilege of staying there before the performance. This gave me time to immerse myself in the space and its history. Naples itself brought its own energy to the performance. The city’s chaotic charm reminds me of Mexico City, where I lived for a few years, and I’m drawn to that kind of vibrancy.
The performance took place on a grand staircase, and I felt compelled to wear a costume and mask. I hadn’t performed with a mask in a while, but doing so helped me channel the energy of the space and created a sense of separation between myself and the performance. This allowed me to fully embody the moment.
The acoustics, the historical weight of the venue, and the energy of the crowd all came together in a way that felt transcendent. Listening back to the recording, I hardly recognized my voice,it was so specific to that time and place. It’s performances like these that remind me why I create. They inspire me to continue tailoring each performance to the unique energy of the moment.
Biraddali Dancing on the Horizon documents a process of ancestral, intergenerational learning. Can you elaborate on the significance and origins of this work?
This film was created by my friend and collaborator, Bhenji Ra, a performer and movement artist from Australia and the Philippines. Biraddali refers to a term used by the Tausug of the Philippines, a celestial being that resembles a woman with wings and supernatural beauty. In the film, Bhenjilearns a pre-Islamic dance of the Tausug people of the Sulu Archipelago and the eastern coast Bajau of Saba in the Philippines. The film portrays a ritual and the learning of this dance with her teacher and collaborator Sitti Airia Sangkula Askalani-Obeso.
The film weaves together movement, stunning landscapes, and traditional music. My sound work for the piece includes noise textures blended with music from the Bungalima Tausug Ensemble. It was an honor to contribute to this project, especially as Bhenjiand I have been collaborating on several performances over the past year.
When Bhenji approached me about scoring the film, she said she felt I could translate shadows and create a parallel realm through sound. That idea stayed with me throughout the process. The film is deeply rooted in cultural and spiritual resonance, and I aimed to honor that by incorporating both indigenous Filipino sounds and experimental elements.
This collaboration felt like a culmination of our previous work together. Bhenji’s expertise in movement and my focus on sound complemented each other, creating a rich interplay between frequencies and physical gestures.
Eternal and Sacred features a selection of pre-recorded mixes and live sets. The genres explored vary from electronic, experimental, industrial, classical, and jazz to ambient soundscapes. Can you elaborate on the existential vision behind the mix as well as the embodiment of this vision in the title?
Eternal and Sacred was a proclamation I made through a mix and live event. It brought together ten artists, who contributed mixes and performed for a radio showcase in New York. The event spanned an entire day, with performances and mixes streamed live.
One of the highlights was including M. Lamar, an artist whose work I deeply admire. M. Lamar blends gothic opera with themes of identity and transformation. Having him contribute a recorded performance for the event felt surreal, especially as I’ve been a fan of his music for so long.
The title reflects ideas close to my heart: timelessness, spirituality, and the creation of spaces that feel expansive yet grounded. The project allowed me to curate a collective experience where diverse genres and creative expressions could coexist.
The event was hosted at Montez Press Radio in Chinatown, New York, where people could listen throughout the day. Some performances were recorded live, adding to the ephemeral yet permanent nature of the project. The name Eternal and Sacred encapsulates the energy I wanted to evoke, a timeless, almost spiritual atmosphere. It remains one of my most fulfilling projects, and I hope to expand on it in the future.
From Seed to Skin explored ideas of transformation, skin, and identity. How do you use sound to symbolize processes of growth, decay, and renewal, and what role does sonic experimentation play in conveying these concepts? Could you elaborate on how your collaboration with Bhenji Ra shaped the overall concept, and how did each of you influence the other’s vision for this live performance?
That performance was the first collaboration between Bhenji and me, and it felt symbolic, like planting a seed. The performance we’re doing later this month is actually a continuation, almost like the third iteration of what began with From Seed to Skin.
The original performance took place in Mexico City during the Day of the Dead, which brought a powerful energy of renewal, death, and shifting perspectives. At the same time, there was a heightened awareness of ongoing genocide in the media, adding another layer of intensity to the work. Bhenji felt called to incorporate elements of Mexican mythology, particularly the god who is associated with transformation and is often depicted with two masks.
For this piece, I asked Bhenji to wear an older costume I had made called the Flesh Mesh. It’s a fabric printed with images of my own flesh, taken from a surgery, symbolizing the idea of a second skin. I had previously used it in other installations and performances, but in From Seed to Skin, it took on a new meaning of shedding and renewal.
The performance itself was deeply rooted in the present moment. I thrive on collaboration, and working with someone as intuitive and thoughtful as Bhenji was incredibly inspiring. Her vision brought in mythological and ritualistic elements, while I focused on sonic experimentation, creating sounds that felt raw and transformative.
Together, we were able to craft a piece that was reflective of growth, decay, and renewal, a work that resonated deeply with the themes we wanted to explore. It was a process of mutual inspiration, with each of us drawing on the other’s ideas and energy to create something profoundly layered and impactful.
In the performance and installation at Kurimanzutto Gallery, you both used your bodies as mediums of transformation. What role does physicality and embodiment play in your work, and how does it connect with themes of growth, decay, and renewal?
I love this question because physicality has become something I am increasingly curious about.
This curiosity about embodiment is why I have always been drawn to performance. While I perform live music, I try to bring an intentional presence to the space, using my body to interact with the environment. Working with someone like Bhenji, who is so experienced in movement, has taught me so much about exploring my body’s role within performance.
I see embodiment as a way to leave a trace of myself in the work. Whether it is through a live performance, a physical gesture that remains, or a recorded element, I am fascinated by the idea of archiving and marking presence. It feels like an act of personal archaeology, leaving behind something meaningful while fully inhabiting the moment.
Formations for Eternitywith Yesenia Rojas at Trans Pecos was a highly immersive live performance. How did you and Yesenia navigate the process of creating an experience that could engage the senses of the audience while also leaving space for introspection?
Yesenia is a close friend of mine. This performance was her first time doing something live, and it was exciting to collaborate on a project that felt so aligned with our shared interests. Both of us come from Caribbean descent, so themes of spirituality and ritual naturally emerged in our discussions. We envisioned the performance as “spiritual noise,” blending experimental sound with intentional, ceremonial elements.
We designed the environment to feel immersive and intimate, setting up four candles around us with the equipment placed in the middle. We faced each other while performing, surrounded by pillars of light, which gave the performance a cinematic quality. The setup became part of the experience, shaping the audience’s connection to the sound and creating a sense of timelessness.
This performance was the first under the Formations for Eternity name, and we both felt it had the potential to grow into an ongoing project. We are already discussing ways to expand it and record future performances. There is something deeply ritualistic about the way we approach these live sets, and it feels like a practice we want to explore further.
The term ‘eternity’ often evokes a sense of permanence, yet your performance seems to embrace the ephemeral. How do you reconcile these concepts, and how does it inform the way you craft live performances that are both fleeting and impactful?
I think it connects to what I mentioned earlier about leaving a trace. Even though live performances are ephemeral, there is something permanent in the impression they leave behind.
Over the years, I have become more selective about how I perform. Not every venue gives me the opportunity to fully realize my vision, but when I can, I think deeply about how to craft the experience. For me, it is about presence, being fully in the moment and creating something that resonates deeply, even if it is fleeting.
The kind of noise I work with often feels trance-like and timeless, as if it exists outside the boundaries of conventional time. I try to embody this quality in all my work. Whether it is through sound, lighting, or interaction with the space, I aim to create an experience that lingers in memory, even after the performance ends.
Ultimately, the reconciliation of eternity and ephemerality comes down to presence. By fully inhabiting the moment, I can create something impactful that leaves a lasting impression while embracing the fleeting beauty of live performance.
The Fantastical World of Tati au Miel series evokes a narrative-driven experience. In the second volume, ‘The Tale of The Vagabond,’ you create a world of migration, displacement, and transition. How do these themes resonate personally for you, and how do they manifest in the performance?
The Tale of The Vagabond emerged during a residency where I created a sculpture of a bird’s nest and performed alongside it. Even before starting the residency, I felt inspired to develop a character-driven story that leaned into fiction. The Vagabond is a human-bird hybrid, a metaphorical reflection of my life as a traveler and nomad.
This character embodies themes of being an outsider, someone without a fixed home. Growing up, the word “vagabond” was often present, sometimes even used as an insult in my Haitian upbringing, which added personal resonance to the concept. The bird imagery felt natural, symbolizing freedom, migration, and the fluidity of identity.
The narrative unfolds not through traditional storytelling but through installations and performances, each offering hints about the Vagabond’s existence and experiences. It allows me to explore deeply personal themes in a more tangible, relatable way, blending my abstract tendencies with a fictional framework.
How do you view the intersection of technology and sound in the Vagabond’s Altar?
It functions as an altar for a fictional character, blending physical objects I created with 3D-scanned and AI-generated elements. Viewers can interact with the piece through AR, placing it in their environment and scaling it to explore its details at their own pace.
What excites me about AR is its ability to make art more accessible. Anyone with a mobile phone can experience the work intimately, creating their own personal connection. This was my first AR piece, and I am eager to explore how technology can allow art to exist anywhere while giving audiences the freedom to engage on their terms.
Your performance at Mutek Montreal was part of an experimental music festival. Can you describe how you approach live sets like this one, how do you balance the organic elements of performance with the technological aspects that are so integral to your work?
The performance at Mutek Montreal was the live audio-visual iteration of my exhibitionRêverie, as both happened simultaneously in the city. It took place in a 360-degree dome at the Society of Arts and Technology, with visuals projected across the space and surround sound immersing the audience.
Because I was working with VR during my residency, I integrated visuals from the VR project into the performance to complement the dome’s environment. The site-specific nature of the dome heavily influenced the experience. For example, I adapted my sound sculpture for live performance and incorporated technology like motion sensors to make the experience both interactive and immersive.
Performing at Mutek felt significant, especially since it was in my hometown and allowed me to explore new directions in combining XR technology with live performance. It was an exciting way to experiment with emerging mediums while staying true to my artistic voice.
The Chime with Motion Sensor is an innovative piece that functions both as a MIDI controller and a live instrument. Can you describe the concept behind this piece and how it explores the relationship between physical movement and digital sound creation? How does the motion sensor function as a tool for both performance and composition, and what does it reveal about the relationship between technology and the human body?
During a residency, I participated in a workshop on digital fabrication and sensors, which introduced me to motion sensors. That sparked the idea of incorporating them into a chime. The first version was part of an installation, featuring 3D-printed objects that moved but did not produce sound.
I later developed a smaller, portable version with acoustic elements like small bells alongside electronic components. The motion sensor triggers sounds, blending physicality and technology. This interplay creates a tactile, interactive experience where movement generates sound, making it feel intuitive and accessible.
The chime represents my ongoing curiosity about integrating movement and sound. It highlights the relationship between the body and technology, showing how physical gestures can directly shape the auditory experience.
With the growing prevalence of augmented and virtual reality, what potential do you see for these mediums in the future of live performance or art installation? How do they enable a new form of intimacy and immersion with your work?
I believe AR and VR are becoming increasingly integrated into art and performance, offering exciting possibilities for intimacy and immersion. For example, performing in a 360-degree dome with projections felt like a form of augmented reality, where the audience could step into a fully immersive world.
That said, I think it is crucial to make these technologies accessible and human-centric. I am less interested in creating work that requires heavy equipment like VR headsets and more focused on using technology to simplify and enhance experiences. Motion sensors, for example, allow for intuitive interactions without overwhelming barriers.
Ultimately, I see AR and VR as tools to expand how audiences connect with art, providing them with new ways to explore and engage while maintaining a sense of presence and immediacy. As I continue to experiment, I hope to find ways to merge these mediums seamlessly into my practice, making technology a complement to, rather than a replacement for, physical interaction.
Carousel is a fascinating blend of experimental music, visuals, and themes of emotional vulnerability. Can you walk us through the inspiration behind this piece?
Many of the sounds in Carouselwere initially created during The Tale of The Vagabond. The root inspiration for this project was the concept of ever-changing forms and the idea of recreating and reinterpreting my own work. I am a big believer in revisiting previous ideas and evolving them into something new, and Carousel embodies this approach.
The title itself evokes imagery of a carousel at an amusement park, with its whimsical, cyclical motion. This EP captures that energy, blending playful, childlike wonder with experimental sonic textures. For example, the first track, La Berceuse, uses vocal samples from my friend Embaci, and its title refers to a French lullaby, a song to soothe or put someone to sleep. The tracks often feel like lullabies spiraling into echoes, creating a dreamlike atmosphere.
Another influence was the Haitian literary movement known as Spiralism, which explores themes of timelessness, transformation, and the expansion of life. This philosophy deeply shaped the EP, blending ideas of childlike innocence with an abstract sense of infinite possibility.
Solar Returnfeels like a deeply introspective and cosmic exploration of time and transformation. Could you elaborate on the concept behind this project and how it relates to your personal and creative evolution?
Solar Return was one of my first projects, and it holds a special place for me. It includes some of my favorite tracks, which I still perform live. At the time, I felt an urgency to create and release work, it was driven by a chaotic energy and a sense of survival. I had a lot of ideas and felt the need to get them out into the world quickly.
Looking back, I see how my creative process has evolved since then. These days, I feel more grounded and patient. I no longer feel the same rush to release work and prefer to take my time refining and expanding my ideas. This shift feels like a natural progression as I have become more established in my practice.
The themes in Solar Return, transformation, cycles, and renewal, still resonate with me, but I am exploring them with a deeper sense of intentionality. Moving forward, I plan to revisit some of these earlier works in a deluxe edition, combining them with new visuals and creating a more expansive body of work.
In The Exorcism of Tania Daniel, you delve into the supernatural, ritualistic practices, and transformation. Can you describe the genesis of this work, and how the idea of an “exorcism” informs the emotional and sonic landscape of the piece? How does embodiment and physical interaction with sound manifest in this project, and what does it symbolize in the context of personal transformation and release?
As my debut project, The Exorcism of Tania Danielwas deeply rooted in themes of trance, possession, and release. The idea of an exorcism felt like a fitting metaphor for letting go and confronting the darker aspects of life. Growing up with Haitian heritage, I was influenced by voodoo rituals, where possession and exorcisms are integral parts of spiritual practice.
At the same time, the project drew parallels with modern rave culture and the way people describe the catharsis of dance and techno music. While some people interpreted the project through that lens, my intention was always more spiritual, highlighting the beauty in confronting and embracing the complexities of life.
This work planted the seed for my ongoing Tati au Miel projects. It established a foundation of exploring abstract, spiritual, and transformative themes. Even now, I am inspired by ideas of fog, veils, and shifting realms, both as visual motifs and as symbolic representations of life’s layers and transitions.
Looking toward the future, what themes or concepts are you most excited to explore in your upcoming works? How do you envision your practice evolving over the next few years, especially as technology continues to advance in art-making?
In recent years, my live performances have become more reflective of my evolving sound. I’ve started incorporating new instruments, like bells and the flute, into my work. Learning the flute has been an exciting challenge, it’s still new for me, but performing with it has been an empowering experience.
Moving forward, I plan to release a larger body of work. My goal is to create a full-length album with at least 12 to 15 tracks, combining elements from my past projects with new approaches I’ve been exploring. Taking my time to develop this album will allow me to craft something cohesive, intentional, and deeply personal.
As technology continues to advance, I’m excited to experiment with interactive and immersive elements in my work. Whether through AR, VR, or physical installations, I want to create experiences that are accessible, innovative, and grounded. My goal is to push boundaries while maintaining a sense of intimacy and connection.
This next phase feels like an opportunity to integrate everything I’ve learned so far while exploring new directions. It’s a balance of honouring my past work and embracing the unknown, all while staying true to the essence of my practice.
Beyond Sound: The Humanity in No_Stone’s Imperfect Balance
No_Stone emerges as a raw and authentic dialogue between human complexities, sound, space, and identity. Rooted in Cairo’s underground music scene and shaped by the contrasting energies of Berlin and Barcelona, Assyouti and Jehia bring together their distinct yet complementary artistic visions, embracing imperfections, breaking boundaries, and redefining the underground.
Through their music, they navigate the tensions between chaos and harmony, energy and introspection, dissonance and connection. Together, they explore what it means to leave “no stone unturned,” with a reminder to remain human and real.
How did Cairo’s underground music scene act simultaneously as refuge and catalyst for both of your early artistic expressions? As your careers took you beyond Egypt, how did the clash between the raw energy of your upbringing and the more defined infrastructures of Berlin and Barcelona shape your evolving sound?
Assyouti: Cairo’s underground scene that had given birth to so many early important artists dissolved before I could even participate. By the time I started playing, there were just fragments left—parties here and there, but no cohesive movement. My early gigs were about trying to fit in, to play what I thought people wanted to hear. But I quickly realized my sound was “weird”, even in its most accessible form. That realization freed me. I stopped holding back. My last gig in Cairo before moving was pivotal—I played only what I loved. It was raw and honest, and for the first time, it resonated. That moment became my starting point. Moving to Berlin was transformative. There, artists are more respected, treated like professionals, and even given grants. In Cairo, we were seen as troublemakers. Berlin made me take myself seriously—not just as a DJ, but as a creative force. It helped me channel my creative output into something precise and intentional.
Jehia: My journey was different. I started my career after moving to Barcelona, long after leaving Cairo. Back home, the scene felt out of reach—age restrictions, limited access, and a general sense of cultural dissonance kept me away. But in Barcelona, the vibrant underground scene pulled me in. In Cairo, it was just for fun—b2b sets with Assyouti at house parties. Those moments were special—zero expectations, pure exploration. Barcelona’s innovative scene taught me to embrace my own artistic identity. My first solo gig, Primavera Sound, was a turning point. It made me realize I could take up space in this world and really express myself. That’s when I stopped holding back and fully leaned into the journey.
The creation of No_Stone brought two distinct yet complementary artistic visions together. Can you share the story of how these two paths crossed, and how shared visions for experimental, cross-genre music led to the formation of No_Stone?
A: I came to Berlin to study music. As part of my final assessment at school, I had to create an album and present it live at a venue. Initially, No_Stone was just an event to fulfill a requirement. I reached out to a club owner I knew and organized what I thought would be a one-off event. However, deep down I knew that it was only the start of something, it was undeniable that this had to evolve. Around the same time, Jehia was hosting events in Barcelona. We’ve always had similar tastes and I knew we were planning on booking many of the same artists. It felt natural to join forces. I called him and said, “Let’s do this together. Let’s expand it from two cities— Barcelona and Berlin—and create something bigger.
No_Stone has been described as a space that seeks the (im)perfect balance between introspective sounds and razor-sharp energy. What does this “imperfect” balance mean to each of you, and how does it manifest in your collaborative process during live performances?
A: It’s the acknowledgment that perfection is unattainable—and that’s where the magic lies. It’s not about creating a perfect experience but about embracing the imperfections that make it human. Real.
J: Imperfection creates relatability, spontaneity, and authenticity. In live performances, especially B2Bs, this concept comes alive. We challenge each other, not to dominate but to elevate, and that interplay shapes the narrative.
How does the imperfection work in b2b performances? Your collaboration thrives on spontaneity and unpredictability, particularly during live b2b sets. How do you prepare for the unexpected in these moments, and how do your individual approaches to music shape the dynamic tension between?
J: Honestly, I usually struggle with b2bs because I prefer to prepare my sets thoroughly from start to finish. But with Assyouti, it’s a completely different process compared to others. The last time we played together, we didn’t even discuss specifics—no genres, no strict plan. It just happened naturally. We only talked about the general flow of energy. But when we started the set, it felt seamless. There’s also this sweet challenge between us. It’s like a tug-of-war but in the best, most creative way possible.
A: Exactly. I think part of the magic is that we don’t prepare too much because we trust each other’s taste. That spontaneity keeps it exciting—like, “What’s he going to play now?” Even if we know each other’s music, it’s about when and how it’s played. My narrative might lead one way, and his might take a completely different turn. But by the end of the set—which is often the best part—we’ve settled into a flow that combines both our energies and we know where we’re going. The last time we played together, it was only an hour and a half—nothing compared to the 10+ hour sets we’ve done before. In those longer sets, things truly evolve. After the first couple of hours, we hit our stride and align perfectly. That’s when it gets really exciting.
J: Also, by the end of a set, you have less to lose. The crowd is already engaged, and you can afford to experiment more. You can mix the weirdest genres and take risks. For example, at our last set in Cairo, I played an Aphex Twin track—super emotional and serious. Then Assyouti dropped this ridiculous, playful pop remix over it. It was the most unexpected combination, but it worked. People went wild. It’s those moments of sudden synergy that make our b2bs so special.
Your music navigates the tension between dissonance and harmony, balancing chaos and order in a way that feels both structured and free-flowing. Is this a reflection of your internal states? Or is it something that emerges naturally as part of your creative process?
A: I think that too much of one thing—whether it’s energy or introspection—gets boring. Contrast keeps it stimulating and enhances the overall experience. Without balance, even the most energetic track can fall flat. My creative process grows by reading the crowd’s emotion. We naturally tap into that, sensing where the energy is and what the moment requires. Which is essential to learn how to contrast, either for preparing a narrative or just reacting spontaneously in the moment. In both cases you rely on intuition, which gradually develops by analyzing the room after “testing the water” and taking risks. But beyond that, it’s about creating a space where people feel free. Sometimes we mix tracks that feel right in the moment, even if they don’t create a perfect blend, but because we feel they’ll have a certain impact. That experimentation might not always be flawless, but it feels genuine and alive, making sense of the moment as it unfolds.
J: It’s natural. Every set is different because it’s shaped by the space, the time, and the energy of the moment. Of course my personal state influences the music I choose, but it’s more about creating a specific energy for a specific place, and that’s part of the creative process. And I think the experimentation itself becomes a kind of reflection. Even if there’s no set intention behind it, the act of blending, of trying something new, carries its own meaning. It’s about exploration and authenticity, not about delivering a polished, predictable performance. For me, that’s what makes a set interesting.
Genre-blending is central to your music, yet each genre retains its authenticity within the whole. How do you think such unconventional sound pairings enhance the narrative of the set?
A: When I started my career, I made a conscious decision not to box myself into one genre. If I had started that way, people would’ve expected me to stick to it forever. Now people know that I play across genres, and I love that freedom. It allows me to be invited to a variety of events, and I can tailor my sets to each space without losing my integrity. My family was always into music. Growing up, I didn’t think about labels like “genre.” To me, music was music. That perspective naturally carried over into my work. I don’t see tracks as belonging to genres; I see them as individual pieces with their own identities. That makes it easier to mix seemingly unrelated styles without fitting into a specific box in order to build a narrative that flows and evolves, and I think that’s what really ends up resonating with audiences.
J: When I prepare a set, I focus on the emotional and energetic identities of each track rather than their genres. That approach opens up endless possibilities for unexpected combinations. Sometimes I’ll stumble upon a blend that I wouldn’t have imagined working, but when I play it, it makes perfect sense. Those moments of discovery are what excite me the most. Can be quite a challenge too. My process often involves preparing music months in advance when possible. I build playlists for each gig, pulling tracks from Bandcamp, SoundCloud, YouTube—wherever. I think about the space, the people who will be there, even the staff working at the venue, and try to deliver a set specifically for that context.
A: If I have time to prepare, I can build something cohesive that still surprises me during the performance. Sometimes, though, you don’t have time to prepare—like when bookings come last minute or back-to-back. That’s when I rely on intuition and quick decisions. It can be messy, but those spontaneous moments often lead to unexpected blends or transitions that surprise even me. It reminds me why I love this—because it’s not just about playing music I’ve prepared but also responding to the energy of the room and truly connecting with people.
How do you balance the desire to push the boundaries of sound while ensuring that there’s still an emotional connection with the audience? Do you ever feel there’s a limit to how far you can experiment in a live setting?
J: It depends on the space or event. At some festivals, I do hold back. Festivals attract a fluid audience. People come and go, often without knowing the artist. In those cases, I restrain the experimentation to an extent. But in spaces I feel at home, like certain clubs in Barcelona or Berlin, I truly let go and play the weirdest, hardest tracks. Those are the moments where I push myself to do things I didn’t even expect of myself.
A: Again, it’s all about balance. I don’t want to sell out by playing only what’s “safe”, neither do I want to always play chin-stroking intellectual stuff, I want to enjoy myself and connect with the crowd. If I play something too abstract and it doesn’t land, it ruins the vibe for me as much as for them. It’s about finding that middle ground—staying true to my sound while keeping the energy engaging and stimulating. Some sets are dark and rough; others are light and fun. It depends on the context and how you adapt to it without compromising.
This ties into the larger conversation about the mainstream versus the underground. Do you think the industry will evolve to make more space for experimentation?
A: The music scene is cyclical. It swings between creative experimentation and peak commercialism. Right now, I feel we’re closer to commercialism. DJs, producers, bookers, labels I once admired are now leaning into accessibility, playing it safe for hype and sales, resulting in monotonous, trend-driven output. However, I’m hopeful for a shift back to adventurous, personal sounds and individualism, because many in the scene are starting to feel disillusioned. It takes a collective effort to break the loop, but I think we’re heading in the right direction.
J: I agree. Music should be about sharing your individual sound, not copying what’s trending. The artists I respect most are the ones who stay true to their niche, even if it doesn’t make them rich or famous. It’s about integrity and introducing people to something new and meaningful. That’s what we try to do with our sets and with No_Stone.
In No_Stone, the aim is to leave “no stone unturned” in your exploration of sound. Upon research, I came across that the origin of the phrase dates back to an ancient Greek legend where an oracle advised a general to search under every stone to find hidden treasures, signifying the importance of exhaustive investigation or effort. Considering the creative process to be a mirror of this philosophy, can you take us behind the scenes and to the influence you aim to create for the listeners?
A: The idea of “imperfect balance” reflects the fact that we’re not trying to go to extremes. It’s not about “raving until we drop” or about creating events that are purely for deep listening. It’s about finding a middle ground. Personally, when I go to events, I get bored if it’s all in one direction—either constant high energy or purely introspective. The harmony lies in moving between these states. At our events, there will always be people who want more energy and others who prefer introspection. It’s impossible to please everyone, but we can keep things dynamic. The balance will never be perfect, and that’s okay—it keeps things interesting. It’s like constantly shifting left and right to keep the center. That’s what we aim for.
J: Assyouti actually came up with the term “imperfect balance” before I joined, but it resonates with how I approach music too. No event or dj-set will ever be flawless, and that’s the point. Acknowledging imperfection keeps things organic.
How did this passion serve as a medium for delivering profound messages and fostering cultural connections?
J: One example that comes to mind is a mix I recently prepared for national radio in Barcelona. Unlike an online stream for an audience already familiar with our scene, this was broadcast to everyday listeners—people driving home from work, for instance. For me, that was a chance to play African, Arabic and Middle Eastern music. It was a way to showcase these cultures to people that wouldn’t really get exposed to them in their daily lives.
In clubs or spaces, I often play to people who already share similar views or appreciate the music I play—people who might cheer when I drop an Arabic or Palestinian track. But for the radio, I felt it was more intentional. It wasn’t just about playing a set; it was about using music as a bridge to connect cultures.
A: An example for me was during a fundraiser for Palestine. I didn’t approach it as just another club set. I was trying to tap into the collective emotions of the crowd, and that wasn’t by simply playing some Middle Eastern tracks, but rather creating an emotional narrative tied to the reason why everyone was there—to support Palestine. Because people were already emotional, and I wanted to offer a way to process and release that through music. That’s part of what I think we, as DJs, are here to do—not only play fun or bright tracks to always entertain, but also match the tone and energy of the moment when the situation calls for something deeper.
The DIY aspect is quite authentic and aligned with the philosophy. How does it add to the project’s message?
J: The DIY aspect mirrors the essence of No_Stone. It’s raw, real, and human. We’re not focusing on making it look perfect or polished. The priority is the music and the experience. That said, we recognize that visual identity matters, and we might refine it in the future. But for now, we believe it to be a mirror to its core.
A: Exactly. Just like in our careers, we’ve built an audience slowly but genuinely. The people who come to No_Stone events are there for the music and the experience—not because of flashy posters or a trendy Instagram feed. It’s about creating a real connection with our audience, and that authenticity is what makes the project so special.
Music is a spell. Halcyon Veil‘s co-founder Rabit channels André Breton, but make it Houston. Ahead of the summer, NR spoke with the producer, dj, and label head -but don’t call him that- about Halcyon Veil’s foundation, its curatorial stances, and upcoming projects. Detours to be expected: a reflection on the early 2010s avant-club scene, perspectives on the art market, and a critique of identitarian fixations.
Okay, let’s dive in. You’ve got a pretty busy day, so why don’t we start by talking about these two releases, and we can use them to explore your work with the label and your own artistry?
Sure, it’s two albums—our summer releases. One is by Lol k from London, and the other is from Nudo, a duo based on the Texas-Mexico border. A bit of background: we released Low K’s first album. They’re part of the Curl collective, which is tied to the London scene, with artists like Mica Levi. What makes Lol K interesting is that they’re instrumentalists—they usually play in bands, and this project is a duo, kind of straddling the line between electronic and band music. Our approach is to support whatever they want to create without trying to push them in any particular direction. And that’s the general ethos of the label. We’re not trying to guide anyone into being a Taylor Swift, or over-curate anyone. We’re open to producing if an artist comes to us with questions, but overall, we see the music side of Halcyon Veil more like a publishing house—almost like a book or zine publishing. When we find someone or a group doing their thing, we just want to support it. We’re also open to helping artists build their creative world, connecting them with other visual artists, fashion designers, and people in our network, but beyond that, we’re just here to facilitate the release. Whatever they want to make of it, we’re just happy to be part of that process, like enablers or supporters in a sense.
Sort of like a platform?
Exactly. We’re open to producing or offering advice if artists come to us with specific questions, but we really just want to be part of the process—more like a mechanism that helps facilitate their release. We’re not interested in tying anyone down or forcing them to stay with the label. My co-founder, Lane Stewart, and I both agree this works best for us. The Nudo album is particularly interesting. My first experience seeing them live was when they performed a live score for an art film here in Houston. A friend of ours curated both the film and the performance. They use a variety of old instruments and sounds, often sourcing items from flea markets. Their approach is all about utilizing the tools available in their native environment, which really drew me to the project. Their sound sources reflect both their geographical roots and their mental landscapes, creating a fascinating world that we felt compelled to support, especially since it originates from Texas. To be honest, we’re one of the few labels in the area that has been doing this for almost a decade.
Really?
While there are indie labels and a significant DIY scene in Texas, much of it tends to stay local, focusing on genres like dark wave and punk. However, when it comes to identifying music that ventures into the electronic realm, we don’t really know of anyone else releasing it here. I felt a responsibility to help support Nudo, as I kept seeing them on flyers and thought they were doing something unique. So, I told Lane, ‘We should help these guys get their music out there.’.
Scrolling through the Halcyon Veil catalog I thought you guys have a very open “editorial” line. I’m curious about the process behind how you and Lane curate it. From the way you speak, it’s evident that both of you are artists and musicians first, and then label heads. Could you elaborate on how that background influences your approach to curation?
I can for sure tell you that the way we do things doesn’t always make sense for us from a business perspective; it’s not necessarily profitable and might even be losing money. The way we curate Halcyon Veil runs parallel to our creative process as artists. For me, it’s just a different expression of my creativity. I’ve been making zines since I was 16—cutting things out, xeroxing them, all without a specific scene to belong to, just following my instincts, you know? This feels like a more organized version of that. We’re happy to be doing it, and at the same time, we’re transitioning into other areas, like events and objects. We’re currently working on the second issue of our magazine. So, we take things organically, and it really feels more like a lifestyle and an ethos for us, than a label.
I’d say the idea came about around 2013-2014. Lane and I actually met on Twitter because he was doing creative direction and music videos for a group called BC Kingdom, which was releasing music on Solange’s label. I saw one of their videos, followed him, and we started chatting. He mentioned that his mom is from Houston while he was living in LA at the time. I thought it was crazy because there wasn’t really anyone else in our area doing similar work.From there, we became friends. Our mutual friends began sending me music, including Mistress from New Orleans, a producer named Myth from London, and Angel Ho from Cape Town. It felt like a no-brainer to start something, especially since we had support from Boomcat based in Manchester. They were essentially fronting us everything we needed to produce vinyl—just sending them the music with no upfront costs. We were quite new to the scene, learning as we went along, and we continued to evolve from that initial spark. We noticed other labels making waves, like Hyperdub, we recognized there wasn’t anything similar here, in Houston, so we decided to create it ourselves.
Labels like Hyperdub over the years have come to signify more than just music—they almost are a whole aesthetic of their own, which I guess it’s also what you’re doing with Halcyon Veil. This brings up an interesting point I’d love to discuss with you: the changing nature of labels and their roles today. With the increasing number of media platforms, the way we circulate and experience music is evolving. More artists are self-publishing and distributing their work through platforms like SoundCloud or MySpace, similar to how seminal bands like Salem emerged. Maybe we don’t need, as much as we used to, traditional labels anymore? Labels like yours seem to function more as collaborative curatorial platforms. You collaborate closely with artists to help shape and amplify their vision.
That’s why we lean toward being a label and a collective. A good example of how we operate is House of Kenzo from San Antonio, Texas. Their work, which is ballroom-inspired, is very DIY and self-driven. They don’t necessarily seek popularity, and that’s what makes them interesting. When they release something—a mix or a track—we post it on the label, but being part of the collective doesn’t mean everything they create has to be released through us. There are no corporate rules to follow. For me, personally, it’s important to adopt a lifestyle where you don’t always expect something in return. We’ve identified that many other labels operate differently, often driven by a desire to appear cool or to attract attention, which is unfortunately prevalent in this scene. We’re not trying to manipulate people for personal gain—no shade, but it’s a reality we’ve seen. We recognize that some people run legitimate businesses, and it makes sense for them to have artists sign contracts for future releases to ensure their investment pays off. But for us, we’re not looking to profit from random artists or lock anyone into a deal. It’s about being selfless and allowing for genuine expression. As you mentioned, many artists today are independent and don’t need a label to succeed, and we see plenty of examples of that. Our collaborations with musicians tend to work well because they might be new and have a small following, but they want to elevate their visibility. If they have their visuals, album, and artwork ready, we’re happy to announce the release and help them move forward. Whatever they choose to do with it after that is up to them, and we support it.
It’s interesting how you’ve built this multimedia approach, which is very “contemporary” as music today feels increasingly multidisciplinary, where visuals and sound are more intertwined than ever. You and Lane also have different backgrounds, how do you run things?
The way it works, and to revisit your previous question about our end game or goals, is that for us, this is really a vehicle. For example, Lane has been focused on producing magazines that are more fashion-oriented. We’ve come to realize that we are influencers in the truest sense, though we’re not necessarily being approached to create content for specific brands. We see our network as reminiscent of what Been Trill represented—think Virgil and Matthew. Yet, for various reasons, including political and geographic factors, we aren’t landing those types of gigs. There’s a long history of erasure in the South; genres like rock and roll, country, and many others were deeply influenced by Southern Black culture. However, if you ask a random person in Europe, they might not recognize where these genres originated. We acknowledge that certain sections may ignore us no matter what we do. If we want to experiment in this space, we need to invest our own resources and do it ourselves. Lane’s main commercial work is with Fear of God, the fashion label, but he also freelances for various fashion and internet companies. He’s eager to explore ideas that others might be too hesitant to pursue, and that’s where the magazine comes in. We aim to express the things we believe fashion should be doing, reflecting the excitement we see in that world. Fashion and music are both forms of self-expression, and we want to highlight that. For instance, Lane lived in London for two years and discovered Rat Section. He texted me right away, saying, ‘We have to release these artists; this is something new.’ Similarly, when I saw what Nudo was doing in Texas, I approached him and said we had to release their work. Our collaboration is quite organic; when we see something exciting, we inform each other, and then we just go from there.
What’s the differential you use to “select” people you collaborate with?
We’re very much online. I’m not sure how old you are, but when we first started networking, I’d say it was about 10 years ago or more. It’s interesting how everything comes back around, and you end up knowing the same people or crossing paths later on. I just noticed on Twitter today that two people I’ve interacted with before—one who interviewed me for a previous magazine and another who worked with Boiler Room—are now the new editor of a magazine. It’s fascinating to see the same faces reappear over time. There’s definitely an online network, and, for better or worse, we approach things with a sense of realism. While we have hopes and dreams for the label, we won’t work with people who don’t vibe with us. You know how it is; friendships aren’t usually made by saying, “Hey, you’re going to be my friend.” It’s more of an intuitive connection based on shared tastes and experiences. Many of these online networks have developed over the years. For example, Vipra was part of our original compilation years ago, which included various artists—Yves Tumor even contributed under a different name. We recognize these existing networks and aim to be conscious of them as we move forward.
Is there a particular conceptual framework Halcyon Veil operates within? I’m thinking of the statement on your website’s landing page, where you reference André Breton and the idea of forming a “doorway to a voice.”
I think one of the main connections between Lane and me, especially coming from the South, is the strong narrative element in electronic music. For instance, and there is absolutely no shade here, quite the contrary, if PC Music had simply launched as an internet label releasing tracks without a compelling concept, it probably wouldn’t have garnered much attention. The overarching idea is what initially drew people in, and then, ten years later, mainstream pop started to adopt what they had accumulated as their aesthetic. We recognize how crucial narrative is, and we like to play with that idea—both its significance and its lack of significance, as well as the capitalism inherent in it. What we are sick of is the identitarian game. There’s a..Pokémon, if you’d like, phenomenon going on in electronic music, and perhaps not only there; Let’s make a parallelism: You know, when suddenly institutions in Europe become interested in an artist discovered in a so-called “third-world” country. If that artist were from a different background, they might not even get booked. This happens also in the electronic world, and it’s even more pronounced in the fine art world. I’ve heard stories of collectors who are drawn to artists because of their backstories—like someone from a poor village in Colombia who goes barefoot. We’re aware that these systems exist, and we’ve become frustrated with how identity has dominated conversations in recent years; it often feels like it has overshadowed the art itself. That’s why we operate at the speed we do. For us, it’s about whether the music resonates. You can have any identity or backstory, but if we believe in what you’re doing and see your passion, we want to support and work with you.
I completely agree with this. The over-fixation of identity as the sole indicator of quality must stop.
I’ve been having some interesting conversations on this topic, and more generally on the concept of “quality.” The past few years have sparked worthwhile discussions, especially in matters of social advancements and inequality, and we have to consider that many in the general population remain unaware of these issues, still. On the other side of the coin, there’s a correction that needs to occur, otherwise identity will be just marketing lingo. For example, there’s a museum in Houston showcasing an artist who has worked in New York for a while, focusing on identity and its perception. This exhibition is valuable because it exposes visitors to alternative perspectives, which is the true purpose of art. There are positives and negatives to every social evolution, and we’re simply observing it all while doing what feels right to us.
Yeah, I think we’re all navigating new predicaments, both in artistic expression and in the ways we interact with various systems.
It makes you question your own biases because, literally, every human on Earth has them. What interests me is that we’re trying to push the conversation forward without being constrained by any rules. We aim to show people what else exists and share our perspective.
One thing I’ve been reflecting on, in relation also to the discussion we are having, is how the internet has changed our understanding of geography. In a way, traditional scenes as we knew them—think of the golden era of subcultures—no longer exist. We went through a phase of intense globalisation that also coincided with the paradoxical binome of identity fixation and boundary dissolution, where scenes seemed to disappear, but maybe we’re starting to move beyond that. It feels like new ways of forming dislocated scenes that transcend geography are surfacing, based on artistic, not identitarian premises.
It’s interesting that you mentioned that because it’s so true. When I first started releasing music, everything was categorized—like you were either a grime artist or a dubstep DJ, or maybe a DJ in the style of Diplo who was blending different genres. One of the main inspirations for us came from the Fade to Mind and Ghetto Goth eras, where artists were merging everything together. That really inspired us, as we see ourselves as part of that legacy of breaking down boundaries. Now, it’s fascinating to see how that approach has become established. When you watch a new DJ on Boiler Room, for example, they might play drill, club music, amapiano, or a mix of styles.
Damn, I loved Fade to Mind.. Bok Bok, Kelela’s first album, NGUZUNGUZU. Makes me think also of projects like Future Brown, they were so ahead of their time. I remember when Vernaculo came out: A blend of reggaeton and experimental sounds, and it was released on Warp, a notoriously avant-garde, often considered niche, label, at least at the time. Intellectual electronic music’s premiere label. “Reggaeton” and “Niche” in the same sentence was not considered possible back then. The Youtube comments.. It was 2014, ten years ago. Remarkably forward-thinking, almost predictive of how genres would evolve and intersect. Nowadays, we see genres and scenes coexisting almost instantaneously, to the point where everything is blended together. As listeners, I think we are moving beyond the traditional trend cycles in music. Instead of clear distinctions—like dubstep, grime, Berlin techno, IDM and all that—there’s a fascinating moment where diverse genres intermingle, even in mainstream-mainstream music.
To me, that’s part of the joy of music. I’m grateful to have come up in the era I did, even if my tracks weren’t that great. I immersed myself in and studied every genre, embracing total freedom in my approach. Hessel Audio and Pearson Sound were among the first DJs I supported, and I appreciated the wide array of electronic music. As a producer, it always felt intuitive to blend all these different influences together.
It makes perfect sense, especially considering you’re from Houston. Chopped n Screwed.
Yeah, if you listen to an original DJ Screw mix, you might come across tracks like Phil Collins in the lineup.
It’s also interesting to consider Ghetto House. While it’s more closely associated with Detroit, both genres emphasize the art of taking something out of context and making it new. Taking the art of sampling to the extreme.
I’m really getting back into that now. I’ve noticed that I love when club producers express their appreciation for music in general. For example, Byrell the Great has a track on one of their projects that incorporates samples from funk or soul. They chop them up in a way reminiscent of DJ Premier, and I really admire when artists highlight their influences instead of sticking to a standard electronic palette. Soul music, in particular, has played a crucial role in the development of electronic music—you can trace the influences back to pioneers like Kraftwerk. As I get older, I’m developing a deeper appreciation for what initially drew me to music. DJing breaks were a significant part of that, as the original breaks laid the foundation for so many artists today. Even though it might seem distant from something like Surgeon’s work, none of this music would exist without those drum breaks. What fascinates me now is the interconnectedness of all these sounds.
Yes! Back in 2014 I was around 13 or 14 years old, just starting my career as a music nerd. I was fortunate to have a father who instilled in me an almost obsessive passion for it. He is deeply into Northern Soul, even though he has a quite impressive range, and back then I was all about techno. So he was trying to make me see the connection between the Mod club scene in England, particularly the Hacienda in Manchester, the Wigan Club, and what I was listening to. I couldn’t quite get it right away, but now I see all the connections and that is what makes things truly exciting. We already spoke about PC Music’s adoption, for example. Looking back to 2015 and 2016, the Houston underground played a crucial role in the rise of major rap successes like A$AP Rocky and Travis Scott. I still think it makes sense to discuss mainstream versus underground, even though the lines are increasingly blurred.
It’s all about the shifts that online life brought with itself. There’s this Kelly Rowland edit I did –It’s kind of a funny story– it was one of the first edits I made during that culture’s peak online and in the club scene. Someone told me they were in a limousine with Kelly Rowland and played her my edit. I thought that was hilarious! Apparently, she loved it. I’ve had a few people mention that they played my edit for various artists, and some think it’s better than the original track. I’ve also noticed that almost all my mixtapes feature this edit of Lana Del Rey, specifically a remix of “Venice Bitch.” That was one of the more popular tracks I remixed. Interestingly, they kind of remade my edit on her latest album, which annoyed me a bit. I know someone who’s friends with her, and I think they showed it to her or her producer. But it’s one of those things that comes with the territory; after all, making these edits is technically illegal. It’s wild to see how the internet connects everything, especially regarding the underground versus mainstream conversation. Now, all the pop and rap artists want to build their visual worlds to be very edgy, pulling from a lot of our friends. Ideas that start with small groups can quickly blow up; for instance, someone from that group might become a stylist and get hired by a pop artist, and suddenly everything merges. There’s always going to be a capitalist debate around this. For years, I’ve had friends who get excited about selling beats, but they’d sell one for $10,000 or $20,000, and it wouldn’t even be used. However, I feel like the issue of pop stars coming in and taking credit for an entire scene isn’t as problematic as it once was. Maybe I’m just viewing things more positively now, or I’m more mature about it. When you’re younger, you think, “Oh my god, they stole our idea.” But as you grow older, you realize that no one owns ideas and that you’re not the only one doing something. I appreciate the pop artists who approach it creatively. I don’t listen to her much, but I think Rosalia’s MOTOMAMI album is a very poignant example of what I’m trying to say. I genuinely believe that whenever someone comes from a sincere place, you can really hear it in their work. I think it’s cool when artists demonstrate a wide appreciation for music, using beats that go beyond the usual. It’s a positive thing because it helps the music expand and connect with more people.
When Rosalía started blowing up, she initially faced backlash from her OG fan base because they felt kind of betrayed. They felt she was turning her back on her background as a flamenco singer. It was interesting to observe this reaction. As you mentioned, those of us in niche fields—whether as artists, writers, or consultants—are becoming more accustomed to operating within the capitalist machine. We’re also becoming more business savvy in the process.
I think what I’m learning in life and in these creative industries is that while there are many people who toil away in the background—often low-key geniuses who don’t get the credit they deserve—you ultimately hold the responsibility for what happens in your career. For example, if you’re an electronic producer complaining about opportunities, you have the power to create something if you really want to. With some investment, you could turn a track into a pop song, and you never know what might come of it. To me, it’s more of a challenge than anything. While I’m not particularly interested in going that route, I believe anything is possible. I hope this perspective opens up a world of possibilities for others as well.
I think it’s a great reflection of how things are right now. It’s an optimistic view, and I can share that to a certain extent, although the question of class mobility and “Making It” in creative industries is a complex and problematic one inherently. You can exist in niche markets and still move into mainstream pop; you can consult, collaborate, and explore various avenues. This freedom allows you to operate as an artist, a label head, or part of a collective, which can be incredibly liberating. However, it can also complicate things since the landscape is quite murky at times.
If you have an idea, you need to act on it right away. I believe there’s a collective consciousness and a collective unconscious. When you get an idea, chances are others are receiving it too, so you might as well execute it now. If you hold onto it, you may see someone else bring it to life in a couple of months.
Yeah, it’s almost crazy how two people can release the same thing almost simultaneously nowadays. It really comes down to acting quickly and trusting your instincts. I think having the right environment is essential. With your label, you create a space where artists can trust their gut feelings. You mentioned that you don’t curate, but perhaps your role is more about providing that type of “service.” That could be a valuable definition of what a label’s role is today, at least in a niche sense. Speaking of consulting, could you tell me a bit about the curation process for Matthew Williams and Alyx’s Mark Flood show music?
I think the collaboration with Matthew came about because he was working with some people who showed him my mixtapes, and they connected us. Like anything in fashion, it was super last minute—pretty much the day before the event. We jumped on a phone call and decided that I would create a new mix file based on the top songs from all my mixtapes that he liked, tailored to how I envisioned the runway experience. It was an easy process since Matthew comes from a music background, and he had specific songs in mind. I think it’s a cool way to bridge different worlds. While everything exists within a capitalist system, this project felt more like a passion endeavor than many realize. People often assume that someone well-known is just getting rich from these collaborations, but they don’t understand that it can take years for something to become truly profitable. Of course, working with a brand like Dior or Chanel would be different since they could easily drop $5,000 for a 30-second track. This collaboration felt more grassroots because I had some familiarity with Matthew’s history, especially his work in New York. I was willing to jump in because I believed in what he was doing. If it had been a complete stranger, I might not have been as inclined to participate.
Where are you looking to take your audience next? What projects do you have lined up or ready to go?
I do have some projects in the works! Personally, I’m preparing for a release this fall. I always aim to focus on what I want to express while creating music. It may not be as directly apparent as some of my older projects, which were more politically charged. For example, I released “The Great Game” with Chino Amobi in 2015, which was a clear socio-political statement. Now, my approach is more nuanced. Currently, I’m honing in on what’s sonically interesting to me, while also considering what might resonate with someone who hears it and thinks, “Wow, I thought I was the only one who noticed that.” With more experience, I’ve come to appreciate the reactions I get when I play overseas. In the past, I’d often feel uncomfortable or just want to go home, even if people were praising my music. Now, when someone tells me that a particular piece meant a lot to them, it hits differently. As adults, we can reflect on those moments more meaningfully. When I create music, I ask myself what I need to say right now. If I’m genuine about it, I believe the person who needs to hear it will find it. This is especially relevant during Pride Month, which has become quite commodified. Yet, there are positive aspects to it. For instance, with the alarming rates of suicide among trans youth who face negativity, creating art can be life-saving. These realizations have shaped my perspective as an artist, especially at this mid-career stage. Making music now feels different than it did when I released my first album. As I refine what I want to communicate with my upcoming release, it’s much more fine-tuned than before. That’s where I’m at right now.
I can really feel that growth in a record like What Dreams May Come. It’s fascinating to see how your work reflects that. And also how different worlds can coexist. A record like that almost clashes with what one can find in your Mixtapes. Two sides of a coin, two very different ones, but perhaps just as complementary.
Yeah, part of that comes from my involvement in different club scenes. Everyone wants the ballroom dancers to show up for their set because the more people react, the safer the crowd feels. That’s what I learned. From doing so many live collaborations, I realized that when people see others expressing themselves, it gives them the freedom to do the same. So, the album itself delves deeper into that idea. It’s not just about referencing RuPaul’s Drag Race or whatever is currently trending; it’s about recognizing that everyone is human. I wanted to explore that and uncover the stories people have to share.
Yeah, I think what makes certain experiences so particular is how you can generalize them without losing their meaning. By doing this, people from totally different paths, life courses, and identities can find something relatable. When done right, this is what draws me to explore cultures and subcultures, like the ballroom scene, which is very different from who I am: An heterosexual white male from Italy. That connection is what fosters sympathy and unity among people, allowing them to come together and perhaps transcend identity-based fixations, for better or worse.
That’s the power of music. Music can be like spells, you know what I mean?
It’s very similar to what Andre Breton described in his notion of music as a spell. Surrealists intended music precisely as a spell—a systematization of the unconscious through notes and melody, creating a unique language. I think this could be a great point to close on.
During a torrid LA day, NR spoke with urika’s bedroom about Big Smile, Black Mire, urika’s debut album. A conversation whose range was as eclectic as the influences behind UB’s debut record: From architectural youtube rabbit holes, to how tech changed the way we listen and the playlistification or albums, passing by his midwestern-emo background, shooting commercial fashion ads in LA, and what makes music an entirely unique artistic medium.
Three’s the charm, we finally manage to get on call together!
Yes, at last! I heard of the crazy thunderstorm you had in Milan..
Cut my place’s power off completely for 24 hours, it was absurd. How’s it going in LA?
Yeah, it’s been crazy hot, and the power’s gone out a few times because of the heat. I think everyone was using so much energy with air conditioning that it caused a power surge on the grid.
You’ve got some big weeks ahead, right? The record is almost out. How are you feeling?
I’m feeling okay. Honestly, I haven’t really thought too much about it. My mind’s been on other life stuff and working on new music.
There’s a lot of layers to urika’s bedroom. Let’s start from the project’s visual identity. It feels very important. You are personally curating the art and creative direction yourself, right?
It’s a bit of both. We just shot a music video directed by my friend Rich Smith, where I took a more hands-off approach. But I’m also planning another video that I’ll shoot entirely myself.
How long have you been working on Big Smile, Black Mire? I’m asking this because your bio mentions 2019, so I’m especially curious about the project’s genesis and how it has evolved.
It all started after playing in my friend’s band, 2070, for a few years. I was playing drums, then bass, and we played a lot around LA. Around 2021, I decided to focus on my own stuff again. I committed to recording a song every day for a month, and if it was good, I’d put it straight on Bandcamp. That’s how a few people started to notice what I was doing.
So it’s been about three years in the making?
Yeah, the oldest song on the record is probably three years old, early 2021. Earlier this year, I started reworking them with my friend Silas, who has a project called Tracy. It was fun to deconstruct and rebuild them without feeling like anything was too precious.
So it was almost like a collage, or patchwork approach to composing?
Exactly. We didn’t want to give every song the same treatment. It’s kind of like cutting a hole in something and patching it up in a new way.
The record feels very cohesive, but there’s definitely a shift in sonic landscapes, especially on tracks like bsbm, Post War, and Circle Games. Were you consciously trying to explore different palettes for the record, or did that come together in post-production?
I tend to finish most of a song in one or two days, and I’m not great at continuing to work on it after that. But with this project, I sat on a lot of the songs and reworked them later. Silas and I didn’t approach it with a strict plan. We’d just play around with deconstructing and reconstructing the tracks, keeping it open to experimentation.
Yeah, now that you mention it, I can definitely feel that and track it in certain parts of the record. You’ve managed to blend a wide range of sonic influences, which ties back to what you said about working with so many other people. I read that you’ve also produced, mixed, and mastered tracks for other artists. That experience and know-how, being able to move between different sounds and styles, definitely comes through. Would you say there’s an underlying theme behind the record? I know you mentioned having a more natural, unstructured approach to making music, but was there a certain feeling or concept you wanted to convey with this album?
The main thing I wanted to explore was conflict—internal versus external. If the instrumentation felt dark, I’d lean toward brighter lyrics or vice versa. It was about finding tension between different elements, like referencing artists from opposite ends of the spectrum. I’d listen to Arca but also to Smashing Pumpkins. I didn’t want to shy away from any influence, no matter how different they seemed.
I peeped a little bit at your Spotify profile, listening to a lot of what’s on there to get a sense of where your influences come from. It’s such a wide range—from bossanova to post-club sounds, with some shoegaze in between. You can really feel that heterogeneity in your music. While listening to the record, I made a note about ‘free association’ because it feels like you blend elements in a way that flows naturally, almost unconsciously. It reminds me of surrealism in poetry, with that same fluid, unstructured creativity. I see that reflected not only in the music but also in the visuals and overall aesthetic of Eureka Bedroom. So, I’m curious—what are some of your other visual and musical influences? Where do you see the project heading?
I think a lot of my visual inspiration comes from late-night YouTube rabbit holes. I’ve been really into mid-to-late 20th-century contemporary ballet and dance films, as well as architecture, like the work of Ensemble Studios. It’s Anton and Deborah Mesa, and they create some really amazing, earthwork-inspired architecture. It feels similar to music for me in some ways. Visually, it’s very powerful, and I’m always trying to figure out what could serve as a kind of visual monument, you know?
That’s fascinating. What would you say is the connection you see between Ensemble Studios’ architecture and your music?
I can’t always explain it, but I think the way physical spaces look, their design and form, really inspire me. It’s almost unknowable, even to me sometimes, but it definitely has an impact.
Are there pieces of music you feel serve as sonic equivalents of monuments? What would you say are some “monuments” in music for you, and what does monumentality in music mean to you today?
I think everyone has a few musical pieces that leave a lasting impression, like monuments. For me, one of those is Demon Days by Gorillaz. It’s not necessarily where I’m at musically today, but as a kid, that album was huge for me. I only had one CD for a long time, so I’d just cycle through Demon Days over and over. That album became a monument in my mind—not necessarily because of what it is, but because of how it imprinted on me at that time.
Totally. I remember listening to entire albums as a kid too: You get the cd out of its case, you’ve got your little stereo. There’s a rituality to it –Something about that full-album experience we don’t get as much today.
There’s a deeper connection when you listen to an album front to back. Even the songs you don’t like as much give context to the ones you do love, you know?
It’s true. Today, we consume music so differently with playlists, grabbing moments here and there instead of immersing ourselves in the full journey of an album.
Yeah, that’s exactly it. Playlists can feel like you’re watching scenes from different movies, disconnected. Everything’s song-based now, and it kind of flattens the experience.
I completely agree. We’re in this Instagram highlights culture where everything’s a snapshot. That even seeps into how music is produced, right? Some artists might focus more on single tracks rather than how they’ll fit into the larger picture of an album.
For sure. I think some musicians—though not all—create with playlists in mind, knowing their songs will likely end up separated from the album context.
On your record, I noticed you feature a female voice in a few tracks. Was that a way of adding contrast to your own vocals, or was there another intention behind it?
It was both, I think. The voice definitely breaks up what I’m doing vocally, adding a new texture. But more than that, the person I worked with is someone I’m very close to, and we developed those parts together through a lot of free association. We’d bounce ideas off each other and build meaning that way. It brought a sense of release between the more intense songs, like a palette cleanser before diving back.
That makes sense. Did you consider how this would translate to a live performance, with those interludes providing moments of contrast in a live setting?
The first one we made was specifically for a live show intro. It was before our first tour, and I didn’t have enough material yet. I wanted a strong way to start the show, so we recorded that voice for that. I thought it would really capture the room if we played it loud, and it became this presence that commanded attention.
I love that. It reminds me of the resurgence of spoken word and audiobooks lately. There’s something powerful about placing emphasis on the voice and the word, especially in music as layered as yours.Speaking of writing, what inspires you when you’re writing lyrics? Are there certain themes you find yourself returning to?
It’s coming from a place of relatability. I always try to channel something meaningful. That might be the Midwest emo influence. I remember when I was younger, listening to these records where people were saying some pretty messed-up stuff. But as a kid, all I heard was the pain, and it felt protective somehow, like it was helping me through whatever teenage drama I was dealing with at the time.
It’s amazing how we can reinterpret songs or lyrics as we grow, and they take on new meanings based on where we are in life.
Yeah, that’s the beauty of it. The listener’s perspective is almost more important than the lyrics themselves.
There’s something about music that really gets to me, even now. I can’t fully explain what it is, but it reaches me in a way that no other medium does. I love reading, and writing is my bread and butter—that’s how I make a living. Words are my craft, but there’s a certain power in instrumentals, in sound, in the way a voice carries a note. It’s not always about the meaning of the words, but the tone, the texture of the voice, that can hit so deeply. Music has a kind of emotional weight that I don’t think any other medium can match. It’s something I’ve always felt, and maybe one day I’ll be able to articulate it more clearly, but for now, it’s just this indescribable force that stays with me.
Music has this unique ability to hit your nervous system immediately, without any barriers. With something like reading, you have to think about it, process it. But music? It bypasses all of that. You feel it right away.
There are barriers with most forms of expression, but not with music. It’s true. Maybe that’s why classical and instrumental music can move me so deeply. Certain instruments, like the piano—when I hear those first few notes, I’m instantly hooked and mesmerized. It touches me right away, without any defenses, which is incredible. I think that’s why music is something I’ll never tire of. I’m always curious and a good listener; I consume a lot of different sounds. Writing music, though—that’s something I could never do. That’s why I love talking to musicians, to try to understand their process from a closer perspective.
It’s like, the moment you hear it, you feel it.
I’m always fascinated by that. As someone who writes about music, I can never fully explain what makes it so special.
Even for those of us creating it, we don’t always fully understand what’s happening in the moment. We just follow where it leads.
It sounds like you tap into a flow state when you’re creating—like you’re functioning at your best when you’re not overthinking it.
I’m not even aware of the process. It just happens.
That’s amazing. It’s like tapping into something deeper, letting go of control.
Exactly. That’s where real creativity happens.
The skills required of independent musicians has changed over the years. Today, you have to be multifaceted—composing, writing, being your own art director, press guy etc. It’s exciting, but do you find it tiring? Would you prefer to focus solely on music and leave the rest to trusted collaborators, or are you okay with handling everything yourself?
Honestly, I’m such a control freak that the more I collaborate, the more I think, “I should just do this myself.” I know it would be nice to let go a bit and work with others, but I tend to be too neurotic for that. I’d rather handle it myself than send someone 50 revisions just to get it done my way.
Collaboration can be beautiful but also challenging. It’s very personal, especially with a project that means so much to you. I feel more relaxed working on other people’s projects, but with my own, it can feel too personal to hand it off to others.
Exactly. I’m still learning how to navigate that. I feel that the project’s coherence and unity are essential, and that’s part of what drew me to it in the first place.
Speaking of your project, you mentioned a big tour. Where are you headed next?
We’re touring Europe, hitting places like Brussels and Germany. I don’t think we’re doing Italy, though.
Last but not least. Why urika’s bedroom?
Honestly, I don’t think there’s a deep story behind it. I liked the sound of it. I can’t even remember how I came up with it, but I don’t think there’s much meaning behind it.
Everyone is a loser, according to Magdalena’s Apathy label head Pantelis Terzoglou, and that might actually be something quite liberating. For Terzoglou ego is not in the picture, only music. You might know him as the experimental ambient project Angel’s Corpse, or underground club legend DJ LOSER. NR spoke with him about creative needs, the importance of isolation in creation, and how to remain true to yourself without sacrificing your career, whatever that term means, today, for an artist.
As we were speaking off the record, you mentioned curating a soundtrack for a brand? Could you tell me more about that?
Yeah, it’s for a brand from Oslo, run by EriK Spanne, Duy Ngo and Tomas Silva. They’ve got this emerging brand called 1313 Selah, and their fashion show happened in late August. Me and Erik have been collaborating since before the brand officially started, mainly through music. They’ve connected with one of my sub-projects, Angel’s Corpse, which is more ambient, with elements of gabber and hardcore. It fits perfectly with their vision for their current collection.
Is this something that you’re really interested in, given that it’s a bit different from your usual, more club-oriented work?
Definitely. My initial drive was just to produce music and create audiovisual art, which is why I also started my label. My approach isn’t limited to club music, though that’s the most recognizable project of mine. My creativity spans different genres and styles, depending on where my inspiration takes me. Like, five or six years ago, I was into slower BPMs and more industrial soundscapes inspired by the late 80s.
So, while DJ Loser is club-oriented, my broader artistic vision goes beyond that. Projects like Angel’s Corpse let me explore those other sides. I’m not actively chasing career opportunities for this ambient direction, but if opportunities like this come my way, and I feel inspired, I’ll follow them.
Would you say that’s the same philosophy behind how you run your label?
Exactly, it’s a natural flow. When I started the label, it was just an outlet for a noise-industrial sub-project of mine called Magdalena’s Apathy. I was doing a few tape releases and eventually decided I wanted more control over everything — not just the music, but also the visuals and narrative around the releases.
I’m very much into world-building, so creating an all-encompassing aesthetic for my projects became essential. I even brought back CDs, because they fit my generation’s vibe and aesthetic. The label was initially just a personal project, but it’s expanded as more people connected with it. Now, I treat it like a platform for friends and people who resonate with what I’m doing.
So it’s more of an artistic platform than a business operation?
Exactly. I’m focused on being an artist first, rather than a ‘label owner’. Of course, I know how to handle the distribution and promotion side, but I don’t want to force anything or break the natural flow of the project. That’s how I’ve managed to make a living through music, by following what truly inspires me, rather than chasing trends or commercial success.Feels more fitting to my ways.
Where do you start when building a world around your music?
Most of the time, it starts with an emotional or aesthetic vision. I maintain focus for music that is about conveying feelings, not genres or styles. I aim to translate the way I feel & see things into sound, and then build the visuals around that. When I curate releases from others, I give them total creative freedom and then try to match their music with a fitting visual narrative. It’s about giving people an emotional and aesthetic experience, not just music.At least that’s my opinion on what a release should be doing. I think emotions and aesthetics connected in a personal direction lead to an impactful experience. A trance track can evoke the same feelings as an ambient track, a trap track or whatever. For me, it’s all about conveying those emotions, and that’s why my label and platform are not limited to a single genre. I want to capture the raw human experience in its many forms, whether it’s through club music, experimental sounds, or something more ambient.
What emotions would you say drive your music?
The need to express oneself is the biggest one. I’ve always felt a need to, and connect with people and society afterwards on a deeper level, beyond just words. Music allows me to express emotions and experiences that are hard to put into words. It’s not about social commentary for me; it’s more about creating a shared emotional space through sound. It’s my way of overcoming isolation and finding companionship too I suppose.
That resonates with me too. There’s an Italian saying that translates to “every translation is a form of treason,” meaning words can never fully capture the original meaning. Music, especially instrumental pieces, often conveys emotion more directly, without the barriers of language. How do you feel about talking about music — your own or in general?
Talking about music can be difficult. I can do it, but it’s tricky. It almost feels like betraying the core of what I’m trying to express or what music exists for. If I wanted to say what I mean in words, I’d probably be a writer, not a musician. Music is my language for things that can’t be fully expressed with words,or words distort the point.
I get that, I guess it’s also why even though I am an avid listener, I could never write music. Switching gears a bit, how do you view DJing in comparison to producing? Is that also a form of communication?
DJing is definitely different from producing, but it’s still a form of communication. It’s less introspective and more about connecting with people in the moment. When I DJ, I’m responding to the crowd and creating a shared experience. It’s like setting the vibe and guiding people through a moment together. I love the challenge of reading the crowd and helping them lose themselves in the music. It’s a great way to feel connected to others, in a more social way than producing music alone in the studio.
How’s the electronic music scene in Greece, particularly in your city? I visit Greece often—my aunt married a Greek guy and lives in Patras, so part of my family is there. But Patras is very different. I’m curious about Thessaloniki and whether growing up there influenced your approach to music, or did you feel more inspired by what was happening elsewhere? I grew up in Bari, which had a somewhat decent music scene, especially for Techno, but I was still more attracted to what was happening outside. So I was always online, searching and nerding out, and maybe that’s why I ended up doing what I do today.
Yeah, so I’m in Thessaloniki, not Athens, and there are definitely differences in both the quality and quantity of what’s happening culturally in the two cities. Thessaloniki has always had some presence of electronic music during my years here. It used to be bigger when I was a kid, based on what people told me, but from my experience, it was more about one big commercial event—your typical stereotypical, generic tech sound. At the same time, there’s always been an underground culture, which happens mostly in university spaces, raves, or small basement parties. I used to attend those places before I became a producer, and they definitely inspired me in terms of the nightlife. But when it came to the identity of the sound, I didn’t always connect with what was going on in the city. For example, when I was into more industrial and desolate sounds, Thessaloniki wasn’t offering that, so I had to go online to find what I needed. Now, the city is growing faster, especially because younger generations are more open and online, bringing new ideas. I’ve been to some gigs recently, and compared to 8 or 10 years ago, people are more open and much more up-to-date. But the biggest problem in Thessaloniki is the lack of good venues, and that’s what holds me back from being more active or bringing in artists. We just don’t have proper clubs with decent sound systems that can support creative ideas. So you either do something in a small bar that occasionally acts like a club, or you take the risk of throwing an underground rave—renting equipment and doing it illegally. But in Greece, it’s easy to get caught, and i’m not in the mood or age to jerk around honestly. Thessaloniki is a beautiful city, though. Honestly, Andrea, I’ve thought about moving to bigger cities like Berlin, London, or Copenhagen. But whenever I visit those places and stay for a few days, I find myself pulled into the social scene more than I might need to. My creative needs are fed in terms of input—there’s so much going on and lots of inspiration from people. But the downside is, I lose that time for myself, that alone time where I can focus on my own production and rhythm. My creativity thrives more when I’m isolated. I’ve come to realize that, as a producer, I work best as a hermit. When I’m in an environment that doesn’t necessarily feed my creativity, it forces me to search for inspiration from within more naturally. That isolation allows me to produce more original ideas. Does that make sense?
Absolutely. Living in Milan and working in Paris, I get it. I’m constantly moving between these two big cities, working with artists, musicians, and fashion brands. So I’m always in social contexts, bringing people together, meeting new people—but it’s not always real or deeply felt. Our conversation now feels more open and honest than many social interactions I have. My job requires a lot of writing and thinking, and I always feel this sense of fatigue, like I’m being pulled in different directions. It’s something I’m learning to embrace as part of maturing, while for you, it’s more about finding your own spaces. I think we’re both figuring it out, in different ways. How do you navigate the online world? On one hand, we have all these platforms where we can research and get inspired, but it’s easy to get lost because there’s so much content. How do you keep your identity online, especially as a label head or someone who curates for others?
For me, I’m very comfortable with the online lifestyle. I’ve always been into it. I grew up in internet cafes and was part of online communities from a young age, whether it was for video games or music. So navigating the online world for inspiration—whether it’s music, art, films, or games—doesn’t feel disorienting to me. I know how to find what I need and how to navigate it all. But social media is different. It’s much more distracting, and it creates this spiral of ego battles, comparing yourself to others. When I’m online in general, I feel fine, but after spending 5 or 10 minutes on Instagram or Twitter, I’m like, “What am I doing here?” It’s not about content; it’s about ego. So I don’t spend much time on social media anymore. I post what I need to post, read my messages, and then get off. Instagram, in particular, feels like a necessary evil—it’s important for people in our line of work, but it’s also incredibly distracting and can kill your creative flow. It feeds ego more than ideas, so I try to stay away as much as possible. People know they can reach me through other platforms, and I communicate more through email than social media regarding music and art. I find that’s a much better way to protect my creative energy and avoid distractions.
You’ve always tried to control your ego, right? How has that been, especially with the surprising success you’ve had?
Yeah, it’s been a journey. In the beginning, I didn’t get any ego boost from it—I was genuinely shocked that people were even interested in my music. I’m self-taught, no formal music education, just learning by ear and experimenting with software on my own. My first setup was literally in the same kitchen I live in now, with these basic Logitech speakers. So when my first tapes and vinyl releases came out, I was like, “What the hell is happening?” It felt like the endgame dream, but I never expected it. The tricky part nowadays is social media. When I’m out, meeting people, or navigating social circles, I don’t have any sense or thoughts of comparison. Whether I’m interacting with someone less known than me, someone much more famous, or a fan, there’s no ego clash. That’s just how I am in person. But social media, man—it makes you behave differently. Its made up this way that everyone ,even for a few moments, end up subconsciously judging people’s work based on their follower count, like giving more attention to someone’s work with 15k followers over someone’s with 500. It’s messed up. That’s why I actively try not to get caught up in it. I don’t want to let my ego be influenced by this false narrative.
Speaking of ego, what’s the story behind the ‘DJ Loser’ moniker?
Because I think that everyone is a loser! [laughs]
What do you mean by that?
Yeah, in my philosophical view, everyone is a loser because people spend their whole lives running, trying to create a life and memories centered around themselves—their experiences, emotions, all of it. But in the end, we die, and we forget everything. Nothing matters because of this absence of personal remembrance , but not in a nihilistic way. It’s more like, if you live with yourself consciously,, there’s a kind of inherent futility to it.
That reminds me of the Sisyphus myth.
Exactly. Both the actual ancient Greek myth was a lesson, and the Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus’ was one of my favorite books when I was younger. It helped me deal with my thanatophobia—my intense fear of death. Camus talks about ‘philosophical suicide’ and that idea really helped me navigate my fears.
Thanatophobia? That’s fascinating. How does that impact your life?
It’s the root of all anxieties, honestly. Fear of death is the mother of all anxieties. It’s the only absolute truth, you know? Everything else—stress, worry or even ambitions—is just masking that fear. And when you actually grasp it, it’s mind-blowing. You reach this point where you’re like, “What the fuck?” I get what the Stoics were saying, like “Death is where you aren’t, so why care about it?” But for me, that’s the literal problem. It’s about the absence of consciousness and memory. It can feel like torture technique, honestly, to live, enjoy life, then have it all erased. That’s the crux of my fear—not death itself, but the idea that I will cease to think,feel, everything, even the things I value most.
So your fear of death is more about losing memory than losing life?
Exactly. I’m pretty much convinced that death is like a dreamless sleep—there’s just nothing after. So what’s the point of experiencing life if I won’t remember any of it? It’s not about it being pointless, it feels almost cruel. We’re biologically wired to keep living, to pass on our genes, but in the end, none of it matters because we won’t even remember.
Does this outlook inform your creative process? Does art help you deal with that fear?
It definitely does. Trauma and personal experiences shaped me into who I am, and they’ve pushed me toward art as a form of expression. Music was never a conscious career choice—Doing music was a need and I’m lucky enough to be able to live the life I’m living. Music was Something I had to do to boost the need of trying to make sense out of everything. And it helps. I try to live as authentically as possible, even in this capitalist system. I know what I have to do to push my career faster, how to market myself better, but that’s not true to who I am. I want to live my life in a way that’s honest to me, without selling out or losing my identity in the process.
Let’s forget death for a moment. I think we might get into a downward spiral that, albeit extremely interesting, I would avoid for our readers. What’s next for you? Any projects or upcoming gigs you’re focused on?
Right now, my focus is on my side project, Angel’s Corpse. It’s less club-oriented,based on the traditional sense, and more esoteric, diving deeper into themes like thanatophobia. It makes me feel more comfortable with those heavy ideas. As for gigs, I had my second label night in Berlin in August with a lineup that’s pretty hot—Brodinski, Evit Manji, Van Boom, and 0111001101110100. Berlin’s nightlife scene gives me the chance to curate a night with my vision in mind, and that’s a big deal for me.There are more gigs coming in Europe this fall both under DJ LOSER & Angel’s Corpse projects.
On the label side, we’ve got releases lined up—some from U.S. and European artists, ranging from experimental ambient to what I call “emo trance.” I don’t force a strict release schedule though. Creativity needs space, so things will drop when they’re ready. My main goal is just to keep doing what I love and help others express themselves too.
For your label nights, do you aim to create a fully immersive experience? Like curating thewhole aesthetic?
That’s definitely the goal—to create a 360-degree experience from the venue design to the sound. Right now, I’m focusing on curating the lineup and sound, but eventually, I want to control every aspect of the night. I could see that happening easier somewhere outside of Greece,but it’s one of my goals to be able to hold a night like that here though.
Looking forward to seeing how it evolves. And perhaps meeting you over drinks so we can spiral a little bit more. [laughs]
It is an almost safe assumption to say that backgrounds are important while tracking down an artist’s output. When it comes to Conrad Standish and Sam Karmel’s –the duo behind CS+Kreme– such taxonomies are as interesting to perform as they feel superfluous. During the summer leading to their upcoming New LP ‘The Butterfly Drinks the Tears of the Tortoise,’ NR spoke with the Melbourne/Naarm based duo to retrace an incredibly rich history of sonic experimentation in and out of different scenes, resulting in an almost chameleonic approach to their signature interplay between registers and sounds.
I wanted to begin perhaps in a bit of a classic fashion with this one –I’ve been digging a bit about you, and there’s not much information out there, which seems intentional.
Conrad Standish: It’s not really intentional, yeah. I think people might see us as more mysterious than we are. The truth is, people don’t usually ask us for interviews, so we don’t do them. But when we’re asked, we’re happy to.
Mmmh. I guess it’s their loss. I’m all the more excited to dig in and uncover a bit of unwilling mysteries. How did this project come about? Conrad, we were chatting a little bit off the record while waiting for Sam to join, and you mentioned Melbourne and the challenges of building something culturally there. Was CS+Creme born out of you guys being part of the same scene?
CS Yeah, Sam and I knew each other a little from the Melbourne scene. One good thing about Melbourne is that different groups mix. The techno scene overlaps with other scenes, probably because it’s a smaller city. We knew each other from parties, and at the time, the band I was in had just ended. Sam emailed me, asked if I wanted to jam, and that’s how it started. We jammed in his bedroom— I brought my 808 over, and we had surprisingly strong chemistry. That’s how it all began, and over the years, we just got deeper into it.
Going through your releases, I had the impression of being confronted with a very heterogeneous mix of elements and influences, which seems to evolve from record to record – A pronounced sense of experimentation, if you like. Could you talk about your process? How do you approach composing?
Sam Karmel Sure. We usually start with sketches, often born from jams. If we like something in a sketch, we play with it until we’re happy. There’s a lot of experimenting—adding, removing elements, and trying unexpected things. We push ourselves but keep it natural. Sometimes new equipment helps us explore new areas, but it’s a playful and fearless approach, where we throw ideas around until we get somewhere that feels right.
CS Yeah, that’s pretty accurate. In the early days, everything came from improvisation or jamming, and we’d zero in on the good parts to refine them. But now, we’ve expanded. Sometimes we work individually, bring ideas together, and refine them. There’s no fixed process, but the end result is always quite different from the initial idea.
That unpredictability is fascinating. It’s like the process takes you somewhere unexpected, which brings to mind how sometimes writing starts with a concept but ends up in a completely different place. But your output still feels very coherent. When I listen to one of your records I can really tell it’s a collection of songs that belong together, you know what I mean? Do you consciously aim for that level of cohesion when you create an album?
CS No, not consciously. We don’t start with a clear idea or feeling in mind. It evolves naturally. As we’re halfway through, we start to see a pattern or shape in the record. We just let things unfold and guide them later when we start to understand what the album is becoming.
It reminds me of discussions about surrealist music—how it emerges from spontaneous juxtapositions that form a coherent aesthetic in the end. You seem to have a broad range of influences. Could you talk about your musical backgrounds and how they come together in your sound?
SK Yeah, over the years, we’ve traversed different areas of music. I grew up with classical music, then got into metal, and later Detroit techno and electronic music. Conrad has a different story.
CS Yeah, for me, it was hip hop when I was younger, being part of the graffiti scene in Melbourne. Then I played in rock and punk bands. We have broad tastes but share a lot of common ground. Our different backgrounds come together naturally.
I’ve got to say I am very curious about the Melbourne scene. You’ve mentioned also how much they usually overlap. Did growing up in such an environment influenced the experimental quality of your processes as musicians?
CS Well, I wasn’t as involved in the Melbourne scene as Sam was. I moved to Berlin and London for a while, so I can’t say I’ve been deeply embedded here. But Melbourne is cool; it has its own scene, though I’m not sure how amazing it is compared to other places.
SK Yeah, when I moved to Melbourne in the early 2000s, there was an underground experimental band scene that I was part of. The scene has changed a lot since then. Right now, it’s very dance-music-oriented, especially with a focus on psychedelic techno.
CS Exactly. It’s gone through different phases, and it’s hard to pin down what it’s like right now.
You come from such different backgrounds and scenes, and you’ve both performed in various settings— from the Bourse de Commerce to festivals, passing from proper clubs, and concerts. Does the setting where you perform influences how you compose or alter your live sets?
SK More and more, we’re thinking about how the music will translate in different environments. The sound system has become something we’re particular about now. As we’ve played on some amazing sound systems around the world, we’ve realized that when the system is good, our ideas translate the way we want them to. So, to some extent, this does affect how we write music, even for things that haven’t been released yet. And when it comes to live sets, we’re treating them as a unique entity, separate from the records.
CS Yeah, I agree. I’d love to treat the live experience as something completely separate from the records. It doesn’t have to just be us playing songs from our albums. I almost want to create something that’s 100% for the live experience and never recorded. But the setting can change things every night—sometimes you have a great sound system, sometimes a small room. In the past, we might have just pushed through, but now we’re trying to be more flexible and adapt to different situations. We both want the live set to be treated very differently from our recorded material.
CS Our upcoming record, for example, is quite gentle, but for live shows, I personally don’t want to be that gentle. We’re working on a new live set for our tour, and it’s going to be interesting to see how it evolves.
Why do you feel the live performances need to differ from the record’s nature?
CS I think it’s important to have a dynamic range in live performances. Sure, there’ll be gentle moments, but I don’t want to just play songs from the record. It’s a different experience being in the room, where the energy can change based on how we feel or the space we’re in.
SK Yeah, emotions always come into play during live performances. There’s room for improvisation, so how we perform can vary depending on our mood that night. It’s part of what keeps things fresh and exciting for us.
Could you tell me a little bit about the new material you’re working on? You mentioned a new record coming in September.
CS Yeah, we’ve written a new full-length record coming out in September on The Trilogy Tapes. It’s our most concise work so far, with some very gentle, minimal moments. But we don’t want to talk too much about it—it’s better to listen when it’s out.
SK We’re still pushing into different areas, but it feels like a natural progression. It’s very different from our previous records, yet it still sounds like us.
I understand it can be hard to describe music in words. Sometimes you just have to listen to it to understand.
CS Exactly. Describing music is difficult, especially for us, but there’s a chemistry between us when we know we’re getting it right. I think this record has a lot of those moments.
Speaking of live shows, do you ever think about incorporating visual elements into your performances?
SK We’ve thought about it recently. Sometimes visual elements can be overdone and come off as corny, but when done right, they’re amazing. We’re open to exploring it but haven’t found the right person to collaborate with yet. For now, our shows are minimal—just us playing in the dark with minimal lighting, no big showbiz elements.
Final question—when composing, is there something specific that inspires you, like a particular sound or image, or is it more of an organic process?
SK It changes. Sometimes it comes from an emotional place, other times from an interest in abstract sonic ideas. So the writing process depends on where we’re at emotionally or sonically at the time.
She loves music and making friends. Clip’s IG bio could very well encapsulate her attitude. But that would mean remaining on the surface level of what the NYC rapper and artist is all about. NR interviewed her back in (month) to learn more about her world. into her world —after all, what better guide could we ask for, if not herself?
I’ve seen a lot of media coverage, web exposure, and you just teased lots of big and very interesting collaborations. You came firing straight out the gate.
Oh, honestly, I’m really thankful for how fast things are evolving and how packed my year has been so far, but it’s kind of been weird to adjust because there’s been so many life changes. We kind of had to find the best way to navigate through all the madness. Luckily I have my team, and the people who are close to me –they really make it easier. But I still sometimes don’t really know how to navigate everything..I just try to make it work!
How’s all of this, a new team, more exposure, a bigger community, impacting you?
I still try to just do my thing, but at the same time I’m obviously trying to be more of an artist, really honing in on my craft without changing too much of myself. It’s the same energy I’m putting in, I guess only in a more professional way –less like a girl with just her phone doing whatever, and more structured.
Less DIY?
That’s the perfect word for it. I was so DIY for so long, and I still kind of am. Only now, I have amazing help around me!
It feels like your relationship with your fans and the people that your music speaks to is very important in what you do.
It’s everything.
Even the way that you interact with them, It makes you think that it somehow translates in your process. What sparks you?
Tying back to you mentioning communities, I always was longing to be a part of something growing up, and I found that through music. It makes me feel so privileged. I really just want to own that and make sure everyone that supports me feels as seen as I do right now. It’s something I hold close and try to remember everyday: making everyone feel like they’re accepted, because life is just crazy and we should try to make things better for everyone, in our small ways –But I’m getting a bit sidetracked. Back to my process; I like to say that I don’t really have one –It’s like the beauty behind the madness: Whatever comes to me, comes to me in the moment. I try not to overthink things, because overthinking is my biggest enemy, something I’ve always struggled with. Sometimes my friends will say that when I create, it’s like I’ve been possessed by a music entity or whatever. My old music really used to reflect a lot of emotions and situations that I was experiencing at the time because my life was just so crazy, changing so fast –I just used my music as a way of coping. Nowadays I’m trying to have more fun with everything. As I started going out more to parties I was like “okay, I would love to turn up to my shit in a club.” But I couldn’t! I only had sad songs out! [laughs] So lately, I have been trying to make more, let’s say, happier club bangers.
Things around you and what your experience is changing. The recipe might be seemingly changing, but it really isn’t, right?
Exactly! This is myself, and my music reflects that just, naturally, you know?
I read about how it’s very important for you to be a mirror for other people to see themselves in. However, your music is very personal and intimate. There’s this sort of contradiction, but you still manage to create something that feels open to the listener. They can project their own meanings onto it while still enjoying it. I wanted to ask you about this, but I think you’ve already answered it in a way.
It’s literally just like that. So yeah, that’s a cool and beautiful way of putting it!
You know, I was trying to find ways to pinpoint and define your sound, but somehow it eludes me. One word I would use to describe it is ‘cool.’ But ‘cool’ is a very elusive term. You’ve been associated with the fashion world, magazines, runways —all things that exude cool. So now, I wanted to ask you, since you describe things very personally, what would be your definition of what coolness is today?
That’s a good question. I think coolness is…owning it, your raw inner self. I like people that are vulnerable and are afraid to show the world who they are, but they still risk it and express themselves. The coolest people that I know are so real to the point where it might even be detrimental for them. But that’s what makes it cool, you can’t really replicate those things. And maybe that’s kind of a cliche, but I think not being an asshole is also very cool.
Do you have plans moving forward to further build on your personal brand of coolness, maybe reinforce your presence in different mediums other than music?
[Laughs] Anytime I used to get asked this, I would be like “Oh, you know, I’m just floating, I don’t know my plans.” But now I finally have a very precise idea about it! I want to be the face for people like me, that’s the masterplan. And, obviously, music is my priority. I love music, that’s my everything. I have this quote I always use “Music is why hearts have beats.” Music really is my life, and I never want to lose sight of that, but also I don’t want to box myself in it. I want to keep experimenting with different mediums, especially visual, and continue to show people like me that If I can do it, then you can too, because I’m literally the most normal person ever.
And what are some hidden references or elements that might have influenced your music, your overall artistic expression –something that we couldn’t pinpoint just by listening to your music, but that is there and embedded in what you do?
There’s a whole grunge era of me growing up in middle and high school that played a big part in shaping who I am. Everyone was kind of emo, but I really identify as a grunge girl. I am maybe still living in that era, you can feel it in my music. I loved alternative, experimental, sad boy music –Yung Lean, Lil Peep, Drain Gang. I was a little weirdo in class, listening to bands like The Neighborhood, Title Fight. Emotion is a big factor in everything I do. I think it’s cool to feel so intensely because a lot of people seem like walking zombies with no emotions, just going through the motions of life –I call them NPCs. I feel bad for those people who aren’t living life the way they want to. But getting back on track, the grunge era, rock, emo, and fashion all influence me. Growing up, my parents never really got me clothes because they believed school wasn’t a fashion show, going all the time like “all you need is like the essentials.” They were also conservative Jamaicans, so I wasn’t allowed to express myself the way I wanted. Once I was free from those restraints, it felt really good to be myself, and clothes played a big part in that. The whole fashion world is a big inspiration for me, and while it might not be directly felt in my music, it works hand in hand with it. And then again, now I’m walking runways and shit all over the world, you know?
How does that feel?
Pretty fucking cool! [laughs]
Being able to not only express yourself through clothes and music but also fully embrace your personality while being a professional adds a different dimension. The references you mentioned, such as Yung Lean or Drain Gang, are all artists who took subcultural and aesthetic elements and made them their own. They repurposed these elements, which is something you do as well; You are part of a new generation of artists that are both subcultural and have some mainstream elements in how they present themselves on the web. You have your own niche and audience, while rapidly moving up. This is something I think a lot about, and you are living it in a way —So, I wanted to ask you: Do you think that the way underground and mainstream used to be very separate entities is now changing? Are they colliding, or do you still think there’s a distinction between them?
People have their various opinions on this topic, mine is that the meaning of the term “underground” definitely has changed as a whole, especially after COVID, a period where a lot more people just started trying to make music, alone in their homes with nothing to do, just creating. I feel like that whole moment really shifted the underground as a whole and now it’s more saturated, but not necessarily in a bad way. On the internet, the underground is becoming the modern day mainstream, which is really cool. Maybe I’m biased because I’m so in the scene, but most of the people I know are not listening to the radio, they’re going on SoundCloud. They listen to their friends, they discover their favorite artists on Instagram, or Reddit. There’s a lot of artists that are maybe not having real commercial success, yet, but they’re getting a lot of streams, and they’re doing well, they have a proper fan base! Also, there used to be a lot of negativity in the underground, but everything now is just so broad, and so many people are just having fun with it. I’m meeting new friends because we’re doing shows together, going to parties together. Everything became really wholesome. We can breathe, relax.
Since there are now more platforms and more space for everyone, as you said, people are starting to let go of, perhaps, jealousy over a space they feel the need to protect.
Exactly. And it made everything less toxic because of that.
And how do you feel about collaboration? It seems like you are open to it, but also very selective. That’s what I’m getting from how you’re talking. Your music is very personal, and your relationship with your fans is personal too.
I think that my opinion is never gonna change on this, ever. And I’m satisfied with that. But, like you said, everything I do is extremely personal to me. So, it’s like, you can’t just give your baby to a random babysitter; you have to get to know them and find the right fit and vibe. That’s how I see it. If I do a collab, it’s because it was genuine. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t for money. Even if I was down to my last cent, I would never sell a feature like that. I feel like I’m selling myself short, giving away a part of me, selling out. Everything I do has to have meaning; it has to be personal and authentic. I tie that in with collaborations. I’m not opposed to them, obviously—I have some out, and some more on the way. It just has to make sense and be with the right people. Not that anyone is the wrong person or doesn’t make sense, but something has to really click.
Have you got a record coming out later this year? Give us some spoilers!
Definitely! I’m gonna drop a really good album. I can’t wait for that, I’m really happy with it because, honestly, all my sad stuff is cute, but I’m over it. I don’t really want to dwell on it. I’m really excited for my new stuff and looking forward to sharing it because it feels like a whole new phase for my sound. More mature. As I said earlier, I’ll never lose sight of who I am and what I represent, and everything I’ve built to get here. But I’m definitely treating this more as a job rather than just a fun hobby that’s getting me attention. I really want to keep pushing out things for people and keep creating, involving everyone in what it means to be in CLIP’s world.
Backing up a bit on the coolness stuff, I’ve read that you’ve been associated with the status of a new “it girl.” Sometimes defining someone, even with something very positive and cool, like ‘it girl,’ can feel cagey.
I don’t know. I love the term and everything about it. Growing up, I was so obsessed with what it meant to be an ‘it girl.’ But I realized that anyone can be that, It’s something you embody; it’s how you carry yourself as a person. I value my authenticity more than being boxed in as an ‘it girl’ because that label comes with so much behind it. It reminds me of people in school who tried to chase that status and play into someone they’re not. You know an ‘it girl’ when you see one, and that’s not something you should be labeled as. It’s about what you’re doing for the community, how your art is helping people. I think that’s what really matters: being a figure and a voice, using your platform to help people feel heard and feel good.
This really feels like a CLIP manifesto.
I’m so anti-labels.
Even regarding music genres?
Yeah, exactly. That’s why I don’t want to choose a genre for what I do. I hate being boxed in, it suffocates me. Like when I was living in Texas, I was suffocating. I hate that feeling, anything that makes me feel like that, I just tend to stay away from.
You lived in Texas, LA, and now New York, right?
Yeah.
How has each city influenced your experience? Is this journey and evolution through the places you’ve lived reflected in your sound? I feel like there’s maybe a New York phase in your music and another that feels more like Texas. Or maybe I’m just overcomplicating things and projecting.
No, honestly, that’s very real, even if perhaps it’s something that unintentionally reflects in my music and sound. You’re not the first person to tell me that. I’ve had personal friends say things like, ‘Oh, this vibe is really Texas,’ or ‘This reminds us of Texas underground music.’ I don’t do it intentionally. Despite how I feel about certain places or experiences, they define me, and my music is me. It just naturally reflects without me even thinking about it.
