At $1,699 (£1,469), it fills a gap the company hasn’t touched since the XDJ-1000MK2 launched a decade ago, a full feature media player that’s more “affordable” than the CDJ-3000x. For bars, small clubs, and home setups, it makes sense. The specs back it up: a 10.1-inch touchscreen, same as the CDJ-3000X, cloud and streaming access, NFC login, rekordbox CloudDirectPlay, USB support, hot cues, and a loop encoder that makes its CDJ debut here. On paper, it’s a solid unit for the price bracket.

But that’s not what people were actually talking about.

The Screen Problem

The CDJ-1500X is dominated by its touchscreen. That by itself isn’t the issue, modern DJing involves a lot of browsing, scrolling, and waveform reading, and a bigger screen helps with all of that. The CDJ-3000X proved that. The concern is what happens when functions that used to be controlled by physical buttons start migrating into that screen instead.

The CDJ-1500X does have a physical Beat Loop encoder, which is new, but many DJs will welcome it. Turning a knob to set loop lengths can be quick, clean and familiar to anyone coming from Traktor setups or Denon players. In that sense, the change is not automatically a downgrade.

But the original loop functions will be handled through the screen, e.g. manual loop points. That does not make looping impossible, or even necessarily difficult. However, looping by feel, without looking down, is something that gets burned into muscle memory over years of playing. A touchscreen asks for a different kind of engagement. You have to look, aim and tap with precision to hit the right part of the interface. This is fine for browsing, but it will start to cost you when performance functions live on it.

A button isn’t just a trigger. It’s something you can find without looking, trust without confirming, and use under pressure without a second thought.

The browse knob has also been redesigned, moving away from the wide, flat encoder that has appeared on essentially every CDJ and XDJ unit until now. The cue and play/pause buttons have gone matte gray, matching the unit’s finish but changing the visual and tactile language that made the CDJ layout so learnable in the first place. These are aesthetic decisions that have practical consequences.

The Shared Language

Part of what made CDJs the standard isn’t that they’re the best-designed piece of hardware ever made. It’s that their layout became a shared language. You could walk into any venue in any country, plug in, and understand the equipment before the first track was even loaded. That standardisation is so important, it’s what allows DJs to perform confidently in unfamiliar environments.

When hardware changes that shared language: different knob profiles, different button feel, functions moved from physical controls to screens, it creates friction. And the CDJ-1500X changes the established layout in several places at once.

That’s not the same as saying it’s a bad player. It is probably a very good one, but it’s worth being honest about the trade-off.

CoBeat and the Connected Booth

The most culturally loaded part of the CDJ-1500X announcement is CoBeat. This is AlphaTheta’s new crowd-request system, which sends track requests and audience reactions directly onto the CDJ-1500X’s screen. Audience members scan a QR code, send requests from a pre-approved catalogue, and react to each other’s picks with emojis. All of it shows up on the player.

Crowd-request tools are not new, Virtual DJ had its own version as far back as 2016, and apps like RequestNow and YoDJ have been around for years. What’s different about CoBeat is that it’s baked into the hardware itself.

For certain contexts, this is a useful feature. Bars, private events, commercial rooms, and mobile setups have always worked with audience input. The question is what does this signal about how AlphaTheta is imagining the future of Djing.

There’s a real difference between reading a room and receiving a request. One is physical, watching the crowd, sensing where the energy is, making decisions through the music itself. The other is administrative. Obviously this feature is optional, but the fact that it exists says something about where the product line is heading.

What’s Missing

A few omissions from the CDJ-1500X are worth flagging. There’s no digital output, which is a genuine surprise at this price. The XDJ-1000MK2 it effectively replaces had one, and Denon DJ’s SC6000 Prime offered it too. There’s no standard IEC power inlet, replaced by USB-C via a proprietary adapter, which is a practical headache if that cable goes missing.

None of these are dealbreakers for the markets the unit is clearly targeting. But they’re part of the picture.

Where This Leaves Us

The CDJ-1500X will most likely be a great media player for the spaces it’s designed for. The large screen will make browsing easier, it fills a real gap below the flagship, and the new features will be very useful to a lot of DJs. For bars, smaller clubs, home studios and mobile setups, the case for it is easy to understand.

The harder question is what the eventual successor to the CDJ-3000X will look like. DJ hardware is moving toward larger touchscreens, more connectivity, more software integration, and form over function, the CDJ-1500X is carrying all of those trends in a single package.

The booth has always worked best when a DJ can rely on the equipment without managing it, when the controls are in muscle memory rather than on a screen. The more hardware asks for your attention, the less you can give to the room.

This is the tension that we’re starting to see, and the CDJ-1500X proves that it’s real.

Subscribe now

Manchester a city that people think they already understand.

The Haçienda, Madchester, Factory Records. The long shadow of dance music history so thoroughly documented in books, films, T-shirts, tattoos, and a thousand DJ set introductions, that it can start to feel less like history and more like wallpaper.

The problem with wallpaper is that you stop seeing it.

And what is happening in Manchester right now is worth seeing clearly. Not because it replaces the past, but because it complicates it. The city’s present is more fragile, more pressured, and more interesting than the usual version of the story makes room for.

This is a city where one of, if not the most influential event series in the UK is marking its twentieth anniversary this year. Where the Sankeys has returned after nearly a decade away. Where one of the North’s most important underground spaces is preparing to close permanently. And where a group of venues, studios, and creative spaces are in a regeneration zone that will reshape the area for years to come.

Manchester’s electronic music history is famous.

Its present feels more urgent.

The Foundations

The short version, because most people reading this already know the story: by the late 1980s, Manchester had become one of the central points in British club culture’s transformation.

Eastern Bloc Records, established in 1985, became one of the city’s defining institutions: a record shop, meeting point, and source of imported sounds that helped connect Manchester to house, techno, electro, jungle, and the wider movement of electronic music.

The Haçienda, opened by Factory Records and New Order in 1982, became the venue where Manchester’s acid house moment took hold with force. What happened there in the late 1980s rippled through British club culture in ways that are still being seen today.

Then came Sankeys Soap, which opened in Ancoats in 1994 and became one of Manchester’s most important post-Haçienda club spaces.

These places were not just venues where good nights happened. They were part of the infrastructure which allowed artists, promoters, DJs, record buyers, and audiences to form a shared idea of what club culture could mean.

That idea was specific to Manchester: tied to its post-industrial geography, its working-class culture, its weather, its local pride, and its refusal to be impressed by things just because they were expensive, polished, or coming from somewhere else.

That character has never fully left.

It runs through much of what makes is happening in the city now.

The Warehouse Era

In 2006, The Warehouse Project began inside the shell of Boddingtons Brewery in Strangeways.

Founded by Sam Kandel, Richard McGinnis and Sacha Lord, it introduced a different model for Manchester’s nightlife: seasonal, temporary, industrial, and built around the feeling of an event that appeared for part of the year rather than a club that opened every weekend.

That model changed the city’s scale.

From Boddingtons to Store Street, Victoria Warehouse and now Depot Mayfield. People did not only go because they were already in the city. They travelled to Manchester because WHP had become the destination.

The names became bigger over time: Aphex Twin, Four Tet, Disclosure, Bicep, Fred again.., Overmono, but the more important change was structural. WHP created a yearly rhythm around raving: the season announcement, the lineups, the sold-out dates, the sense of Manchester becoming a national meeting point for a few months each year.

This year, WHP is marking 20 years with a wider retrospective, including the short film Twenty Years In Manchester, directed by Leigh Powis, an outdoor photography exhibition in Spinningfields, a podcast series, and a print magazine documenting the people and spaces that shaped the project.

“Reaching 20 years is a huge moment for us. The Warehouse Project has always been about progression and pushing the boundaries wherever possible.”

^{— Sam Kandel & Richard McGinnis}

That is the key to WHP’s place in Manchester’s story. It gave the city scale, expectation, and international visibility. It proved that Manchester could support club culture at a size no UK city could match.

But it also created a new kind of event: large, seasonal, high-impact, and often headline-driven.

That model is extraordinary at what it does.

It is not the only model the city needs.

The Smaller Rooms That Reshaped the City

While The Warehouse Project gave Manchester scale, something just as important was taking shape in smaller rooms: a former MOT garage in Salford, a basement on Spear Street, a record shop in the Northern Quarter, in bars, and multi-use spaces where the music could still feel close enough to touch.

The White Hotel has become the clearest example. Located in a former garage on the edge of Salford, it built its reputation through its forward thinking programming, rough-and-ready atmosphere, and weighty sound system.

Its appeal came from that uncertainty. You did not always know exactly what you were walking into, and that was part of the point. It operates with what The Guardian described as a “minimum budget, maximum ideas” philosophy, The White Hotel became one of the North’s most important underground spaces because it gave unusual ideas room to happen.

Soup, formerly known as Soup Kitchen played a different role. The Northern Quarter venue became a small but important space for local DJs, cult artists and leftfield programming. Its 14th birthday line-up that brought together Willow, Parris, mamba.exe and Demdike Stare, said a lot about its identity: local identity, serious music, and refusing to treat intimacy as a limitation.

Eastern Bloc carried another kind of continuity. First and foremost it’s a great record shop, but that is why it matters. Established in 1985, with a selection of electro, house, techno, dubstep, and jungle, it also functions as a venue known for its low ceiling and crisp, punchy sound. Manchester artists are at the forefront of its programming and it hosts regular open-to-close parties.

Stage & Radio adds another layer to that story. Its history reaches back to 1946, when the address became associated with modern jazz, but its current form has developed into a small, sound-focused venue with strong links to Manchester’s underground dance music community. Crop Radio now operating from the space also speaks to the way local infrastructure exists in rooms, radio, online platforms and community networks at the same time.

Hidden, YES and Amber’s complete the picture. Each is different in scale and purpose, but together they show that Manchester’s current underground, is spread across warehouses, basements, record shops, rooftops, live rooms and new spaces, each giving the city a slightly different kind of energy.

What many of these spaces share is a refusal to organise themselves entirely around the obvious headline act. The music matters, but so does the room, the regulars, the residents, the promoters, and the sense that something can still grow from the ground up.

The city’s history is famous for big moments, but its dance music culture is being shaped just as much by smaller ones.

The Return of Sankeys, and What It’s Saying

Nine years after closing its doors, Sankeys returned to Manchester in January.

The new version is not trying to recreate the venue at the same scale. Instead, it has reopened as a 500-capacity city-centre space with a stripped-back, basement-style feel, no VIP areas, and a no-phones-on-the-dancefloor policy.

That decision is the most telling part of the return.

The original Sankeys was a Manchester institution with international reach, voted No.1 in DJ Mag’s Top 100 Clubs poll in 2010. The new Sankeys is deliberately smaller, more controlled, and more focused on the room itself.

“What we’re creating is an intimate underground club with a chill out room. We will only be open one night a week on the Saturday. There will be no VIP or phones allowed on the dancefloor, everyone is a VIP. People need to stop taking pictures and start dancing to the beat.”

^{— David Vincent (Creative Director)}

The venue is also designed to echo the old Sankeys physically and spiritually: metal pillars, immersive lighting, flexible layouts, and a room that can be reconfigured depending on the night.

Rather than building everything around announced headline names, the idea is to make people trust the experience. As one line from the relaunch put it: “When you arrive, you’ll discover the line-up on the night. It’s about the experience, not ticking off a name.”

Whether that philosophy can be sustained long term remains to be seen. Manchester is a city with a knowledgeable, demanding audience, and trust takes time to rebuild.

But the return itself feels significant.

At a time when large-scale events dominate so much of rave culture, Sankeys has come back by moving in the opposite direction: smaller room, fewer distractions, less hierarchy, more focus on the dancefloor.

The no-phones policy also points to a mood shift. Sankeys, Amber’s, The White Hotel, FOLD, and parts of The Warehouse Project, some of the spaces that feel most culturally alive right now are the ones trying to put distance between the dancefloor and the outside world.

That does not mean every venue needs the same rules.

However it does suggest something has changed. After years of club culture becoming more visible, more filmed, and more content-driven, some venues are trying to make the room feel private again.

The Strange Quarter and the Pressure on the Underground

A group of venues and creative spaces that have come to define Manchester’s underground: The White Hotel, Hidden, the DBA, The Yard, The Bag Factory, and the studios and practice rooms around them, sit inside or near the boundary of the Strangeways and Cambridge regeneration area.

The area where Manchester meets Salford (around Strangeways prison and the Cambridge Industrial Estate) has been given the informal name “the Strange Quarter”, an unofficial label for one of the city’s most important cultural areas. Former industrial buildings, clubs, studios, practice spaces, pubs and DIY venues have turned it into one of the most interesting parts of Manchester’s current music culture.

That future is now uncertain.

The Strangeways and Cambridge Strategic Regeneration Framework, approved by Manchester City Council and Salford City Council in late 2025, sets out a long-term plan to transform a 130-hectare area across Manchester and Salford. The proposals include around 7,000 new homes in seven neighbourhoods, up to 1.75 million square feet of commercial space, and a new urban park designed partly to address long-term flood risk.

The Cambridge section of the framework is especially relevant. It includes the Cambridge Industrial Estate, home to The White Hotel, The Bag Factory and Hidden, in an area where flood risk, new green space and future development are all being considered together.

The councils have acknowledged the cultural importance of the area. Consultation responses called for heritage buildings to be preserved and celebrated, and many respondents said existing cultural venues should be retained. The framework also includes heritage and culture as part of its vision for the area.

Those assurances matter.

But they do not remove the uncertainty.

A regeneration framework is not the same thing as a guarantee. It sets a direction, shapes future planning decisions, and gives the area a long-term vision. What it cannot easily preserve is the delicate network of rooms, rents, informal relationships, late-night uses, studios, venues and communities that made the area culturally important in the first place.

That is why the Strange Quarter feels so significant.

It is not just another part of Manchester waiting to be redeveloped. It is one of the places where the city’s underground has been able to gather, experiment and grow without being fully absorbed into the polished version of the city around it.

The question now is not if the area needs investment.

It’s if Manchester can improve the area without flattening the culture that made it worth noticing.

The End of The White Hotel

Of all the venues in the Strange Quarter, none carries more of the area’s identity than The White Hotel.

And it is the one already confirmed to close.

It will shut its doors in January next year, bringing an end to a decade-long run as one of the UK’s most loved underground spaces. Founders Austin Collings and Ben Ward have explained that flooding issues and redevelopment pressures around the venue are the key reasons behind the decision.

The explanation is strangely straight forward. The White Hotel is in an area identified for long-term flood management as part of the wider Strangeways and Cambridge regeneration framework. Proposals for the area include new green space and drainage systems designed to respond to increasing flood risk.

“Basically, it’s a swamp, (the team wanted) to go out on our own terms, long before we became a museum.”

^{— Ben Ward}

The White Hotel opened in 2015 inside a former car garage on a Salford industrial estate, and became synonymous with experimental club culture: rough, strange, confrontational, funny, difficult, serious, and unserious all at the same time.

It hosted artists including Andrew Weatherall, Objekt, DJ Stingray 313, Space Afrika, aya, Blackhaine and Rainy Miller, alongside Helena Hauff, Djrum, Traxman, Sabres of Paradise and many others. But its importance was never only about who played there.

It was about the kind of atmosphere it allowed to exist.

The White Hotel felt like a place where things could happen before they were fully understood. Experimental electronics, noise, techno, queer club culture, live performance and unique forms of nightlife all sat close together. The venue did not always explain itself, and that was part of its power.

Before closing, the venue has a stacked final run lined up: Zenker Brothers, re:ni, Mama Snake, Galcher Lustwerk, Rhadoo, dBridge, Eris Drew and Octo Octa, and Nathan Fake are all confirmed. The team is also hosting their first ever festival, The Black Lights, a weekend of experimental electronics and alt-techno in venues around Blackpool.

Collings’ parting thought on the venue’s legacy carries the same defiance that shaped the space from the beginning.

“The White Hotel is similar to the Highlander and Keith Richards,” he said. “It’s immortal.”

Maybe the idea is.

But the specific version of it: the former garage, the industrial estate, the strange corner of Salford, the feeling of arriving there at the wrong hour and somehow being in exactly the right place, will close in January.

Whatever comes next will have to start from somewhere else.

What Manchester Sounds Like Now

There isn’t a single description of what the city sounds like.

It sounds like the hard-edged intensity of The White Hotel’s final stretch, and the peak-hour scale of the Depot at the Warehouse Project. It sounds like Eastern Bloc’s record-shop intimacy, Soup’s community-first bookings, Stage & Radio’s soundsystem culture, and the queer club culture of the DBA. It sounds like Sankeys on a Saturday night with no phones, just the music and whoever shows up.

It is rave-rooted and experimental. Large-scale and local. Industrial, bass-heavy, queer, underground, and globally visible through Parklife and The Warehouse Project.

Those things are not contradictions.

They are part of the same city, operating in parallel, occasionally crossing over, and collectively producing a culture that is more varied and more alive than Manchester’s mythology sometimes makes room for.

That mythology makes it easy to look backwards.

The present demands something else: attention to what is happening now, in smaller rooms than the Haçienda, in garages on industrial estates, in record shops that have outlasted almost everything around them, and in the spaces still fighting to exist before they become part of the story too.

What Manchester Has to Protect

Manchester has reinvented itself before, more than once, and more dramatically than most cities ever have to.

The post-industrial city that became a culture capital. The culture capital that kept producing new movements after the old ones faded. There is a genuine confidence in Manchester’s ability to absorb change and come back with something new.

But reinvention has conditions.

It needs the spaces where new culture can form: affordable, unpolished, tolerant of noise, chaos, failure and ideas that don’t need to make sense. The Strange Quarter has been providing these exact conditions.

The Strangeways and Cambridge is not automatically a threat. Cities need housing, investment, infrastructure and flood protection.

But it does make the next chapter delicate.

It has survived losses before, and it will again. The question should be, over a long redevelopment cycle, can it protect enough of the cheap, unique, unglamorous spaces where the next version of its dance music culture will need to begin.

The Warehouse Project is celebrating twenty years. Sankeys has come back smaller and more determined. The White Hotel is preparing for its final stretch with the same defiance that made it matter in the first place.

Manchester knows how to mark its moments.

Whether it can protect the conditions that make those moments possible is the more difficult question, and the one that matters most.

Subscribe now

Corsica Studios was never defined by size or polish. It was a small, rough round the edges space, and for many people, that was exactly what made it matter.

Its legacy came from the nights, artists, crowds, and ideas it gave room to; the ones that don’t always fit neatly into more commercial spaces. At the end of March 2026, Corsica as we know it closed its doors.

To understand why the closure cut so deeply, it is worth looking at what Corsica was, why it mattered, and why spaces like it are so difficult to replace.

What Happened

Corsica Studios operated for 24 years, from 2002 to 2026, under the railway arches at Elephant & Castle in South London.

The project began earlier than that, in the late 1990s, when founders Amanda Moss and Adrian Jones were searching for affordable studio spaces around King’s Cross. A short-lived space on Corsica Street in Highbury gave the project its name, before the move to Elephant & Castle in 2002.

The reason for the closure is more specific than the usual “another venue gone” story.

Corsica’s team were clear that the venue was not closing because of current noise complaints, and said it had not been forced out directly by developers or the council. But with major residential development moving closer to the venue, its long-term future became more and more complicated.

Owner Adrian Jones explained that the venue had effectively been told it could stay as long as it wanted, but would not be able to continue making noise past the 1st April 2026, the point at which the first residents of new housing backing onto the venue’s smoking area were expected to move in.

For several years, the team had been working with Southwark Council, the Greater London Authority, and the Music Venue Trust to secure a future for Corsica in the area. Under a Section 106 agreement tied to the surrounding development, the developer Delancey is set to fund the soundproofing of the arches, with the space expected to be handed back around 2027. Corsica has first refusal on returning.

This means, that means the building everyone knew had to change in order to survive at all.

The venue celebrated its final chapter with a closing programme running from New Year’s Eve 2025 through to late March 2026, ending with a near-30-hour closing weekend that brought together promoters from across its history.

Why the Closure Felt Different

Many venues close every year. Most are mourned locally and forgotten nationally.

Corsica’s closure generated something else: a genuine outpouring across UK and international dance music culture.

Part of that comes down to recognition. Corsica was named Best Small Club in DJ Mag’s Best of British Awards in 2009 and 2019, and was voted as one of the best clubs in the world by DJ Mag readers on multiple occasions.

But awards only explain part of it.

Josh Doherty, who has ran I Love Acid at Corsica since 2007, said: “It’s up there with the most important clubs in dance music history,” comparing it to the Haçienda and Plastic People.

That is the distinction worth sitting with.

What Made Corsica, Corsica

To understand why Corsica mattered, it helps to remember what it was before it became known as a club.

The original Corsica Street space in Highbury was “warehousey”, painted white like a gallery, and hosted performance art and sculpture alongside dance music. When the project moved to Elephant & Castle, that mixed identity wasn’t lost.

Corsica slowly became a club over the course of the 2000s, partly because late-night events helped support the wider artistic programme: the bands, workshops, dance classes, and experimental projects that had always existed around it.

That rough-edged character never fully disappeared.

Jamie Shearer, who joined as general manager in 2011, remembered arriving for his interview and being struck by how DIY the operation still felt. The bar, he recalled, was literally “a plank of wood.”

Even as the venue developed into one of London’s most respected club spaces, that sense of roughness was always central to its identity.

The sound mattered. Corsica’s Funktion-One system was reconfigured over the years, tuned by people who understood the rooms through experience rather than theory.

The layout mattered too. With two roughly equal-sized rooms, Corsica pushed promoters away from simple headline-led programming. There was no huge main room designed for one obvious draw. Instead, nights had to build their own world across the building.

That helped create something more meaningful than a series of bookings.

Jaded, I Love Acid, Rupture, Plex, Colony, Machine, Trouble Vision, Find Me In The Dark, Small Talk and Evian Christ’s Trance Party all found a home there at different points. Some became closely tied to the venue’s identity. Others used Corsica as a platform before moving elsewhere.

The venue also hosted live and experimental performances from artists including Sunn O))), Four Tet, Björk, Florence Welch, and Thom Yorke, always remaining closely associated with underground dance music.

None of that happened by accident.

It happened because Corsica kept making space for unfamiliar sounds, unproven promoters, and ideas that might not have made sense in more polished rooms.

The Problem With Replacing a Venue

It is tempting to think of a club closure as a property issue: a lease, a licence, a building, a room.

That misses most of what made Corsica valuable.

A sound system can be rebuilt. A space can be soundproofed. A venue can reopen in a refurbished form. But what is difficult to replace is 24 years of accumulated trust between a venue and the people who built nights, friendships, careers and communities inside it.

Corsica’s staff, promoters and regulars understood the building in a way that cannot simply be transferred. They knew how the rooms sounded. They knew what kind of risk the venue could take. They knew how to support strange ideas before they became obvious.

That kind of institutional memory is fragile.

Rupture did not just rent a room at Corsica. It grew there. Its birthday events, murals, radio documentation and sense of community were built over years inside that specific space. This is true of many of the promotions that became connected to the venue.

This is why the story feels more complicated than open or closed, saved or lost.

Something can be preserved on paper, the name, the team, even the address, while the original feeling quietly disappears.

The Wider Context

Corsica’s closure did not happen in isolation.

All over the UK, nightclubs and grassroots music venues have faced years of pressure from rising costs, redevelopment, licensing issues, changing habits and the increasing difficulty of operating late-night spaces in city centres.

That backdrop matters, but it is not the whole story.

Corsica was not simply closed by indifference or financial collapse. It was squeezed by the difficult collision between an existing venue and new residential development arriving almost on top of it.

That makes it a London story as much as a nightlife story: a reminder that cultural spaces often survive for years before suddenly finding the city has changed around them.

What Remains

Even if Corsica returns to the same arches in 2027, refurbished and soundproofed, it will not be the exact version that closed in March.

The plank-of-wood bar, the white-painted gallery origins, the rough edges, the specific configuration of the sound system, the feeling of the rooms as they were, those things are so difficult to transfer. They either have to be rebuilt, or they simply become part of the memory.

What does carry forward is less tangible.

The artists, promoters, and staff shaped by Corsica are still active. The promotions that grew there still matter. The communities it helped sustain did not disappear the moment the doors closed.

The Corsica team has also been applying some of that same thinking to the Carpet Shop in Peckham, a smaller space running since 2024, which functions in some ways as an incubator for new promoters and ideas.

“We leave with our heads held high.”

^{- Corsica’s team}

That feels like the right note.

Corsica Studios was not important because of its capacity, its location, or even just its sound system. It was important because, for 24 years, it kept saying yes to people and ideas that might not have found space elsewhere.

A new venue, however well protected, will have to earn that trust all over again.

The version that already earned it has closed.

Subscribe now

—

Sources: DJ Mag’s Corsica Studios forever: the art and heart of a London clubbing institution and London’s Corsica Studios to close down in 2026, Resident Advisor’s London club Corsica Studios to close in 2026, NME’s London’s iconic Corsica Studios confirm 2026 closure and final events, London The Inside’s One of London’s Best Clubs Is Closing Next Year, Corsica Studios (official) Nothing Lasts Forever

HIFEELINGS’ connection with electronic music runs deep. Originally from Poland and now based in Southampton, his dedication began through the internet, production culture and the bass heavy music that defined a generation.

Over the past year, his releases have shown an artist in motion, drawing from personal experience, the people around him, and UK dance music culture without being to one genre or lane.

Can you remember when you first connected with electronic music, and what inspired you to start producing?

I kind of always had an interest in electronic music, rooted in me, with Skrillex being my biggest inspiration. About 10 years ago, when I was a kid, I discovered a YouTube channel, “Kaskobi,” and I loved watching his launchpad light show covers he did, specifically Skrillex’s ‘First of the Year’ cover. It’s like the guy would press a button on his MIDI controller and a light animation would appear along with the sound; it was super fascinating at the time.

The very next week, I went ahead and bought the same MIDI controller he had and downloaded Ableton and some of the projects he had been sharing, and since then I kind of naturally found motivation to learn the program and naturally dived into music production with time.

Was there a moment where UK dance music started to feel like the direction you wanted to take?

I think I gotta give credit to all the people who I went with to Boiler Room Liverpool in 2024, where I got to witness some of the greatest in the scene currently, such as Saint Ludo, Bakey and Skream & Benga. That honestly was the starting point for me where I became hooked and thought to myself ‘ah, this could be me if I put in enough hard work as they do’. It just felt so fresh, and seeing the crowd reactions became very motivating to start doing something.

Do you feel like you have a defined sound now, or does it still feel like something you’re evolving release by release?

My sound and new avenues I’m exploring are constantly evolving, and I don’t think I have found ‘the sound’ I want to stick with. I love Dubstep, I love UK Garage, I love Techno, and sometimes I have a battle in my head if I should keep experimenting or stick within a certain field. But also I feel like I should just not give any thought to it because every release I put out does contain a feeling and message in the tracks, and that kind of became my priority for the things I want to put out.

What non-musical influences (everyday life, art, club spaces, films, cities) work their way into your productions most?

Honestly, my northern crew of friends are the best thing in the world and keep me so inspired and full of energy (Shoutout Sazza, Hamez, joegarratt and my skrillcord crew). Having a mature crowd of genuine, grounded people who also happen to love UK music is, I think, what everyone needs. I love the fact they keep me humble and accountable and that we all can have deep talks about anything in life, and I guess I take bits of these experiences and put these types of messages in my music.

With tracks like “FRIENDS?”, “STAY” and “feeling more”, there seems to be a personal or emotional thread running through them. Are those tracks usually connected to real experiences, or does the meaning develop as the music comes together?

1000% these releases unveil a deep meaning to my experiences and personal events in the last 9 months of my life, mainly to do with breakups, being blindsided and not feeling like enough. It will all start to make sense soon, as they are planned to be a part of a bigger project I will be set to drop by the end of this year, so keep your eyes peeled.

Are there sounds, genres or ideas you’ve been wanting to explore that haven’t fully come through in your releases yet?

I definitely want to show off my heavier side of production within the Dubstep and UK Bass space, but I have no idea when I will be able to with the amount of sick collaborations I have ready to unveil within the rest of the year. But what I will say is there is a dope heavy one coming later this year with an upcoming LA producer, Martha, which has been getting rinsed already in the city, so we are stoked to unveil this!

Looking ahead, what’s the dream milestone you’d love to achieve in your Career?

Getting to play a big festival in the UK like Parklife or Creamfields would most definitely be the top of the list for me. I feel like it would solidify me as a name here in the scene and maybe get me some opportunities I can’t even predict yet hahah.

When you’re producing, what techniques, plugins or tools do you keep coming back to?

I love to stick to the default stock plugins for mixing as I think they are good enough straight out of the box. But my favourite plugin of all time that isn’t stock has to be the delay plugin called Comeback Kid by Baby Audio. Overall, the rule I stick to in production is ‘less is more’ in terms of cluttering the mix with elements that aren’t needed. You don’t need much to make good music these days.

A big thank you to HIFEELINGS for taking the time to speak with us, offering insight into his journey, creative process and the ideas behind his recent releases. Make sure to check out his latest single, “Take U There”

Stay connected with HIFEELINGS, and keep an eye out for his upcoming projects.

↳ Instagram | Spotify | SoundCloud | YouTube | Apple Music

Subscribe now

Few cities are at the crossroads of dance & electronic music like Barcelona.

It is one of the most visited cities in Europe, home to some of the continent’s biggest festivals, and a place that thousands of DJs, producers, and music fans pass through every year. But, despite its international profile, Barcelona is holding onto something many cities lose as they grow: a genuine sense of identity.

That identity isn’t built around a single genre.

It isn’t techno in the way Berlin is techno. It isn’t bass music in the way Bristol is bass music. It isn’t defined by one club, one movement, or one generation.

Instead, Barcelona’s electronic music culture has been shaped by being open to new sounds, new people, and new influences.

For decades, artists have arrived in the city carrying pieces of somewhere else with them. Some stay for a season. Others stay for years. The result is a city that feels constantly in motion, absorbing ideas from Europe, Latin America, and beyond without completely losing sight of what makes it distinct.

The question isn’t why Barcelona became important.

The question is how it managed to become one of electronic music’s global capitals while still sounding like itself.

The Foundations

Barcelona’s rise as a dance & electronic music city is relatively recent compared to some other cities in Europe.

Cities such as London and Manchester were already developing strong club cultures throughout the 1980s, Barcelona was still emerging from decades of political and cultural isolation following the Franco era. The city had nightlife, but it wasn’t yet recognised as a destination to visit for electronic music.

That began to change in the early 1990s.

The 1992 Olympic Games transformed Barcelona’s relationship with the world. Infrastructure improved, tourism accelerated, and the city suddenly started to attract international attention on a scale it had never experienced before.

Electronic music arrived at exactly the right moment.

Within a few years, a series of institutions appeared that would define the city’s future: Nitsa, Sala Apolo, Mondo Sonoro magazine, and in 1994, Sónar.

Among them, Nitsa would become one of the most influential.

At a time when international DJs were still a rarity in Spain, Nitsa began bringing artists such as Jeff Mills, Laurent Garnier, Aphex Twin, Darren Emerson, and Todd Terry to Barcelona. More importantly, it introduced local audiences to a new way of experiencing music.

It wasn’t simply a club night.

It was a gateway.

Meanwhile, Sónar was establishing something just as important. Rather than presenting electronic music as a niche underground movement, the festival positioned it alongside technology, design, digital culture, and contemporary art.

That decision would prove to be hugely influential.

From the beginning, Barcelona’s electronic music culture wasn’t built around isolation. It was built around exchange.

And that spirit defines the city to this day.

Evolution

By the early 2000s, Barcelona had established itself as an important stop in Europe for dance & electronic music. The foundations were in place. Nitsa had built a loyal following, Sónar was attracting international attention, and the city had developed a culture that felt distinct from the club capitals further north.

The challenge now was different.

How could Barcelona continue to grow without losing what made it unique?

Tourism was accelerating, international DJs were visiting more frequently, festival audiences were expanding. As the city’s reputation grew, so did the risk of becoming defined by the people passing through rather than the people building the culture year-round.

Yet rather than diluting, Barcelona’s increasing visibility often strengthened it.

Unlike many dance & electronic music destinations, the city offered more than nightlife. Its climate, creative industries, international outlook, and quality of life made it somewhere people wanted to stay. Producers, DJs, promoters, and artists from around Europe and beyond began settling in Barcelona, bringing new influences with them and becoming part of the city’s fabric.

The result was a city that became more and more difficult to define by a single sound.

Where Berlin became associated with techno and London remained shaped by soundsystem culture, Barcelona developed into a meeting point. House, techno, disco, electro, ambient, and experimental electronics all found space to coexist, often within the same venues, labels, and communities.

Few artists embodied that openness better than John Talabot.

Born Oriol Riverola, he emerged as one of the defining electronic music producers of his generation. His music blends house, disco, Balearic influences, psychedelic textures, and leftfield electronica in a way that feels deeply connected to the city itself. It was dance music, but never confined by genre.

His label, Hivern Discs, became an extension of that philosophy. Rather than chasing trends, Hivern focused on distinctive underground music from both Barcelona and further afield, helping establish the city as a place capable of exporting culture rather than simply importing it.

Around the same time, a network of local labels and collectives began pushing the city’s sound into new territory. Imprints such as Lapsus and Adepta Editions gave a platform to producers exploring experimental, electro, ambient music, and more unconventional forms of dance music. Together, they broadened the perception of what Barcelona’s influence on electronic music could be.

By the end of the 2010s, Barcelona had become something unusual.

It wasn’t defined by a single genre, venue, or generation.

Instead, it had become a city where local identity and international influence existed side by side, a place shaped as much by the people arriving as the people who had always been there.

That openness is still one of Barcelona’s greatest strengths.

The Current Landscape

Barcelona’s electronic music landscape in 2026 doesn’t revolve around a single venue, genre, or community.

Instead, it exists on multiple layers that overlap. Long-running institutions sit alongside newer underground spaces. Global festivals coexist with local collectives. International artists move through the city while local talent continues to shape its identity from within.

What makes Barcelona interesting today is not the size of one layer, but the number of different worlds operating at the same time.

At the centre of the city’s club culture remains Sala Apolo and its flagship electronic programme, Nitsa. More than three decades after helping introduce a generation of clubbers to electronic music, it still has a huge influence on Barcelona’s nightlife. Not many venues have managed to remain culturally relevant for so long without becoming nostalgic. Nitsa’s strength has always been its ability to evolve alongside music rather than simply celebrate its past.

Elsewhere, venues such as Moog, INPUT, and Les Enfants Brillants reflect different sides of the city’s current identity. Moog remains one of Barcelona’s most resilient underground venues, providing a smaller, more intimate environment in the heart of the city. INPUT has become synonymous with technical excellence, attracting audiences who value sound quality as much as the artists themselves. Les Enfants Brillants, meanwhile, has quickly established itself as one of the city’s most exciting newer spaces, balancing international bookings with a commitment to underground and emerging talent.

Beyond the clubs, Barcelona’s festivals continue to play a defining role.

Sónar remains the city’s most internationally recognised electronic music event, but it no longer stands alone. OFFSónar has evolved into an essential part of festival week, hosting label showcases and artist-led events that feel closer to the pulse of contemporary club culture. Brunch Electronik has carved out its own identity with large-scale outdoor events, reflecting a style of dance music culture that feels particularly suited to Barcelona’s climate and social rhythms.

Together, these events have helped create something few cities can match: a year-round electronic music calendar that operates in clubs, festivals, outdoor spaces, and temporary venues.

However, for all its international visibility, Barcelona’s future may depend less on the artists passing through and more on the communities already there.

One of the most encouraging developments in recent years has been a growing emphasis on local artists, collectives, and independent promoters. As the city continues to attract global attention, there is a renewed effort to ensure that Barcelona remains a place where culture is created, not simply consumed.

That balance has never been easy to maintain. But it remains one of the reasons the city continues to feel alive.

And it is within that balance that the next chapter of Barcelona’s electronic music story is beginning to emerge.

Sources: DJ Mag, Catalan Arts

Emerging Trends

If Barcelona’s dance & electronic music culture has always been defined by openness, the changes taking place today are making that more visible than ever.

The city is not moving towards a single dominant sound. If anything, the opposite is happening. Genre boundaries feel less important than they ever have, and the influences shaping the city’s dancefloors are becoming more diverse.

Perhaps the most significant shift is Barcelona’s growing relationship with Latin American electronic music.

The connection is not entirely new. Shared language, cultural ties, and migration have linked Spain and Latin America for decades. What feels different now is how visible that relationship has become within club culture itself. Artists from across Latin America are appearing more on festival lineups, local collectives are creating new spaces for these sounds to develop, and audiences seem more open to forms of dance music that are from outside Europe.

Instead of simply importing trends, Barcelona is becoming a meeting point between them.

At the same time, local producers are beginning to have a more prominent place within the conversation.

For years, Barcelona’s reputation has been built largely around the international names passing through the city. While that remains an important part of its identity, there are signs of a renewed focus on the artists and communities already operating within it. From the experimental sounds from artists like TAWA and Metrika to the collectives creating spaces outside the boundaries of clubs, there is a growing sense that Barcelona’s next chapter will be shaped as much by local voices as international attention.

Another shift can be found in the way some people are approaching the dancefloor itself.

The growth of social media has changed club culture everywhere, and Barcelona is no exception. However, alongside the highly visible world of viral moments, festival content, and phone screens, there are smaller movements pushing in the opposite direction. Events that prioritise presence over performance, connection over documentation, and experience over visibility are beginning to find their place.

They are a relatively small part of the overall landscape, but their existence shows a broader conversation taking place in club culture: what people want, and what might have been lost along the way.

Sources: TNT Magazine Venga Store

Looking Ahead

Barcelona is not lacking attention.

Every year, thousands of artists, DJs, and promoters pass through the city. New venues open, festivals evolve, and new influences arrive from around the world. In many ways, the conditions that helped Barcelona become one of Europe’s most important dance & electronic music destinations are still there.

The challenge is not growth.

It is maintaining a sense of identity while continuing to grow.

For decades, Barcelona has benefited from absorbing new sounds, new communities, and new ideas without becoming defined by any single one of them. That ability to evolve has been one of its greatest strengths.

Today, this feels more important than ever.

The city is progressively acting as a meeting point between different cultures, generations, and approaches to electronic music. Local DJs share lineups with international headliners. European club culture blends with influences arriving from Latin America and beyond. Long-standing institutions continue to shape the city’s identity and new communities carve out space of their own.

Exactly where that leads is impossible to know.

What seems more certain is that Barcelona’s future will not be defined by a genre, a venue, or a movement. It will be shaped by the city’s ability to remain what it has always been at its best: a place where different ideas come together and evolve into something new.

Few cities have managed that balance for as long as Barcelona.

The next chapter of its story will depend on whether it can continue to do so.

Subscribe now

MR. SHAM G returns to SCREECH with “Lonely World”, a deep liquid drum & bass release that combines soulful melody with rolling dancefloor energy.

With rolling drums, warm melodies and a deep low end, the track sits comfortably between late-night introspection and club-ready weight. It carries the emotional pull of liquid drum & bass while still feeling built for selectors, with enough drive and low-end pressure to work on the dancefloor.

Following a successful UK radio campaign on his previous release, MR. SHAM G is now pushing further into the drum & bass circuit. His recent feature on FX909 MUSIC’s Liquid Base, Vol. 4 compilation placed his sound alongside established names in the scene, marking another step in his growing presence as an artist.

“Lonely World” feels like one of his most focused drum & bass releases to date. The production is understated but effective, allowing the track’s atmosphere to breathe while the bassline gives it the weight needed to move beyond purely reflective listening. It has the kind of emotional restraint that works in its favour, never over-explaining the feeling behind it.

Behind the track sits a quiet intent. Shamir produced “Lonely World” while thinking about the struggles many men carry without speaking, using drum & bass as the space to express that emotional weight. The track does not advertise the theme directly. Instead, it earns it through atmosphere, movement and a melody that ebbs and flows throughout.

“This song is about the quiet struggles many men carry but rarely speak about,” Shamir explains. “I’ve seen it around me, and I’ve felt it too. Even though the track has a lot of movement and energy, there’s also a heaviness and stillness woven into its emotion. I wanted the song to acknowledge that headspace honestly, and meet people there, not with answers, but with understanding.”

“Lonely World” arrives via SCREECH, the Bangalore-based bass music collective, record label and event platform dedicated to pushing forward-thinking underground bass music from India to a global audience.

Founded by Hellkitty and Hunnit D, SCREECH has become part of a growing movement helping to bring India’s underground bass scene into wider conversations. The label and collective focuses on championing unique voices across drum & bass, dubstep, garage and experimental bass music, while building culture beyond the dancefloor through releases, events, visual storytelling and community-led projects.

SCREECH and its artists have received support from internationally respected platforms including UKF, with releases from the label’s roster also gaining recognition from collectives such as STUDIO, DNB Spread and other figures within the global bass music community.

With a growing catalogue that moves across the different moods and sub-genres of drum & bass, MR. SHAM G continues to write for both the dancefloor and the listener at home. On “Lonely World”, that balance feels especially clear: a track grounded in emotional weight, but carried forward by rhythm, atmosphere and deep rolling energy.

“Lonely World” is out now via SCREECH. Listen here

Walk out of almost any rave or club night right now and there’s a good chance several of the tracks that hit hardest were IDs. No title, no label, no release date. Just a room full of people trying to Shazam something that isn’t there yet.

This isn’t new. Unreleased tracks, dubplates, and white labels have always been part of how dance music moves. Dance music has always been shaped by tracks that existed in booths and on sound systems long before they appeared in shops or on platforms. Exclusivity wasn’t a strategy. It was just how the culture worked.

But something has shifted in the last couple of years. DJs seem to be reaching for unreleased music more often, the conversation around unreleased material feels louder, and the reasons behind it have changed in ways that say something interesting about where the culture is right now.

What Changed

For a while, the logic of releasing music was straightforward. You produced something, you put it out, people bought it or streamed it, and having it available was better than not. Streaming platforms made distribution essentially free and reach pretty much unlimited. The case for holding music back seemed harder to make.

Then the economics of streaming hit properly.

The per-stream rates that producers receive, especially on the underground end of dance music, where audiences are passionate but not massive are negligible. A track with fifty thousand streams on Spotify earns somewhere in the region of £150 ($200) A well-received release on a respected underground label might generate enough to cover the mastering cost and not much else. The financial incentive to release, beyond visibility, is limited.

What hasn’t lost its value is the music itself specifically, the advantage that comes from having something nobody else has.

“A record that only I can play is a lot worth more to my bookings than a record that’s been out for six months and every DJ in Europe has on their USB”

^{— Leon Arendt, a veteran Amsterdam-based producer & DJ}

The Track No One Else Has

The term “ID” which once felt like an in-crowd calling card, has been appropriated by sites like 1001Tracklists to describe any unreleased song a DJ plays, and can be spotted on cardboard cut-outs held up at festivals. What was once a subcultural signal has become its own economy. (DJ Mag)

For established DJs, unreleased music gives them something other people don’t have. It differentiates a set from everything else on the same bill. It’s a reason for promoters to book you specifically rather than someone playing the same released catalogue. And in an era where the top tier of DJs are increasingly playing the same pool of tracks, having something exclusive is one of the few remaining ways to create genuine distinction.

“It’s the same thing as limited stock, sell out culture in fashion.”

^{— DJ Cosworth, head of HARDLINE}

The music that can’t be identified, can’t be found, can’t be purchased; that’s the music people talk about after the night.
(DJ Mag)

For emerging artists, the dynamic works differently but the logic is similar. Sending unreleased music directly to DJs they want to connect with is more meaningful than a SoundCloud link to a released track. A DJ who plays your unreleased tune is making a statement about your music that a stream doesn’t capture.

Where Tracks Prove Themselves

There’s another driver behind the rise in IDs that gets less attention: producers are using live rooms to finish tracks.

Testing reactions is one of the clearest reasons producers play unreleased music. A strong audience response helps producers decide whether to tweak a track, keep it as is, or shelve. This has always been true to some degree, but social media has made the feedback loop faster and more precise. Some DJs now openly test edits during sets and watch online reactions afterward to see which moments resonated most. In a way, the crowd has become an extension of the creative process.

The room tells you things a studio can’t. A track that sounds finished on headphones might fall flat in a system with real crowd. One that felt uncertain in the mix might cause something unexpected on a dancefloor. Playing unreleased material live isn’t just about exclusivity, it can also be an honest part of how the music gets made.

“I’ve changed the direction of releases based on crowd reactions more times than I can count. The dancefloor is brutally honest in a way that no A&R feedback ever is.”

^{— Aaron Redmond, a London-based producer}

The Platform That Emerged From All This

Platforms like 1001Tracklists and LiveTracklist have made track identification faster, more public, and more competitive than it ever used to be. Clips circulate within minutes, timestamped comments appear, and online communities collaborate to identify tracks. (Magnetic Magazine)

This has created something of an arms race. The more visible ID culture becomes, the more value there is in having tracks that resist identification (music that doesn’t appear in any database, can’t be Shazamed, and generates speculation rather than instant answers). What was once discovery has become a treadmill. What was once a treasure hunt has become a comment ritual. (Magnetic Magazine)

New infrastructure has started to emerge around this. Platforms like pl8list have been built specifically to handle dubplate distribution, offering watermarking, private sharing, and direct artist-to-DJ sales, describing itself as a secret third option built around exclusivity and being in the know. The fact that tools like this are being built at all suggests that the unreleased economy has matured to the point of needing its own ecosystem. (Magnetic Magazine)

Where It Gets Complicated

None of this is without tension.

When novelty becomes the primary value, musical storytelling suffers. Sets risk becoming previews rather than journeys. DJs become testers of future releases rather than curators of music history. And listeners, consciously or not, are trained to crave what they can’t have instead of sitting with what they do.

There’s also a question of access. The dubplate economy has always favoured artists with the right relationships; those connected enough to receive exclusive music, established enough to have leverage over when and whether to release. For emerging producers without those connections, the system can feel like a closed loop.

Then there’s the straightforward reality that unreleased music, by definition, doesn’t earn. Tracks sitting on USBs aren’t generating royalties. The advantage they provide is real, but it only converts into income if and when a release eventually happens. For artists who need the music to sustain a career, holding everything back indefinitely has its own costs.

“There’s a version of ID culture that’s genuinely exciting, music finding its form in the room before it’s finished, but there’s a version that’s just hoarding. The difference is usually obvious when you’re watching someone play.”

^{— Brian Houghton, a Liverpool-based promoter}

What It Actually Reflects

The rise of unreleased music in DJ sets isn’t really about nostalgia for dubplate culture, or a rejection of streaming, or even a deliberate strategy in most cases. It’s a response to a set of economic and cultural conditions that have made the old logic of releasing music less appealing.

When streaming pays next to nothing, when every track is available to everyone instantly, when originality is harder to create; music that doesn’t exist yet becomes one of the last genuine forms of currency in DJ culture.

The comments, tracklist hunters, and speculation around IDs are what happens when a scene built on shared discovery meets music that withholds just enough. It generates exactly the kind of conversation that a released track, available on every platform the moment it drops, often doesn’t.

Whether that’s good for the music is a different question. But it’s an honest reflection of where the industry is right now

The music exists. That part most producers have figured out. Studios are more accessible than they’ve ever been, the tools are better, the barrier to releasing something into the world is effectively zero. What hasn’t become easier is the part that comes after: navigating the distance between having made something and having it matter to anyone beyond your immediate circle.

That distance is where most artists get stuck. Not because the music isn’t good enough, but because good music and a career are two separate things, and the industry doesn’t always make that distinction clear.

The Myth of the Work Speaking for Itself

The idea that quality rises to the top is one of the most persistent beliefs in music, and one of the least supported by evidence. Plenty of exceptional artists have disappeared without trace and plenty of average ones have built sustainable careers. Talent is a prerequisite, not a guarantee and treating it as the whole equation is where a lot of emerging artists lose years of momentum.

This isn’t cynicism, it’s just an accurate reading of how the industry actually functions. Music doesn’t exist in a vacuum, it lands in a context (a moment, a scene, a relationship, a platform) and that context shapes almost everything about how it’s received. Two identical tracks released under different circumstances will have completely different outcomes.

The artists who understand this early tend to progress differently to those who don’t. They’re not more talented, they’re just more aware of the full picture.

Positioning Is Not Marketing

When artists hear the word positioning they often translate it as marketing, which then triggers thoughts about content strategies, posting schedules, and doing things that feel inauthentic. That’s not what this is.

Positioning is simpler and more fundamental than that. It’s about having a clear sense of what you’re doing, why it’s distinct, and who it’s for. It’s the answer to the question a promoter, a blog, or an A&R is silently asking the moment they encounter your music: what is this, and where does it fit?

Artists who can answer that question, not in a pitch, just through the accumulated clarity of their output, create a much easier path for the people who might want to support them. The ones who can’t tend to get filed as interesting but indistinct, which is a polite way of saying they don’t get followed up on.

This doesn’t mean having a rigid identity or forcing yourself into a box. It means knowing what you stand for well enough that it comes through consistently, without having to explain it.

Timing Is Underrated and Mostly Ignored

Most emerging artists release music when it’s finished. That sounds reasonable until you consider how much timing shapes reception.

Releasing into a moment when your sound is culturally relevant, when a scene is building, when a genre is gaining traction, when audiences are curious about something new is a meaningfully different experience to releasing into a quiet period or against the grain of what’s capturing attention. The music might be identical, the outcomes won’t be.

Timing also applies to readiness. There’s a version of premature release that’s almost invisible while it’s happening: artists putting out music before they have enough context around them to support it. No relationships with the right people, no audience primed to receive it, no narrative to anchor it. The track lands, gets a polite response, and disappears. The artist interprets this as the music not being good enough and goes back to make something better. But the issue wasn’t the music.

None of this means waiting indefinitely. It means releasing with intention rather than relief.

Relationships Are the Infrastructure

The music industry runs on relationships, and relationships take time to build. The DJs who play your tracks, the blogs that cover your releases, the promoters who take a chance on an unfamiliar name, these moments come from trust, familiarity, and consistent presence over time.

This is where a lot of emerging artists are passive in ways that cost them. They send cold emails into the void, get no response, and conclude the door is closed. What they haven’t done is spend any time in the rooms where those relationships actually form: at the nights, on the forums, in the communities where the people they want to reach actually exist.

Being present in a scene is not the same as networking in the transactional sense that word implies. It’s closer to showing genuine investment, caring about the music beyond your own, supporting artists you respect, building the kind of credibility that comes from being immersed rather than someone who appears only when they have something to promote.

The artists with the most sustainable careers tend to be deeply embedded in communities, that’s not a coincidence.

Consistency Does More Work Than Most Artists Realise

There’s a tendency to treat each release as a separate event, something to push hard for a week or two before moving on. Streaming has reinforced this in some ways. Single-driven culture, algorithm chasing, and the pressure to keep feeding platforms.

But the thing that actually builds an audience over time is less about any single release and more about the accumulation of them. The sense that someone is always working, always developing, always showing up with something that reflects a consistent point of view. The industry and audiences trust that.

Consistency doesn’t mean quantity. Releasing something you’re not happy with to stay visible is worse than going quiet. It means maintaining a visible creative practice, not just in music, but in how you engage with the world around your work. The artists who disappear between releases tend to find that each new release starts from zero. The ones who stay present tend to find that each release lands on slightly warmer ground than the last.

The Support Question Nobody Asks Early Enough

labels used to play a bigger role in developing artists. They signed you, built you, funded the infrastructure around your career, and took a significant share of what you earned as a result. That model still exists at the top of the industry, but for the vast majority of emerging artists it isn’t a realistic pathway, and waiting for it to arrive is another way of losing time.

What that means practically is that the support infrastructure (the people helping you think through strategy, make connections, handle the business side) has to be assembled differently. It might be a manager. It might be an agency. It might be a mentor who’s further along the same path. It rarely happens by chance.

This is the part of artist development that gets talked about least and matters the most. The artists who build careers never to do it entirely alone. They have people around them who understand the industry, can see the bigger picture when the artist is too close to the work, and can open doors that are hard to open from the outside.

Finding those people is its own kind of work and it belongs in the conversation about artist development just as much as making good music does.

Final Thoughts

The distance between producing music and being heard isn’t closed by making better music. It’s closed by everything else: the clarity about who you are, the patience to release at the right moment, the presence in the scenes that matter, the consistency that builds trust over time, and being willing to build support structures rather than wait for them.

None of that is as immediately satisfying as finishing a track. Most of it doesn’t feel like creative work. Some of it takes years to pay off in any visible way.

But the artists who understand that the music and the career are two separate projects, and give both the attention they deserve, tend to be the ones still around when it counts.

Subscribe now

It used to feel like a fixed thing.

You went out at night.
Everything that mattered happened somewhere between midnight and early morning.

That was just how it worked.

Now, we are starting to see something different.

Lineups starting at 2pm.
Events ending before midnight.
People are outside, in daylight, already a few hours into something that feels like a night out, just… earlier.

At first it felt like an exception. Now we are starting to notice it more often. And after a while, it won't feel unusual at all.

Does It Feel Like a Compromise?

The assumption is that daytime events are a softer version of something else.

Less intense and less committed.
Something you did if you didn’t want the full experience.

But that’s not really how they all feel now.

The energy can still build. People still settle into the music. There’s still that point where a crowd locks in and stops thinking about anything else.

The only real difference is the context.

You look up and it’s still light outside.

The Day Changes the Way You Experience It

There’s something about being in a space where time feels more visible.

At night, everything compresses. Hours blur together. You lose track of when things started and where you are in it.

In the daytime, that doesn’t quite happen in the same way.

You’re more aware of time passing. More sober. More aware of where you are. But does that take away from the experience or does it just change it slightly?

It Fits Into Life Differently

One of the reasons this shift is happening is practical, even if it doesn’t feel like it at first.

People go out less often than they used to. When they do, they want it to fit around everything else.

Work, travel, recovery. Having a normal day the next day.

A daytime event lets you do that.

You can go, stay for hours, feel like you’ve actually been somewhere and still leave at a time that doesn’t completely take over the next day.

It changes the balance.

The Crowd Feels Slightly Different

Not completely different. Just… slightly.

There’s less of that feeling of pushing through the night. Less of the slow build towards something late.

People arrive earlier, but they also arrive more intentionally. They’re there for the music, not just because it’s the only place left open.

The energy builds in a different way.

Not better or worse, just more immediate.

It’s Not Just About Avoiding the Night

It would be easy to frame this as people moving away from nightlife.

But it doesn’t really feel like that.

Night events are still there. Late sets still matter. That part of the culture hasn’t disappeared.

This feels more like an expansion.

A more accessible way of doing the same thing.

There’s Something About Daylight

Being in a crowd while it’s still light outside changes the atmosphere in ways that are hard to explain.

Everything feels more visible.

You can see people properly. You notice the space more. There’s less separation between what’s happening inside and everything outside of it.

It doesn’t feel as enclosed.

And that shifts the energy.

It Doesn’t Replace the Night

There are still things that only really make sense late.

Certain tracks. Certain moods. That feeling when everything narrows and the outside world disappears completely.

Daytime events can't recreate that.

They don’t need to, but they can offer a different version of it.

You Notice It More When You Go Back to the Night

After a daytime event, going back to a late one feels different.

Heavier, maybe. More immersive in a way that’s harder to access during the day.

But also more demanding.

You feel the contrast more clearly than before.

Maybe It Was Always Going to Happen

Or maybe it just feels like it was.

The way people go out changes over time. What fits into life changes. What people want from a night, or a day, shifts slightly.

This feels like part of that.

Not a replacement. Not a reaction.

Just another direction things are moving in.

It Still Comes Back to the Same Thing

Time of day doesn’t change the core of it.

You’re still in a room with like-minded people, focused on the same sound, letting it build into something shared.

That part hasn’t changed and let's hope it never will.

The rest, when it starts, when it ends, what it looks like from the outside has become more flexible than it used to be.

And once you notice that, it’s difficult not to keep seeing it.

Origins & Background

Before stepping into drum & bass, what did your journey into music look like, and how did you first find your way into the genre?

I’ve always been into electronic music, and before I got into drum & bass I was mainly making house. When I moved to Bristol for uni, I found the type of DnB that resonated with me most. The scene there is so rich, and the raves in 2018 / 2019 especially were unreal.

You come from a classical music background, how has that shaped the way you approach producing music today?

To be honest, I wasn’t great at the classical grades or theory side of things, and in a way that’s what pushed me toward electronic music. I’m not a super technical producer either, but being a slower learner has actually made me more playful and experimental. I haven’t mastered either side yet, but chipping away at both feels like it’s taking me in the right direction.

Production, DJing & Voice

You occupy a rare space as a producer, DJ, and vocalist, how do those three roles influence one another creatively?

I kind of see them all as connected. Since I was little, I’ve wanted to be the kind of musician who does a bit of everything and brings the whole vision together, so producing, DJing, and vocals all feel like part of the same picture for me. When I’m slacking in one area, focusing on it usually shows me what else needs work, so each side pushes the others. It keeps me evolving, and makes everything feel more cohesive creatively.

How does performing live shape the way you think about producing in the studio?

Love this question! The most meaningful sets I’ve played are the ones where I really feel that human connection, like everyone’s in the same emotional space. That feeling pushes me to go back into the studio and write music with intention, something that carries a message.

Developing Your Sound

How would you describe the evolution of your sound since your earlier releases?

I’m starting to feel like I can finally execute a more polished sound, at least I hope so. It’s always hard to judge your own work when you’re so close to it. But I’m definitely able to be more ambitious with my ideas now and actually pull them off. My early tracks had musical merit, but the production wasn’t quite there yet. I can hear the growth, even if I’m still figuring it all out.

Your music often balances melodic emotion with strong bass-driven energy, how do you approach finding that balance?

That’s just what I love to listen to. My favourite artists are the ones who create music with both sonic and emotional depth, so that style naturally what comes out in what I make too.

What influences, musical or otherwise, outside of drum & bass have played the biggest role in shaping your sound?

Technimatic, SpectraSoul, Nu:Tone and Pola & Bryson are my biggest DnB influences. I’ve always loved the deeper stuff too like Burial, Fracture and Dub Phizix. In terms of vocals, I grew up listening to Amy Winehouse, Etta James and London Grammar. They definitely shaped the way I write songs and the storyteller side of my music which I want to lean into more as I develop.

Growth & Opportunities

Being part of the Hospital Records Women in Drum & Bass mentorship programme seems like it was a significant step, what did that experience mean for you creatively and professionally?

Yes, absolutely! I learned so much about how the industry works, and they pushed me to develop my sound and think more critically about growing as an artist overall. I’m forever thankful for that experience and where it led me.

What advice would you give to producers, DJs and vocalists looking to break into the drum & bass scene today?

To keep at it! if you love it, just stick with it. Trust and nurture your creativity and what you’re trying to do. Feedback is important, but don’t change your vision for others.

The Drum & Bass Scene

From your perspective as both a producer and performer, what excites you most about where drum & bass is heading right now?

There’s so much creativity right now! The tools for producing, improving performances and making DnB content have never been more accessible, so all kinds of creative people can jump in and do cool stuff. Before, the tech was super expensive, but now it’s amazing seeing people think outside the box, carve out their own lane, and push the scene forward.

What do you feel the drum & bass scene might be lacking at the moment, and could it benefit from more representation or perspectives in certain areas?

The scene is definitely lacking grassroots events. Big raves are everywhere now, but my favourite nights have always been the small sweatbox venues where everyone’s locked into the music and actually dancing. With social media, people have shifted into being observers instead of partakers, and I'd love to see that change. 

I also think some promoters and labels could put more effort into genuinely diverse lineups and rosters. The talent is there, so there's really no excuse for the same white-male lineups again and again.

Creative Process

What risks or new directions are you excited to explore in your music?

I’d love to do a 100% Viridity set at some point. I’ve also been working with live musicians more, which is such an exciting direction for me. The Vibre Strings quartet and I did a show in Bristol, which was the highlight of my year. I want to bring that energy into my sets more and more… maybe sax, maybe piano… watch this space!

What part of the production process do you find the most challenging?

Definitely the technical side. It took me ages to get my mixes sounding even okay, and I still struggle. I just want to be able to execute all the ideas I have, but sometimes my technical skills hold me back. I’m always improving though, so hopefully it'll keep getting easier.

What production techniques, plugins, or tools have become essential in shaping your sound?

Great question. I love Fresh Air (Slate Digital) and Soothe (oeksound). They are the best for making the tunes sound so airy and bright but whilst keeping the mix clean. Gen Dopamine (Overloud) is also a fab compressor with a great quality to it. Those are a couple of the game-changing ones I’m using at the moment.

How does collaborating with other artists influence your creative process?

I’ve learned so much just from being in the studio with other producers. Sharing tips has levelled up my workflow, helped me get past so many roadblocks, and made my tunes way more polished. Honestly, I’m super lucky to have been around some really great producers along the way.

Looking Ahead

Looking ahead, what kind of impact would you like your work to have within drum & bass?

I just love the idea of someone feeling inspired after hearing my music. The thought that something I’ve made could spark someone else’s creativity is honestly so cool to me. So yeah… that’s the goal.

Do you have any upcoming plans or projects that we should keep an eye out for?

Ah well I’m releasing lots of music this year with Shogun Audio. They’ve been helping me polish my sound and build my project over the last couple of years, and I’m so excited to finally have the music out.

A huge thank you to Viridity for taking the time to speak with us, offering insight into her journey, creative process and the ideas shaping her music. Make sure sure to check out her latest single, Golden Skies with Acris!

Stay connected with Viridity, and keep an eye out for her upcoming projects.
 ↳ Spotify | Instagram | TikTok | SoundCloud | Facebook

In Lagos, nothing really stands still.

The city moves fast, loud, layered with contradictions. It’s a place where energy is constant and clarity is harder to come by. And yet, it’s exactly here that FāëM have built a project rooted not in answers, but in a question.

What Are We Doing Here?

Their latest body of work, WAWDH?!, isn’t just a title or a concept, it’s a reflection of lived experience. One shaped by movement, dislocation, cultural excavation, and the overwhelming pace of a city that demands adaptation.

A Reality That Moves, And So Does the Music

When asked about their description of their sound as a “sonic transcription of reality,” the assumption might be that Lagos sits at the centre of that story. But for FāëM, it’s more complicated.

“We didn’t actually grow up in Lagos… we grew up in different parts of the Southwest,” they explain. “Our parents are civil servants… so we moved around a lot.”

That sense of movement, not belonging to one fixed place, becomes central to how they create. Their “reality” isn’t just geography, it’s environment, politics, and emotion.

“A lot of things that end up in our music come from our day-to-day… the political climate, the economic climate… all those things affect our sound.”

Before Lagos, their music mirrored a slower existence.

“The energy was calmer… mountains, trees… very green. The music we made was more laid back.”

Then came the shift.

“When we moved to Lagos, we had to increase the pace… we were not on the same page with the energy.”

It’s here that the idea of “transcription” becomes clear. Their sound doesn’t imitate, it reacts.

What Lagos Demands, Music Delivers

One of the first questions asked in the interview, how Lagos’ intensity translates into sound, almost answers itself through their experience.

“When we go to parties… there was already an energy you had to match.”

That energy wasn’t optional. It dictated structure, tempo, and intention.

“We had to make songs we could DJ… fast-paced and very groovy.”

But the influence runs deeper than BPM.

“There’s a lot of people in Lagos… it’s almost impossible to know everyone, but everyone exists in the same space.”

That density creates a kind of shared chaos, something FāëM had to learn to navigate both socially and sonically.

“It wasn’t something we did consciously… it was out of necessity.”

Music became adaptation. A way to exist within the environment without losing themselves entirely.

Rebuilding the Dancefloor

Another key question, what makes Lagos’ electronic music scene unique, reveals just how recent and fragile the movement still is.

Before house music took hold, nightlife followed a very different structure.

“You had to buy tables… overpriced tables… bottles. It wasn’t dance-oriented.”

Access was tied to status. Participation had a price.

Electronic music disrupted that system.

“It was cheap… just speakers and a controller… people gather.”

More importantly, it shifted the culture of the space itself.

“You don’t have to be rich… it’s a level ground for everyone.”

That inclusivity became especially important in creating room for communities that previously had none.

“The queer space… there was no room before. Now there is.”

In many ways, the rise of electronic music in Lagos isn’t just about sound, it’s about access, identity, and freedom.

Beyond Outside Influences:
Building Something New

From the outside, it’s easy to reduce Lagos’ electronic music scene to Afro-house or South African influence, something FāëM are quick to challenge.

“That’s what you would expect… South Africa has an upper hand.”

But beneath that surface is something else emerging.

“There are people building a Nigerian electronic music sound… something originating from here.”

It’s subtle. Still developing. Easy to miss if you’re not there.

“There’s this tiny momentum… it’s growing.”

And FāëM are part of that growth, not as self-declared pioneers, but as contributors to something larger than themselves.

Digging Through Time to Find the Future

When asked about their influences, the answer stretches far beyond genre.

Their entry point into electronic music, artists like Avicii and David Guetta, eventually led them deeper, toward Disclosure and Bicep.

But the real turning point came when they looked backward.

“Around 2018, we started to look into Nigerian music from the 60s, 70s, 80s.”

What they found wasn’t just inspiration, it was a gap.

“When people talk about Nigerian music history, they only talk about Fela… but there’s so much more.”

That discovery led them across the continent, Ghana, Zambia, beyond, uncovering sounds shaped by history, conflict, and survival.

“Africa’s music history is so rich… once we found it, we knew we had to explore.”

This process wasn’t passive.

“It’s not luck… it’s work… digging, listening, immersing.”

That digging eventually led to experimentation, particularly with Fuji music.

“It felt like a genre was born… combining Fuji with house.”

A moment where past and present didn’t just meet, they fused.

WAWDH?! A Question Born From Friction

The conceptual heart of the project comes from one of the simplest questions asked during the interview: what inspired you to build a project around such an existential idea?

The answer is anything but abstract.

“It started from frustration… we kept saying it casually, what are we doing here?”

A difficult period creative setbacks and personal disappointment pushed the question further.

“We made a beat… then a song… ‘we’ll make it through.’”

From there, the project unfolded naturally.

“It wasn’t planned… it followed the emotion.”

And that emotion was rooted in something specific: losing direction.

“We got to Lagos and got lost in the chaos… we forgot some of the things we held onto.”

The album became a way back.

There Is No Answer And That’s the Point

One of the most revealing moments comes when they’re asked whether making the project brought them closer to answers.

It didn’t.

“It made us realise there is no final answer.”

Instead, the question itself became the purpose.

“It’s something you have to keep asking.”

To explore that, they stepped away from everything Lagos represents.

“We removed ourselves from the fast pace… locked ourselves in… just to be ourselves.”

What emerged wasn’t clarity, it was understanding.

“You have to answer that question for yourself.”

Creating Without Forcing

Translating ideas like existence and purpose into sound isn’t something FāëM approach analytically.

“It wasn’t difficult… it was a feeling thing.”

If a track didn’t feel right, it didn’t make the project.

“We don’t force it… we let it go.”

Unexpected outcomes became part of the process.

“You go in with intention… and end up somewhere else entirely.”

Instead of resisting that unpredictability, they embraced it.

Two Minds, One Direction

As a duo, creative tension is inevitable, but for FāëM, it’s productive.

“We try both ideas… see which works.”

There’s no hierarchy, no ego.

“The goal is to make a song.”

Their roles shift fluidly, one focused on arrangement, the other on sound design, but the shared instinct is what matters most.

“We can both tell when something doesn’t feel right.”

And when they can’t?

“We ask our sister… she’s very blunt.”

Rooted, But Looking Outward

As their reach expands, another question emerges: how do you stay rooted while going global?

For FāëM, the answer is simple.

“It’s our lived experience… it’s not a gimmick.”

Their identity isn’t something they add, it’s something they carry.

And the goal isn’t just exposure.

“We want people to understand this culture… to learn.”

That ambition is already shaping their next step: a live show designed to translate their music into a physical experience.

“Not just a DJ set… a full performance.”

With a clear vision behind it.

“We want to take it to every city in the world.”

Let the Listener Decide

For anyone discovering FāëM for the first time, the expectation isn’t understanding, it’s interpretation.

“I want people to see what they will see… I don’t want to influence it.”

Because meaning isn’t fixed.

One listener hears devotion to music. Another hears love for a partner.

“That’s the point.”

What matters is authenticity.

“I want people to see the realness.”

And maybe, in doing so, feel encouraged to create honestly themselves.

The Question That Doesn’t End

If What Are We Doing Here? asks something fundamental, FāëM’s answer is ongoing.

In a city defined by motion, that might be the only way forward, not by finding answers, but by continuing to ask questions.

WAWDH?! (What Are We Doing Here)

Subscribe now

Origins & Early Breakthrough

What did your journey into drum & bass look like, and what first pulled you into the genre?

My first memory of drum & bass was hearing the Mind Vortex remix of "Silent Shadows" in a FaZe Clan montage — it just sounded completely different to anything I’d heard before. I kept replaying it and started digging into artists like Muzz and Feint Then a friend showed me Pendulum and that’s when I was fully hooked.

At what point did you start to feel that your music was gaining real traction, and what led to that?

It’s felt pretty gradual — each year since 2022 there’s been a couple of tracks that pushed things forward. Early on it was songs like "Forget" and "TURN IT", then my "Trigger Finger" remix getting DJ support. The biggest jump came in 2024–2025 with "Nonstop", "Worth The Love", and then my "A Bar Song (Tipsy)" remix which really took off.

Recent Rise & Momentum

Your rise has been incredibly fast, how have you experienced that growth?

A lot of it comes from work I did before releasing anything — I spent years just producing and getting better. Since then, it’s really just been consistency and treating it like a full-time job. Releasing regularly and improving each time has been the biggest driver of growth.

What moments have felt like genuine turning points in your journey?

2024 was a big one — supporting Luude and Chase & Status on tour and dropping my Nonstop album. Then in 2025, signing with Ivo Mayfield at Tealeaves and doing my first Europe tour was huge. Those moments really shifted things up a level for me.

Sound & Identity

What draws you to that high-energy, crowd-focused style of drum & bass?

I’ve always been into music that hits hard but still has emotion behind it. I like combining strong melodies and chords with sounds that really hits you in a live setting. Bringing influences from other genres into drum & bass is a big part of what keeps it interesting for me.

How has your sound evolved since you first got into production?

The core hasn’t changed too much — I’ve always liked experimenting and trying different ideas. Early on it was maybe a bit too left-field, but now I’ve learned how to make it fit better within drum & bass. It’s more about balancing originality with making tracks that actually work in sets.

Production & Creative Process

What production techniques or plugins are central to your sound?

A big thing for me is using sounds from outside drum & bass to keep things fresh. I’ve always used Xfer Serum a lot, but these days I focus more on picking the right sounds than designing everything from scratch. It’s more about what fits the track than just making the craziest bass.

How do you build drops that work both online and on big sound systems?

I try to keep the drop connected to the rest of the track by using the same chord progressions and ideas. That way it feels like a natural lift in energy instead of a random switch. It helps the track hit hard live but still feel musical.

How much of your process is instinctive versus intentional?

These days it’s mostly intentional — I usually have a clear idea and try to bring that to life. Early on it was way more trial and error, which was important for learning. Now it’s more about executing ideas properly while still leaving room for creativity.

Playing Live

How does playing live influence the way you produce?

Playing live definitely pushes me to make more energetic, DJ-friendly tracks. I think more about groove and keeping people moving the whole way through. Even the emotional parts now still have some rhythm to keep the flow going.

What have you learned from the dancefloor that you couldn’t in the studio?

What works in the studio doesn’t always work on a dancefloor. You really see how people react in real time and whether they can move to it. That’s made me focus on keeping tracks engaging from start to finish.

How has touring internationally shaped your perspective on the scene?

It made me realise how much bigger drum & bass is in places like Europe and the UK compared to Australia. There’s a much deeper culture around it. It’s also been cool seeing it grow in other parts of the world and connecting with those crowds.

"Gravity"

The drop in “Gravity” hits hard, how did you design that moment?

The drop was written by TANTRON, and I focused on the chords and intro. The main idea was to keep the same feeling from the intro and just push the energy up. That’s what makes it hit without feeling disconnected.

What was the process like working with Sophie-Grace?

Working with Sophie-Grace really gave the track direction. The “Gravity” idea came from her and it just clicked straight away. It turned the track from just a vibe into something with a clear theme.

What has the reaction been like playing “Gravity” live?

For me and Tantron, it’s tied to playing Rampage main stage to 10,000 people. That was the biggest show we’d done and a massive moment for us. Every time we hear the track now it takes us back there.

Advice

What advice would you give to producers trying to break into drum & bass?

Focus on making really good music first, but don’t ignore marketing. Try to build a sound that actually feels like you instead of just following trends. Consistency and hard work are what really move things forward.

What’s most important for building momentum as a new artist?

Consistency is everything — releasing regularly and staying visible. You need good music, but also have to push it properly and try different things. Don’t be afraid to fail early, that’s where you learn the most.

Looking Ahead

What are you most excited about for the rest of the year?

I’m in the middle of rolling out my next album, with the full 12-track project dropping at the end of May. After that I’ll be back in Europe for summer festivals. Playing Let It Roll is a big one I’m really looking forward to.

A huge thank you to YUSSI for taking the time to speak with us, offering insight into his journey, creative process and the ideas shaping his music.

Stay connected with Yussi, and keep an eye out for his upcoming projects.

Every DJ remembers their breakthrough set. The night everything clicked, the room responded, and someone important was watching. What nobody tells you is that moment is already fading.

It goes like this. You’ve been grinding for months, maybe years. Sending mixes into the void, playing to half-empty rooms, slowly building a following. Then something shifts, a night goes well or a promoter takes notice. The booking comes in, a real one, at a venue that matters, and you deliver. The room is with you. You walk off feeling like you’ve finally arrived.

And then you wait for the phone to ring again.

For a lot of DJs, that wait is longer than they expect. The breakthrough set opened a door, but it didn’t build a career. Understanding why and what actually builds one is the difference between a DJ who burns bright for a couple months and one who’s still getting gigs a decade later.

The Illusion of Arrival

The music industry, and club culture in particular, is very good at making moments feel like milestones. A great set at the right event feels like proof of something. And it is proof of ability, potential, and the fact that you can deliver when it counts. But promoters are not booking potential. They are booking reliability.

The DJ who got booked based on one exceptional set has demonstrated one thing: that they can have a great night. What they haven’t demonstrated is that they’ll have a great set every time. That consistency, the ability to show up and perform regardless of the room size, the sound system, the crowd, or the hour, is what separates the ones who stick around from the ones who don’t.

“The first booking is almost like an audition. We’re watching everything, not just the set (how they behave before it, how they read the room, how they handle it if something goes wrong). One great set gets you in the door. Everything else determines whether you stay.”

^{- Nathan Kershaw, London-based promoter}

What Changes After the First Gig

Before the breakthrough, your only job is to be good. There’s a freedom in obscurity — nobody has expectations of you, which means you can take risks, experiment, and find your voice without the pressure of having a reputation to protect.

After the breakthrough, the pressure increases. Suddenly you have something to lose. Promoters who’ve booked you once are watching to see if you’re consistent. DJs who came up alongside you are measuring themselves against your trajectory. The audience at your next event might have heard about you and arrived with expectations. The pressure is different, and many DJs don’t account for that shift.

Some respond by playing it safe: sticking too close to the set that worked, avoiding risk, becoming a slightly less interesting version of themselves. Others go the other way, overcorrecting into novelty, chasing a sound that feels current rather than one that feels authentic to them. Neither works particularly well.

“After my first breakthrough booking I spent about six months trying to recreate the feeling of that night, I was basically doing tribute sets to myself. It took me a while to realise that what made that night work wasn’t the track selection, it was the confidence. And I’d lost the confidence the moment I started overthinking it.”

^{- Nyxen, a Los Angeles-based DJ}

The Relationship Problem

Here’s something the “how to get booked” content online almost never addresses: the music industry runs on relationships, and relationships require maintenance.

Getting booked once means a promoter took a chance on you. Staying booked means you’ve become someone they trust, someone they want to work with again, someone they think of when a slot opens up. That doesn’t happen automatically. It requires you to show up as a person, not just as a DJ.

This sounds obvious. In practice, a surprising number of DJs are passive about it. They play the gig, do a good job, and then disappear: no follow-up, no engagement, no visible investment in the relationship. Promoters book people they know. If they don’t know you beyond one interaction, they’re less likely remember you, and you’ll be starting from scratch every time.

The DJs who keep getting booked are the ones who feel like collaborators, they come to other events, they’re invested in the scene, they recommend other DJs. The ones who only show up when they’re performing is not necessarily a dealbreaker, but it’s a signal.

This doesn’t mean being inauthentic or networking in a transactional way. It means being genuinely part of the community you want to work in. Go to the nights you want to play, support the artists you respect, and be visible in the scene as someone who cares about it, not just someone who wants something from it.

The Development Trap

One of the more counterintuitive pieces of advice for DJs building momentum is this: keep developing after the breakthrough, not just before it.

Most DJs treat development as a pre-career activity. You learn, you practice, you build, and then you arrive. But the DJs with the longest careers are the ones who never stop treating themselves as a work in progress. They’re still digging for tunes, still experimenting with structure, and still adapting to what’s happening in their scene.

The ones who stagnate are often the ones who found a formula that worked and stopped there. And here’s the uncomfortable truth about formulas: they have a shelf life, the sound that got you booked will eventually feel dated. What made your sets distinctive will get absorbed into the broader culture and stop being distinctive. If your development stopped when your career started, you’ll find yourself defending a sound rather than evolving one.

“Every six or so months I try to play something that scares me a little, not in a random way, it has to be honest, it has to feel like the next natural step. But if I’m not slightly uncomfortable, I feel like I’m standing still.”

^{- Juno Mark, a Stockholm-based DJ}

What Promoters Actually Want

Talk to promoters long enough and a consistent picture emerges of what they’re really looking for in a DJ they book repeatedly and very little of it is about the music alone.

They want someone who is easy to communicate with. Responds to messages, confirms details, arrives on time. These things sound basic, and they are, but they’re also apparently rare enough that they’re mentioned unprompted by almost every promoter who books regularly.

They want someone who understands the context of the booking. A DJ who can read what kind of event it is, what the audience needs at that specific point in the night, and adjust accordingly, rather than playing the same set regardless of circumstances.

They want someone who contributes to the event’s energy away from the booth as well as behind it. Who talks to people, who supports the other acts on the bill, who treats the event as something to invest in rather than a transaction to complete.

And they want someone who is progressing. A DJ whose sets this year sound better than their sets last year, who is visibly growing rather than coasting. Because booking a DJ is also a statement about the promoter’s taste. If you stagnate, it reflects on them too.

Building the Career

The DJs who build sustainable careers, not just hot streaks, but actual longevity tend to share a few characteristics that have little to do with raw talent.

They are consistent without being too predictable. They show up at the same level every time, but they find ways to keep their mixes feeling alive and personal. They have a point of view that develops over time rather than one that starts to feel tired.

They invest in community, they are part of something bigger than their own career. This could be a label, a collective, a scene, and that investment pays dividends in visibility, loyalty, and bookings that come from relationships rather than cold pitches.

They treat the business side seriously without letting it consume the creative side. They understand their value, communicate professionally, and build the kind of reputation that makes promoters feel confident putting their name on a flyer.

And perhaps most importantly, they play the long game. They don’t measure success by the size of the next booking, but by the direction of travel. A smaller event this month is fine, if it’s the right event. A bigger booking is great, if it’s one you’re ready for.

The set that got you booked was important because it got you in the door. But the career is everything that happens after: the choices you make, the relationships you build, the DJ you continue to become.

The door is open. What you do next is up to you.

Subscribe now

Ask a DJ what they play these days and most of them will pause. That pause is telling you something.

Not long ago, the answer came easy. You played house. You played drum & bass. You played techno. The genre was your identity, your community, your booking category. It told promoters where to slot you, told fans what to expect, and told the industry how to market you. Genre was infrastructure.

However, something has shifted. Talk to DJs and producers in 2026 and you’ll hear the same thing, phrased a hundred different ways: the genre label doesn’t fit anymore. The music they’re making doesn’t sit in one box and increasingly, they’re not sure they want it to.

Where Genre Came From

Genre labels in dance music were never really about the music, they were about logistics.

When record shops needed to organise shelves, when clubs needed to describe their nights, when distributors needed to file releases, genre provided the filing system. House went here, techno went there, etc... The categories were rough and often contested, ask anyone who argued about whether something was house or garage in 1993, but they were functional, they moved product, and they filled rooms.

The internet didn’t destroy genre. For a while, it made it more precise. Sub-genres multiplied: minimal techno, deep house, melodic techno, afro house, liquid drum & bass, neurofunk. Discogs became a cathedral of classification, music journalists competed to be the first to name a new micro-scene. Genre got more granular, not less.

But then algorithms arrived and it changed the game completely.

The Algorithm Doesn’t Care What You Call It

Spotify, SoundCloud, and YouTube algorithms don’t organise music the way a record shop does. They organise it by behaviour: what people listen to together, what they skip, what they save, how long they stay. The system learns that if you listen to a certain track, you might like these other tracks and it doesn’t need genre to do that. Genre becomes a loose suggestion at best.

For listeners, this has had a liberating effect because discovery no longer follows genre lines. A house fan finds themselves deep in a UK garage rabbit hole. A drum & bass listener gets recommended something that sounds closer to ambient techno. Tastes are messier, more eclectic, and more personal than the old filing system could accommodate.

For artists, the effect has been more complicated.

“I stopped putting genre tags on my releases about two years ago, I’d spent so long trying to figure out which box I fit in, and the honest answer was none of them. So I just stopped. And weirdly, my music found a wider audience than it ever had.”

^{- Modulux, a London-based Producer}

The Artists Pushing Back

The artists who’ve gained the most traction in recent years are often the ones who’ve most aggressively refused categorisation. They move between tempos, blend references, resist the elevator pitch. When you try to describe what they do, you end up listing influences rather than genres.

This is partly aesthetic, a genuine evolution in how dance music sounds, but it’s also strategic. In a saturated market, being uncategorisable can be a competitive advantage. You don’t belong to one scene, which means you’re not limited to one audience. You can play a techno night in Berlin and a festival stage in Barcelona and a UK club in the same month, and each booking makes sense on its own terms.

“Genre used to protect you, it gave you a lane, but now it can trap you. If you get tagged as a certain sound and that sound falls out of fashion, where does that leave you?”

^{- Selva, a Barcelona-based producer / DJ}

Where it leaves you is scrambling to re-label yourself, which is its own kind of exhausting.

What Promoters Are Dealing With

The collapse of clean genre categories has created real headaches for promoters, especially those who built their brand around a specific sound.

A night that positioned itself as a pure UK garage night three years ago now faces a dilemma: the artists it wants to book don’t play pure UK garage anymore, and the audience it built expects a certain sound. Do you follow the artists, or protect the brand? Several well-known club nights have quietly expanded their descriptions in recent months, “electronic music” replacing more specific labels on social media bios, SoundCloud uploads, and booking pages.

Not every promoter is comfortable with that. For smaller or newer nights, genre specificity still functions as a signal, it tells a potential audience that this night is for them. Losing that clarity can mean losing the niche that made you distinctive in the first place.

The Identity Problem

Genre has always been about more than music. It’s been about community, identity, and belonging. The community you joined when you decided you were a drum & bass person, or a house person was a social structure, a shared set of references, values, nights out, and record crates.

When genre becomes fluid, that community can fragment and some see this as a loss. The underground scenes that produced the most lasting music: Chicago house, Detroit techno, UK jungle were tight communities defined by shared geography, shared struggles, and shared aesthetics. Genre was the glue.

Others argue that the fragmentation is creating something new rather than destroying something old. Online communities have formed around curators, labels, and individual artists rather than genres. Thecommunity has become “people who follow this particular label” or “people who trust this DJ’s taste.” Genre is being replaced by curation as the primary organising principle of music.

So Is Genre Dead?

Not quite. Genre still has utility, it still moves the logistics of the industry, still appears on Beatport, still structures festival lineups into stages. It will be a long time before it disappears entirely, and it probably never will.

But as a cultural force, as a source of identity, community, and meaning in dance music it is weakening. The artists who are building the most interesting careers right now are often doing so outside of genre boxes. The nights that feel most vital are often the ones that have stopped trying to describe themselves as one thing.

What’s replacing genre isn’t chaos. It’s something more subtle: a shift from category-based identity to curator-based identity. You don’t need to know what kind of music you’re going to hear, you just need to trust the person putting the night together.

That requires more from the artists and promoters who want your trust. They have to prove the feeling, not just name it.

The pause when you ask a DJ what they play? That’s not confusion. That’s the sound of someone who’s stopped trying to fit inside a box that was never really built for them.

Subscribe now

There’s a moment that didn’t used to be there.

Or at least you don’t remember it being there in the same way.

You’re on a dancefloor. The music’s good. You’re moving without thinking about it and then, for a second, you become aware of yourself.

Not the music.
Not the room.

Just… how you look.

It passes quickly. You go back to the music. But once you’ve noticed it, it’s hard to ignore.

If you’ve been out recently, have you felt it? even if only for a second.

It Wasn’t Always Like This

Or maybe it was, just less noticeable.

You used to be able to disappear into a night more easily. Not because everything was better, or purer, or more “underground”, only because there was less pulling you out of it.

Less awareness of yourself.

You didn’t check how you were dancing. You didn’t think about where you were standing. You weren’t aware of how you might look from the outside.

You were just in it.

Now, every so often, something interrupts that.

Not enough to ruin the night. Just enough to shift it slightly.

It’s Not Hard to See What’s Changed

Some of it is obvious.

Phones are part of the room now. Even when they’re not directly in front of you, they’re there, in people’s hands, in the corners of your vision, in the possibility of being recorded.

And it’s not just the devices themselves.

It’s what comes with them.

The idea that a moment might be captured.
That it might exist somewhere else.
That it might be seen again later.

That changes how a space feels, even if you’re not actively thinking about it.

Social media doesn’t need to be in your hand to be in the room.

The Shift Isn’t Dramatic

That’s the thing.

This isn’t a dramatic change. It doesn’t take over the night. Most of the time, you don’t think about it at all.

But it’s there.

A kind of low-level awareness that surfaces at certain moments; usually when something draws your attention away from the music, even briefly.

You adjust slightly. You become aware of how you’re moving. Not fully, just enough.

And then it fades again.

The Split Second

It doesn’t take much.

A glance around.
A moment where the crowd feels slightly still.
A drop where people react, but not quite how you expected.

And suddenly you’re aware of yourself again.

Not in a dramatic way, just enough to step outside of what you were feeling.

You’re still dancing. But you’re also watching yourself do it.

That’s the difference.

You Still Enjoy It, Just Differently

This isn’t about saying people aren’t enjoying themselves.

They are.

Rooms are full. The energy is there. Nights still build into something that feels real and worth staying for.

But the experience feels slightly more divided.

Part of you is in the music.

And part of you is just aware that you’re there.

That you’re visible.

That you exist inside the space, not just inside the sound.

Some Spaces Still Lose It Completely

And then there are nights where none of this happens.

You don’t think about how you look.
You don’t notice who’s watching.
You don’t step outside yourself at all.

You just move.

Those moments still exist, and when they happen, they feel different straight away. Not bigger, not louder, just more complete.

Like something has dropped away.

You realise afterwards that you weren’t thinking about anything at all.

And that’s kind of the point.

You notice it more in spaces where phones aren’t part of the room, nights where they’re covered, banned, or just not really used. Not because that automatically makes everything better, but because there’s less pulling you out of the moment.

Less to be aware of.

It’s Subtle, But It Sticks

Nothing has been completely replaced.

It’s more like something has been added.

A quiet layer of awareness that sits underneath everything else. Most of the time it stays in the background. Occasionally it surfaces.

Just enough to be noticed.

And once you notice it, you start keep noticing it.

You Notice It When It Disappears

The easiest way to recognise it is when it’s gone.

When a room feels completely locked in. When no one seems to be looking around. When the energy isn’t being observed, it’s just happening.

Those moments feel rare in a way that’s hard to explain.

Not because they never happen. But because when they do, they feel almost surprising.

Like you weren’t expecting to lose yourself that completely.

Maybe It’s Just Harder to Forget Yourself

Not enough has changed to stop people going out.

Not enough to change what a rave is.

Just enough to change how it feels from the inside.

You still go. You still dance. You still have those moments where everything lines up.

But every now and then, there’s that brief interruption.

That second where you become aware of yourself again.

And once you’ve noticed it, it’s difficult not to wonder when it started.

Final Thought

It’s not that the dancefloor has become something else.

It’s that, sometimes, it’s a little harder to disappear into it completely.

And when you do manage to, even for a few minutes, it stands out more than it used to.

Subscribe now

You don’t usually notice what’s next when it first appears. It doesn’t arrive as a statement. There’s no clear moment where everything changes, It’s quieter than that.

A track feels slightly off in a good way or a set moves differently to what you expected.
Something about the rhythm just holds the room a little longer.

At first, it’s easy to ignore. Then you hear it again. And again. Not everywhere, just in certain places, with certain DJs, at certain points in the night.

By the time it’s obvious, it’s already been there for a while.

It Starts in the Middle of Sets

If you’re trying to hear what’s changing, the easiest place to miss it is the obvious one.

It’s not in the biggest tracks.
Not in the closing moments.
Not in the clips that circulate afterwards.

It tends to sit somewhere in the middle.

The part of a set where things aren’t trying to peak. Where the energy is steady, but not dramatic. Where the DJ isn’t proving anything, just trying something new.

A new tune comes in and nothing happens immediately. No reaction, no phones out, no obvious shift. But people don’t leave the floor. If anything, they move a little more consistently. Conversations fade without anyone deciding to stop talking.

It doesn’t feel like a moment. It just works.

And those tracks, the ones that don’t need to declare themselves, tend to be the ones that stick around.

Less About Impact, More About Movement

For a while, a lot of dance music has been produced around moments.

You can hear it straight away: the build, the drop, the release. It makes sense quickly. It translates easily outside of the club. It gives you something to react to.

That hasn’t disappeared, but it’s not the only thing people are responding to anymore.

More and more, you hear music that doesn’t really “arrive” in that way.

It doesn’t feel like it's heading somewhere obvious. It doesn’t signal when something big is about to happen. Instead, it settles into a rhythm and stays there long enough for people to lock into it.

Nothing explodes, but the room doesn’t drift either.

If anything, it tightens.

The Tracks That Don’t Explain Themselves

There’s a certain kind of track that’s starting to show up more often.

If you heard it on its own, you might not think much of it. It wouldn’t feel unfinished, just a bit understated. Maybe even slightly confusing at first.

But in the right place, it makes sense immediately.

The drums sit comfortably. The low end feels clean. There’s space between elements. Nothing is competing for attention, which means nothing pulls you out of the rhythm either.

You don’t focus on it. You move with it.

And that seems to matter more now than whether a track stands out instantly.

You Hear It Through DJs First

Trends in dance music rarely spread from the top down.

They don't start with the biggest producers or the most visible releases. They move sideways, through DJs who are trying things out live, usually without making a point of it.

You might hear one track that feels slightly different.
Then later, another not the same, but related somehow.
A similar rhythm, or a similar sense of space, or just the way it sits in the room.

At first, it doesn’t feel like a pattern.

If you’re paying attention, you start to notice the same kinds of tunes appearing in different places, not exactly the same, but the same feeling.

That’s usually the sign something is shifting.

It Doesn’t Always Translate Online

Part of the reason these changes go unnoticed is that they don’t always travel well.

They’re not designed for short clips. There’s no obvious moment to capture. If you cut 20 seconds out of the middle, it might not sound like much at all.

But that’s the point.

Some tracks only really exist in the context of a room, at volume, surrounded by people, over time. They don’t need to make sense immediately because they’re not trying to hold your attention for a few seconds.

They’re trying to hold it for minutes.

That gap between what works online and what works in a room feels wider than it ever has.

It’s Not a New Genre

This is where people usually get it wrong.

They try to name it.

They look for a label, a category, something that defines it neatly. But what’s changing right now isn’t a genre you can point to.

It’s more subtle than that.

It’s a shift in how tracks are produced, how they’re played, and what people respond to when they’re fully inside a night rather than just passing through it.

You still hear everything else alongside it: melodic, vocal tracks, big moments, familiar structures. None of this disappears.

But alongside it, something else is happening that feels a bit less obvious and a bit more durable.

Most People Notice Too Late

By the time something becomes widely recognised as a “trend,” it’s already settled into place.

It's everywhere. The sound is familiar. The language has caught up with it.

But the early version, the one that felt slightly different, slightly harder to describe is gone.

That’s why it’s easy to miss.

Not because it isn’t there, but because it doesn’t announce itself loudly enough to demand attention straight away.

You hear it properly when you’re in the room, when nothing else is competing for your focus, when the music isn’t trying to impress you.

Just move you.

And if you notice it early, it doesn’t feel like a trend at all.

It just feels like something that works.

The strange part is, by the time everyone agrees on it, it usually doesn’t feel new anymore.

We sat down with DJ, producer, songwriter, and vocalist Selena Faider, whose vibrant energy and versatile creativity are making her a standout voice in dance music. From getting her first turntables at 12 years old to collaborating with the legendary Todd Terry and playing a set for Book Club Radio, Selena’s journey is one of ambition, authenticity, and a deep love for music. We talked about how it all started, her creative process, preforming live, and what’s next as she continues to define her sound and vision.

Journey So Far

Can you take us back to the beginning. What first drew you into dance music, and when did you realise this was the path you wanted to follow?

My parents met in a Parisian club 30 years ago (I’ve always said I was born in a club lol) and used to go to a lot of gigs. One day, they went to see Zucchero live. After the show, they met a woman outside the venue and started chatting with her - it turned out to be Lisa Hunt, Zucchero’s backup vocalist in the late 1980s. In 1997, when I was born, she even came to visit them at the maternity ward. To me, that was my first real connection with music. I’ve always known, from an early age, that this was what I wanted to do with my life. Is it linked? Who knows, lol.

You’ve worked as DJ, producer, songwriter and vocalist. How have those different roles shaped your identity as an artist?

Everything came step by step. I received my first turntables at the age of 12, where I started learning how to beatmatch and mix two tracks together. A year later, I got a piano and completely fell in love with it. I naturally started to sing and write my first songs and melodies. But moving to London changed everything for me, as a person and as an artist. London has had a huge impact on my entire journey.

Was there a specific moment in your journey that felt like a breakthrough or turning point?

There are a few moments that really stand out. I’ll never forget when my very first track came out alongside Todd Terry, that was surreal. Just a couple of months later, I made my debut with Defected Records for their virtual festival. They eventually became my first agency, which opened the door to touring. I’m forever grateful to the people who believed in me and gave me those first opportunities.

Creative Process

When you start a new track, what usually sparks the first idea?

It’s definitely a mix of my emotions, what’s happening in my life, and what I want to share with people. It’s like stirring a magical soup, tossing in a variety of ingredients - some songs bubble up in 30 minutes, while others simmer for months, even years, before they’re ready.

I love every moment of this creative process.

How do you approach working with other artists and what do you look for in a collaboration?

I love discovering new people and the energy they bring. Every collaboration feels like a fresh conversation with life itself, full of surprises and possibilities - and that’s exactly what I’m seeking.

Touring & Performance

What does performing live give you that producing in a studio doesn’t?

The crowd’s energy, for sure. You can always imagine or picture in your head a reaction to a song, but in reality, there’s nothing better than people’s love - people are truly the essence of music.

Do you change your sets depending on the crowd and city, or do you prefer to bring your own world to every stage?

It depends, a bit of both. I’d say, I always have a vision for my set but you never know how the crowd will respond. The magic of DJing is reading the energy, adapting, and staying flexible. You can’t show up with everything mapped out, sometimes the beauty is in being unprepared and letting the night guide you.

Is there a show or tour memory that stands out as especially meaningful for you?

Recently, the people of New York left a huge impression on me. I had the honor of playing a set for Book Club Radio, and wow - what a moment. The energy, the connection, the love in the room that day, it’s something I’ll cherish for a long time.

Upcoming Project & Vision

What upcoming projects, releases or collaborations are you most excited about right now?

I just released my new single, In It, on Another Rhythm.

There’s a lot of exciting stuff coming up, but I’ll have to wait for the official announcement. My manager will kill me if I spill the beans now, lol. But don’t worry, you guys will be the first to know!

How do you see your sound evolving in the next few years?

My sound is evolving every day. I’m growing every day, and I can’t wait to see what the future holds for me in the years ahead. As long as I stay true to myself, there are no limits to what I can create.

What do you hope listeners feel or experience when they connect with your music?

We should probably ask them that question directly, lol. But if my music can lift them in any way - or even just leave them feeling good at the end of the day, that’s already a win in my book.

Looking ahead, what’s the dream milestone you’d love to achieve in your career?

Guess we’ll talk about it when that Grammy call comes, lol.

A huge thank you to Selena for taking the time to share her story with us. Starting out in Paris and now reaching audiences around the world, her journey reflects a deep connection to music and the people it brings together. With new projects on the horizon and an ever-evolving creative vision, Selena continues to light up dancefloors and inspire with her authenticity and passion.

Stay connected with Selena and keep an eye out for her upcoming projects.

Subscribe now

There’s a moment at the start of every set that most people don’t consciously notice.

The DJ steps up.
A track comes in.
The room shifts slightly.

Nothing dramatic happens. There’s no big reaction, no obvious turning point. But in those first few minutes, something quieter is taking place.

The crowd is deciding whether to trust you.

It doesn’t happen all at once. It builds in small signals: how the first transition feels, how the energy settles, whether the music makes sense for the room you’ve walked into.

Most of the audience wouldn’t describe it like that. But DJs feel it immediately.

You can tell when a room leans in.
You can tell when it holds back.

And more often than not, that decision starts forming within the first ten minutes.

Walking Into Someone Else’s Night

Unless you’re the first DJ on, you’re never starting from zero.

The room already has a mood. The previous DJ has left a certain level of energy behind. The crowd has its own momentum: sometimes steady, sometimes scattered, sometimes on the edge of something.

The mistake less experienced DJs make is treating the start of their set like a reset.

It isn’t.

“You’re stepping into something that’s already moving. If you ignore that, the room pushes back.”

_{— Aaron Belshaw, a Leeds-based DJ}

That pushback isn’t always obvious. It can look like people drifting to the bar, conversations picking up, the dance floor loosening slightly. Nothing dramatic, just enough to tell you something isn’t quite connecting.

The DJs who settle a room quickly tend to do the opposite.

They listen first.

The First Track Isn’t a Statement

There’s a temptation to make the first track count.

To signal identity.
To make an impression.
To establish control immediately.

Sometimes that works. Often it doesn’t.

The first track isn’t really about the DJ. It’s about alignment.

Does the energy feel right for the moment?
Does it sit comfortably in the room?
Does it feel like a continuation, or a disruption?

“If the first track feels forced, people notice straight away. Even if they can’t explain why.”

^{— Jonas Reiter, a Berlin-based DJ}

That’s the risk of starting too big, too fast, or too disconnected from what’s already happening. The crowd hasn’t decided to follow you yet.

You’re still earning that.

Small Signals, Not Big Moments

What matters early on isn’t impact, it’s consistency.

A clean transition.
A steady energy level.
A sense that the music knows where it’s going.

These are small things, but they add up quickly.

Within a few minutes, the audience starts to relax into the set. Movements become more confident. People stop looking around and start facing the booth again.

Or they don’t.

That’s the thing about the first ten minutes, there’s very little room for ambiguity. The room either starts to settle, or it stays unsettled.

And once that feeling sets in, it’s harder to change than most DJs expect.

The Energy Gap

One of the most common problems is misjudging energy.

Coming in too high can feel abrupt.
Coming in too low can feel like a loss of momentum.

The difficult part is that the “right” level isn’t fixed. It depends on the room, the time, and what came before.

DJs who handle this well tend to adjust gradually. They don’t try to impose a new direction immediately. They move the energy a few steps at a time, letting the room come with them.

That resistance isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s a slight hesitation in movement, a delay in reaction, a sense that the floor hasn’t fully committed.

Earning the Room

Once a crowd decides to trust a DJ, everything becomes easier.

Transitions can be riskier.
Energy can shift more dramatically.
Unexpected tracks land better.

But that trust has to be built.

And it’s usually built in those early minutes, before anything spectacular happens.

The DJs who do it well don’t rush.

They let the set take shape naturally. They pay attention to how the room responds. They make small adjustments rather than big gestures.

It’s less about control, more about awareness.

When It Goes Wrong

Not every set settles quickly.

Sometimes the room stays slightly disconnected. The energy never fully locks in. The DJ spends the next hour trying to recover something that never quite formed in the first place.

From the outside, it can be hard to pinpoint why.

The mixing might be clean.
The track selection might be solid.
Nothing is obviously wrong.

But the connection never really happens.

And more often than not, that traces back to the beginning.

Why It Still Matters

In a culture that increasingly focuses on peak moments: drops, reactions, and clips; the opening minutes of a set are easy to overlook.

They don’t always look impressive. They don’t always translate online. But they shape everything that follows.

A set that starts well has room to grow.
A set that starts uncertain often stays that way.

The first ten minutes aren’t about proving anything.

They’re about understanding where you are, what the room needs, and how to move it forward without forcing it.

Most people on the dance floor won’t notice it happening.

But they’ll feel the result.

And once that feeling is there, the rest of the night tends to take care of itself.

We caught up with house music veteran Demarkus Lewis, a producer whose dedication to the craft has shaped a career covering nearly three decades. From discovering the spirit of house to building an enormous catalogue of releases and running his own label, Demarkus reflects on longevity, creativity, and the philosophy that continues to drive him forward.

Longevity & Staying Relevant

You’ve been releasing music for nearly three decades, what has kept you inspired and creatively driven through every phase of your career?

I think my love for music in general keeps me motivated. I strongly believe that I was given the creative spark at birth cause for as long as I can remember it has been a major part of life. Growing up I recall sleeping to music and having soundtracks in my dreams. I think it’s not only a passion but also a creative addiction of sorts.

What do you think has allowed you to be consistent in such a fast-moving industry?

I never stop learning. I try to experiment as much as I can in hopes of one day getting to the impossible goal of being completely satisfied with my production skills. To me its my way of sharing a bit of myself without saying words. The key element here though is to never stop learning. I didn’t go to school for this. I mean I took a music theory class in college but I found that doing it (in the practical sense) is how I better digest information.

How has as your relationship with house music changed over the years, or does it feel fundamentally the same as when you started?

Yeah well I could be corny and say I feel the same as I did the first time I heard MK – Always but truthfully I don’t. There will never be a feeling like when I discovered ‘The Feelin’ of House. I can say that now after all these years of experiencing that feelin and sharing my take of it to the world its turned into more of a kindred kind of vibe. It’s become a part of my DNA. I eat, sleep and breathe House as before I was just a fan.

Work Ethic & Prolific Output

Your catalogue is famously extensive, with over 100 singles and remixes. What has allowed you to sustain that level of creativity?

Truth be told that number has grown a bit. I just looked on Traxsource, they have roughly 3000 of my tracks available there for download under my main artist name and alias. This is just digitally as I released a lot of vinyl before the digital boom and still do vinyl releases to this day. I say dedication, passion, hard work and that addiction I stated earlier are the main driving forces behind my output. GOD created an artist and this is what I do. I spend at least 12 – 14 hours a day, 7 days a week (unless I’m out on the road for gigs or with family) in the studio either writing or learning.

With such a high output, how do you decide what’s ready for release and what stays in the vault?

Funny thing is everything gets released. I hardly ever leave anything unfinished. I would say 98% of my house and techno gets released. The only things I have in the vault or some D&B, Hip Hop productions that are solely for my ears only. I do release those every once in a while. When I first started to learn how to create this music in 1997 I realized that a track can never truly be finished. Tracks are like chapters in stories that only depict a specific moment in time. Just one shift in a song as simple as a different hi hat or bass sound can change the tone of that chapter. I know too many people that spend hours trying to ‘Finish’ a song but it will never be truly finished. If so there would be no need for remixes.

Beyond the business and the releases, what does creating music represent in your life today?

One simple word “Freedom”

Philosophy of House Music

What does “real house music” mean to you in 2026?

Well personally I think everyone has their own definition of what “real house music” is. I believe anything that makes you feel is real house music. House should be timeless. Genres change yes but the “feelin” should remain the same.

How do you balance respecting the roots of house music while still pushing your own evolution?

For someone like me its not a hard task as my foundation is based on the roots. Whether i’m doing Deep, Jackin, tech, soulful or afro my inspiration is stemmed from the basic roots of the sound. Again House is a feelin and like my big brother Kerri Chandler says “as long as it feels good and you stay true to the music”, that’s House.

As someone who’s been part of house music for decades, do you feel any responsibility to preserve the spirit or foundation that first made it special?

I honestly just do what I do and try to stay away from the politics. I will say that it’s an obligation that we all (fans of the music) need to preserve the culture. House is a way of life it’s not just the music. It has grown into way more that just a 4/4 kick drum, hi hat and clap. If you say you are house, then you owe it to the culture to share and teach those who aspire to be a part of the movement.

Grin Music

What inspired you to start your own imprint rather than relying only on established labels?

When digital platforms began distributing music I realized I could release whatever I wanted to release whenever I wanted to release it. As an artist is not always about making money. Don’t get me wrong though I did realize money is very important to be able to continue doing something so out of the box for a living. The struggles of an independent artist are very real. My output allows me to release on established labels with plenty of music available to determine whether I release my self or license tunes out to other parties.

How has running Grin Music changed your perspective on the industry?

The most beneficial thing is being able to see behind the curtain. As a business owner and an artist multiple hats are worn. Being able to monitor trends such as sales reports and marketing techniques helps when it comes to developing an alias or a sound. There are several levels in the ‘industry’ of dance music.

When you’re looking for music from other producers to release, what immediately captures your attention?

They have to be in the same lane as to what I’m doing. I don’t look at image or social media content, I solely listen to the music. To me it has and always will be about the music point blank. I has to be something that inspires me and something I would play out myself in a set.

What have you learned about the business side of house music that less experienced artists often overlook?

Things are not always as they seem. People should realize that hype charts (not sales charts) are strictly up the the discretion of the stores that post them. It’s like if you were to walk into a record store in the 90’s and saw the records that the employees displayed on the wall. Just because you aren’t up on that wall it doesn’t mean your music won’t touch someone.

Industry Evolution & Streaming Era

You started in a vinyl-dominated era, how has the shift to streaming and digital distribution reshaped the culture of house music in your opinion?

The biggest difference are the amount of people able to share their art to the masses. Before you needed a huge budget to release music. Now anyone with an idea can become a label owner. This has had it’s positive and negative effects on the industry. It’s allowed talented people an outlet, but also allowed people who just crave fame and mediocre music a seat at the table.

How has the culture around branding and online presence changed house music and the way artists build careers today?

It seems today the major shift from good art to good social media has become the focal point. Before I went years without knowing what my favorite looked like or sounded like when they spoke. Now it seems you can’t have one without the other (audible/visual). Which I mean is cool and all, but it is what it is.

What concerns you about where dance music is heading, and what excites you?

I’m excited for the future. I’ve watched it grow from completely underground to being played in burger king. Some would say that it becoming mainstream is a bad thing. I say there has to be an above ground for there to be an underground … the underground will never die.

DJ vs Producer Identity

How does DJing influence your production, and vice versa?

Djing helps me to tap into that feelin when I’m producing. I tell you what … That first session in the studio after coming home from the road is undeniably amazing. Production helps me with arrangements and imagination while I DJ. They both feed each other.

How has the dancefloor changed over the years and has that change influenced how you produce?

Depends on the event. The underground shows show no major change. People still go out to dance at these events. The bigger “Main Stage” events are more like performance gigs where you see more spectators with phones out capturing the performance than sweaty floor jackers. Obviously if I’m doing a more Tech joint then I’m leaning on a more big room sound with bigger breaks and drops. Every track has it’s lane and its avenue to explore.

Building Outside the Mainstream

You’ve built a highly respected career without chasing mainstream appeal. How important has it been for you to stay true to your sound, even as the wider scene has shifted around you?

I simply just do me. I like most of everything, but trance. I never go into a session with a certain intention. I just let it flow and age into whatever it’s meant to become. So to me its quite simple just let it do what it do.

In an era obsessed with virality, how do you stay focused on longevity?

By not focusing on virality

Reflection & Forward Vision

After everything you’ve built so far, do you feel satisfied or feel like there’s more accomplish?

I’m proud with all I have accomplished for sure. I mean I never would have imaged at a young age that I would have had the chance to travel the globe, move to London for a stint or even touch so many people’s lives, but rest assured I firmly believe there is so much more to do. When I stop learning only then will I stop creating.

If someone is discovering Demarkus Lewis for the first time today, what do you hope they feel or understand about your music?

I hope they understand that what I do is from my heart. I would hope that they know I don’t expect them to like all of it but it would be amazing if even for just one second they could enter my orbit and leave with the feeling of a bit more peace and insight to the vibe of House. I believe I was created by GOD to share this light with the world.

When your career is looked at in hindsight years from now, what do you hope it represents?

Dedication, Hard Work & HOUSE!

A huge thank you to Demarkus Lewis for taking the time to speak with us. With a career built over nearly three decades and thousands of releases to his name, his journey reflects a deep dedication to house music, constant learning, and a passion for the culture that continues to drive him forward.

Stay connected with Demarkus, keep an eye out for his upcoming projects.

Subscribe now

For years, “breaking through” in dance/electronic music meant something very specific.

You got signed.
You got booked.
You toured relentlessly.
You appeared on the right lineups.
Your name started circulating.

In 2026, that definition no longer holds.

Artists still break through, but not in the way the industry once promised. Visibility alone doesn’t translate into longevity. Virality doesn’t guarantee income. Big moments don’t automatically become stable careers.

The artists who are breaking through now aren’t necessarily the loudest or fastest. They’re the ones building leverage quietly, deliberately, and often locally.

“Building a career is not about being seen. It’s about being able to continue.”

^{- Miquel Sinclair (Silver Sun Founder)}

Redefining “Breakthrough” in 2026

The old breakthrough narrative was linear.
You moved from obscurity to recognition, from recognition to opportunity, from opportunity to stability.

That ladder is gone.

In 2026, progress is non-linear and often invisible from the outside. An artist might not be widely known, but they are booked consistently. Their releases might not chart, but they sell out rooms. Their social numbers might be modest, but their audience returns.

A breakthrough now looks like:

• repeat bookings, not one-offs

• income streams that stack, not spike

• recognition in the real world, not across the internet

The question is no longer “How do I get noticed?”
It’s “How do I create momentum that doesn’t collapse?”

Talent Is Still Important, But It Works Differently Now

The uncomfortable truth is that technical ability has never been more widespread.

In 2026, “good production” is baseline. Access to tools, tutorials, AI, sample packs, and feedback loops has flattened the skill curve. Thousands of producers can make club-ready tracks. Thousands of DJs can mix cleanly and confidently.

Talent hasn’t lost value, but it no longer differentiates on its own.

What cuts through now is clarity.

Artists who break through tend to have:

• a defined emotional language

• a sound that feels intentional rather than reactive

• an understanding of where their music belongs

This doesn’t mean hyper-branding or forced uniqueness. It means knowing what you are not trying to be. In a culture flooded with output, clarity creates gravity.

From Exposure to Infrastructure

One of the biggest misconceptions producers and DJs still carry into 2026 is that exposure creates careers.

It doesn’t.

Exposure creates attention. Infrastructure turns attention into something durable.

Infrastructure looks unglamorous:

• regular releases instead of sporadic ones

• using multiple channels for promotion instead of only using social media

• a recurring party instead of one headline slot

• relationships with promoters instead of cold outreach

Artists who have sustainable career’s now build systems that support repetition. They don’t rely on one moment to change everything. They assume nothing will.

This mindset shift, from chasing exposure to building infrastructure, is one of the clearest dividing lines between artists who fade and artists who last.

Community Is the New Algorithm

Algorithms once acted as gatekeepers. Now, they are unstable, opaque, and unpredictable.

What should replace them is something older and slower: community.

Community isn’t a follower count. It’s people who:

• show up repeatedly

• share your work without prompting

• bring others with them

• advocate for you in rooms you’re not in

For DJs this often begins locally, not because the internet doesn’t matter, but because physical presence creates trust faster than content ever will.

Scenes still function on belief.
And belief spreads through proximity.

Consistency Beats Intensity Every Time

The post-pandemic burnout era taught the culture something painful but necessary: intensity is not sustainable.

Artists who tried to do everything at once: constant releases, constant content, constant touring, often collapsed under the weight of their own momentum.

In 2026, consistency has become the real currency.

Consistency means:

• releasing on a realistic schedule

• touring within your capacity

• maintaining a recognisable sound

• showing up even when growth feels slow

Trust builds through repetition. Promoters trust artists who deliver reliably. Audiences trust artists who don’t disappear. Scenes trust artists who invest long-term.

Intensity burns bright.
Consistency builds heat.

The Real Role of Social Media Now

Social media matters, but not in the way many artists hope.

Platforms amplify what already exists. They do not create foundations on their own. Content without context rarely translates into careers.

What works in 2026 is documentation, not performance.

Artists who see sustained growth tend to:

• show process, not polish

• provide context, not hype

• communicate honestly, not aspirationally

The goal shouldn’t be to impress strangers.
It’s to deepen connection with people who already care.

Labels, Collectives, and Alignment Over Scale

The era of “bigger is better” is fading.

In 2026, smaller, aligned labels and collectives often provide more value than large, inattentive platforms. Shared vision matters more than reach. Care matters more than prestige.

Artists break through faster when they:

• join ecosystems that match their values

• move alongside peers rather than competing with them

• contribute rather than extract

Momentum multiplies when it’s shared.

Why Live Presence Will Always Outweigh Online Visibility

Despite everything moving online, live presence remains the strongest signal of legitimacy in dance/electronic music.

Promoters trust what they’ve witnessed.
Audiences remember how a night felt.
Scenes are built in rooms, not feeds.

Artists who establish themselves often have:

• residencies

• recurring bookings

• strong relationships with specific venues

• a reputation for reading rooms well

The internet spreads awareness.
The dancefloor creates belief.

Long-Term Thinking Is the Real Advantage

Perhaps the most consistent trait among producers and DJs breaking through in recent times is patience.

They plan in years, not months.
They diversify income early.
They accept slower growth in exchange for control.
They define success on their own terms.

This isn’t romanticism. It’s realism.

The industry no longer rewards shortcuts. It rewards builders.

The Hard Truth and the Encouraging One

Fewer artists will “blow up” overnight in 2026.
More artists will sustain careers quietly.

That shift isn’t a loss. It’s a correction.

Dance music doesn’t need more stars.
It needs more foundations.

Breaking through now isn’t about escaping the underground.
It’s about learning how to survive inside it.

And for those willing to build patiently, intentionally, and honestly, 2026 offers something rare:

Not a shortcut, but a future.