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Interview by Passion Dzenga and Liesje VerhaveAs part of our collaboration with the Dutch Sickle Cell Foundation, we spoke to Professor Marjon Cnossen, pediatric haematologist, researcher and one of the driving forces behind the foundation, to better understand the realities of sickle cell disease, why awareness remains so low, and why community-led support matters more than ever. From the outside, sickle cell disease is still widely misunderstood. For many families living with it, that lack of recognition can feel almost as difficult as the illness itself. Through research, advocacy, fundraising and events like the Bijlmer Run, the Sickle Cell Foundation is helping to change that — building not just visibility, but real support for patients and their families.Could you briefly explain what sickle cell disease is for people who may never have heard of it?Sickle cell disease is a hereditary blood disease that mainly affects people of colour, although that includes many different communities. Most patients have ancestors from Africa, but we also see a lot of patients from the Middle East and India. Those are also regions where the disease is very common.The disease developed through something that was originally protective. Thousands of years ago, a mutation in the DNA emerged that helped protect people against malaria, which is common in regions around the equator. If you carried that mutation, you were better protected against malaria, and because of that, many carriers lived longer and passed this genetic trait on to their children. Over time, more and more people became carriers. If two carriers have a child together, there is a one-in-four chance that the child will be born with sickle cell disease.In practical terms, sickle cell disease affects the red blood cells. Normally, they are round, but in sickle cell disease, they become crescent or moon-shaped. These cells can stick together and block the blood flow. Red blood cells carry oxygen, so when blood flow is blocked, parts of the body don’t get enough oxygen. That causes pain, and over time, it can also cause serious damage to organs.What does that mean for daily life?The impact is huge. Patients live with severe anaemia. A healthy person in the Netherlands might have a haemoglobin level around seven or eight, but many sickle cell patients have half of that — around three-and-a-half or four. That means they are tired all the time. They struggle to concentrate. They may not be able to participate in sports or activities like their peers.That’s one of the things I find emotional as a doctor. Sometimes people see these children and say they are lazy or not trying hard enough. But if your haemoglobin level is half of what it should be, of course, you are exhausted. There is a very real reason a child might fall asleep in class.Then there are the extremely painful episodes, called sickle cell crises. These can be triggered by very normal things: cold weather, changes in temperature, stress, fever, infection, dehydration, tiredness. In the Netherlands, that means winter can be especially difficult. Patients often live in anticipation of the next sickle cell crisis.When a severe crisis happens, they may need to come into the hospital for strong pain medication such as morphine, ketamine and other treatments. Sometimes they are admitted for one or even two weeks.And beyond that, there is progressive organ damage. Because blood flow is repeatedly blocked and oxygen supply is reduced, organs can slowly start to fail. We see complications in the kidneys, liver, heart and brain. Patients can have strokes or other very serious long-term consequences.So although it’s a blood disorder, it really affects the whole body.Exactly. It is a systemic disease. It not only affects the blood. It affects the whole life of a patient — physically, mentally and socially. And there is another part people often forget: loneliness. Sickle cell disease is often invisible. If someone has childhood cancer, people understand immediately that something is wrong. They may look visibly ill. But with sickle cell disease, a patient can look “fine” to the outside world, even while living with constant fatigue, recurring pain and serious complications. That invisibility means many people do not understand the disease, and patients often feel very alone.Is that lack of awareness one of the biggest problems?Yes, absolutely. That is one of the biggest issues. Sickle cell disease is not rare globally — around 300,000 babies are born with it every year, and there are millions of people affected worldwide — but in the Netherlands, it is still treated like a rare disease. And even among rare diseases, it receives far too little attention.I also treat haemophilia, and everybody knows what haemophilia is. That shows you something important: awareness is not only about how severe a disease is. It is also about who gets seen, who gets heard, and who has access to influential networks.Patients with sickle cell disease are often too unwell to advocate for themselves. Their families are often working very hard and may not have access to the kinds of systems or connections that help bring national attention. So the disease remains invisible in places where visibility matters.That is exactly why the Sickle Cell Foundation is so important. We want to create a voice for patients and families. We want to make sure sickle cell disease is recognised as the severe and progressive disease that it is.What does treatment look like right now?We provide what we call comprehensive care. Patients are seen regularly, at least twice a year and more often if needed. In childhood, they receive antibiotics because their spleen does not function properly, which means they are more vulnerable to severe infections.From around nine months of age, many children also start a medication called hydroxycarbamide. That can help increase the amount of fetal haemoglobin in the blood, which reduces complications by modifying disease symptoms, making the disease less severe.Some patients also need regular blood transfusions. In more severe cases, especially when there are major complications, we use chronic transfusion programmes or exchange transfusions, where sickle blood is removed and donor blood is given.At the moment, the only curative treatment is stem cell transplantation, which is the same as a bone marrow transplant. The idea is that you replace the patient’s bone marrow — which is producing the sickle cells — with healthy donor bone marrow.That sounds incredibly intense.It is. It can cure the disease, and I have many patients who have been cured this way, but it is also a risky procedure. To do it, you first have to destroy the patient’s own bone marrow with chemotherapy. That makes them very vulnerable. They can get severe infections. The donor bone marrow can also interact with the host (graft versus host disease), causing severe complications. There is also a small but real risk of death. So, although the intervention is very promising, there is also a lot that can be improved.The difficult thing with sickle cell disease is that, ideally, you want to do this treatment when children are still young — before organ damage becomes severe — because the outcomes are better. But at that point, the child is still relatively healthy. It is often very hard for families to decide to put a young child through such an impactful. We as doctors know the disease is progressive, but we cannot predict exactly how severely it will develop in each person. That makes decision-making very difficult.A major part of care also depends on blood and donor systems. Is donor diversity a big issue?Yes, very much so. We need more blood donors from diverse cultural backgrounds. That is incredibly important. The Dutch blood bank Sanquin is actively working on this now, because many of our patients have blood types or blood characteristics that are less common in the current donor pool. The more diverse the donor bank becomes, the better we can care for patients with sickle cell disease and thalassemia. Not everyone is in a position to donate blood regularly, of course, but if you can, it is a very meaningful way to help.So if people want to help in a tangible way, becoming a donor is one step. What else can they do?Talk about sickle cell disease. That is really one of the most important things. Talk about it if you know someone with the disease. Talk about it if you have learned something about it. Share information. Raise awareness. That really matters.People can also support the foundation directly, donate money, support collaborations like this wonderful Patta t-shirt project, and come to events like the Bijlmer Run. These moments are important not only for fundraising but also because they create visibility and community.For us, being in Bijlmer feels very special. Many of our patients and families live there. When we are present there, people already know what sickle cell disease is. They know someone who has it. They come to the stand and say, “I know what this is about.” That feels very different from having to explain it from scratch every time. It feels like coming home.What role does the foundation play beyond raising awareness?We support research, raise funds for better treatment and better care, and help give patients and families a stronger voice. For me personally, the foundation came from frustration. There was simply too little funding, too little awareness, and too little urgency around the disease. We founded the Sickle Cell Foundation in 2017 because we felt something had to change. We started small, but we are becoming more meaningful, and that makes me very hopeful.Are there any key moments this year that people should look out for?Yes! World Sickle Cell Day on the 19th of June is very important. This year, we are organising an event in ITA in Amsterdam for scientists and of course, also for patients! I hope that in the future this event will bring more and more patients together from across the Netherlands. We are growing as a foundation. There is more programming coming. Patients are organising things too. Our new director, Inge, is fantastic. There is a real sense that the foundation is building momentum.Finally, if someone remembers one thing from this conversation, what would you want it to be?Sickle cell disease is serious. It is progressive. It is painful. And it deserves much more awareness than it currently receives. And also: talk about it. Support where you can. Whether that means donating blood, supporting the foundation, buying the t-shirt, coming to the Bijlmer Run, or simply helping spread the word, it all matters. These kinds of collaborations, as we have with the wonderful Team Bijlmer Run and Team Patta, are so powerful because they feel organic. They feel logical. They come from people recognising a shared purpose. And those are always the strongest collaborations.Patta x nijntje T-Shirt available Saturday, May 16th, exclusively at the Bijmer Run.

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Cody (333visuals) and Adam BrocklesbyAfter more than a decade of bars, radio sets, side quests and underground graft, Window Kid has finally hit the kind of moment that looks sudden from the outside — even though it’s been years in the making. Long before the nominations, sold-out tours and breakout singles, Greg was building his name the old way: on local radio, in club smoking areas, on pirate-energy sets and alongside some of the most vital names in UK rave culture. What makes his rise feel so deserved is that none of it sounds manufactured. Whether he’s shelling a grime beat, fronting a garage anthem or filming YouTube content, there’s still something unmistakably DIY about the way he moves.Now, with a DJ Mag Best MC/Vocalist win under his belt, a huge Sir Spyro link-up in motion and a new chapter shaped by sobriety, self-reflection and sharper songwriting, Window Kid feels more open-ended than ever. In this conversation, he reflects on ten years in the underground, the reality of building a career out of chaos, and why getting sober didn’t close the door on his creativity — it opened the whole house.You’ve had a monumental year already — tours, Australia, awards, nonstop shows. How have you been holding up through it all?Yeah, it’s been non-stop, but in a good way. We’ve had the UK tours, then Australia, then the awards, then more shows straight after. So it’s definitely busy, but it’s the kind of busy you can’t really complain about. It’s a blessing.A lot of people are only just now catching on, but you’ve really put your time in. Before all of this, before the awards and the bigger stages, what was Window Kid when it first began?Window Kid originally was just a lad spitting bars on his lunch break instead of playing football. Then it became me spitting in people’s ears in smoking areas outside clubs and bars — just doing what everyone was doing, getting mashed up and chatting bars. At the same time, I was DJing and producing as well, mostly because I thought girls didn’t like MCs. I’d be on the radio or on the decks somewhere and people would start telling me, “Window, spit a bar.” Then I’d spit, and people clocked that I was actually alright. From there, it just slowly built. The lads around me in Nottingham kept telling me, “You need to get on a tune. You need to make a track.” That’s when it started becoming more serious.So before Window Kid became a recording artist, you were already building inside DJ and radio culture?Yeah, definitely. I used to run a radio show in Nottingham called The Window Show. I didn’t really know loads of MCs or producers in Nottingham at the time — I just liked the idea of creating somewhere people could come and practice, really. I’d be on the decks and MCs could pull up and spray bars.It was on a station called Local Motive at the time, and once I started doing it, loads of Nottingham MCs began jumping on. Snowy, Kyeza, Mez — all them lot. That was really when I started becoming part of the scene properly. Then I started taking it outside the station, doing events around it, and because I was so involved, people began realising I could actually spit myself. That’s kind of when it all started taking shape.It sounds like you were building your own infrastructure in Nottingham, rather than waiting for someone to give you one.Yeah, kind of. There probably were other people doing their thing, but I wasn’t really deeply tapped into the old scene like that. I wasn’t jumping on JDZ Media or Grime Daily or SBTV early on. I was more in the background, more of a fan of the music than someone moving around in those circles. So I kind of had to start my own thing.When does it shift from bars on sets and freestyles into proper songs — actual records with structure, hooks, ideas bigger than a 16?That really started with Snowy, to be honest. He was the one who wouldn’t leave me alone about it. He kept saying, “You need to get on a track.” He basically forced me into the studio and made me record something. I made a tune called “Ben Stiller” that never actually came out, but it gave me confidence.Then Brucey reached out and said he wanted to make a tune with me. Bru-C had a buzz already, and we ended up making tunes like “5 Bet” and “Hide the Ting.” Once those started getting some numbers, that’s when I realised I could actually make songs — not just spit bars, but make actual records people connected with.I never really overthought it, though. I just spat whatever was on my mind. Grime, garage, bassline, dubstep — whatever I was feeling that day.And after that comes the touring period — Crewcast, Bru-C, Darkzy, Skepsis. That chapter really put you on the road.Yeah, exactly. I toured with Crucast, Bru-C and Darkzy, and I hosted for Darkzy for years. We were constantly on the road — six, maybe seven years of that kind of lifestyle. But I always knew I’d eventually have to step out on my own, because I always wanted to release my own music and build something as my own artist.I loved hosting for Darkzy, but over time my own songs started getting traction, my socials started growing, and I got to a point where I had enough music for a live set and enough people listening for that to actually make sense. So I broke away and started touring as myself.That’s quite a leap though — going from host and hype man energy into carrying a full show on your own.Yeah, but it felt natural by then. It didn’t feel like jumping off a cliff. I’d already built up the songs, the crowd, the confidence. Once everything lined up, it was just time.Your sound has always sat in an interesting middle ground — grime, garage, bassline, dubstep, rap, internet culture, all of it. Where do you feel like you fit now?The fun thing is, I don’t really feel boxed into one place now. I’ve shown enough respect to all the different sides of it, and I genuinely love all of them. I can go do a grime show with Novelist and Flirta D, then roll into a drum & bass rave and shell a tune like “Put That Kettle On” with Bou, then go film some YouTube content with joke YouTube guys.I’ve always just stayed in my own lane, had a laugh, and made sure I never disrespected anyone or forced myself into a scene I didn’t belong in. So now I can kind of pop in and out of all these worlds and it still makes sense.And that probably explains why people don’t just see you as “a genre act” anymore — they just see you as an MC.Yeah, maybe. I think that’s fair. I don’t really know where I fit exactly, but I know I can move about now, and that feels good.Do you think your sound matured naturally, or did sobriety really change the way you write and think about music?Sobriety definitely changed it. Before that, I was partying too heavily and drinking too much, and I got to a point where I was basically forcing myself into the studio every few months trying to make another “Boozy.” Because that tune was streaming well, I started thinking in a very narrow way — like, how do I make another party song?And I lost myself a bit, if I’m honest. When I first had to go sober, I actually panicked because I thought, “What am I going to write about now?” So much of what I’d written before was about drinking, taking gear, being off my head. I genuinely thought the whole thing might be over. But it turned out to be the opposite. It opened way more doors. Suddenly, I could write about anything.That’s a huge shift — because before, a lot of your records had that humour and chaos to them, but now you’re making songs with real emotional weight.Yeah, exactly. After Christmas I wasn’t seeing my boys much because a lot of them were out drinking and I still had to avoid that. So I wrote this tune just sitting on my sofa about not seeing my mates enough. It had this bittersweet feeling to it — happy because I love them, sad because I missed them. And Jason Williamson from Sleaford Mods heard it and said he wanted to jump on it.That kind of thing proved to me that I could write in a totally different way now. And really, it started with “Lost Myself” with Nathan Dawe & Shapes — that was the first time I made something that felt very different emotionally, and it ended up being my first charting record. So that told me a lot.When you go into the studio now, how do you know whether you’re making something funny, something introspective, something for the rave?I genuinely don’t know until I’m there. I never really plan it. In normal life, that can be a bit of a problem because I can doss about and not do much, but in the studio, it works in my favour because I’ll just go in and something will happen. JJ and Gaz, who record me a lot, always say I’m so creative with the stuff I come up with in the room.One day I’ll make a grime tune, the next I’ll make something sad, the next it’ll be pure chaos for the rave. It literally depends on how I feel on the day. I just go to the studio and see what happens.That brings us nicely to the new tune with Sir Spyro, “Badboy Sound.” How did that one come together?Spyro and I have been good mates for years now, ever since I did the Sounds of the Verse thing where I had that “lots and lots and lots” lyric. We always stayed in contact. He’s in my top three producers of all time, easy.We’d linked before, years back — me, Spyro and Champion were in the studio once — but that was during the period when I was drinking too much and trying too hard to make party music, so nothing really happened. This time was different. I was so excited to work with him properly. We went into the Sony studio in London and I was basically egging him on like, “Do that Spyro shit. Put some Spyro noises in there.” He started going one way with it and I was like, “No, bro, do the mad Spyro thing.” Then within minutes, he built this absolutely stupid beat.The mad thing is, I’d already written some grime bars a couple of months before, and I deliberately kept them aside because I thought, “These are for Spyro.” So the second that beat was there, I knew exactly what I was doing. I’d heard him making all these dubstep bits too — which were cold — but I always wanted that proper Spyro grime beat from him. That was a dream from way back.When you collaborate with people from very specific corners of UK music — grime, garage, dubstep, drum & bass — does your process change depending on who you’re with?Yeah and no. It’s different every time. Sometimes I hear the beat first and write to it, sometimes I write first and then swap the beat later. Like with “Cardigan,” I must have changed the beat about five times. Management was sick of me. They kept saying, “Please just make something else,” and I kept saying, “Trust me.” Then it became one of my biggest songs.So there’s no fixed formula. But yeah, when it’s someone like Spyro, there’s definitely more pressure because you really want to leave with something sick. If I go in with a random producer and don’t like what comes out, whatever. But if I’m in with Spyro and don’t leave with a banger, I’m going home pissed off.Over the past few years, what do you feel you’ve improved at most as an artist?Definitely the live show. Weirdly, I’ve taken a lot of inspiration from Robbie Williams. He’s one of my pals and I’ve seen him live a few times now. The way he works a crowd, tells stories between songs, plants little lines that lead into the next tune — I love that. He’ll start saying something and mention a lyric, and the crowd starts clocking what’s coming next before the tune even drops. That stuff is genius to me.So I’ve been putting loads of thought into how my live show flows — how I speak between records, how I create little moments, how the crowd helps shape the energy. And doing all that sober has changed everything. I can actually see what’s going on now. I can feel the moment, remember the show, and make decisions in real time. I think my live set is the best it’s ever been.Do you actually rehearse a lot or is it more trial and error on stage?We never rehearse. Ever. We just try things live. If we’ve got an idea, we say, “Let’s test it tonight.” If it works, it stays. If it doesn’t, we change it next week. Because I’m doing at least one show a week at the minute, the show is kind of constantly evolving anyway.You recently took that show to Australia and New Zealand too. How did it feel outside the UK?Honestly, it was unbelievable. They appreciate UK culture and UK music so much over there that it means a lot when you actually go. The crowds were just so warm and excited. Every venue felt different too — one felt like a jazz bar, another felt like a uni club, another felt more like a theatre — but the energy was amazing every night.We sold the whole tour out and it ended up being one of the best months of my life. I can’t wait to go back.And that trip happened while you were still very new into sobriety. Were you worried about that?Massively. I was genuinely panicking for about two months before we went. I thought I’d land and just want to drink the entire time. I thought I’d be craving it every day and it would ruin the trip. But it didn’t happen like that at all.We were getting up early, getting juices, going on walks, going to the beach, having naps, seeing animals, just actually living. If I was still drinking, I would’ve done none of that. I’d have just been getting smashed and wasting the whole experience. So it was actually one of those moments where I really realised the change had already happened in me.And that seems to connect to that trip you took with Marshall as well — which felt very human online, not forced at all.Yeah, that was a special one. Marshall’s more of a social media guy, but we followed each other and I knew his story. His wife had died, Faye, and a lot of his content was about grief and living through that. He asked if I’d get involved in a fundraiser for the charity connected to the cancer she had, and I said yes straight away. Then I just said, “Do you want to go on holiday?” and he said yeah.We ended up going to Slovenia, to Lake Bled, and just filmed some stuff together. It kind of blew up online, but what it really was, was just two blokes both trying to figure out life in different ways. His grief was obviously much heavier than anything I was going through, but there was still this shared feeling of trying to navigate a new chapter. It was emotional, funny, sad, uplifting — all of it. And we came back proper mates.That’s probably why it resonated. It felt real. Nothing about it felt manufactured.Yeah, because it was real. That’s all it was.Do you ever feel like you’re “performing” online or in your music, or is it all just Greg?It’s just me. Honestly. I get why people ask because one minute I’m making an aggressive grime tune and the next I’m on YouTube eating Easter eggs or whatever. But that’s just how I am. I’ve always been like that. I’m not this mad badman, so obviously some of the bars come off funny as well, but none of it’s an act. It’s all just Greggy Boy.And maybe that authenticity is exactly why you’ve managed to build a real independent career. What do people underestimate about doing it this way?Maybe they underestimate how much you’ve actually got to live through to write like that. Like, if you’re writing party songs, you’ve actually got to be in that world. If you’re writing about missing your friends or losing yourself or figuring out sobriety, you’ve got to actually be going through that. None of it’s fake.And now life’s changing all the time anyway. I’m getting stopped in the street constantly. The shows are bigger. Everything is shifting. So the music is naturally changing with it. That’s just how it works.Over the next few months, what can people expect from you?The YouTube channel is fully back. I’ve just put out the UK tour vlog, the Australia vlogs are coming, and I’m doing more content with some massive YouTube names as well. I feel like the live show is in a really strong place now — I’ve got enough songs, enough bangers — so I can let that breathe a bit while still going studio.And the tune I’m most excited about right now is one I’ve made with P Money, Local and Kruz Leone. It’s called “Levitate,” produced by Frost, and it is absolutely mental. Proper old-school grime-dubstep energy, all of us just going psycho on it. We’ve played it out twice already and it’s getting the biggest reaction of the set, and no one even knows it yet. So that one I’m really gassed about.And longer-term, are we looking at a full project?Yeah, definitely. I’m working on the album now. It’s actually not far off because I’ve got too many songs at this point. It’s more about quality control than output. I’m not even someone who goes to the studio all the time — I’m actually terrible for it — but over the years I’ve built up enough music from the party era, the emotional shift, and where I’m at now, that I can really see the shape of an album.I want it to be a proper concept too. Like that OutKast Speakerboxxx feeling — one side is getting fucked up, one side is not getting fucked up anymore. That’s the idea.That feels like a very Window Kid way to make a concept record — honest, funny, but still heavy.Yeah, exactly. That’s the plan.Last one. If you could go back and speak to young Greg — before all of this, before the tours, before the blow-up — what would you tell him?I’d tell him: you always knew you had it in you, so keep going. But also, for God’s sake, don’t drink so much. And if you feel like you’ve got demons, really look at them. Ask for help if you need it. Don’t think you’ve got to do everything alone. This life isn’t exactly standard. Being in the public eye, constantly touring, constantly moving — it can get strange. So if you need a helping hand, just ask for it. Don’t overthink that bit.“Badboy Sound,” produced by Sir Spyro, feels like the meeting point between everything Window Kid has built over the years and where he’s heading now. It’s sharp, direct and built for the moment. Listen to the track now.

Interview by Passion Dzenga & Liesje Verhave | Photography by Dorian Day With BLUEBOY, Finn Askew sounds like an artist stepping into sharper focus. The Somerset-born songwriter has always known how to bottle emotion, but this latest mixtape feels broader in scope and more deliberate in its storytelling, pulling as much from cinema, made-up worlds and other people’s lives as it does from his own. Still rooted in intimacy, but no longer confined by autobiography, the project marks a clear shift in both confidence and craft.Ahead of his Patta London in-store performance, we caught up with Finn to talk about building BLUEBOY alongside Ezra Skys, learning to trust his own instincts again, finding clarity after a period of self-doubt, and why he’s more interested in telling universal stories than simply retelling his own. From Somerset to Soho, and from bedroom writing sessions to major co-signs and growing international attention, Finn Askew is moving with the kind of quiet certainty that suggests this is only the beginning.What keeps you busy when you’re not making music?Music is basically all I do, even when I’m not trying to. I’m always humming something or thinking about melodies. But outside of that, I’m with my friends a lot, I game a fair bit, and right now cinema is probably my biggest influence. If I’m not in the studio, I’m either in the cinema or in my bedroom making music.So there’s a lot outside of music feeding the music?Definitely. Especially with this mixtape, cinema was probably the biggest influence. I feel really inspired by other people’s stories. A lot of artists talk about writing from the heart, and I get that, but I don’t think that should be the only way to make music. If you only ever write from your own life, you limit yourself. I can’t relate to every single person in the world just through my own stories, and I want the music to reach everyone. So sometimes it’s about making up new stories, or stepping into somebody else’s world.That’s what cinema gives me. You watch a film and suddenly you’re inside a whole different emotional universe. I could write a song about Darth Vader and betrayal if I wanted to. That’s the fun of it.That’s interesting, because in the past your music felt a lot more autobiographical. This tape feels like it opens outwards. Were there any films in particular that fed into BLUEBOY?Yeah, weirdly enough, The Amazing Spider-Man 2. I watched it recently and Peter Parker and Gwen’s relationship, that whole romantic tragedy, really stayed with me. That idea of love and loss definitely influenced some of the songs. There’s a rom-com element to parts of the tape, that sort of dramatic romance.Let’s talk about the mixtape itself. You worked closely with Ezra Skys on this one. How did that relationship come together?I met Ezra about a year ago, and it all happened pretty naturally. We didn’t even release our first track together, which was “Vows”, until maybe six months ago, so in that sense it formed quite quickly. But it just clicked straight away. On our second session together we made “Vows”, and that ended up becoming the first track on the tape.I’d never really made a full project with one person before. That was always something I wanted. I’ve always said I’d love to find one producer I can really build a world with, because coherence and continuity were always things I struggled with in the past. When you’re bouncing between loads of people, it can get messy. But when you’ve got one person you trust, and you’re going back and forth together across every track, it becomes a much more unified thing. That’s what this tape gave me.What does that workflow look like in practice? Are you walking into sessions with finished ideas, or are you building everything from scratch?It changes every time, which is why it stayed fun. Sometimes I come in with an idea already. “Green Light” was something I started at home before bringing it in. Other times Ezra will just build something and I’ll trust it immediately because I know he makes sick beats.That trust is the main thing, really. There’s never any pressure in the room. It’s never like, “We have to finish this today” or “This needs to become a song now.” I can just tell him, “I’m not feeling this anymore, I’m going to take it home and write later.” That happened with “Vows”. We made the beat together, then I took it away and finished it at home because sometimes being on your own lets you try things you wouldn’t do in the studio. Not because you’re uncomfortable, but because the energy is different. You can sit with it more.Most of the melodies are freestyled, though. That’s usually where everything starts. But because the process kept shifting from song to song, it never felt stale.You’ve always sat in an interesting space sonically. There’s singer-songwriter DNA in your music, but you’ve also found a lot of support in more urban spaces, from London to Toronto and beyond. How do you think about your place in music now?I still don’t feel like I’ve fully broken out, to be honest. I feel like I’m breaking into spaces, but I’m not where I want to be yet. Coming from Somerset, there wasn’t really anyone for me to look at and think, “They did it, so I can too.” I didn’t have that local blueprint. A lot of people in bigger cities grow up with examples around them. I didn’t really have that.So for me, it’s been a bit surreal seeing the music travel and connect in different places. That’s always been the dream, though. To make something that goes beyond where I’m from.You’re still based in Somerset now, right?Yeah. I lived in London for about two years, but I moved back around a year ago. London just got a bit lonely for me. Where I’m from, not many people leave, so when I moved there I didn’t really have a built-in crew. Everyone else had their little circles and I was like, where’s mine? Then I realised my people were back home.Until life gets so busy that every day becomes madness, I’m happy being close to my friends and family and just travelling when I need to. London’s only about an hour and a half away anyway, so it’s not some crazy distance.There’s something healthy in knowing where your centre of gravity is. Has the increase in visibility changed your day-to-day much?Not massively, if I’m honest. When I first moved to London, that felt like the biggest lifestyle change. Now, even though the music’s doing really well, my day-to-day still feels pretty grounded. And sometimes that can mess with your head a bit, because you think, “If things are going up, when does life actually feel different?”But I’m also enjoying that not much has changed yet. It makes me stay hungry. I do want the lifestyle to change eventually. I want to tour more, fly more, do bigger shows, live a bigger life through the music. But right now I’m happy where I am in the journey.On “Save My Time”, you talk a lot about slowing down and realigning yourself. What inspired that song?That one came from a very real place. Growing up, and even later on, I spent loads of time in my room writing music, smoking weed, playing games, just kicking back. There was a point a few years ago where I kind of thought I’d already made it. Things were moving, people were paying attention, and I got too comfortable. That was the worst thing I could’ve done.I lost my drive a bit. I was wasting time, really. That’s where “Save My Time” came from. It was me looking at myself and realising nobody else is going to do this for me. I had to snap out of it and fix what wasn’t working. That song really was about seizing time and taking responsibility for my own momentum again.And then you’ve got a song like “London”, which sounds deeply personal, but you’ve said a lot of this project wasn’t necessarily written from your own life. How do you approach that line between personal and universal?That’s what I love about it. “London” sounds personal, and that’s great, but it’s not really my story. It’s more like fiction, or someone else’s perspective. I don’t even know whose story it is exactly, but I know people hear it and think, “That’s me.” That’s what I wanted.I like the idea that something can feel deeply intimate to the listener without literally being my autobiography. That’s the power of storytelling. It doesn’t have to come from me for someone else to feel it in a real way.Which song on the mixtape feels most vulnerable to you, then?Probably “Save My Time”. That’s the one where I really feel the emotion. It’s the one that cuts closest to something I actually had to work through. “Vows” is a real one too, because I wrote that about my girl, so there’s love in that one and that’s definitely personal. But “Save My Time” was me confronting something in myself, and I don’t usually write like that.I’m not really a sad person. I’m pretty upbeat, pretty energetic, so to have one song on the tape where I was like, “Nah, this one is really me,” that felt important.When you look back at the earlier releases, what do you think has changed most in your approach?I think I’ve finally found myself. That’s the biggest thing. For a long time, that was the real issue. I had good people around me, opportunities around me, a lot of things lined up, but I just wasn’t ready. If you haven’t fully figured yourself out, it doesn’t matter how much support you’ve got, people won’t connect with it properly.This tape is the first time I really feel like I know what I want to sound like, what sort of records I want to make, and how I want it to feel. That inner shift is the biggest change. The music changed because I changed.So what have the last few months taught you about yourself as an artist?That I can actually do this. There was a bit of self-doubt before this tape, and I’d never really had that before. I’ve always been confident. Maybe even cocky at times. But there was definitely a period where I questioned things. Then these songs started landing, people started reacting, and I was like, why did I ever doubt myself? I’m good at this. These songs are sick.So yeah, what I’ve learned is: don’t doubt yourself again. There’s no point.And for people going through that same kind of doubt, what would you say?Just trust yourself. If you didn’t doubt yourself before, there’s probably a reason for that. Chase that earlier feeling. That’s usually the real one.We’ve got you in-store this week at Patta London, performing your new EP. What can people expect from seeing you live in that sort of intimate setting?I’m really excited for it. It’s sick to work with a brand I genuinely mess with so heavily. That’s something I’m loving at the moment, being able to work with brands and spaces that actually make sense for me.As for the set, it’s going to be all acoustic. Six songs from the mixtape, stripped back. It’s a small space, very intimate, so I’m just going to let the voice and the guitar do the talking. Good vibes, good energy, proper personal. I’m excited.You mentioned gaming earlier. What are you playing right now?At the moment I’m playing Lord of the Rings: Return to Moria with my brother. It’s kind of like Minecraft, but Lord of the Rings. It’s sick. I also love Cuphead. I need games to challenge me, otherwise I get bored and never finish them, and Cuphead definitely does that. Then there’s Balatro as well, which has had me hooked. Dangerous game, that.You’ve also picked up some major co-signs over the years, from people like SZA, Kehlani and Justin Bieber. What does that kind of validation do for you?It’s mad. Justin Bieber is the big one. That will probably always be the biggest one. He was my idol growing up. There isn’t really anyone else on earth I’d rather have had a co-sign from, so I kind of hit the jackpot there.That sort of thing is crazy because if you told my younger self I’d be speaking to Justin Bieber one day, I wouldn’t have believed you. And yeah, obviously you shouldn’t rely on external validation, but in moments where you are doubting yourself, it helps. It’s nice. It reminds you the music is cutting through.A lot of people know you through different doorways now. Some know the songs, some know the visuals, some know the cosigns, some just know the mood. What keeps you grounded in all of that?Probably home, family, friends and just staying locked into the work. I’m not trying to become some mad version of myself. I’m just trying to get better, make stronger music, do bigger shows and keep evolving. I think if you stay focused on that, everything else becomes a bonus.What can people expect from you over the rest of the year?I already want to start the next tape. I love this mixtape and I’m grateful for what it’s doing, but I’m already onto the next. I miss writing when I’m not writing. So hopefully there’s another project by the end of the year if I can make that happen.We’ve also got a big headline show at coming up, which is at the biggest headline I’ve done so far. That’s going to be crazy. I’m nervous, but excited. Then there are some festivals too, Paris, Copenhagen, stuff like that, and hopefully a few more things land in between. It’s really just about getting busier than I’ve ever been before.So the pace is only picking up from here.That’s the plan. Join us at Patta London on Thursday 23rd April 2026 between 18:00 – 20:00 for a special evening with Finn Askew as he celebrates the release of his new EP.

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Charlotte van der GaagSpread across cities, schedules, and parallel lives, the Conrad Soundsystem only occasionally occupy the same room, but when they do, something immediate and unfiltered happens. Their music isn’t the result of endless iteration or remote file-sharing, but of short, concentrated bursts: weekends carved out of busy lives, where ideas collide and instinct leads.Formed during the stillness of lockdown in The Hague, the project grew out of living room sessions on Conradkade, a literal sound system between friends that quickly evolved into something more defined. Alongside their label and event series Fish Tapes, and a deep connection to the coastal energy of The Shore, they have built a world that feels both personal and communal, rooted in friendship, but outward-facing in its intent.That same tension runs through their music. There’s a push and pull between raw intuition and careful refinement, between high-pressure rhythmic tracks and more expansive, emotional compositions. Their latest release on United Identities, West End, captures that balance perfectly: a record built as much on restraint and tension as it is on release.At a time when electronic music can feel increasingly polished and predictable, Conrad Soundsystem lean into something more human — embracing imperfection, trusting the moment, and treating each track as a document of time spent together.You’re a three-man collective with a close personal connection. Can you talk a little bit about those relationships and how they play out when you’re in the studio?We’re very close, but in practice, it actually takes effort to come together. We don’t naturally bump into each other all the time anymore. Some of us are in different cities, some of us are working on projects abroad, and everyone has their own schedule, so being in the same room has to be planned very intentionally.That definitely shapes the music. When we do get together, there’s a certain pressure, but it’s a good pressure. We know the time is limited, so there’s a lot of energy in the room. We’re never short on ideas. It’s never like, “What should we make?” It’s more about how to use the time wisely and pour all the ideas we’ve been carrying individually into one session. Because we don’t see each other constantly, everyone comes in with fresh thoughts, and that creates this explosion when we finally link up.So it’s less about struggling for inspiration and more about maximizing the window you have together?Exactly. It’s always about time, never ideas. That’s why the sessions tend to be so intense and so focused. We just try to get as much as possible out of the time we have.From my understanding, the mixing and mastering also stays in-house. How does that help define the Conrad Soundsystem identity?The three of us are together for the core creative part, and then the final shaping also stays very close to home. What matters most to us is keeping the first impulse intact. We don’t want to overproduce the music or polish out the parts that made it exciting in the first place.There’s a nice tension in that process because technically, we all come from different places. Some of us are much more instinctive and rough with how we build things, and some of us are more trained and detail-oriented. So there’s always this back-and-forth between wanting to clean something up and wanting to leave it alone because it just feels right. Sometimes a snare is too hard or something isn’t technically perfect, but if it sounded sick in the room and all three of us felt it, then that becomes part of the character.That’s also why the music can sound a bit as if it exists in its own vacuum. Sometimes we wonder if we should sound more like one scene or another, but because of the way we work, it always ends up sounding like us. That can make things harder at first, because people don’t know where to place you, but it also becomes your strength over time.Speaking of interpersonal dynamics, there’s also family involved here. Did that make things smoother or more complicated?It honestly helps. Music is the basis of the connection anyway. Even outside the studio, that’s what pulls everything together. At family gatherings, we’ll end up in the corner talking about tracks while everyone else is having normal conversations. It probably looks a bit ridiculous, but that’s genuinely how we stay connected.That’s also the nice thing about having relationships outside of music — you understand each other beyond just the work. You don’t have to explain everything from scratch every time. There’s already a shared language there.One thing I really like about the project is that you move like a trio. Do you always build in the same room, or do you ever send ideas back and forth?We used to send projects around a lot more, especially during COVID. One person would start something, then another would work on it, and by the time we got together there was already quite a developed sketch. But that’s changed.Now we prefer going into the studio almost blank. We keep ideas in our heads and save them for when we’re together. Then everything happens in the room. That feels much better for us now because it keeps the process intuitive and immediate. Instead of continuing separate demos, we’re smashing all our ideas together in real time.It also makes the tracks feel tied to very specific moments. Some of the songs really hold the memory of the session inside them. That’s something we love. If you build a track over weeks by sending it back and forth, it can become more universal, but if you make it in one intense session, it captures a very particular feeling. For us, that makes it more fun and more real.It also feels like a way of documenting friendship. Like these records become time capsules.Yeah, definitely. As you get older, life gets busier and more fragmented, so being able to make music with people you actually love becomes more valuable. These tracks really do feel like little time capsules of where we were, what was happening, and how we were feeling when we made them.I was first exposed to your music through the United Identities compilation around the end of COVID. Was that when Conrad Soundsystem really started?Yeah, pretty much. The real kickoff was during COVID. One of us had just come back from Berlin and got re-energized musically. There had already been a shared love of music, shared listening, sending each other radio shows, jazz, strange club tracks, all of that. Then lockdown hit, and suddenly there was time and space to do something with it.We started playing records together at home, throwing little living room parties with our turntables, speakers, and record bags. The street we were on was Conradkade, and that’s basically where the name came from. It started as a very literal sound system in a house.At the same time, there was already someone in the orbit who understood music in a slightly different way — not just emotionally, but technically too. We’d play tunes and talk about why they hit, and he’d immediately hear how they were made, what was going on structurally. That made it feel natural to move into making our own music together.Around that same time, Fish Tapes also starts to take shape. What was the impetus there?Fish Tapes came out of necessity at first. We had made a lot of music early on and built up an EP, and we were sending it around to labels because we really believed in it. That didn’t lead anywhere that felt right, so we thought: let’s just do it ourselves.At the same time, we got access to a studio space and there was an opportunity through friends to start doing parties at The Shore. So suddenly the music, the events, the studio, the friendships — it all landed at once. Fish Tapes became the umbrella for that world.It’s basically our little playground. We release our own music there, release music by friends, do compilations, and use it as a platform to build events around the artists we love.And The Shore became a real key part of that world.For sure. The Shore gave us a space to build something without overthinking it. The early parties were free, really open, really mixed. We didn’t want them to feel too serious. It was just about good music, good people, and creating a vibe.Over time it grew way beyond that. Suddenly there were huge crowds, bigger stages, serious sound systems, and proper lineups. But the spirit stayed the same. It still feels like a place where we can book our favorite artists and try things out. That’s where we’ve brought people like Carista, Tash LC, T.No and a lot of others. It’s become a seasonal ritual for us, and also a place where we can test our own music on a real system.There really is a special energy to partying by the water in Scheveningen. It gives The Hague its own identity outside of the PIP ecosystem.Definitely. It’s a different energy. The Shore has its own character, and that’s part of what made it such a special place for Fish Tapes to grow.Let’s talk about the new release on United Identities, West End. It sounds built for big sound systems. What was the starting point for that record?We’d had United Identities in mind for quite a while. After the Modern Intimacy compilation, there was already a connection there, and Carista had basically told us: send over whatever you’ve got. So when we started making the EP, that label was very much in the back of our minds.There were definitely a few key reference points. Tracks like Rhyw’s Honey Badger and Joy Orbison’s Flight FM were in the air for us — those records that create this huge sense of momentum and tension without necessarily relying on the obvious drop. We love tracks that feel hectic, restless, a little bit unstable.A lot of West End came together in a weird studio space near an indoor beach volleyball place, which already had its own strange energy. We’d go outside to take a break and see people playing volleyball in the middle of winter, then go back in and make this tense, wired music. So the surroundings were bizarre, but that kind of fed into the record.The title also came from where it was made — part of our naming logic is very literal like that. But there’s also another layer to it, with one of us having moved west, so it held that too.One thing that really stands out on West End is that it never fully releases. It keeps stretching the tension.That was very conscious. We’re really drawn to that feeling — making something uneasy, but in a good way. We love tracks that don’t just build, drop, resolve, repeat. Sometimes, the most exciting thing is when a track keeps you on edge.One of the records that really shaped our thinking was III’s Front by Overmono. It doesn’t really “go” anywhere in the traditional sense, but it keeps shifting and pulling at you. That’s much more interesting to us than just hearing another familiar drop.On West End, a big part of that came from using one main lead sound and constantly evolving the rhythm. The sound itself stays similar, but the phrasing keeps changing, so you’re always being pulled slightly off balance. That was a really fun way of building tension without needing to throw in a huge, obvious payoff.And then the B-side, Lindo, opens up a much darker, more inward space. How did you balance those two records?That’s really the two sides of us. On one side, there’s rhythm, pressure, drums, tension. On the other hand, there’s harmony, big chords, emotional weight, and cinematic feeling. Lindo came out of us, leaning into that second side. It started with these huge synth chords that suddenly made the track feel almost like a score. That was exciting because it gave us a chance to break open the dancefloor a bit instead of constantly pushing it harder. We didn’t want it to be drenched in harmony the whole time though — it’s more about teasing that emotional side, letting those sounds appear and disappear so you really feel the space in between. That’s why the two tracks make sense together. They’re very different, but they need each other. One pushes outward, the other pulls inward.Funny enough, you’re getting almost a 50/50 split on the favorite track from the promo reactions.Yeah, which surprised us a bit, but it’s nice. It means both sides are landing.Before you were musicians, were you DJs first?In a way, yeah. DJing came very naturally out of obsession. Once you start collecting records, once you get deep enough into music, you’re going to want to play it somehow. That’s just what happens. There were different paths into that. Some of us were DJing around PIP very young, buying turntables, building collections, playing with friends. Some of us came from bands first, and then electronic music took over. Some of us have been producing for a long time already. But all of it comes back to the same thing: a deep obsession with music and the urge to share it.Vinyl was especially important in the beginning. It still is, really. There’s something about records that keeps you physically connected to the music. It slows you down in the right way. It makes digging feel meaningful.That’s also what makes electronic music such a self-sustaining culture. It’s its own ecosystem.Exactly. One of the beautiful things about electronic music is that the music itself matters more than the persona around it. Half the records we love, we barely know anything about the person who made them. Sometimes that’s the point. There’s this endless stream of anonymous or semi-anonymous music, and it becomes less about ego and more about contribution.That’s something we really love about the scene. It feels like a long, ongoing conversation where everyone adds something to the pile.Let’s close on what’s next. You have the West End release party coming up. What can people expect?The release party is really about bringing all the threads together. It’s happening in collaboration with Dooorp, who are doing some of the most exciting things in The Hague right now. They’ve got that same mentality we believe in — just doing what feels right, taking risks, making things happen for the love of it.So the party is going to be a full-circle moment: friends doing visuals, close collaborators on the lineup, another stage hosted by people we love, and a proper sound system. It’s not just a release party, it’s a celebration of the wider scene around us. It’s on Friday, April 17th at LAAK in The Hague, and yeah, it’s going to be special.And if someone is just discovering Conrad Soundsystem, where should they start?Anywhere, honestly. The catalog is still small enough that you can really dig through it properly. There are the early Fish Tapes releases, the compilation tracks like 38A and Saturn, and now the new EP. Every track holds a different part of the project. That said, West End probably feels like the clearest statement of where we are right now.West End lands as Conrad Soundsystem’s most defined statement to date: a tense, soundsystem-centric record designed to be felt as much as heard. Out now via United Identities, the release captures the trio at their most focused, balancing pressure, rhythm, and emotion across both sides of the EP. To mark the release, Conrad Soundsystem bring their world to life on Friday, April 17th at LAAK in The Hague, joining forces with Dooorp, Pip Radio and United Identities for a night that reflects the community around them. Expect a full-spectrum experience: heavyweight sound, close collaborators on the lineup, and a raw, unfiltered energy that mirrors the way their music is made. West End by Conrad Soundsystem 

Interview by Liesje Verhave | Photography by Brunei DeneumostierIn her directorial debut, Tra Fasi (2026), filmmaker Charity Charly steps into Suriname’s underground punk scene through the story of Shavero Ferrier. Shavero, a young cultural organiser, creates space for punk parties and self-expression in a society that often leans toward conformity. Charly, with a multidisciplinary background in film from camerawork and styling to set design, brings a personal and multifocal lens to her work.  Driven by a desire to reveal overlooked experiences and challenge dominant narratives. We spoke with her about her first steps into filmmaking, the making of Tra Fasi, and her vision for the visual stories still to be told. You’re quite a multidisciplinary creative. How did your journey from camerawoman to director, and this “jack-of-all-trades” path, begin?My journey started as a videographer. I worked at BNNVARA, where I was directing, editing, and doing camera work all at once for their YouTube platform. I always felt that I was good at what I was doing, but something felt a bit off. I just wanted to direct. I had so many stories in my head, and I just wanted to focus on directing only. So that is where my dream of becoming a director started. To make a film, I knew I needed experience on set, so I started as a production coordinator. Then I moved into costume styling, and after that into set dressing. After doing all of that, I finally had the courage to direct my own film. Tra Fasi is really the start of my directing journey, although I’ve been working in film for about four years now.So you tried out every possible role in the film industry first before directing?Exactly. But I always felt the urge to direct. Even when I was on set watching directors, I would think, “I would do this differently, or I would do that.” That feeling was always there.Do you think working in all those roles informs how you direct now?Yeah, definitely. All the departments I’ve worked in have helped me develop a clearer vision of what I want to see on screen.What first drew you to visual storytelling like film and visual art?I was always obsessed with films. I could watch the same movie eight times in a row and memorize the whole script. I would perform it and make my brother play the other roles with me.I also used to ask my mom to sign me up as an extra in films. But when I was on set, I wasn’t focused on being an extra; I was watching the crew. I was always distracted by how everything worked behind the scenes. Somehow, I always knew I wanted to make films. Even as a kid, I used to say my name would be in the credits one day.Are there any films you remember from that time?Yeah, Like Mike with Lil’ Bow Wow. That was one of my favorites. I knew it by heart and used to act it out with my brother while playing basketball.You’re largely self-taught. What challenges came with that?I used to study media studies, but didn’t finish. I ended up going to university for media and culture, but left after seven months. I was bored. I thought, “Do I really need to know this to work on sets?” So I was like, let me find out how I can do this on my own. The biggest challenge was insecurity. You hear a lot about people who went to film school and, after that, their careers just get a major boost. I struggled with representation. Not seeing people who look like me doing this work, there were times I felt like I didn’t belong.I remember wanting to become an actress and getting through the first round of auditions, but I got so insecure that I didn’t go to the second round. I started doubting whether there would even be roles for someone like me.But once I knew I wanted to direct, things started falling into place. I was very open about what I wanted to do, wrote scripts, and connected with people. I was really curious, and at some point, I just stopped letting rejection discourage me. Even though I heard a lot of no, I kept going. For me, this was a big milestone because this is what I wanted to do. Are there other art forms you still want to explore?Definitely, it’s actually funny because I never thought I’d make a documentary; it just happened. I’m still very obsessed with fictional stories and the way you can portray them. I would love to explore that more.I also acted on screen for the first time last year and really liked it, so I want to develop that further. And I make resin art, I love working with my hands. That’s something I’ll keep developing as well.Is the resin work more of a hobby or something you want to build professionally?It started as a hobby. Also, funny story, I made ashtrays and posted them on Instagram, and people wanted to buy them even though I wasn’t selling them yet. That made me realize I could turn it into something more. Now I make custom pieces for customers.How did the story of Tra Fasi come together? How did you meet Shavero?It started with the idea of making a documentary about Black punkers in the Netherlands. But I found that there were already projects about that.Then I realized I was going to Suriname soon and got curious about punk there. I started researching and discovered it actually existed. I found an article about Shavero and his band Mutha Flac, and something about him really stood out to me.I started following him on Instagram and noticed this whole alternative scene. I was like, “How did I not know this existed? I go to Suriname every year and never see this.”I messaged him, and he responded quickly. We had a call, and at first I planned to make a documentary about multiple bands, but none of them interested me as much as Shavero. So I told him I wanted to focus on him, and he said, “That’s dope, I’ll organize an event when you’re here.” So I was like, “Okay, let’s go. I’ll capture that.”That’s how it started. Once I got to Suriname, everything shifted. I had a plan, but after the first day, I realized I had to let go of it. The environment, the heat, not being able to film before 3 or 4 - it all required a different approach. I just went with the flow.What stood out to you about that scene?The energy. Because events aren’t as frequent there, people really go all out. The love and intensity are on another level. It’s a completely different energy.You also brought Shavero to the Netherlands. How was that experience?It wasn’t even the plan at first to do a tour here. My DOP Nadine Haselier and I just wanted to bring him here so he could connect with people. He does so much for the community, so we just wanted to do something for him. We started crowdfunding, and it gained so much attention that venues wanted him to perform.Seeing him perform here was emotional. The Garage Noord concert was crazy. I crowd surfed for the first time in my life. Watching his dream come true and seeing how people responded to him and his sound, it was special. It felt like two worlds colliding. The film centers on self-expression in a conformist society. How did you approach that visually?I didn’t overthink it. I used strong visuals of Suriname and contrasted that with Shavero’s self-expression. The editing style is very DIY. The whole film just screams self-expression.Did anything about the experience in Suriname change you?Completely. It changed how I see Suriname. I didn’t expect that scene to be there, and I felt both surprised and a bit guilty for thinking it didn’t exist there.Seeing people who look like me and share the same mindset, the same attitude in life, was such a beautiful enlightenment. But at the same time, I realized how much harder it is to express yourself there compared to here. I will still get that job even though I dye my eyebrows blonde; there, you have to be ten times bolder to be yourself.That experience really shifted my perspective and deepened my connection to my motherland.You’re working on a new project now. How are you approaching it differently?With every project, you learn and want to do things differently. I always try to give something nostalgic and to surprise people, to make people think differently about stereotypes and question themselves.  I’m currently working on a new film about the gabber/hardcore scene in the Netherlands, focusing on black youth within that scene.It’s a similar niche approach, highlighting something we haven’t really seen.What drew you to that scene?I don’t even listen to hardcore, and that’s what makes it interesting to me. I’m curious about what draws people to that scene. Hardcore never dies!I started researching and found a whole bunch of young black kids going hard to this music. Even though I don’t like the music, seeing them loving it so much fascinates me. I’m going to a hardcore party soon to experience it firsthand.What perspective do you want to bring to that story?I want to show it from the perspective of people of color, especially women. Most of what we’ve seen before is from a very white, male perspective. I want to do the complete opposite.For me, the reason to make something is simple: if we haven’t seen it yet, that’s exactly why it needs to be made.What can people expect from the upcoming Tra Fasi screenings?A good film and a new, refreshing perspective on Suriname! At the Melkweg, I’ll also be doing a Q&A, chit-chat about the movie and the process. I’m really excited to talk to people also afterwards. Upcoming Screenings: 4/04 Melkweg24/04 Paard Den Haag10/05 Humans of Film Festival22/05 Plantage Dok Amsterdam5/07 Down The Rabbit Hole

Interview by Liesje Verhave | Photography by nothing_._yetTYSON has always existed in a musical space of her own, one where alternative textures meet an R&B sensibility, and where collaboration feels as instinctive as solitude. We connect with her to discuss her featuring on Sam Akpro’s new single “Wayside”, The release follows a steady run of celebrated work, from her 2024 CHOAS EP to collaborations with artists such as Leon Vynehall, Dean Blunt and Coby Sey, as well as her recent appearance on Yazmin Lacey’s “Water.” Alongside her music, TYSON continues to build community through Ladies Music Pub, the London-based collective she co-founded to support women and gender-nonconforming people in the industry.In this conversation, TYSON reflects on the making of “Wayside”, the evolving nature of collaboration, and how her creative process is shifting, shaped by new environments, new experiences, and the realities of motherhood.We wanted to connect with you because of the release of the new single by Sam Akpro “Wayside” that you featured on. How was it working on that tune, and what was the process like when he first shared it with you?For me, it wasn’t an unusual process, but it was a different one. He had already started the song, not in its finished form, but enough to have an early version - and then he thought of me to feature on it. A lot of the features I’ve done have either been someone featuring on my work or us starting something from scratch together. So it was really nice that he had already begun something and thought I could add to it.I came down to the studio, heard the early version, and we just started trying things out. It ended up being quite an eventful day. I had sketched out some ideas and was about to record when the fire alarm went off. At first, there were sirens and lots of people everywhere, but both Sam and I were very chill and didn’t think it was serious. Then his friend, who was helping produce, was like, “No guys, I think something’s actually happening.” It turned out the building next door was really on fire. Everyone was okay, but we had to run down the stairs. I even had my coffee with me because I really thought it wasn’t a big deal. Then I looked over and saw flames coming out of the side of the building. So for quite a calm song, it was definitely a dramatic afternoon.Did the eventful afternoon influence how the song ended up? Definitely, it added to the energy, and it’s a good story. It’s funny because the song itself is so calm, but the day we made it was the complete opposite.You mentioned that Sam picked you for the tune and that this collaborative process was a bit different from how you usually work. Can you talk about how your collaborations usually come about, and what made this one unique?A lot of the people I’ve collaborated with are friends. I didn’t know Sam Akpro before we met to do this. Someone like Coby Sey is a long-term, consistent collaborator, and because we’re friends, the process usually starts there and then we make something from scratch. Working with Leon Vynehall was similar, we knew each other, but became closer while working together, and we made something from scratch for his project.Most of the people I’ve worked with, especially in London, I’ve met through music scenes, partying, and mutual friends. I like that process, because you get to feel someone’s vibe first. Usually, by the time we make something, there’s a sense of how it’s going to go because you’ve met each other beforehand.Since having my daughter in 2024, though, I’ve done more sessions that have been set up through my publisher and management. That means I’m often meeting people for the first time in the studio, which is very different. This song is part of that era, but it felt aligned with the way I’ve worked before because Sam and I come from a similar world, and our music fits well together. If we hadn’t met through the song, I think we would have met very soon anyway.How has meeting people for the first time in the studio and immediately working on a song influenced you as an artist?I’ve learned a lot from those sessions. I really wanted to write more for other artists, and it lets me use my creativity in a different way. I love lots of different styles of music, but I don’t necessarily want to perform all of them myself, so it’s a nice way to experiment with different genres and writing styles.I haven’t done many writing camps, but I did one in Sweden for women and non-binary artists, producers, and writers. I was there as a writer, and I think those spaces are a good exercise in just going into a room and making things. It’s less about ego and more about being open. Quite a lot of what we made had a bunch of people on it, and only later did you start thinking about who it was for.I think those sessions are a bit like blind dates. It’s always good to start by talking for a bit and listening to some music together if you’ve never met. Sometimes it’s nice to just see what happens, but sometimes it also helps if there’s some intention from the start — whether that’s for someone’s album, or for your own project — so you don’t get to the end and think, “I’m not actually sure I’d put this out.”How was your experience participating in the writing camp in Sweden, especially since you grew up there for part of your life? Do these different cultural experiences inform your work?Definitely. It was actually really interesting to go back there in that context. I lived in Sweden from age 15 to 20, and also spent quite a lot of time there in my early 20s. The last time I properly lived there, I was around 26, and I remember thinking, “That’s it — I know I don’t want to live here again.” I knew I wanted to spend time there, but I also knew my soul didn’t really belong there.So I stopped going as much, and a lot of my experiences there are rooted in youth. But in recent years, I’ve gone back more for work, and that’s been really interesting. There are so many amazing and inspiring artists there. I met people at the camp and then returned for more writing trips. I think the alternative music scenes in Stockholm and in Sweden generally are really exciting.It feels a bit like going home, but in a strange way. People often assume I’m just fully from London, but culturally a lot of my references are also Swedish, even if they’re not very current because I haven’t lived there since I was a teenager. So it still feels like home. I really admire the way writers and producers in Sweden approach music.What do you love about Sweden?I actually had an amazing time in Stockholm, and it was really important for me. I moved there when I was 15, which is kind of the worst age to move from London to a much smaller, colder, less diverse city, especially right when all your friends back home are discovering raves and nightlife. At the time, it felt terrible, but in many ways, it was the best thing my parents could have done for me.I made amazing friends there who became like family. But it’s not an easy place to live if you’re not white and Swedish. When you’re a teenager, I think you mould yourself in order to fit in and survive, and that’s what I did. I found ways to kind of “Swedify” myself to make it work. Now that I’m older, when I go back, I feel more friction because there are parts of me that aren’t really accepted there, and I’m less willing to adapt those parts of myself now.At the same time, I am also Swedish, so it’s not as simple as being a foreigner there. That’s why it’s complicated. But having a child has made me want to reconnect with that part of myself and share it with her, because she’s also Swedish. That’s made me find a new love for being there again. Going back there with purpose - going there to work, to connect with people, to make new memories — has been really helpful. And beyond that, I love the countryside. I could stay forever in our family house in the south of Sweden. The house my grandparents built feels like its own universe. So I think it’s really Stockholm that I’m still finding my place in — and music has helped with that.You also mentioned that the camp was for women and non-binary people, and of course you co-founded Ladies Music Pub, which focuses on diversity and supporting women and FLINTA people in the music industry. What inspired you to start that initiative?It was purely experience-based. I started it with my friend Hannah TW. At the moment, there are three of us involved. Hannah was on the label side of the industry, and I was on the artist side, and we realised we had a lot of the same frustrations. We’d go to the pub and talk about them, and then we started inviting more people. “Ladies Music Pub” was literally the title of Hannah’s first email inviting people. The word “ladies” is said with our eyes rolling, and people often misunderstand that.At its core, it’s about bringing people together to share experiences and learn from each other in a space that feels safe. For me, it was one of the first times in music that I felt I could ask any question freely. In male-dominated spaces, a lot of questions are treated as silly, but if knowledge isn’t shared, how are you meant to learn?Now we have meetings every month where around 20 to 30 people come together to talk, ask questions, and connect. People get jobs through it, and some attend because they want to get into music but haven’t started yet. Around 2019, when Nelly and Marina GB joined us, we also became a record label and released my first EP and other projects. Hannah and Marina also manage me now, so it grew into much more than just a meetup.It feels like you created a safe space for yourself, but also opened it up for others.Exactly. A lot of people say it feels unique because it’s not corporate. It’s very DIY, but it’s still serious. It’s not networking in suits. It’s people who genuinely want to work on their stuff and support each other.You mentioned that at one point, you had actually quit music. Did Ladies Music Pub help bring you back to it?Yeah, definitely. Both Hannah and I were at a point where we felt like we couldn’t go on in the way the industry was structured. I had quit music completely because of some of my experiences, as well as other personal things going on. I still loved making music, but I didn’t know if I could keep doing that job in that industry.So when I decided to make solo music and really commit to releasing it, I realised I needed LMP around me to survive in that space. It became essential - not just as a community, but as a record label and management structure too.You’ve released collaborations over the last few years, but you also mentioned that you’re starting to record your own music again. How has that been, and what are you working on currently?It’s been terrifying. I basically go to the studio, panic, and then go home. But I’m starting to feel more settled in it now.I went to New York in October to work with my friend Oscar Scheller, and Yazmin Lacy was there as well, which was so nice. We’d already released “Water” together, but we hadn’t had much time to make more music. We ended up in this amazing studio on our own for two days. I’d travelled there with my toddler on my own, and Yazmin was also there for sessions and a gig. So we just thought, let’s play around and see what happens.We were both joking that we don’t really play instruments, but then I came back from taking my daughter out for a nap and Yazmin had made a bassline and was playing drums. I was like, “You’ve literally produced a whole song — what do you mean you don’t do anything?” That kind of playful experimentation is really important for me right now. I need that to figure out what I want to do, without too much pressure.I’ve put a lot of pressure on making an album, like it has to be this elevated, separate thing from everything else I’ve done. So those playful sessions were beautiful because they helped me remember how to just make things.It sounds like you’re balancing playfulness with a more intentional approach now.Yeah, that’s true actually. I hadn’t thought about it like that. I keep saying this is the most intentional I’ve ever been, but then at the same time, Yazmin and I were just playing drums even though we don’t play drums. There are different types of intentions. It can also be intentional to be playful.You mentioned your daughter being around during these sessions. Has parenthood changed the way you approach music?That’s kind of what this whole process has been about since I started doing sessions for myself again in October. New York made me realise how much I’m still figuring that out. I structured that whole trip the way I would have worked before having a child, and it just didn’t work for me. She wasn’t even one and a half at that point, and I was working in a busy city for seven or eight days straight. At the beginning, I was on my own with her, so there was no break at all.Now I’m starting to feel some creativity come back, but I still need to work out how that fits with childcare and the way my life works now. Some people talk about having this huge creative surge after having a baby, but I haven’t really had that. Things in music are also often very last-minute — someone will ask if you can do a session tomorrow — and that kind of lack of structure is hard when you have a child. Children need continuity and routine, and both my partner and I have lives that are all over the place. So it’s definitely something I’m still learning.Is that also a topic discussed at Ladies Music Pub?Yes, definitely. We’ve even done a whole meeting focused on maternity and parenthood in music. A friend of ours helped restructure the maternity package at her record label, and we wanted to help because that’s exactly the kind of thing organisations can change. There were lots of parents there, and I think it’s something we’ll keep talking about as our lives evolve.I’m very lucky because my parents are amazing role models. They both do the same job, and I’ve moved into their house, so they help a lot. My mum said something really helpful to me: your schedule is always going to be the way it is, so you should still take the opportunities you want, but your daughter needs a constant point. So by living with them, she always has home as a stable base, even when I have to come and go. That’s been beautiful. I also grew up seeing my mum do this kind of thing, so it makes me feel like I can survive it too.That support network sounds incredibly important.It really is! A lot of people don’t grow up with parents who work in music, so for me, having seen this way of life since I was a child has made me feel like it would be possible to have kids and still do this. Just yesterday, my mum had been looking after my daughter a lot, and then I spent the whole afternoon with her and took her to the park. When I got back, my mum said, “Oh, that was nice, I got a break and wrote a song.” I was like, wow, we really are in this together. It was actually really cute.Your mother was a musician, and now you’re a musician too. Would you want the next generation in your family to become musicians as well?I want any of my children to do whatever they want to do. I’m kind of assuming she’ll do music because it seems to get everybody in my family. I definitely resisted it for a long time, but it catches up with you. She may be young, but she can already sing things back to me in tune, so I’m like, okay, she definitely has it. But honestly, I just want her to do whatever makes her happy. If she does go into music, I’d support her, but I’d probably also be like, “Are you sure?” It’s a wild ride.You’ve been remixed by people like Karen Nyame KG and James Massiah, and you’ve worked with a lot of artists from London’s underground music community. How do you stay so tapped into that world?It’s all just my peers, really. It all comes from friendships and from going out dancing for years and years. There’s something really beautiful about London and the way different people from different places come together in spaces and share music. When I moved back here at 20, that’s basically how I met everyone I know, through parties.Of course, part of it was about partying, but a lot of it was really about the music. Karen Nyame KG, for example, I didn’t know personally at first, but we had loads of mutual friends, so when we met up to work together, it felt very natural. James, I’ve known for years from going out and from nights like Work It. It’s all been very organic.I don’t go out as much now, but that’s definitely how those relationships started. And with anyone I didn’t know directly, a lot of those connections also came through Hannah and Marina from Ladies Music Pub. Hannah, especially, is really active in the club scene through Local Action and other things. Between the three of us, we’ve ended up connected to a lot of people. Being around your own people lets you really become yourself. I think that’s a big part of why I’ve flourished in London.Are there any new sounds you’re experimenting with for your new music?Yeah, I think so. Josette Joseph and I — who’s an amazing producer and engineer — have been talking a lot before the sessions about what I want to do. It’s been really helpful to work with more people alongside my longtime collaborator, Oscar Scheller, and invite different people into the process.Josette Joseph is also an engineer and mixer, so it’s been interesting to talk to her about vocal sound as well as production influences. I’ve joked about wanting this project to feel more “elevated,” but I do actually mean that in a positive way. I want it to feel like a step up from the things I’ve made before.One thing a lot of my music hasn’t had much of is live instrumentation, so I think that’s going to be a strong element this time. A lot of my work has been very program-based, and I’d like to bring instrumentalists into that world and add a different texture. Genre-wise, I don’t know exactly yet. I want to play with different sounds and see where it goes. But I think what stays consistent is my voice.Are you already doing sessions with live musicians in the room?That’s definitely something I want to do. A few of those sessions couldn’t happen in this first run, but they will soon. I feel inspired by Yazmin Lacey in that way too; she writes instrumentally, even if she doesn’t always literally play everything. I’m also learning over time that some melodies I write are actually instrumental parts in disguise. I’ll sing something and then realise maybe that’s actually a synth line, or a bass part. So I’d love to sit in a room with musicians and say, “What happens if you play this little thing I’m singing?”In 2025, you released a charity single with your family. Can you talk a bit about your activism and why it felt important to do that?It felt crucial. I don’t think there was any part of me that felt like not doing something was an option. I think you have to do what you can do. The concert and the single were really our way as musicians of trying to do something meaningful.Everyone was talking about trying to get it to number one, but for me, whether it did or didn’t was never really the point. It was still beautiful, meaningful, and important. Originally, it wasn’t even meant to be a recorded track; that only happened because there wasn’t enough time at the concert for us to perform it. In the end, I actually think that was a good thing.I think it reached people in this country who maybe hadn’t been engaged before, and that matters. Some people were upset it didn’t hit number one, but I think it still did what it was supposed to do. For me, speaking about what’s happening in the world is vital. I’ve actually been shocked by how many people with platforms aren’t talking about these things. Some people I’m not surprised by, but some really do surprise me. I just feel like I have to talk about it.While waiting patiently for new TYSON music, listen to the new single “Wayside” by Sam Akpro featuring TYSON.  

Order Tattoo Jam is back—and this year it’s levelling up in every direction. What started as a tight-knit gathering rooted in Amsterdam’s creative underground has grown into a global meeting point for tattoo culture, art, and music. For its latest edition, Order moves into its biggest venue yet, the iconic Kromhouthal in Amsterdam North, while reconnecting with its origins at Skatecafe for the after-hours program. With 200 artists flying in from across the world, a fully realised art market, large-scale installations, and a day-to-night format that stretches across the neighbourhood, the 2026 edition feels less like an event and more like a living ecosystem. We sat down with Order’s Etienne Memon to break down what’s new, what’s evolved, and why this year might be the most ambitious jam yet.This year, you're bringing back the Order Tattoo Jam. Can you tell us about the new location and what people can expect-both during the day and at night?Yeah, the location is completely new and actually the biggest we’ve had so far. It’s in Amsterdam North at the Kromhouthal—an old, beautiful industrial warehouse in a really accessible area. It’s close to a lot of our other spots, like my restaurant Sichuan Territory, Skatecafe, and other venues we work with, all in the same strip.What’s also new is that for the first time, the daytime event and the afterparty won’t be in the same room. The day program happens at Kromhouthal, and then we move to Skatecafe for the night. That’s special because that’s where the jam originally started, so there’s a lot of history and good energy there. It also gives people options—you can come just for the day, just for the night, or go all-in for the full weekend.That sounds like a big evolution. What can people expect from the actual event this year?We’ve got around 200 tattoo artists coming in from all over the world—Japan, Korea, Australia, the US, and across Europe. About 80% of the artists are international. A new addition this year is that a lot of tattoo shops are coming as full crews, not just individual artists. So you’ll see full shop booths from places like New York, Italy, and more. We’re also pushing them to really go all out with their booth setups and make them visually special.I also heard there’s a big market this year?Yeah, that’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time—a proper art market. This year, we’re finally doing it with 65 stands. There’s an art book fair with people like Atheneum, Name Books, and more. Then there’s a tattoo-focused section with antiques, rare memorabilia, machine builders, and supplies—like Krautz Irons from Germany. We also have a whole cosmetica area where you can get your hair done, nails, grills, and tooth gems. Then there’s vintage clothing—Duke’s Cupboard, Cream, Second Culture—and records, toys, everything. It’s basically its own world inside the event.What about installations and visuals?We’re going big on decoration this year. There’s a Ferris wheel coming back inside the venue. We’ve got a balloon artist creating huge floating installations across the ceiling—like flying creatures throughout the space.We also have an art crew from Lithuania decorating the market area. Plus, there’s a full exhibition happening all weekend at a new gallery space called Voorwaarts featuring nine tattoo artists who also work in fine art. That exhibition actually opens on Thursday, before the jam starts, so it’s a good moment for everyone to meet before the weekend kicks off.And the night program?Friday and Saturday nights are at Skatecafe, fully programmed. We’ve invited different crews to host stages. On Friday, Order hosts the main area, Tourist Trap runs D&D with live music and DJs, and Cinnaman hosts the 1900 room. On Saturday, we continue with Order in the main room, AK Soundsystem takes over D&D, and The Gang is Beautiful hosts 1900. Plus, we have our friends running music all day long at Kromhouthal too—around seven artists per day.I think a lot of people are excited to be back at Skatecafe.Can we talk about some of the new additions, like Sexyland?Yeah, Sexyland is doing something really fun—they’re hosting a tattoo daycare. So if you have kids between the ages of 4 and 10, you can drop them off there. They’ll have mocktails, drawing stations, sticker tattoos, iPads—it’s fully set up to entertain them. Then parents can just enjoy the event without worrying.That’s actually genius. What about the merch this year?The whole identity this year is designed by Alexander Heir, also known as Death Traitors—one of my favourite artists. We’ve got a zip hoodie for the first time, a camo tee, two caps, and the lineup tee we always do. Everything is produced by Obey, who’ve been supporting us for years. We’ll also have older Order merch available, plus a Deadly Prey Gallery booth from Chicago, showing Ghanaian movie posters—both originals and prints. It sounds like a lot of moving parts, but everything feels aligned this year. It all really came together.If people want to get involved—either this year or in the future—what’s the best way to reach you?The best way is through social media or email. That’s where we handle everything, but the best thing to do is just to pull up!If you’ve been watching from the sidelines, this is the year to step in. Whether you’re coming for the tattoos, the art, the music, or just the energy, Order Tattoo Jam isn’t something you fully understand until you’re inside it. Pull up for a few hours or commit to the full weekend—either way, show up. And if you can’t make it this time, tap in online, stay connected, and position yourself for the next one.

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Pebbles BazurARTNOIR is a community first and an institution second — seven co-founders building the kind of art world they wanted to exist in, then inviting everyone else into it. Since 2013, they have used the platform to amplify Black and Brown creatives across disciplines, not just through exhibitions and walkthroughs, but through real infrastructure like Jar of Love: a micro-grant that has redistributed resources to artists and cultural workers when the bigger systems proved fragile.Now, ARTNOIR makes its Dutch debut through a collaboration with OSCAM in Amsterdam Zuidoost — a meeting of two Black women-led institutions that understand the power of place, and the urgency of showing up for community in real time. Their joint exhibition, Watering a Black Garden, lands during International Women’s Month and brings together eight women and non-binary artists from across the diaspora, reframing joy as something intentional: tending, care, rest, and becoming. In this conversation, Larry Ossei-Mensah and Carolyn “CC” Concepcion, co-founders of ARTNOIR, unpack how the show came together, why “radical joy” is a necessary lens, what sustainability actually looks like behind the scenes, and how they’re extending the exhibition beyond the gallery walls — into workshops, circles, and even a book list at the OBA, so visitors can take the experience home.For readers who are just meeting you: what is ARTNOIR - and why bring ARTNOIR to the Netherlands to partner with OSCAM now?Larry Ossei-Mensah: ARTNOIR is a collective platform. We started in 2013, formally it’s seven of us as co-founders and it stems from wanting to create the world we want to see. At the time, we recognized there were a lot of emerging artists doing incredible things but not getting engagement from our generation of patrons. For example, there were curators doing amazing work but not getting the support they needed. A lot of what we’ve done has been about amplifying the voices of Black and Brown, Latin, Latinx, Asian creatives — primarily visual artists but we’ve also worked with writers, dancers, musicians.One example is our Jar of Love microgrant, which we started in 2020. One of our grantees, Samora Pinderhughes, just had an exhibition at MoMA, Call and Response. He presented a new video piece and did a number of performances — and to be part of that journey has been really fruitful and rewarding. When I started working in the arts back in 2008, there were maybe a couple galleries showing Black artists. And now we’re in institutions consistently - but even within that, how do we show up and for each other?We do exhibition walkthroughs and we support exhibitions. We supported the British Pavilion for John Akomfrah’s presentation in 2024 and we’re supporting the British Pavilion again this year for Lubaina Himid's presentation. Since 2013, we’ve understood the importance of the platform being international, not just focusing on the United States. We have delivered projects in South Africa in collaboration with Black Portraiture, partnered with the U.S. Embassy in Paris, and worked in London with Samuel Ross and SR_A on the Black British Artist Grant.In terms of Amsterdam, OSCAM reached out to us to explore what a collaboration could look like. Marian Duff is the founder, and we’ve been working with Annicée Angela, who’s co-curating, and Manu Drenthem Soesman, who’s been helping with production. OSCAM does really important work. When they reached out, I hit up my people in Amsterdam: “Tell us more about OSCAM and its role, and everyone we spoke to emphasized the importance of OSCAM and the work they do.”. I’ve had the opportunity to spend meaningful time in the Bijlmer, which has given me a deeper understanding of what the neighborhood represents within a broader social and cultural context. I see art as a vehicle for conversation, specifically through this project, Watering a Black Garden: Reimagining Joy as a Radical Act of Tending and Becoming, and in considering what it means to present a group exhibition of Black and Brown women and non-binary artists.The timing is also intentional: International Women’s Month. The exhibition is celebrating the month, platforming these voices and artistic expressions, and being in dialogue with the creative community in Amsterdam. I’ve been visiting Amsterdam for the last 20 years, so my network is vast - people in fashion, visual arts, and everyday folks who live there. How can we collaborate, bring our flavor, and bring communities together?We’re not under the assumption that because Amsterdam is “small,” there isn’t an opportunity for engagement and dialogue. I always think about how, in New York, you need special moments that invite people to come out, especially after people have been hibernating, and with the weather getting better. It gives people a reason to pull up — especially if they live in other parts of the city — to say: “We’re going to go to Zuidoost, support this exhibition, see what these artists have to say, support the programming.” And also support OSCAM's work.We are always trying to identify mission-aligned partners who are changing the narrative, expanding discourse, and building a platform that’s accessible not only to creatives but to everyday folks. I did a site visit to OSCAM in October and it was great to watch the aunties coming from the grocery store popping in just to say hello. This is a really important component, community has been a bedrock for what we do regardless of where in the world we show up and collaborate.Carolyn “CC” Concepcion: I’ll add to that: community is central for us. We serve two constituents. We serve the artists — creatives, curators, culture producers, designers, makers — and we also serve communities of color that are interested in the arts. Accessibility is central to our mission. How do we invite our people into institutions, into gallery walls, into art and culture environments that can be intimidating and aren’t designed or programmed with them in mind?That’s why the field trips and walkthroughs are integral to how we got started — it was friends who wanted to see themselves in the art world, and they wanted to see it together. They wanted permission, inspiration, and to not be intimidated. If you like art — if you have even a mustard seed of interest — we can give you a path: where to go see it, how to see it. If you’re interested in collecting, we can support you with entry points. It’s about why you belong in the space, and highlighting who is creating with your narrative at the center.Watering a Black Garden brings together eight female and non-binary artists across disciplines. How did you build that list, and what threads connect their practices for you?Larry Ossei-Mensah: It’s a combination. Some are artists we’ve been following for a long time and really admire. We did research. Once we agreed on the prompt — focusing on platforming the women of colour — we were also thinking about diaspora. We wanted, to the best of our ability, to represent different voices and perspectives across the diaspora.Aline Motta, for example — Afro-Brazilian — I’ve gotten to know her over the last several years through projects in Brazil. Shaniqwa Jarvis is an incredible photographer and artist, and also a friend. It’s been amazing to witness her journey — and to find the right fit and the right timing to share her fine art practice alongside her commercial photography practice.Nengi Omuku is someone I’ve gotten to know over the last several years — I’ve shown her work before at the ICA in San Francisco. Same with Ufuoma Essi; this might be the secondtime I’ve engaged with her practice, having shown it at the MET in Manila, Philippines. Jennette Ehlers, I had been following and met last year while on a trip to Copenhagen, facilitated by the Danish Foundation. We wanted diversity in perspectives and mediums. We think about the exhibition at OSCAM as the soil — what grows from that soil are these varying expressions and ideas. So it’s been great: artists we know, artists we’ve researched, artists we feel have something to say — and we’re excited to collaborate with them. We have artists from Brazil, the U.S., Congo — Copenhagen, Nigeria, UK, France, and the Caribbean - our diaspora moves around, and we want those perspectives highlighted.Carolyn “CC” Concepcion: And another entry point to finalizing our artist list is OSCAM’s focus on emerging artists and young creatives of color. So we also looked to artists — like Rachel Marsil from Paris, Maty Biayenda from Paris, Bernice Mulenga from London — young, electric, vibrant artists at an inflection point in their careers. They have so much more to go and being part of their journey, helping expand their audience and impact, is inspiring. Larry Ossei-Mensah: So much is about the journey. The Venice Biennale just released the list of participating artists, and a number of them are artists we’ve supported in various forms. It might be romantic for me, but knowing you played a small part in helping them get to what they’re destined to get to — that’s powerful.And I believe most of these artists are showing in the Netherlands for the first time. There’s still a lot of work to do in terms of visibility for artists of color, platforming artists of color. This is showing up boldly, unabashedly, with love and care.A lot of the time, Black art gets framed through suffering and trauma. How do you present Black work without defaulting to that lens, while still being honest about the diasporic experience?Larry Ossei-Mensah: That was the intention from the beginning: to illustrate a different and more expanded point of view. It’s part of the journey, but it doesn’t have to be what we’re always centering.We’re thinking about joy, but not in a stereotypical “happy-go-lucky” way. Joy as tending. What does it mean to care for oneself and one’s community? Women and non-binary individuals are often the ones who feed our souls, minds, and spirits. We also wanted to complicate it: joy as intentional choices, how you hold space, how we hold space together, regardless of circumstance. This journey toward freedom, possibility, imagination — there’s no endpoint. It requires consistent engagement and dialogue, finding pockets of respite regardless of what’s happening.There’s always something happening in the world — to varying degrees. So, be mindful, but also look at ourselves, look at each other. Highlight the breadth and depth of what makes us human — complicated, layered, multi-faceted — and in the case of the exhibitions, using different forms of media. Centering wholeness was important in shaping the exhibition and selecting artists.Even the programming extends this. We’re partnering with the OBA Bijlmerplein near OSCAM — putting together a reading list. What does it mean to find a bell hooks book that allows you to process what’s happening in the exhibition? That extension is unique and exciting.Carolyn “CC” Concepcion: I’ll add to that by speaking on the title and the programming. The title Watering a Black Garden came to us after I revisited a photograph I took in 2024 of Raymond Saunders’s work at David Zwirner Gallery during Post No Bills, an exhibition curated by Ebony L. Haynes. Across a Black canvas “Watering a Black Garden” was written.. It felt rooted, powerful, magical. I posted it on my IG stories,Larry saw it, and said: “Oh my god, that’s the name of our exhibition in Amsterdam.” He was like: “I think that’s it.” Our good friend Ebony Haynes, Global Head of Curatorial Projects, further educated us on Saunders' work and what the garden meant to him, and it solidified things for us. So we honor these legends — the artists who laid the foundation. Raymond Saunders is centered and honored in when we speak about where the title of this exhibition came from.And in regards to joy: the programming is intentional. Bernice is coming to do a workshop around her photography practice. We’re doing a flower bouquet-making workshop — touching nature in real life. We’re doing a gathering with Up Close — part of the Amsterdam community — centered on healing circles. It’s wholesome: centering Black legends and centering women across the diaspora.ARTNOIR is a predominantly Black and Brown women-led organization — five women — so uplifting Black and Brown women artists is front and center. And OSCAM is also Black women-led and founded. So it all made sense.Larry Ossei-Mensah: From our research and observation, that’s where both organisations dovetail: pouring into our community, through exhibitions, programming, and even just being a space where “aunties” or “cousins” can come in and say hello. When I did my visit, I noticed it’s a vibe on multiple levels.The title encapsulates the idea: we have to keep pouring into each other regardless of what’s happening — sometimes in spite of what’s happening — to give ourselves the strength, the vision, the imagination to keep moving forward collectively.You’re building something that’s sustainable — and sustainability usually means you’re also thinking about burnout, rest, and care. How do you create space and respite inside the work, especially when this becomes a transatlantic diasporic conversation?Larry Ossei-Mensah: Definitely. It’s a constant process of evolution. It has different faces. For example, when we do our women’s dinner — usually biannual — it can look different. Last year, we did a ceramics workshop, and the year before, it was at the studio of our good friend Asmeret Berhe-Lumax, the founder of One Love Community Fridge. We are constantly mixing the approach to how we engage our community: field trips, going to see art, breaking bread and sharing a meal, and exchanging ideas. And physical, tactile moments — slowing down — is where a light bulb might go off.That’s partly why the programming has landed where it has. It’s one thing to say: “Come see the show, come do a tour.” It’s another to have an artist workshop guide us through lens-based practice — documenting community, telling stories, building an archive. Or to do a flower-arranging workshop — it might seem simple, but we’re all busy, we’re all programmed. So, saying - stop for an hour or two, focus on yourself, focus on community, bring a friend, share time - is helpful.Coming out of COVID, people are more hyper-alert to what’s sustainable. This is a long fight and journey toward freedom or liberation — a holistic approach to living. Our communities — especially if you’re first-gen — hard work and sacrifice are embedded in our psyche. That is important, but so is enjoying life, enjoying friends, having space to dream. The pressure is intense.Even reading a book shouldn’t be a luxury, but for some people it is. Taking time to read Toni Morrison and feed your mind, that matters. So we try to be intentional and strategic with how it shows up in our work.I co-curated an exhibition at Storm King (with Nora Lawrence & Adela Goldsmith), a sculpture park in upstate New York, of Sonia Gomes' work last year— and bringing people into a landscape, showing work, having a performance — it’s a reset. While living in a big city, those reminders are important.And there’s also a benefit in having seven co-founders, mixing and matching when needed. When someone steps back, someone else can take the baton and move things forward.Carolyn “CC” Concepcion: I wanted to speak to the shadow side: burnout, labor, and what it actually takes to build something like this. We’re seven co-founders, but none of us take a salary. We have a small but mighty team of interns and fellows who keep the engine going. We all have full-time jobs. We have kids. We have parents — aging parents. We have partners. And we make a choice every day to do this work for ARTNOIR — to make this space for our community. It’s intentional, curated, selected. And yes, it burns us out sometimes. Institution building for our community — resources aren’t always available. So we have to be scrappy and chic all the time, on a nonprofit budget.And especially in this climate — Black History Month is every day for us. DEI is not a checkbox; it’s our life. In this new administration — it’s more challenging to be loud and proud, but also to stay on the low with the work so we’re not targeted. That’s a new reality. Burnout isn’t just “wellness”; it’s also the pressure of leadership and visibility.Patta is doing this work too — you’re just using a different lens — but it’s all culture-making: image-making, object-making, archival work, storytelling of the Black experience. That’s the shadow side of building in service to our people.Jar of Love is one of the infrastructural pieces that really stands out. Can you break down what it is, how it works, and what resource redistribution and care look like in practice?Larry Ossei-Mensah: Jar of Love emerged from a practical use case. During COVID, once we understood what was happening, I noticed colleagues being furloughed, laid off — and you saw these “mighty” institutions were basically built on wooden stilts. On top of everything happening in the world — George Floyd, etc. — we asked: how do we support from where we stand?So we decided collectively: how can we re-grant or create mutual aid for colleagues in a dire moment? We started the fund in 2020 in partnership with several artists. We did online auctions with Artsy, with the support of then-CMO Everette Taylor — now CEO at Kickstarter — and raised funds. Then we held an open call for a non-restricted microgrant: $500 to $3,000, depending on need.Since 2020, we’ve reinvested over $350K in more than 150 artists, curators, cultural workers, and filmmakers. Initially, it was “for the COVID moment,” but even after that, we still saw the need. It’s an infrastructural gap.We’ve partnered with Sotheby’s, with the support of Walden Huntley-Fenner, and moved to a cohort model. Now we bring in a group of six or seven and try to create a network effect. With the recent cohort, it becomes not just funding, but convening: a filmmaker meets a musician — can you do a score? It becomes an ecosystem.We still provide resources for dream projects and needs, but now we’re asking: what does professional development look like? What do people need now? What are you working on that we can amplify? How else can we support — emotionally, with introductions, and by showing up? And it’s satisfying to see grantees hit their moments. Watching it manifest is one of the most satisfying feelings. We keep evolving it to meet the moment — needs change — and our superpower has been our adaptability and nimbleness.Carolyn “CC” Concepcion: It’s about being responsive when people need it most. COVID was the impetus, but it continues. We expanded Jar of Love in LA during the LA fires — distributing funds aligned with how we did it during COVID. Artists have studio fires, lose parents, get sick — that drumbeat continues, alongside the cohort model.Funding looks different across countries. London isn’t as generous as the U.S. in cultural funding. Our $5,000 might not be “that much,” but it’s the intention: we see you. It’s not only financial — it's the community seeing you and supporting you at different stages.Our goal is to expand in Paris. Our goal is to expand in Amsterdam. That’s something we can work on together — finding the funds — especially in centers of creative exchange tied to the African diaspora.Let’s get practical: what’s the full rundown of programming around OSCAM? Key dates, key moments — what should people pull up for?Carolyn “CC” Concepcion: March 6th is press and VIP programming. Miss Sunny will DJ and Sylvana Simons will do the welcoming — she’s very loved in Amsterdam. We’ll have a panel with fourof the artists who are in town. For the opening, we have more DJs: Princess Vineyard is coming, and then there’ll be an afterparty with AK SoundSystem — so it’s going to be kind of lit. A lot of music, a lot of vibes.The caterer is Tabili, two sisters doing beautiful work inspired by different parts of the diaspora: Brazilian food, Caribbean food, food from the continent all on the 6th.Then the other programs run between March and April: programming with Up Close and the library, an art workshop with Bernice Mulenga, and the flower-making workshop. And the book selection — when does that hit the OBA?Larry Ossei-Mensah: It will launch during the opening of the exhibition. At OBA Bijlmerplein, we will have an area with books, a flyer, and materials with QR codes. The book list will also be online.We’re also doing a playlist. It’s about extending the exhibition and letting people bring it home. You see an incredible painting by Rachel Marsil, you’re moved, then you stumble into an Audre Lorde book that invites you to think about what it is to be a person of color in repose.The first time I came to Amsterdam, a buddy lived by the Heineken factory and said, “Let’s bike to the park.” I was 24, from the Bronx — I was like, “What?” Watching people picnic, relax, and be at rest - that was strange for me then. If I went to the park, it was to play basketball, not to rest.So to have a visual representation of your body at rest — not in fight-or-flight — and then literature or music that can support what you feel as you move through the show: that’s an essential part of making it holistic.Watering a Black Garden is curated by Annicée Angela (OSCAM), Carolyn “CC” Concepcion & Larry Ossei-Mensah (ARTNOIR) and will be on view at OSCAM, Bijlmerplein 110, 1102 DB Amsterdam from Friday, March 6th to May 6th, 2026. 

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Liesje Verhave and Pebbles BazurOver the past few years, Jerrau has quietly but confidently carved out his place as one of Amsterdam’s most versatile and forward-thinking DJs. Effortlessly moving between breakbeats, bass-heavy club sounds, alternative electronic hip-hop and soulful house, the Surinamese-Dutch selector has built a reputation for sets that are hard to categorise but impossible to ignore. Whether he’s closing at Lowlands, holding it down in the club at De School, performing at Down The Rabbit Hole with Erykah Badu on the mic or showing us the way during his Patta x Keep Hush session, Jerrau’s approach has always been rooted in curiosity, culture and an instinctive understanding of the dancefloor.Now, after years of refining his voice behind the decks, he steps into a new chapter with his debut EP, It All Starts With This, released on Who’s Susan. A project shaped by discipline, mentorship and a deep love for bass lineage — from Amsterdam to the UK and beyond — the record marks a deliberate beginning. Inspired as much by Sonic soundtracks as by sound system pressure, Jerrau’s move into production feels less like a pivot and more like a natural extension of the world he’s been building all along.We caught up with him to talk about finally committing to the studio, learning to let go during a month-long residency in Nicaragua, his unexpected place within the Black British music ecosystem, and why, whether DJing or producing, the room always comes first.Jerrau is wearing the Patta 3M Reflective Waterproof Rain JacketThis will be your first release after years behind the decks and you have mentioned that you have “flirted” with producing for years, what shifted for you to take it more seriously now?I’ve always been curious about producing and I’ve picked it up a few times over the years, but it never really stuck. I’d dive in, get excited, then I would feel overwhelmed by how many possibilities there are and then life or DJing would pull me back out of it. It was always there in the background though.What really shifted things was when Tsepo, offered to teach me. That felt different. There’s this “each one, teach one” mentality — almost like that Black Panther ethos — and when he reached out, it felt like a moment I wasn’t supposed to ignore. We only had a couple of sessions together but it was really a turning point for me. I took that as a sign that it was time to stop flirting with the idea and actually commit. So when starting this journey, next to the few sessions I had with Tsepo. My friend Tijn also just started making music and for the first few months we went to the studio together all the time just to try to get better and learn from each other.I sometimes think I should have started during the pandemic when there was more time and space to focus, but I’ve realised you don’t find time — you make it. Over the past 18 months, I’ve really treated it seriously: I got access to a studio here in Amsterdam, put in the hours, and approached it with the same discipline I’ve brought to DJing. That consistency is what’s made the difference.The title, It All Starts With This sounds very intentional. What does “this” represent in your musical journey right now?The title actually comes from one of my favourite games, Sonic Adventure 2. I basically have all the dialogue from that game burned into my head. I’m honestly not the best at naming things — even my DJ name is just my actual name — so titling tracks and projects has always been a bit of a challenge for me.When we were finalising the selection, the artwork and the sequencing for the record, that dialogue just kept coming back to me. It felt simple but loaded. It didn’t feel forced or overly conceptual — it just felt right.For me now, “this” represents the starting point. It’s the first proper step into producing, into putting something out that’s fully mine. It’s not necessarily about having all the answers — it’s more about committing to the beginning.Jerrau is wearing the Patta Track Top CardiganHow has your journey as a DJ influenced your approach to producing — and has producing changed the way you DJ?DJing has definitely influenced the production more than the other way around. Years of being on the dancefloor and in the booth teach you what actually works in a room — how tension builds, how long a groove needs to breathe, when to strip things back, when to push. That experience naturally informs how I approach making a track. I’m always thinking about how something will translate physically, not just how it sounds in the studio.Producing has influenced my DJing in a more subtle way. I’ve had to think more carefully about how my own tracks fit into my sets — where they make sense, what they sit next to. But I’m never going to brute-force my own music into a set just because it’s mine. DJing and producing are different practices, and they should be treated that way. For me, the room always comes first. If one of my tracks serves that moment, great. If not, that’s fine too.At the same time, I still feel like I’m learning, and there is a lot to learn. One area I really want to deepen my understanding of is mixing and mastering. I want to understand that final stage of the process properly — not just creatively, but technically — so I can have even more control over how the music translates, both in the club and beyond.Why did you choose to work with Who’s Susan?Who’s Susan is just a really dope label. Over the past few years, I’ve bought pretty much everything they’ve released. I’ve always respected their curation and the world they’ve built around the music.It actually happened quite organically. I was promoting one of my own nights and used one of my demos as the audio for a post. Willem from the label heard it and reached out to ask if I had more material. He connected with the direction I was exploring and felt it aligned with what Who’s Susan was doing. That meant a lot, because it didn’t feel forced — it felt like a natural fit on both sides.That alignment made the decision easy. And it feels full circle in a way — the one feature on the EP is from one of their legacy artists, DJ OSX, formerly known as DJ Windows XP. So to go from being a supporter of the label to releasing on it, and collaborating within that family, feels really special.The artwork for your debut EP aesthetically reminds me of one of your big inspirations, Sonic, was this intentional?Interestingly, the artwork was actually made before we fully put the record together. So it wasn’t a case of me saying, “Let’s make this look like Sonic.” It was more organic than that. Sjon de Baron, who does all the artwork for Who’s Susan, really understands me and what I’m about. He was able to translate the feeling of the music visually, while still keeping it consistent with the label’s wider art direction. I think that’s why it resonates in that way — it reflects my influences without being literal. There’s definitely a shared visual language there, but it came from mutual understanding rather than a direct reference.You traded Amsterdam for a month in Nicaragua at Popoyo’s Secret. What pulled you there, and how did a residency format change your approach compared to festivals or single-night gigs?What really appealed to me about Nicaragua was the idea of stepping outside my usual rhythm. Amsterdam can be intense — fast-paced, scene-driven, and very plugged in. Spending a month somewhere more remote, surrounded by nature and a different energy, felt like a chance to reset.I ended up loving it. I’d go back in a heartbeat. There was something really refreshing about being there — it stripped things back in a good way. The residency format was also very different from a festival or a one-off club set. I tend to approach DJing almost like programming — thinking carefully about structure, context, and what makes sense for a specific slot. During the residency, I played at different times of day, so each set required a different mindset. You can’t approach a sunset set the same way you approach a late-night peak-time slot.What I really enjoyed, though, was the freedom. Being in the same place for a month allowed me to build a relationship with the space and the people. I felt less pressure to prove something and more space to just have fun. I think I let go of a slightly more “pretentious” side of DJing — that idea of only playing very specific records to signal something. It became more about what felt good in the moment. That shift was probably the biggest takeaway.Being a devoted Chelsea supporter, do you feel your connection to the UK through football has influenced your relationship with UK music? And where are you hoping to head next?I was actually living in the UK for my first few years on this earth, Surrey to be exact. It’s funny — the last time I was in the UK for a show, I visited a museum exhibition about the history of Black British music. I was watching one of the video installations and saw this quick flash that looked like me. I kept watching and realised it actually was me — they had included footage from my Patta x Keep Hush set in the exhibition.That was a surreal moment. It made me realise that my connection to the UK scene isn’t just from a distance — in some small way and it was cool to be included in the Black British music ecosystem. I’ve always felt drawn to the UK, not just because I’m a Chelsea fan, but because of the depth of its bass music culture. There’s such a strong lineage of sound system energy and low-end pressure that really resonates with me. That influence definitely shapes how I think about rhythm and space in my own sets. I’d love to spend more time in places like London, Bristol and Manchester — cities with deep bass traditions and strong musical identities. And of course, making it to Stamford Bridge for a Chelsea game is still on the list too!Ready to hear the next step? is out now via Who’s Susan — press play and start the journey with Jerrau. It all starts with this by Jerrau

Interview by Passion Dzenga Nicole Blakk moves like someone who’s already lived three careers. In the space of a year, she’s gone from music being “just a hobby” to a full-time reality — powered by viral freestyles, a DJ Mag nomination, and the kind of co-sign that changes how a room listens. But the most telling parts of her story aren’t the headlines; it’s the grind underneath them: 33 jobs that never fit, a sister who kept paying for studio time when nothing was landing, and a leap from Birmingham to London with £60 and zero safety net.What comes through in conversation is how intentional she is about building: letting the beat decide whether she sings or raps, getting hands-on in collaborations, and insisting every song contains a left turn — a structure switch, a language flip, a new texture. That refusal to be boxed in is also how she navigates a male-dominated industry: she doesn’t argue for space, she takes it, and lets the bars do the talking.In this interview, she breaks down the real origins of her multilingual flow — from performing French so her grandmother could feel the music, to Punjabi “shop tours” that turned student survival into a viral moment — and reframes “Money On My Mind” as more than a catchy hook: a mantra for staying focused when feelings and pressure try to pull you off course. Grounded in faith, community, and a relentless belief in her own vision, she’s stepping into 2026 with momentum — and with a clear message: she’s not here to be “good for a girl.” She’s here to be undeniable.After having such a monumental 2025 — viral freestyles, bucket list collaborations, a DJ Mag nomination — when did it start to feel real to you?It started to feel real when I met my manager, Wez Saunders. Music had always been a hobby for me. I’ve loved making music since I was young, but I studied Digital Marketing at university, did my Masters degree and kept working. I never thought music would become “a thing,” even though I wanted it — I just didn’t know how to get into it.My older sister was paying for studio sessions and music videos, and even when it wasn’t going anywhere, she still believed in me and pushed me to keep going. Then I met Wez, and within a year I was on the Glastonbury guest list performing on Shangri-La main stage, did SXSW, had the Dave feature, and DJ Mag nominations… all of that happened within a year. That’s when it became a full-time job instead of me working random jobs.What kind of jobs were you doing before music became full-time?Honestly, I’ve had 33 jobs. It sounds terrible, but I was always working on something. Hospitality, even construction — nothing ever stuck. I’d leave a job and already be looking for the next one. I just could never settle because I knew music was what I really wanted.When you started making music as a teenager, were you already making the same kind of music we hear now? Or did your sound shift while you were finding your voice?I wasn’t rapping at all back then. I was singing. I was writing poetry and singing. Rapping was new — I only started rapping about two years before I met Wez.What made you start rapping?I started rapping because I was trying to make a diss track to my ex. He was a rapper. From there, I just kept going and didn’t stop.When you’re in the studio, do you approach a track more like a songwriter or like a rapper? What comes first?The beat comes first. I listen to the instrumental, and the type of beat tells me whether I’m going to rap or sing. A lot of producers, before they even hear my stuff, will approach it like a soft guitar vibe because they see a woman and assume I’m going to sing — melodic, not bars. But I get really involved on the production side. I want my music to feel different. I always make sure there’s something different in every song — adding a language, switching the structure, putting rap in the second verse instead of the first, whatever. I feel like I’m very unique as a person, and I try to reflect that in the music. And I don’t plan what I’m going to write before I get there. I get to the studio first, feel it out, and build it from there.So it’s not just “writing over beats” — it’s more like you’re building the record with the producer.Exactly. It’s collaborative. I’m not just jumping on anything — we’re making the music with intent.You mentioned expectations people bring into the room because you’re a woman — but you’re also unapologetic and empowered. What challenges have you faced navigating such a male-dominated industry, especially in studio sessions?A hundred percent. It’s frustrating, and I know I’m not the only woman who feels this. In male-dominated spaces, it feels like you have to prove a point. If I wrote the most basic bars and rapped them, people wouldn’t react — but if a man rapped the same basic lyrics, he’d get the craziest reaction. So I have to make sure I’m doing the most: punchlines, language switches, everything.Even performing — I feel like I have to have the best stage presence, otherwise people hit you with, “She’s alright for a girl.” I heard that once and I was like: no. Don’t add “for a girl.” If I’m next to men rapping, I’m clearly as good as them.The hardest part is trusting yourself. Trusting yourself as a woman in that space can get difficult, and it’s so easy to start thinking you’re not good enough. Men naturally carry this aura of dominance, so you have to put your foot down. Now, when men come with little comments, I let my music do the talking. I’m like, “Cool — put a beat on right now.”When I listen to your music, I hear you switching languages a lot. What’s the intention behind expressing yourself in French and Punjabi?French is actually my first language. It’s the language I grew up speaking. My grandma didn’t speak English — she passed away now — but she was one of my biggest supporters. When I was younger, I’d perform covers like Nina Simone or Ben E. King, and I’d switch some verses into French so she could understand and enjoy it too. I started doing that when I was like 13 or 14, so switching languages just became natural.Punjabi is a different story. I have Indian heritage, but not from a Punjabi-speaking part of India. Punjabi came from my close friend Sana — we’ve been friends 12, 13 years — I used to spend time at her house and we listened to Punjabi music a lot. Her grandparents would talk to me in Punjabi like I understood it, so I picked up little words and phrases. It became the same idea: putting language in for people to enjoy it too. And then the TikTok moment happened.What happened?I was at university, and I ran out of bread and milk. I went to the shop and the guy working there was Indian. I said, “If I sing to you in your language, can I have this bread and milk for free?” I was serious — I had student loan coming in four days, I just needed something to last me. He agreed. My friend recorded it. It went viral on TikTok — to the point I get paid from those videos now. Other shops started inviting me, and I started doing these “shop tours” — going to Indian shops and restaurants, singing, not charging them, helping small businesses with promo, and getting free groceries. It was a win-win.Your song “Money On My Mind” feels like an anthem for manifestation and shifting your mindset. What does “wealth” look like to you beyond money?For me, wealth is love and support. I live far from my family — they’re in Watford — and after uni I got used to loneliness. I’m close with my sister and my mum, but it’s different when people are physically there. My manager and his family became a huge part of that for me — and that was before the music even took off. Holidays together, dinners, group chats, song suggestions, encouragement. They live 15 minutes away. That kind of support is richness.And my older sister has always been that. When I felt like it was pointless, she told me results don’t come straight away. I started at 13 and started seeing results at 22 — that’s 11 years of effort without much back. That was hard. But I’ve always been rich in the sense that I’ve had people who care about me. Now it’s also people online — messages every day, positive energy. I try to give that back too. My real name is Blessing-Nicole, so I try to live up to that — to be what my name says.Let’s talk about the record itself. When you made “Money On My Mind,” what were you trying to capture?I’m very empathetic — I feel what other people feel. If I see someone upset, I’ll carry it all day. And before, that could throw me off what I was doing. “Money On My Mind” captures the shift from dreaming to actually doing — when it becomes a career, not a hobby. It’s me telling myself and listeners: it’s fine to be in your feelings, but don’t let it block your bag, your goals. Stay focused even when it’s heavy.You kicked off 2026 strong — Red Bull Cypher, DJ Mag, everything. What keeps you focused as a young creative?My faith is a big one. I’m Christian, and without that… I don’t know where I’d be. Things can get hard. I left uni, lived in Birmingham because it was cheaper, then I literally had a dream I lived in London. The next day I moved to London with nothing — like £60 in my account. I lived in a shared house with seven women, didn’t unpack my bags, kept telling myself: I’m not going to live here for long. And now I’m in my own apartment.It was faith, prayer, and people around me motivating me — my sister, my manager’s family. They let me stay with them when I was struggling, took me out of the country. I didn’t even realise how weird my situation was until I got out of it. And honestly, I had tunnel vision because I had no other choice. I moved with nothing — I had to make it work.You grew up in Watford, but still made a huge push to live in London. Why was that move so necessary?I left home at 18 for uni. After my master's, I stayed in Birmingham because the rent was cheaper — I had my own apartment for about £600 a month. It was a simpler life. But I didn’t want to move back home, so I took it as a sign and moved straight to London. At the time, I regretted it — crying in the middle of the night like, why did I do this? I had an apartment and now I’m in a tiny room with strangers. But I don’t regret it. I’m glad I did it when I did. And Watford isn’t London at all. Even the transport costs show it — getting into London from Watford can cost you way more than moving around inside London.You featured on Dave’s album — that’s a huge cultural moment. What did that experience teach you about yourself as an artist?That whole experience was transformative. Even getting the call — “Dave wants you on a song” — was crazy. I grew up listening to him, and I was one of those people speculating about his album like everyone else. I didn’t think I’d be on it. That song — “Fairchild” — it felt like the full weight of the story. You can even hear me crying at one point. It’s not just a song — it’s lived reality for so many women. Dave is a master at turning self-analysis into commentary. Stepping into that perspective felt like truth.And the studio experience wasn’t just recording — the first session was three hours of talking about my journey and the music. That showed me he really cared. He didn’t just want a voice — he was intentional. It made me reflect on myself like… the fact Dave is considering me? That’s mad. It taught me that hustling has purpose — you can create something that lasts. That song feels like it could be used in schools, like it’s bigger than music. Even now, it still doesn’t feel real that I’m on a song with Dave.Did that collaboration change how people treat you in rap spaces?Yes. I’m seen differently. I get more respect now in rap spaces. I never bring it up — other people do — but it changed perception. I wish it didn’t take that to make people take me seriously, because I’ve worked hard for a long time. But I’m grateful for the opportunity to showcase myself on such an important project.Your Red Bull Cypher moments went viral — especially the Punjabi one. Did you expect that level of reaction?I expected a reaction to the Punjabi one because I was rapping “Heer” by Jags Klimax — a proper old-school Punjabi classic. It’s one of those songs you only really know if you grew up around it. As soon as I heard a Punjabi beat, I knew I had to do it. It went crazy viral — still going.And the best part is, after that video blew up, I actually went into the studio with Jags Klimax and we recorded a remix together. That was a full-circle moment.But seeing people react to me beyond the Punjabi stuff — just me as an artist — that surprised me. Red Bull really pushed me out of my comfort zone: time constraints, briefs with specific words, and freestyling about objects in front of you. I’d never done that. I started rapping to diss my ex — I didn’t think I’d be rapping about objects on camera.They also choose the beats — you don’t. So you’re forced to adapt. I loved that. It made me a better rapper and a better artist. Now if I’m given a brief, it’s not scary — I’ve done it. It boosted my confidence too. My first episode I was the only girl, so I was nervous — but in the comments, people were calling me the standout, the MVP. I’m grateful to even be picked.You’ve built momentum through platforms like DJ AG, Red Bull, and viral content. How important is radio to you — is it still something you want to pursue?I’m open to everything. Anything helps. Even if something has three listeners — you don’t know who those three people are. I didn’t know Dave was watching my Instagram; he told me he’d been looking for a while. You never know who’s watching.So I’m never closed off. If someone wants me on their platform, I’m grateful — they’ve taken time to support me and push me as an artist.Do you want to do more women-only cyphers too?Yes. I’ve done all-female cyphers — like the Steeze Factory International Women’s Day cypher coming out soon. I love working with women. Even if we get the same brief as men, we’ll write completely differently. And I feel like I bounce better with women because we have similar experiences — it feels good. I’m not closed off to rapping with men — it’s inevitable — I just have to make sure I’m better than them.Whilst Defected traditionally is associated with House Music, you are Published by Defected; how does that relationship work?My manager (Wez Saunders) is the Chairman-CEO-and-co-owner. The Publishing team help with sessions and Wez never puts me in a box. He tells me to create what I’m comfortable with. Some days I’m singing the whole time or writing ballads, some days I’m rapping on a grimy beat. We found a balance and my sound, and I wasn’t rushed.Defected Music Publishing also partners with Warner Chappell, so I’ve been to writing camps and met R&B artists, grime artists, and producers. Through this, as well as opportunities through Sony Music, I have written with house producers too. I’ve done some house toplines, but it’s unlikely I will make house music. But I’m not closed off, you never know what the future may bring.After everything you did last year — Glastonbury, SXSW, DJ AGl — are there plans for more live shows in 2026? Europe maybe?I hope so, but I don’t even know yet. I’ve mostly been recording. But I’m hoping for a similar summer to last year — probably better, because now I actually have music out. Last summer I did Shangri-La with no listeners, no releases — nothing. If I did that then, I have no doubt this summer can be big. I’ve got an amazing team.Can we expect more music in 2026?A hundred percent. I’m releasing this whole year. My first release is actually coming out tomorrow.Before we wrap, what’s the most full-circle “bucket list” moment you’ve had recently?Opening for Lady Leshurr. I grew up on her — I knew her Queen’s Speech word for word. There’s even an old video of me doing it when my mum was in hospital behind me. My whole family went to see her at a festival, and then the next year I was opening for her. She didn’t know who I was at first, but later she told me she’d been trying to find me — she kept seeing my videos but didn’t know my name. Then she asked me to open her London show and I was like… what? We have each other’s numbers now, she texts me encouragement all the time, and I still scream when she messages me. I’m still fan-girling. I keep it real.One last curveball: Arsenal. Where does that love come from?My biological dad supported Arsenal, so I had Arsenal bed sheets, pillowcases, curtains — everything. I played football for about five years — went to a school where Watford scouts footballers. After lockdown, I gained weight and stopped playing, but I’m getting back into it now — training with some girls, planning to find a team in my area.I love Arsenal, but my favourite player is Cole Palmer — which is strange because he’s not Arsenal. I hope one day he signs. I even wrote a song called “Cole Palmer” and the next day he scored a hat-trick. So… you’re welcome.With Money (On My Mind) out in the world, Nicole Blakk isn’t just building momentum — she’s setting the pace. Sharp, self-assured and completely in control of her narrative, she’s proving she belongs at the front of the UK rap conversation. And if this is the focus she’s moving with now, understand one thing: she’s only getting started. 

Interview by Passion DzengaAnysia Kym moves like someone who grew up inside rhythm. Bronx-born and now Brooklyn-based, she’s a drummer, producer, singer, and songwriter whose work refuses the neat genre categories the industry loves to sell back to Black femmes—especially those who are multi-instrumentalists. Kym’s music is a living archive of the sounds that raised her: the radio-fuelled hip-hop and R&B household, the mixtape culture that shaped uptown New York, and the deep Black musical lineage embedded in sampling. “Aside from a heavy percussive element, my production almost always involves sampling,” she explains, framing it not as a production trick but as an art form with roots that stretch far beyond any single era of rap. That history is audible in the technical language of her tracks—blues and funk residue, breakbeat architecture, jagged drum patterns, and time signatures that shift the ground beneath you, sometimes landing in 6/4 like a deliberate refusal to be easily consumed.If her production work is maximal in texture—built from self-arranged compositions, samples, live drums, or all three—her songwriting practice often moves in the opposite direction. In demos, she leans into minimalism: lyrics first, guitar-led sketches, a quieter space where voice and intention can sit in the foreground. This two-lane approach is not indecision; it’s a method. Each project becomes a different solution to the same problem: how to deconstruct the limitations placed on her body and her talent by choosing which of her abilities to centre, and refusing to let any single lane define the whole story.That rapid evolution has been visible for years, from her drumming period with the emo-tinged indie band Blair to solo releases that slide between hip-hop and electronica with a producer’s precision—most notably Truest (2024). There’s also an undeniable pull toward UK continuum energy in her work: jungle and drum’n’bass DNA as a spiritual cousin to London’s scene, made tangible on Pressure Sensitive (2023), her collaboration with British rapper and 10k label-mate Jadasea. But it’s her recent project Purity—made with producer Tony Seltzer—that distils Kym’s current language into something sharp, compact, and strangely intimate: a suite of short tracks engineered with clocklike exactness, where pitched-up vocals become percussion, and songs end before they over-explain themselves. In our conversation, Kym describes the process as deliberately organic—less “let’s make a genre record” and more a studio dialogue that kept getting weirder, freer, and more honest the longer it went on. What emerges is an artist learning, in real time, how to protect her curiosity—how to collaborate without compromise, how to let desire and longing live in the music without turning it into performance, and how to stay in control of the narrative when visibility arrives. We caught up with Kym to talk about sampling as lineage, drums as instinct, minimalism as discipline, and why, sometimes, the strongest statement a song can make is knowing exactly when to stop.For those who might be discovering you for the first time, can you introduce yourself and where you’re from?I’m from the Bronx, New York — specifically Co-op City. I live in Flatbush now, in Brooklyn. I’m a producer, songwriter, and singer. I used to play drums in a band, and over the last few years I’ve been focusing more on production and songwriting.Growing up in the Bronx comes with a lot of musical history. What were you surrounded by early on?I wouldn’t say I had specific artists I consciously thought of as influences back then, but music was always present. Both my parents are from uptown — Harlem and the Bronx — and they listened to a lot of Hot 97 back when it was very different from what it is now. My mom loved artists like The Lost Boyz and Slick Rick. My older brother was really into mixtape culture — buying tapes, bootlegs, the whole thing. That culture was everywhere: barbershops, hair salons, people selling tapes out of backpacks. Music felt communal and accessible.Hip-hop and R&B were the backbone of our household. And in New York, especially uptown, musicians didn’t feel distant. You might see someone on TV, but you might also see them at a family barbecue. That closeness definitely shaped my curiosity, even though the music I make now is more experimental than what was on the radio.Would you say those sounds raised you?Absolutely. It was a community thing. My parents only really knew uptown New York culture, but they were open-minded. I’m one of four siblings, all very different people, so they kind of had to be. That openness let us explore freely.Were you digging through your parents’ CDs and mixtapes as a kid?For sure. And my older brother babysat me a lot — we’re ten years apart — so I was exposed to everything he listened to. There wasn’t much censorship. I heard the curse words, watched whatever was on TV. My parents trusted us, and that freedom mattered.What was the first music you bought with your own money?The first CD I ever bought was What the Game’s Been Missing by Juelz Santana — from Walmart. I didn’t realise at the time that Walmart didn’t sell explicit music, so I ended up with the clean version. Meanwhile, my brother had the gritty mixtape versions. I was confused listening to all the bleeps. Alongside that, I loved Raven-Symoné, Bow Wow, The Cheetah Girls, Aaliyah, and Amerie — a wide mix. But Juelz was technically my first.Your music today leans heavily into percussion, breakbeats, and unconventional rhythms. How did that develop?Before I played drums, I actually started producing — very badly — on FL Studio. That was my first taste of making music myself. From there, I became obsessed with drums and wanted to understand the instruments behind the sounds I was sampling. I bounce back and forth between live music and production constantly. I don’t think you can really separate the two, especially in hip-hop.A lot of it came from hip-hop and R&B, pulling from everywhere — jazz, gospel, Latin music, Brazilian and  West African music. All of it eventually gets shaped into something rhythmic. Being in bands also exposed me to odd time signatures and math-rock ideas. And honestly, a lot of it is trial and error. I don’t always know what I’m doing — happy accidents are a huge part of my process.Your tracks often feel loop-driven but very intentional. How do you know when a musical idea is finished?It’s very feeling-based. When I was only making instrumentals, the beat was the song, so it could just live in a loop. Writing vocals changed that. If it’s something I plan to sing or have someone else write to, I leave space. I treat instrumental tracks differently from songwriting tracks. What “finished” means depends on the purpose of the song.You moved from FL Studio to Ableton fairly early on. What shifted for you there?Ableton felt more intuitive, especially coming from a band context. It allows you to think like a performer, not just a beat-maker. There’s so much depth to it — I probably use only a fraction of what’s possible — but it opened things up in a way FL didn’t for me.You’ve collaborated with artists like Tony Seltzer and Loraine James. What do collaborations reveal to you about yourself?I need to feel safe creatively. Collaboration works best when it’s not a one-off moment, but something you’d want to return to. With Tony and Loraine, there’s a shared openness to getting weird. There’s no pressure to hit a specific genre or outcome. We stopped trying to say “let’s make this kind of track” because it killed the fun. The best moments came from conversation, not intention.Loraine, especially, has been producing longer than I have, and she’s a real nerd about sound — in the best way. She listens to everything, plays with time signatures, and still has a very clear identity. That inspires me because I’m still discovering my sound, and I don’t think that’s something you can plan. It develops naturally.On Purity, there’s a lot of sped-up vocals. What does that choice mean to you?Sped-up vocals take the focus away from identity and put it on movement and feeling. The voice becomes another instrument. It’s less about who’s singing and more about how it hits. That anonymity is freeing. It connects to jungle and garage traditions too — vocals as texture, not centre stage.Many tracks on the record are under two minutes. Why that restraint?It was intentional. The first song we made was longer and more traditional, but once we started making shorter songs, they just felt right. Even though we’re in a maximalist era, not every idea needs to be stretched. Some songs hit harder because they end where they do. Short doesn’t mean incomplete.You’re no longer in a band and are working more as a solo artist. What does that shift give you emotionally?It feels childlike again — like a one-woman band. I’m experimenting more, playing guitar, producing, writing, all from home. I want music-making to feel playful. If it stops feeling that way, it loses its appeal.You don’t seem to set many technical limitations in your process. Where do you draw boundaries?The main limitation I set is who I work with. Visibility brings opportunities, but not all collaborations are about the music. I’m careful about that. I want to avoid being boxed in — especially as a Black woman — whether that’s hypersexualisation or aesthetic over substance. Controlling my narrative matters.You danced on camera in the “Speedrun” video. Do you see the body as another instrument?In performance, yes. For that video, I wanted to dance specifically because I’m not a dancer. I worked with a choreographer so it felt intentional, not lazy. It wasn’t about perfection — it was about awkwardness, discomfort, beauty, and movement. That’s how life feels to me, and the song captured that.Are there any scenes or sounds you’re exploring right now?I’m inspired by younger producers like Step Team from New Jersey — really wild, unquantized drum patterns. Baby Osama too. But honestly, I also live in the past. I’ve been stuck on Teena Marie for years because that’s what my mom played nonstop. Looking back is just as important as looking forward.DJing has also entered your practice. How does that inform your music?I respect DJing deeply. It’s a craft. I only DJ occasionally because I know how demanding it is — physically, mentally, emotionally. DJs shape spaces for hours at a time, regardless of crowd size. That seriousness inspires me, even though my main practice is still producing and songwriting.Finally, where are you heading next?Early 2026 is hermit mode. I’m working on my next solo project, mostly at home — getting weird, experimenting, writing. I might play a couple of shows in the spring, but the focus is on making the next record feel honest and expansive. I’m excited about that.

Photography by Antoine | Interview by Passion DzengaComing out of Bordeaux rather than Paris has shaped $ouley’s music in subtle but important ways. Growing up in a second city, far from the expectations and infrastructure of the capital, he learned early to trust his own instincts and build without permission. Skate spots, bedrooms, video games, and the internet became his classrooms, allowing a sound to form that feels unforced and unconcerned with tradition for tradition’s sake.$ouley’s music draws from a wide emotional and cultural archive—hip-hop and French rap sit alongside Senegalese influences, soul records, video game soundtracks, and the quiet intensity of films like The Wire. Instead of leaning into boom bap or chasing familiar formulas, he moves toward something looser and more future-facing, where feeling leads and genre lines blur.What emerges is an artist driven by intuition and connection: beats that “speak,” visuals shaped through friendship, and live shows that prioritise presence over polish. In this conversation, $ouley reflects on finding his voice outside the spotlight and staying grounded while his world continues to expand.You’re based in Paris now, but you’re originally from Bordeaux. What did it mean to come up in a second city—somewhere that isn’t the capital?Bordeaux is special, but it’s not Paris. It’s not a place where you feel like the industry is waiting for you. If you want to make art there, you have to be strong enough to accept your creativity by yourself first—nobody is going to bring it to you. I grew up in the hood in Bordeaux, and for a long time I was hiding the fact that I even made music.When you say “hiding,” what do you mean?I wasn’t telling people like that. I had my brothers, and they were doing their own thing, and I felt like I had to create my own world. There wasn’t this big city feeling where you can just go somewhere and find a scene instantly. So I kept it private until it started to become real.What was the moment where it started to become real?When I realised people outside my circle were listening. Someone would tell me, “Older people in the city know your name,” or “Somebody’s little brother is a fan.” Then I got invited to perform, and I didn’t even believe it—because I was still figuring myself out. But once you see people really show up, you understand it’s bigger than your bedroom or your phone.With regards to your early influences: family, video games, and building a personal library. What kind of music were you raised on?In the house, it was hip-hop, French rap, US music, and also music from Senegal and Guinea-Bissau like Americo Gomes, because my family is Senegalese. My brothers showed me a lot. My sister too—different things. And I was curious, so I absorbed everything.You also mentioned video games being important.Huge. Video game music helped me build my own library. It’s not just what your family plays—games give you sounds you wouldn’t hear anywhere else. Midnight Club, Gran Turismo, Rockstar games… those soundtracks stayed in my head.Were films part of that education too?Yeah. Old gangster movies, French movies, Disney Channel, The warriors and shows like The Wire. That’s how I discovered Nina Simone. It was like mature music, grown-up music, and it expanded my taste early.From private worlds to publishing music, how did you actually start recording?Skateboarding was a big part of it. I was into Tyler, The Creator and Odd Future, that internet energy. I saw him making music on a MacBook and it made it feel possible. So me and my friends would go downtown and I’d record ideas wherever I could—sometimes even in places like the Apple Store. Before that, I’d already be writing my words down before i even thought about putting it on beats.And then you just started uploading?Exactly. I didn’t overthink it. I uploaded and slowly a small community formed around it. I started on SoundCloud When did you start feeling like you had something to say?It started with writing. I was in private school, but I’m from the hood, so I was seeing different worlds at the same time. I was hearing too much, seeing too much, and it made me want to speak. I did poetry first. Then I started reading my poetry over instrumentals. That’s when I realised I had something—like I wasn’t alone.When did you find your real creative circle?When I met people who had a similar musical education—people who didn’t judge you for doing something new. That’s when studios and sessions started happening more naturally.What’s your writing process now—words first or beat first?Beat first most of the time. Every beat makes me write differently. Sometimes life gives me words first—I write something down, then later a beat matches it. But usually the music speaks to me, and I follow it.Who are the key people around you musically?MH is important—he’s in Paris now but we’re both from Bordeaux. CTP, Deejay Sammy, Gustavio Topman and Yuri Online. We talk music all the time. Then there are people outside France too. I like working across scenes and countries.Do you mess with TTC?Yeah, TTC are legends. They were early with different instrumentals and voice effects in France.Your music is very future-facing. Why did you go that direction instead of classic boom bap?I like new sounds. Artists like Lil B, SGP, Tyler the Creator and the whole internet era showed me you can create a new sound and still be yourself. Hip-hop can have rules—like you have to look a certain way, sound a certain way. Electronic music is more about feeling. I wanted to sound like me. Not like an American version of someone else.What was your first live show like?I was stressed. I couldn’t believe people would pay to see me perform songs I made in such a DIY way. I thought it would be a small crowd, then it was packed. I was nervous and a little too aggressive at first—my friends had to tell me to relax. But now I enjoy it. Now it’s fun.Do you have any pre-show rituals?I check the sound, drink water, listen to my beats. I’m grateful. I close my eyes and just focus.What feels like the next step for you?Travel more, shoot more videos, collaborate more. I have listeners all over the world and I want to meet people in real life, bring the music outside France, and not be afraid of new places.Any dream collaborations?Babyfather would be crazy. And I’d love to do more with people I respect, but timing matters. I want to build real connections, not just chase names.What’s the song that always gets a reaction live?“SUPERFLY (Criminel).” Every time that beat drops, people scream.Why does it have two names?Because in the lyrics I say the way she looks at me is criminal—like she’s sniping me with her eyes. But “Superfly” is the feeling: I’m fly, it’s cinematic, it connects to that movie energy.What’s a more personal record for you?Fever FM is very personal. Songs like “Memory Terio.” And “Party!” too— with the Gran Turismo 4 OST sample. It’s fun but it’s also my real world. Fans told me they played the same game, so it connected deeper than I expected.Your visuals are strong. How do you build that world—covers, videos, the whole language?I have ideas, but it’s also community. I work with friends like Antoine and with people around me. For covers like the Summer Tape artwork, I worked with Julien Marmar—he’s a real artist. For videos, sometimes it’s simple: we see a location, we go, we shoot. We don’t overthink it. When it’s real, people feel it.Can we expect another Summer Tape soon?Maybe later. Right now I want to do something new.Where can people support you?Most of it is on streaming. But I like experimenting with physical drops too—keeping some songs off streaming so the people who really care can find them in a different way. 

Photography by Karim Sahmi, Zazilie Currie, Dag van Empathie, Luciano de Boterman, Nederland Wordt Beter, New Urban Collective, Mitchell Esajas, Hollandse Hoogte and Raymond van Mil | Graphic by Chayenne van den BrinkIn activism, endings are rare. Movements are often defined by their refusal to stop, by an open-ended urgency that resists closure. To declare an endpoint — to say the work we set out to do is complete — is, in itself, a radical act. That is precisely what Nederland Wordt Beter has chosen to do. From 2010 to 2025, NLWB positioned itself not as a permanent institution, but as a deliberate intervention: a 15-year confrontation with anti-Black racism in the Netherlands, designed with a beginning, a strategy, and a clearly articulated end. On 5 December 2025 — a date long symbolic of exclusion and harm — the movement dissolved itself. Not because racism has ended, but because the goals it set out to achieve have been met. Those goals were neither abstract nor rhetorical. They were concrete, structural, and measurable: the embedding of colonial and slavery history in education; the transformation of the Sinterklaas tradition into an inclusive celebration free from racist stereotypes; and the legal anchoring of the national commemoration of the abolition of Dutch slavery.To understand the significance of this moment, one must understand the discipline behind it. As Jerry Afriyie — poet, organiser, and co-founder of NLWB — explains, the decision to limit the movement to fifteen years was not a concession, but a strategy. Activism without an endpoint risks burnout, dilution, and institutional stagnation. Activism with an endpoint demands clarity: what exactly are we trying to change, and how will we know when we have succeeded? Over fifteen years, NLWB delivered more than 500 lectures across schools, universities, companies, and government institutions. It produced open-access educational materials, teacher guides, activist handbooks, and a historical calendar documenting nearly 200 moments and figures erased from dominant Dutch narratives. It initiated campaigns that reshaped public discourse — from Zwarte Piet Is Racism to #1julivrij — and helped organise the largest anti-racism protests in Dutch history following the murder of George Floyd in 2020. But the most visible impact unfolded in everyday life.Fifteen years ago, Keti Koti — the commemoration of the abolition of slavery — was unknown to most Dutch students. Today, it is nationally broadcast, structurally funded, and legally anchored, with an annual budget of €8 million supporting commemorations across both the European Netherlands and the Caribbean. Slavery history is now mandated in secondary education. Municipalities, museums, and ministries have revised policies, curricula, and public narratives. Apologies once considered unthinkable have been issued by both government and monarchy. Perhaps most symbolically, a tradition long defended as “innocent” has been transformed. Where Blackface once dominated public space each winter, two-thirds of the Dutch population now support moving away from the tradition of Zwarte Piet. Nearly all municipalities no longer subsidise parades featuring racist imagery. What was once normalised has been historicized — relocated, finally, to the past.This transformation did not come easily. The work demanded confrontation, persistence, and personal sacrifice. Afriyie speaks openly about the cost: years of public hostility, professional consequences, physical danger, and time lost with family. NLWB endured surveillance, mischaracterisation, and, at one point, inclusion in a national terrorism assessment — later formally corrected. These were not symbolic battles. They were lived realities. And yet, NLWB refused both martyrdom and vengeance. The movement’s philosophy was pragmatic, not punitive. Justice, not revenge. Structural change, not spectacle. Protest was a means — never the goal. Dialogue mattered, but so did boundaries. Allyship was welcomed, but Black leadership remained non-negotiable. The movement understood that visibility without control risks reproducing the very hierarchies it seeks to dismantle. This is why the decision to dissolve now carries such weight.NLWB does not disappear into silence. Its legacy is deliberately archived — preserved through partnerships with The Black Archives, the Amsterdam City Archives, and public platforms that ensure future access to its materials. Its final exhibition, Netherlands, Do Better! – The Impact of 15 Years of Black Activism, offers not a victory lap, but an invitation: to study what worked, to learn what it cost, and to ask what comes next. The travelling exhibition extends that question across the country, province by province. The theatrical tribute, The Final Word, honours not only visible leaders but the quiet labour of communities who sustained the work. Now, the movement ends not in mourning, but in celebration — a deliberate refusal to let struggle erase joy.In passing the baton, NLWB insists on a final truth: progress is not permanent. It must be protected, renewed, and expanded by those who inherit it. The work does not end because racism has vanished; it ends because responsibility has shifted. As Afriyie reminds us, a country can only do better if its people do better — not just for themselves, but for each other. The measure of this movement is not only what it changed, but what it makes possible. The Netherlands is not finished becoming better. But it is no longer allowed to say it did not know.Who are you — and what are you about?I’m a poet, but for a long time I haven’t been able to fully live inside that identity — because the work of movement-building demanded something else from me. I was originally born in Ghana, raised largely in the Netherlands, and I’ve been here for almost 35 years. I’ve lived my adult life in this country. I know this country deeply — in many ways I know it more than Ghana, because this is where my children were born and raised, and where my community has had to fight for dignity in public, year after year.You said you’re a poet, but you’ve also been “occupied” by movement work for nearly two decades. How did that shift happen?From the age of 18, I started organising through an organisation I called So Rebel Movement. That was my starting point — and it was rooted in a very clear mentality: “for us, by us.” A Black-led, Black-guided movement that doesn’t ask permission to exist, and doesn’t need validation from outside the community. But the past 15 years became something else — a kind of intervention. The conditions became so urgent, and the pressure so constant, that I had to stop certain parts of my own life and “finish this job.” In many ways, I’m now returning to what I was always meant to be doing — but with lessons learned and scars that prove the cost of this work.Independence keeps coming up in your answers. What does independence mean to you in a Dutch context?My vision — whatever I do next — is to ensure I don’t need anything from the white community to make it happen. I’m very serious about that. For years, the work was focused outward: we were showing white Dutch society racism, discrimination, and the unfair treatment of Black people. That wasn’t because we wanted our lives to revolve around white people’s awareness — it was because the noise from that side was so loud that it blocked everything else. It was interfering with our ability to concentrate on what we wanted for ourselves.Now I feel like we have shut that noise down enough to get back to work. Because beyond the obstacles — yes, we know the obstacles — the most important question becomes: how do we overcome them by our own strength and our own means? I believe we already have everything we need to lift ourselves up. Sometimes we spend too much time seeking help where we don’t need help.Your movement is now dissolving. People might read that as “giving up.” How do you frame it?I frame it like work. If you’re working on a project and the project is finished, it’s finished. That doesn’t mean the whole world is suddenly perfect. It means you achieved the thing you set out to achieve — something big enough to matter, but not so abstract that it becomes a never-ending mission. We chose goals that were structural and measurable, so you could actually say: we did this. And now we can sign it off.So what were the goals — specifically — and why those?We had three goals. The first was structural education: colonial and slavery history in the curriculum. Before our movement, those were not meaningfully embedded the way they are now. Today, they are added.The second was education about racism itself — teaching about racism in schools. This was something we achieved together with another organisation, including a younger organisation that formed after the BLM demonstrations we organised here. It matters to me that younger people picked up momentum and built institutions of their own — because that’s also part of movement success: you don’t just win something, you create conditions for others to organise.The third was national commemoration. Fifteen years ago, many people didn’t know Keti Koti. Government funding had been cut down heavily — reduced to around 100,000 euros a year. Now it’s moving to 8 million euros per year going forward. And importantly: it’s not only to facilitate commemoration in the Netherlands. It also includes the Dutch Caribbean and Suriname — because our position was always: if something is gained here, those places must receive a fair share too. This is long overdue. And now the commemoration is nationally broadcast on TV and radio.When you say “it’s measurable,” what does it look like in real life?I’ll give you a simple example. Fifteen years ago, I would stand in front of classrooms and ask students: “Who has heard of Keti Koti?” Only a few hands would go up. Ask that question today — and all the hands go up. That’s a shift you can feel. It means the country cannot pretend anymore that it doesn’t know. Compare 2010 to 2025 and you can see the difference — not just in policy, but in public awareness. It’s visible.You also talk about the “noise” being shut down. Do you mean denial?Yes. Denial, dismissal, pretending it’s harmless, pretending it’s not racist — all the excuses. Our work forced the country to confront what it was doing. And once that confrontation happens at scale, it becomes harder to push the conversation back into silence.The Dutch king has apologised in multiple places and there’s research being done into royal involvement in slavery. How do you interpret that?It shows the scale of the shift. There are cities conducting research into their own involvement, writing reports, uncovering records. Because the truth is: the whole country profited from that history — or at least was complicit in it.These investigations matter because before, it took enormous energy from Black people just to start the conversation. When history is hidden, every conversation becomes a battle over “did it happen?” and “does it matter?” Bringing it to the surface opens the door to honest conversation beyond that.You said earlier: “removing ourselves is making space for the country.” Why step back now? Why not stay and keep pushing?Because part of movement maturity is knowing when your presence becomes the reason the conversation doesn’t evolve. If your movement is always the engine, the country can always blame you for “making a fuss.” But once those doors are open, and once the goals are achieved, stepping away forces the country to carry responsibility.Also, there’s the next generation. Our children — who are now adults — come with a different energy. They’ve seen that you can make a difference. They can choose what difference they want to make.Was there a moment where you had to decide what kind of movement you were building — reformist, revolutionary, something else?Yes, and it was painful. I had to ask myself: Do I want justice or do I want revenge? Because if I let anger lead me, my sight becomes blurry and my thinking becomes blurry. That caused heated discussions with people around me. Some people left because the backlash was too harsh, because they couldn’t handle the violence, because they had jobs and children and couldn’t risk it. Some people thought I was too soft. Others thought I was too radical.But I was always planning based on reality: how many people do we have, how far are they willing to go, what means do we have, what can we sustain? If we had declared “revolution” instead of fighting for pragmatic structural wins, it would have cost even more — and we might not have survived.What did you refuse to compromise on?Anything that kept even “a little Blackface.” Not acceptable. There were places that removed the entire figure. Others tried to keep things “close” to the racist element by using variations like “chimney” versions — anything that allowed them to stay emotionally attached to the caricature.But our view was: the solution is to move as far away from it as possible, so it’s not recognisable — because the harm is in the association. Children will make the comparison. They will confuse Black people for the caricature. That isn’t the child’s fault — it’s because society created a caricature and planted it everywhere.You keep returning to children. Why is that the centre?Because the tradition isn’t private — it’s national. It’s in schools, malls, streets, television, public space. People used to tell me stories of elders in their 60s, 70s, 80s who would avoid going outside during that period decades ago — only going out for work or groceries and then locking themselves in. Because the streets were full of people mimicking them, laughing at them, turning them into a public joke. That trauma sits in bodies for a lifetime.A lot of people remember the first time they realised they were Black. You don’t realise you are “other” until somebody others you. And being mocked publicly by both parents and children is one of the cruelest ways to learn that difference.What tactics actually worked over 15 years — if you had to explain your “method”?The biggest key is the first step: you take it, and you don’t stop. You keep going. But also: we diversified. Protest alone won’t get you there. Protest is a means, not the goal. We protested, created educational tools, built coalitions, had dialogues — even with people who attacked me. We didn’t start by begging politicians and media to take us seriously. We went to people in the streets first. The media found us before we even wrote a press release, because we were present — we were talking, confronting, insisting on the conversation where people were.I’ve spoken with thousands of people one-on-one over 15 years — almost every week, sometimes nearly every day. If you want real change, you have to be willing to do the unglamorous work.You also talk about allyship. How did you build coalitions without losing Black leadership?This is crucial: the movement began with around 90% Black people. Over time, more white people joined, and many Black people left — largely because the violence targeted Black participants most directly. So I made sure: even if I was the only Black person in the room, the movement stayed Black-led and Black-fronted. This country listens more easily to white people. But I refused to let white people become the face — because Black children needed to see Black people leading and holding ground.The allies who stayed understood that. They questioned me sometimes, but they gave me space to lead. And in return, it taught me something too: seeing white people committed to our success made me more committed to other struggles. That’s how solidarity should work.You mentioned a “price.” What did that price look like in reality?It cost a lot. People burned out. People lost jobs — including me. People were threatened. People were attacked. We were called terrorists. We were placed in a national terrorism report. There were years I wore a bulletproof vest.My life was on hold for 15 years. My daughter is 15 — born the same year the movement started. My son is 22 — he was around five or six when it started. I have never been on vacation with them. They went with their mother, but not with me. There were many nights I couldn’t be present the way a father should. That’s not something I say proudly — it’s something I say honestly, because people need to understand what “change” actually costs.But I also knew: the alternative is worse. How can I accept living in a country where, for two months every year, anti-Black racism is everywhere — on television, in streets, in schools, in malls — and people are having the best time of their life at our expense?How did you keep people safe in the face of intimidation and violence?My mindset was: we are fighting a war, and you have to be willing to lose something. That truth is what makes many people leave — and I understand why. But I also believed: none of those reasons would stop me.And I want to be clear: I never brought people into danger carelessly. I didn’t hide behind others. I took the biggest hit. And over time, I learned how to ask people to take what they could take — not more. But I also refused to “moderate” the truth for comfort. Either you are with us, or you are not.If you could demand one concrete policy action today, what would it be?There are two pathways. In the best case: from today onward, a truly fair system. Same treatment in court for the same crimes. Same support and safety for Black children and white children. Because right now you can predict a child’s future based on skin colour — and in a just country, you shouldn’t be able to do that. You are not God. You are not a magician. You can only predict because the system is designed to advantage one group and marginalise another.But if the country cannot or will not do that — then reparations must be paid to the direct descendants of enslaved people: people from the Dutch Caribbean and Suriname especially. They live with consequences that go beyond economics — even down to identity. Your surname is your address in the world. My name is Afriyie; you can trace where I come from. But many descendants of enslaved people carry names that only tie them to this soil — a soil that still treats them like guests, even after nearly 500 years. So either equality becomes real from now, or the country gives the descendants the means necessary to deal with the consequences of what was done.What does an “inclusive Sinterklaas” look like in practice — not just in theory?We confronted it directly in a Black neighbourhood in Amsterdam, and the authorities panicked and told us to find a solution. My view became: stop asking others to do it for us; we’ll create what we need.So we made a version where everyone is Sinterklaas — “Sinterklaas and his friends.” The children walking around were between four and twelve, all wearing Sinterklaas outfits. We gave them little sacks of candy — tiny hands holding the sacks — and some of them truly believed in the magic. Even after the event, they still believed. They’d hesitate like, “He’s here,” and we’d be like, “No, you’re walking for him now — go give out the candy.” It was joyful. No one was degraded. No one was harmed. That’s what inclusive means: a children’s celebration that is safe for all children to participate in or even just witness — without racism, stereotypes, or hierarchy built on servitude.You’re leaving behind resources. What are they, and why do they matter?Because a baton has to be passed, not dropped. When I came into this struggle, the baton wasn’t handed to me. I had to dig it up. That cost us time — at least five years — because we had to learn on the battlefield what could have been shared with us. So we’re making sure the next generation doesn’t lose time the way we did.We archived the movement carefully: documentation, photographs, records of actions, campaigns, and outcomes. We have educational tools and lesson plans. We’re finishing a teachers’ guide on confronting racism in the classroom. We built a history calendar with nearly 200 historical moments and figures the country should know, with sources and the ability for people to add events. We have an activist handbook that lays out what we learned — what you can expect, what you will face, and how to survive it. And we’re touring around the country with pop-up exhibitions and community dialogues — reflecting on the past 15 years and asking: when we step back, who keeps the marathon going?Before you ended the conversation, you added something personal about activism. Why was that important to say?Because while we demand that a country does better, we must also ask ourselves: where can we do better?I know I’m on the right side of history on racism — but what about women’s rights? Queer and trans rights? Indigenous rights? Disability rights? Palestine? How do we treat others? If you want your community to be safe, you must want every community to be safe. Don’t only call out injustice when it happens to you. Call it out when it happens to others. None of us are perfect. And real progress is collective progress.This is not the end — it is a handover. Visit the exhibition Netherlands, Do Better! – The Impact of 15 Years of Black Activism. Engage with the archives. Bring your students, colleagues, and communities. Study what worked. Learn what it costs. Decide what you will carry forward. Progress only survives when people choose to protect it. The baton is no longer in one movement’s hands — it is now in yours. And for those ready to step in even deeper: A super limited Patta x NLWB T-shirt will be available exclusively at the exhibition. Don’t miss out!Carry the work forward:https://neemhetstokjeover.nlhttps://nederlandwordtbeter.nlhttps://zwartmanifest.nl

Interview by Passion DzengaRaised on soul, funk, punk, and the sounds of Suriname, Amsterdam-based artist Slimfit (Sammie Tjon Sien Foek) grew up in a home where The Cure played alongside Afrocaribbean classics, and LimeWire rabbit holes turned into early sonic education. Before ever stepping behind the decks, they were already building worlds—collecting obscure tracks, experimenting across disciplines, and shaping an ear sharpened by both Western and Afro diasporic influences.Their entry into Dutch nightlife came through Red Light Radio, a chance set that caught the right ears and opened the doors to Amsterdam’s rave ecosystem. From working the door at Garage Noord to becoming a fixture in contemporary club culture, Slimfit has always absorbed the scene from every angle. Today, their sets erupt with high-tempo emotion: Latin percussion, Afro-electronic rhythms, dramatic vocals, and a rave aesthetic that brings play, camp, and chaos back into techno’s often serious spaces.But Slimfit ticks many boxes—they’re a multidisciplinary artist, a thinker, and an advocate. Their work in nightlife is inseparable from their politics: pushing for equitable lineups, safer club environments, fairer fees, and solidarity structures that support marginalised communities. For them, sound is intuition, resistance, and connection all at once. In this conversation, Slimfit speaks about their roots, the evolution of the scene, and why the future of rave culture must be both louder and more caring.What music filled your home growing up?My dad—he’s Surinamese—played soul, funk, rap, the classics, plus Surinamese music. My mom was into The Cure and punk. I learned all the “golden oldies,” and as a teen, I dug deep on LimeWire and YouTube, hunting obscure tracks and making playlists in my room.Victor Crezée was one of the first to book you. What were those early experiences in Dutch nightlife and beyond?I started DJing about eight or nine years ago. One of my first breaks was a guest slot on Red Light Radio through a London–Amsterdam program. Vic heard that show, loved it, and connected me with Patta Soundxystem. Around the same time my first agent/manager, Mo, found me — I worked with him for many years, and he played a huge role in supporting and shaping my early trajectory. I got booked for Applesap, and I gradually shifted from a hip-hop/new wave/punk background into a more rave-leaning aesthetic. I also worked the door at Garage Noord for about a year—that scene shaped a lot of my influences.Why radio? Were you already making mixes?Totally—I had strong ideas about sets and mixes and kept building “potential” playlists from niche internet collectors. I was hungry for a radio show, had tons of music ready, and a clear concept of what I wanted people to hear. It happened to line up with Vic’s taste.You’re multi-disciplinary. Where does music sit among your practices?Everything I do is informed by sound—film, performance, graphic design, sound design. I studied photography and philosophy, but it all converges in audio. Sound is my intuition.Slimfit is the name people know you by in music, and your other work sits under your real name?Yes. I keep a portfolio under my own name (video, performance, design, drawings). I’m also finishing a master’s at the Sandberg Institute.How do you stay motivated across so much?I’m obsessed with getting what’s in my head into the world. I have scattered interests, constant inspiration, and a big ambition that keeps me moving—but I’m still learning how to pace myself and not do everything at once.Practical advice for artists trying to “do it all” and stay healthy?Sobriety (especially on the job) helps me stay clear. Surround yourself with grounded people who truly check in on you. I’ve just started going to the gym, and I meditate—my mom’s best friend is a Zen teacher, so I grew up around that. Finding silence amid subwoofers is key.You’ve become more socially engaged. Why do nightlife and activism merge for you?Club culture was built by people of colour seeking resistance and community. That political awareness is embedded in electronic music and rave spaces where initially marginalised identities used to gather for psychological relief and self-expression. My dad’s social work and left-wing politics background also shaped me. If we want safer, freer dance floors, we need to be politically aware and critical of the industry’s capitalist realities.What has changed in the scene since you started?It was very male-dominated; all-male lineups were normal. Awareness grew, and more women and people of colour got booked and curated—especially in the underground. There’s still work to do: commercial lineups often position POC people, queers, and women as openers. But we’re more than props for diversity — whole generations before us have built this scene.Can commercial ecosystems support underground/marginalised communities without tokenising them?No, I think that’s impossible if money pressures push events towards private equity and morally questionable financial partnerships. One alternative is building solidarity mechanisms into programming. During the KKR/Milkshake boycott (which I helped initiate alongside many artists and a broader movement), we launched RUIS—Reimagining Us in Solidarity—normalising fundraisers at larger events and proposing ethical advisory structures so donations are built into the night, not an afterthought.Are union-like structures part of the answer?Yes. With funding cuts and precarious nightlife economics, alternative organisation matters—mutual aid funds where artists contribute monthly and can draw support during illness or crisis. We need networks where artists can refuse exploitative money and still survive.Fees, fairness, and “artist care”?Equal-pay approaches simplify programming and reduce hypocrisy. If artist care is strong—dinners, mental-health spaces, genuine hospitality—you don’t need extreme fees to feel valued. Treat people like royalty and the money conversation gets easier.How important are safe spaces—both for you as a performer and a dancer?Non-negotiable. I can be expressive and sexy on stage, and I want femmes to dance freely without fear. If you do drugs, do it safely with people you trust. Dark rooms should be monitored. Unsafe spaces are traumatising—I don’t want to go back to that.Golden rules for keeping artists safe in the booth?Don’t touch without consent. Respect personal space and focus. Performing is part of my concentration—don’t ask for drink orders or requests mid-mix. Safety riders matter: have a manager check in every 20–30 minutes; deploy floor/club angels to monitor the crowd, especially when intoxication escalates behaviour.Is safety only the club’s job, or also the crowd’s?Everyone’s. Check on your friends; take them outside if needed. Hedonism can mask deeper issues. Community care reduces escalations.How would you describe your sound to someone who hasn’t seen you?High-tempo, emotive, harmony-driven, dramatic vocals, lots of rhythmic variety—Latin American and African diasporic influences (think neoperreo, gqom) woven into rave energy. I missed fun, camp, and hips in monotone techno, so I bring drama and play back into the rave. Outside the club, I love experimental/left-field—Arca, FKA twigs, even noise.Are you intentionally bridging serious techno spaces and playful queer energy?Yes. Purists safeguard culture, but artists can fuse worlds. I’ll play fast “TikTok-techno” rooms and slip in niche genres to widen ears—teaching through selection while being open to new iterations.Any anthems or artists that captured your story this year?Wanton Witch. She blends club, bass, and Asian tonalities in ways that resonate with my own Chinese-Creole roots—my great-grandfather moved from China to Suriname. Her tracks feel like that journey.How important is the representation of diasporas on the dance floor?Hearing your culture loud in a club is powerful. I try to program in ways that let people feel “seen” for a moment—like they’re the superstar.If Slimfit were a dish?A Sichuan dish—mouth-numbing, punchy, salty, spicy, refreshing.And if Slimfit scored a film?Under the Skin—a seductive, alien coming-of-age into something strange and monstrous. Luring you into an absurd world.

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Kwabena Sekyi Before the RAUM residency and festival crowds lost themselves in her rolling basslines, TWIENA was a child at a piano, doing exactly what many Asian parents hope their children will do. The real spark, however, came later. Calm by nature, she describes her emotions as mostly steady, almost flat — until music enters the room. That’s when everything intensifies, and she allows herself to genuinely feel. What started as quietly producing melancholic, melodic tracks during workshops grew into something heavier once she fell in love with techno’s four-on-the-floor hypnosis. Corona provided her with the unexpected opportunity to take it seriously: endless hours in a Rozengracht studio, playing for friends until the identity of “DJ” stopped being just an idea and became muscle memory. From there, her sound expanded — techno fused with and Latin grooves, always led by the bassline and rooted in the body. Now, as an Asian artist in European nightlife, TWIENA navigates multiple worlds simultaneously: a competitive perfectionist who refuses to be boxed in as a spokesperson, a mainstay of the queer scene using her RAUM residency to cross-pollinate communities, and a Vietnamese diasporic artist blending temple field recordings and childhood memories into tracks like “Temple Run” for BAYANG and No One Magazine. In this conversation, she traces that journey — from piano lessons and early raves to representation, roots, and why her sound, if it were a dish, would be soft-serve with colourful sprinkles.  Let’s start at the beginning. What were your first experiences with music, and what was playing around the house when you were growing up?I’m Asian, so in very classic fashion I was sent to piano lessons as a kid. That was my first real introduction to playing music myself.But I only really started thinking about making music when I got into a relationship with Zoah (my current booker). Her dad is a musican and her brother use to produce music, and around that same time I started hanging out with the ALLE$ crew, who were also doing music. This was like almost 10 years ago now but I’ve always been very specific about melodies and what I like emotionally in music. My emotions are usually pretty stable – I don’t have huge highs and lows – except when it comes to music. That’s the one thing that really makes me feel something.So I started experimenting at home: playing chords, playing around with notes, letting myself be emotional in that space.You started with production first. How did that lead into DJing?Yeah, I began with production. I did some workshops and taught myself, mostly making melodic, sad music as a hobby on the side.Then it slowly shifted. I’d been going to techno parties since I was 16 or 17, and I really fell in love with that four-on-the-floor techno energy. At some point I thought, Let me try making that too. I liked it so much I realised: This is the music I actually want to put out into the world. And the best way to do that was to play it.Eycee was a big influence—he taught me how to DJ. I’d already been saying out loud, “I want to DJ,” even before I could actually do it, which is a form of manifesting. Once I started playing and got the techniques down, things moved pretty quickly.From starting out to taking music seriously as a career—it can look “fast” from the outside, but it obviously took time and courage. What helped you really commit?Corona, honestly. The pandemic wiped so much away and weirdly created space—like a reset. It felt like a new wave of opportunities, and I was lucky to be in that moment. We had a studio at the Rozengracht, this big space where someone built a big stage with a DJ booth in the studio. Because there was so much time, I could be there constantly, playing and practising.People were always coming in and out, and we’d throw little parties. I actually didn’t tell people I was a DJ—I don’t really like defining myself that way. I usually say I play music. Back then, I didn’t say it out loud at all; I would just post a lot of videos of me DJ’ing on Instagram stories. That helped grow my identity as an artist in a natural way, instead of some big, dramatic switch.You’ve spoken about being drawn to 4/4 techno. What was it about that sound that made you think, “This is where I belong”?The first time I really felt techno, it was the four-on-the-floor kick and how it puts you in a trance. The rhythm just doesn’t break—it keeps you in this zone.Over time, especially after DJing and producing more, I started to understand how broad techno actually is. Now I’m very focused on the feeling of the bassline—the rhythm and groove there. That’s become essential to me.Right now I’m drawn to basslines and grooves that overlap with Latin influences. I like making techno feel a bit more sexy and bodily, not just cold and aesthetic.You mentioned bubbling, dancehall, Afro sounds too. How did those textures enter your sound?In my teens and early twenties I was a hardcore techno head—raves, raves, raves. Then around 21–22, my world shifted; I discovered more hip-hop-adjacent sounds, and what people might call “urban,” even though I don’t love the word.I got into Afro-inspired music, reggaeton, bubbling, dancehall—that whole world. It’s completely different from techno, but it still lives in the same universe for me: music your body connects to. I loved bubbling and dancehall for dancing and partying.Now I bring those worlds together. The music that moves my body—whether it’s ravey techno or sexy bubbling—naturally slips into my sets and productions.Nightlife has historically been a very cis-het, white space, especially in Europe. As an Asian artist, did you feel represented in clubs when you started?Obviously there’s Peggy Gou—we can’t deny Peggy Gou. I wouldn’t say she’s my personal inspiration, but she’s very cool and she’s out there.But no, there weren’t many Asian artists like me around when I started. And honestly? I liked that. A lot of people say, “There was nobody I could relate to,” which is valid. But I enjoyed the fact that there weren’t many Asians—because it made me unique.Being Asian is also part of my selling point, if I’m honest. And when I came in, things were already shifting—more space for artists of colour, more focus on women, queer people. I didn’t grow up in Asian communities; my surroundings were mostly white. So I did feel culturally different, but I didn’t only see myself as “the Asian one.”What I did see was an opportunity—for myself and for the Asian community—to step into that gap, to be someone people can look at and think, “Oh, that’s possible for me too.”Does being a visible minority on line-ups come with pressure—like you have to be the best representative?Not in an “Asian representative” way, no. I feel pressure because of who I am: I’m competitive. I always want to perform at my best and, in my head, be “the best”—even though that doesn’t really make sense, because my sound is different from other people’s.So my focus is on staying unique and perfecting my own thing, not on being the spokesperson for all Asian people. I don’t want that role. I do like that I can be a role model for some, but my intention is to inspire people in general, not just one community.If you’re a perfectionist and competitive, how do you leave space for experimentation in your sets and productions?My taste changes all the time—much faster than I’d like, honestly. Every week I discover something new: a track in a club, a new artist, a promo. I’ll hear something and go, “Oh my god, this is so cool,” and it naturally sneaks into my productions or DJ sets.So I’m constantly being inspired. I’m very active in the scene—not just profiting from it. I’m on the dance floor, I listen to promos, I dig. That keeps me experimenting. It’s part of the job, but it’s also part of my personality.I integrate new influences into what I already do, and that’s how I evolve without throwing away my core sound.When you’re crate-digging, what makes you say, “This track is really me”?Right now, it’s all about the bassline. That rolling, hypnotic, dynamic bass. I know my sound quite clearly in my head—it’s very specific. I’m always searching for that particular groove and rhythm. I used to think it was all about percussion—off-beat snares, hi-hats—but now I know the actual groove lives in the bass.If the bass is static, it’s almost impossible to create the feeling I want just with percussion. The kick roots the track, but the movement—the part that makes you roll your hips—sits between the kick and the bassline.What’s the ideal space to experience your sound—clubs, festivals, something in between?I love both, but in different ways.Club-wise, RAUM is really my home. I can move around that space so comfortably. I’m a pack animal—I never go out alone, I’m a “wolf pack” person—but RAUM is the only place where I actually feel comfortable being alone. That says a lot.I also love a good festival. I like adventure, and festivals give you different chapters in one day. Dekmantel is my favourite—there are so many communities coming together there, and the musical curation is amazing.You’re a resident at RAUM. What has that residency opened up for you, and how does that space give you the opportunity to fully experiment with your sound?So much. Through RAUM we played Wire Festival in New York this year, for example. As a resident, I can also curate my own nights and invite artists who fit my taste.What I love most is the chance to bring sounds I love—like bubbling, dancehall, or more Latin-influenced techno—into a queer space. RAUM is a safe space, but it’s also big and flexible. You can cross-pollinate different communities there.I don’t want queer nightlife to be so exclusive that nobody else feels welcome. I want people from different backgrounds to experience a space where queer people take priority and feel safe, but everyone is invited to share the same values.Queer nightlife often swings between hard raves and glitter-pop clichés. Do you think it has to be tied to one sound, or is there room for more variety?There’s absolutely room for variety.RAUM is a great example: that crowd will twerk to techno. They appreciate bubbling and dancehall and they love techno. It’s a space where you can invite different sounds and people stay open.Queer isn’t a genre. It can be everything and anything. That’s why I love playing there—it all fits under the same umbrella when the crowd is open-minded. You’re part of the first BAYANG Various Artists compilation, and you also released on No One Magazine’s vinyl. How do these projects connect to your Vietnamese roots?BAYANG is a label by Ennio and Hamy—two Asian artists who wanted a platform to represent and inspire Asian artists and the diaspora. They asked me to be part of their first VA release, which felt very aligned with where I am right now.Earlier this year I released my first track on vinyl through No One Magazine, which highlights queer nightlife in different cities. For the issue focused on Vietnamese queer nightlife, I made a track using a sample of a monk I recorded during a very fragile time in my life.I brought that same sample and atmosphere into my Lowlands festival introduction, and again into my BAYANG track. All of it ties back to my Vietnamese roots—to temples, to memory, to past and present colliding. The last months of my music-making have been very much about heritage and looking back in order to move forward.As part of the diaspora, how important is it for you to look back in order to move forward?Very important.The past—personal, cultural, generational trauma, all of it—shapes how you move through the world. If you can pinpoint where things come from, you understand why you do what you do.So yes, you have to look back: at family history, at culture, at the things that hurt and the things that grounded you. That’s how you build a future that feels honest instead of random.You mentioned playing in Vietnam. What was that like, and how do you see the Vietnamese scene from where you are now?About three years ago I realised there was a real scene—and a queer scene—in Vietnam. Before that I honestly thought it didn’t exist, or that they were living in a completely different time.I played at Savage in Hanoi, and it was eye-opening. You can definitely be a role model there as a diaspora artist. It’s not my main focus right now, but it’s an important connection.What’s beautiful is that that Vietnamese scene somehow travels back here. There’s now a little network of people in Amsterdam who are connected to the Vietnam scene and to each other. Same in Paris, in the US—Vietnamese diaspora are finding each other worldwide. It feels like a huge spiderweb of like-minded people.One track that sums up where you are right now?Honestly, my own track on the BAYANG compilation: “Temple Run.”It’s the first time I feel like, This is really my sound—something I can’t find anywhere else because I’m the one doing it. It’s very tied to my Vietnamese roots and to the feeling of being at the temple as a kid, running around with my cousins.The name comes from the game Temple Run, but also from that sensation of moving through a temple—sacred, playful, a bit nostalgic.Is there a specific sound or element you can’t live without in your production right now?Rolling basslines, for sure. And toms—I love toms. I use a lot of round sounds. Within the wavetables, the sine waveform is definitely my kind of sound. The reason I like sine waves so much is because the sound is so clean. I really love the bleeps and the bells in my music—that clarity and roundness just feels right to me.If your sound was a dish, what would it be?It wouldn’t be heavy. I think it would be like soft-serve ice cream—the swirl kind—with colourful sprinkles. Smooth, playful, not too much, but still with a little extra on top.This December 26th, head to Tilla Tec for COLORS x Studio Strip. TWIENA will be behind the decks alongside Cinnaman, Jyoty and Anel, coming together for a night that celebrates boundary-pushing sound and shared energy on the dancefloor. A Boxing Day session worth stepping out for—don’t skip it.

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Ben DrameBefore Narco Polo was running up 101Barz, Range Rover freestyles and New Balance campaigns, he was a kid in a small town near Nijmegen, staring at a Dangerous-era Michael Jackson CD like it was a portal. From there it was hand-me-down Wu-Tang and 2Pac discs, scratched Green Day and Offspring albums, LimeWire folders full of East Coast, West Coast and French rap – the kind of informal education you only get from older brothers, neighbour kids and hours spent skating and playing video games with a Discman in your backpack.That DIY school of hip-hop still lives in his music today: soulful, underground and wordplay-heavy, somewhere between golden-era boom bap and the trap that later reshaped his taste. He taught himself to produce on cracked software in a student room, found his first audience freestyling in a Nijmegen sneaker shop, and built out a world with the Alle$ Lifestyle collective before moving to Amsterdam to take things further.Now, Narco Polo is one of the voices quietly reshaping Dutch rap from the inside – through jazz-flecked tapes with Styn, brutally honest car sessions filmed in his own Rover, and lyrics that read like pages from a private journal. Between four kids, two companies, meditation retreats, his own headline shows and support acts for International stars and Dutch OGs, he’s still obsessed with the same thing that grabbed him as a teenager: making music that feels real, lasts longer than the algorithm, and pushes Dutch hip-hop into a lane it hasn’t fully claimed yet.How did the first spark to get involved in music come to you?I grew up surrounded by CDs and a little home stereo. One day I found a Michael Jackson CD – I think it was Dangerous. The cover alone blew my mind, so I put it on… and then listened to that album every day after school for months.From there, my big brother was a huge influence. We were inline skating, doing stunts, and he’d always play Green Day, The Offspring – that kind of stuff. Later, he came home with a Wu-Tang CD and a 2Pac CD. That was my first real hip-hop experience. From then on, I never looked back. I even had the Wu-Tang logo on my wall, wore Wu-Tang clothes, bought the PlayStation game… I was deep in it.When LimeWire and torrents came in, it was over. I found this one Blogspot where hip-hop from all over the world was listed – East Coast, West Coast, UK, France, everything. I’d just download and dig. A friend’s older brother was also a hip-hop album collector, so whenever we were skating or gaming at his house, we’d be listening to CDs. That was my real “digging in the crates” era.Was that Michael Jackson CD from your brother or your parents?It was from my parents. My dad was a fan of George Michael and U2. My mother was more into Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye – she’s a soul fan. They had a lot of wedding and party classics. So I had tastemakers all around me: parents, brother, neighbourhood kids. Once I got on the internet and torrents, I could finally explore my own taste deeper instead of just following theirs.Where did you grow up, and what was your environment like?I’m from the south of the Netherlands, around Nijmegen – small town energy. I was hanging out with kids from the neighbourhood, skating, sharing music, playing PlayStation. That mix of skating culture and hip-hop really shaped me.Did you ever take formal music lessons? When did you first actively start making music yourself?I never took music lessons. The first real step into making music came when I moved out and had a roommate who made dubstep in Reason. I loved how the software looked – like a game – so I asked him to share it.Back in my own room, I started messing around with samples and loops. I downloaded a huge library pack, like 5–6GB, and just started making beats in Reason. I was about 20–21, so I started relatively late.Did you start by making dance music like your roommate, or something else?Nah, I didn’t really f*** with dubstep like that. I just liked the software. From day one I was chopping and making hip-hop beats. Wu-Tang and that raw sound were my starting point.What did those early beats sound like?Very raw, underground hip-hop – heavily influenced by Wu-Tang and that 90s aesthetic. Over time it got a bit more soulful. Later, when we linked up with Samuel Kareem, the sound shifted more into trap.Sam is a crazy producer, 50 times better than I was at the time. It was almost demotivating – I’d have a session with him, go home, open my laptop and realise I couldn’t do what he did. So I stopped producing for a while and focused on rapping, while he handled production. That’s when I really moved from classic hip-hop into trap. Nowadays I’m back in a place between soulful, underground hip-hop and trap – closer to what I grew up with.How did you go from making beats in your room to taking music seriously?I started working at a sneaker shop in Nijmegen. There I met Nico, who was always freestyling. He’d rap on my beats in the shop. Eventually I started writing verses too, and we’d spit while customers were walking in and out. People vibed with it, and that gave me motivation to make more beats and write more.Aki also worked at the sneaker shop. He was already an MC at dubstep/EDM parties. The city of Nijmegen organised a workshop: producers and artists got paired up with bigger names for six to eight months. We’d learn, make beats and write songs, and at the end we’d put out an album and perform at the city’s big summer festival.I produced two beats for that project and DJ’d the live show. On the festival day, the act before us had almost no crowd. We went on, played the first track – and within minutes the venue was packed. That feeling told us, “OK, people f*** with this. We have to do something with it.”After that we built our own studio, started making music every day, and eventually linked up with Sam. That’s when Alle$ Lifestyle was born.What is Alle$ Lifestyle, and what is it now?Alle$ Lifestyle started as a group of friends who love making music – hip-hop at the core, but really all genres because Sam can produce anything. It’s a collective of brothers and sisters who are creative and support each other.At some point it became more business-like, but now it’s returned to being a creative collective again, which I love. It’s about supporting each other’s art, not just the business side.You mentioned moving to Amsterdam. Why was that important?At some point we realised we’d done what we could from Nijmegen. The scene, the industry, the infrastructure – it’s all much bigger in Amsterdam. So we moved one by one. From there we started releasing more consistently, met people like Rimon, and the whole Alle$ Lifestyle universe really expanded. That’s also when I started releasing solo as Narco Polo.How would you describe the Narco Polo sound?Soulful, underground hip-hop. Warm, but with a dark, streetwise edge. Wordplay-heavy, influenced by jazzy and boom-bap textures but done in a modern way. I lean heavily toward American hip-hop. There was a period where I listened to a lot of Dutch hip-hop, but mainly an older era. Before and after that, it’s mostly US stuff for me – that’s always been my biggest influence.Do you feel that “classical” hip-hop sound is well represented in the Netherlands?Not really. There are a few people doing it, but it’s either very underground or very pure boom-bap. I’m trying to find a middle ground – something rooted in that golden era, but still current and accessible.I feel like I’m laying some groundwork. If there were more Dutch artists making exactly what I love, I’d be listening to them all the time.What draws you specifically to that jazzy, soulful, golden-era sound?It’s what I grew up on. When LimeWire arrived and I could really dig, I discovered a lot of jazzy hip-hop. That was my soundtrack for everything—being outside, skating, playing PlayStation.We went from Discman to Walkman to MP3 player, and I was always collecting new tracks. Trap only arrived later – with Chief Keef, Young Thug, Kodak, Future… I love that too, but the foundation is jazzy, underground hip-hop. That’s why it still lives under everything I do.What is a typical studio session like for you?It can start anywhere. Sometimes I come in with verses already written and we work around that. Sometimes the producer plays beats and I catch a vibe.With Sam, it often went like this: he’d start building something from scratch, I’d react in real time – “keep that,” “loop this,” “add drums like this.” Sometimes I’d mumble melodies or flows first, then write the actual words later.Right now life is busier – shows, family, our agency, campaigns – so I often need to block out time, go on a writing camp, or spend 2–3 days straight in the studio. Before it was more spontaneous; now I have to create space for the flow.How important is collaboration to your creative process?Very important. I love working with producers who “think with me” – like Aki, Sam Kareem, Styn, WillyMakeAMillie. We all add something: one comes with beats, another with melodies, I bring verses, and we help each other refine everything.With Styn especially, it’s a real partnership. He’s a professor in sampling – a proper nerd in the best way. Without his knowledge we wouldn’t have some of these crazy beats. The more you work together, the more you understand each other’s taste, which makes the music stronger.How did your collaboration with Styn come about?We’d known of each other for a while but weren’t really hanging out. Then he started dropping edits and remixes of Dutch artists over his own sample-heavy beats. I heard them and thought, “These are better than the originals.”So I hit him up: “Yo, this is crazy. Send me some of these beats.” He started sending beat packs. For the first EP, I mostly just picked my favourites, took them home and recorded on my own. Later we did more sessions together in person.Now we have two EPs out and are working on a third. It’s still in progress, but it’s coming.Your car sessions have become a big part of the Narco Polo world. How did those start?I love cars. I used to rent them all the time, and eventually bought my Range Rover – that’s my baby, had it for about five or six years now. I was struggling with online content. Besides releases, I didn’t like talking into my phone or posting just for the sake of it. I wanted something that fits who I am.So I thought: I’m always in the car, I love old-school hip-hop, and I’m good at rapping. Let me write verses on classic instrumentals – Snoop, Mobb Deep, Dr. Dre, all that – and record them in the car.It worked: the beats are instantly recognisable, the car looks good, I’m dripped out, and the raps are strong. It’s DIY but visually sharp. Sometimes the car sessions even perform better than official releases. Big artists started noticing, media mentioned it, and me and Tads did a few together.Last year the police took my license for a year because of weed traces in my system, so I had to pause the car sessions. I just got my license back, so I’m planning new ones around upcoming releases.Do you produce and shoot the car sessions yourself?Yes. It’s all self-produced – I pick the beats, record the audio, shoot the video, edit, colour-grade. Because I’m also a producer and know my way around the studio, I can do the whole chain myself. That’s part of why it feels so authentic.You’ve also done 101Barz and other platforms. How was that?101Barz felt like a rite of passage. I went at the right time and I’m glad I did it. I did adjust a bit to what that audience likes—next time I’ll probably do it even more on my own terms—but I’m happy with it. I’ve also done sessions with FunX, Podium ZWART, 3voor12 and more. When the album drops, I want to hit all those platforms again with something to promote.Your track with Navaron Cole, “Rattenvanger”, was nominated for a Rotterdam Music Award. How did that collaboration and song come about?We met randomly in Paris. I was walking alone, heard some guys speaking Dutch, said something, and it turned out to be him. He already knew Aki and told me he f***ed with what I do, so we swapped numbers. We started doing sessions, and “Rattenvanger” came out of that. The song is about catching rats—being aware of people who are scheming on you or your work, and not letting that happen. Eyes open, no-naive energy. The video really brings that concept to life. Being nominated for the Rotterdam Music Award with that track is sick.You came up working in a sneaker shop and now you’re fronting New Balance as seen by Patta campaign. What’s your relationship with style? What are your essentials?Style has always been important. I’m big on hats, sportswear, football gear, sneakers. You’ll almost never see me without sneakers – I was a diehard sneaker kid growing up, and now I’m branching into New Balance and other brands.My style sits between high-end designer, sportswear and streetwear. I love sunglasses, crossbody bags, mixing designer pieces with football shirts and track pants. Some of it comes from my skate days, some from studying fashion for a while. Clothes affect my mood – a fresh pair of shoes or a new jacket really changes how I feel.Your lyrics often touch on self-improvement and introspection as much as street life. How does that self-awareness feed into your music?For me, making music is like keeping a journal. It’s my outlet. Some people box, some people party every weekend – I make songs. I’ve always been quite internal and philosophical, thinking a lot about life. When I write, I’m often talking to myself, sometimes to my kids, sometimes to the younger generation. It’s therapeutic. If other people relate or feel seen by it, that’s a bonus.You recently did a Vipassana silent meditation retreat. Why did you decide to do that, and what was it like?Life got hectic. I have four kids, music, two companies, and constant movement. I’m an internal person, but I was living mostly outwardly. I heard about Vipassana from a friend a few years back, and this summer it came back into my mind.So I applied for a 10-day retreat in Spain. No talking, no eye contact, no phone, no coffee, no smoking – just meditation and silence. It was intense but very cleansing. I got exactly what I needed from it, and more: a meditation technique I can use daily.I don’t know if I’ll do another 10-day retreat soon, but I do try to meditate every morning now, to keep that space inside.How important is it for you, as an artist and father, to stay self-aware instead of chasing what others expect?It’s everything. When I make music, I try not to overthink; I let what I really feel flow out. That honesty is therapy for me. There was a period where I was chasing hits—thinking about streams, trends, what would “work.” About two years ago I decided to stop. I told myself: “Just do what you love. It’s not about the money or numbers.” From that moment, things actually started working better. For some people, chasing virality fits their personality. For me—someone who naturally goes deep—that doesn’t work. I have to be myself.What does the near future look like for you—projects, shows, collaborations?I’ve got a solo headline show in The Hague in March. I’m working on an album, another EP with Styn, and a full EP with willymakeamilli. Willie’s a serious musician—engineer, guitarist, keys, proper hip-hop head. I really f*** with his vibe. Right now the main producers I gravitate to are Kareem, Styn, willymakeamilli… and myself again.I’m also doing support shows – I’ve already done several with Hef, and I’m joining Zwolle in Enschede this weekend. So it’s shows, the album, more EPs, more car sessions – just expanding the world step by step.Where do you see Dutch hip-hop heading in the next year, and where do you see your role in it?I see it expanding in a lot of directions. For a long time, Dutch hip-hop felt a step behind what was happening globally. Now it’s catching up; everything’s starting to align.There are more artists carving out their own lanes, and I feel like I’m helping pave that soulful, classic-yet-modern hip-hop lane. The road is getting wider. I just hope I can keep contributing to that broadening of hip-hop in the Netherlands—staying authentic and building something that lasts.