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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.

Interview by Passion DzengaFor more than a decade, BOJ has been one of the most quietly influential forces in contemporary African music. A pioneer of the alté movement long before it had a name, he built his world on experimentation, collaboration, and a refusal to be boxed in — working with everyone from Wizkid, Skepta, Dave and Tiwa Savage to Ayra Starr, Knucks and Obongjayar. But with his new album Duplicity (out December 5 via MOVE Recordings), BOJ turns his lens inward, crafting the most personal and revealing body of work of his career.Across thirteen tracks featuring Pa Salieu, Olamide, Odumodublvck, Show Dem Camp, SGaWD, Obongjayar, Joey B and more, Duplicity pushes the alté ethos into bold new terrain — blending Afropop, hip-hop, alté, Afrobeats and experimental club sounds with a clarity and confidence that only an artist a decade deep can carry. But beneath the genre-blurring production lies the album’s true centre: a meditation on duality. The BOJ the world sees — charismatic, collaborative, unmistakably influential — and the BOJ only a few truly know.It’s a theme that emerged unexpectedly from a personal moment. After hearing the word duplicitous in an argument and looking up its meaning, BOJ recognised a truth he felt almost everyone carries: the split between our public selves and our private ones. Duplicity became the space where he finally examined that divide with honesty — embracing both the extrovert the world encounters and the introspective figure who exists beyond the spotlight.The album’s visual identity deepens this narrative, contrasting light and dark, safety and danger, confidence and conflict. On record, those contrasts come alive through everything from the euphoric Afropop of “Imposter Syndrome” with Obongjayar to the menacing, experimental “Italawa” with Odumodublvck and SGaWD, the dance-floor lift of “Ijo,” and the endlessly catchy “Cana” with Pa Salieu.Sitting down with BOJ in the days leading up to the album’s release, we talk about the vulnerability behind Duplicity, the producers and collaborators who helped shape it, the evolution of alté, lessons learned after ten years in music, and how he stays grounded between Lagos and London. What emerges is an artist more self-aware than ever — expressing, not explaining; revealing, not performing. This is Duplicity through BOJ’s own words.You’ve got a new record coming out called Duplicity. What’s the concept, and what does it reflect about where you are personally and artistically?Duplicity is an album that describes me perfectly. The “two sides” are really about the duality of man – who you are in private versus what you choose to present to the world. For me it’s about trying to find the balance between those two selves in my life right now.You’ve said the album explores your public and private sides. What inspired you to open up like this at this point in your career?Honestly, it started with an argument I had with a partner. She used the word “duplicitous,” and I didn’t even know what it meant. I went to look it up and thought, “Yeah, everyone is duplicitous to some extent.” That sparked the idea to explore that theme fully.Did making Duplicity feel therapeutic? Were there parts of the process that surprised you about yourself?I don’t know if anything shocked me, but talking about situations like this at all is not something I’d usually do. So in that sense, yes. I definitely allowed myself to be more vulnerable at certain points, which is new for me.Sonically, the album fuses Afropop, hip-hop and more. Were there any guiding principles for the sound while you were making it?Not really – if anything, it was the opposite. We weren’t trying to tailor it to any particular sound. I told Junior, the producer I worked most closely with, “Let’s just be free. Whatever comes out, we go with it.” No box, no strict formula.You’re often called a pioneer in the alté movement. Does Duplicity feel like a continuation of that sound or a departure?I always feel like my sound gets elevated as I grow, but with alté, people misunderstand it. There’s no fixed “alté sound.” Anything slightly left of centre gets labelled alté. For me, alté is really about not being boxed in – the freedom to create without restrictions. It’s a mentality, not a genre.Your process is usually very collaborative. Who are the key producers that shaped this record?This is actually the least collaborative I’ve ever been on a project. Genio did the lion’s share – I think 9 or 10 of the 13 tracks. Spax is someone I also worked closely with. Blaise Beats is a producer I’ve wanted to release something with for a while – he’d sent me packs in the past, but nothing had come out until now. On this album though, Genio is the main architect.You’ve also got loads of guest features, how did you decide who to bring into the world of Duplicity?I like working with people I already have relationships with. I’ll record a song, sit with it, then ask, “Who can help me tell this story?” Everyone on the project is someone I genuinely rate musically and can reach with a phone call. They understand me and the themes because we already talk in real life.You’ve collaborated with everyone from Odumodublvck to Wizkid and Skepta. What’s the one common thread that makes a collaboration really click for you?If I had to boil it down to one thing, it’s the music itself – the sound. I look for high quality in someone’s expression, and originality. Most people I work with have that.We recently hosted an Odumodublvck show in Amsterdam. You two have a strong collaborative history. What’s it like working with him?Odu is really cool – we’re pretty close. He’s one of those people who always speaks his mind, no matter what. I admire that. Musically, we just click – we probably have more collaborations together than I have with anyone else.Visually, the singles and artwork all tie into duality. How did you approach the visual storytelling for Duplicity, and who did you work with?I worked closely with a guy called Niyi Okoewo. I had him over, played him the music, told him what films I was watching, where my head was at. He just got it. He suggested directors, and even decided to shoot the photography himself. Everything came together organically.With this record, it feels like you’re proving alté is more a philosophy than a genre – especially by showing both sides of yourself. Is that intentional?That is what I’m doing, but I’m not consciously trying to prove anything or break any box. I’m just expressing myself as honestly as I can. However people interpret that is up to them.How do you stay true to your roots while still appealing to your audience? Has much changed since we last spoke?Yeah, there’s definitely been a change – mostly in mentality. I’ve learned a few lessons along the way. My sound keeps evolving, but the bigger shift is in how I see people and myself.In what way has your mentality changed?I’ve learned to let people be who they are, to choose who I keep around, and accept that everyone has shortcomings. No one’s perfect. I’ve also realised you have to be intentional about knowing yourself. Self-knowledge doesn’t just happen – you have to put in the work.After 10 years in music, what would you tell your younger self if you could go back?I don’t think I’d tell him anything crazy. I’d still want to make all the same mistakes; they made me who I am. The only thing I might change is warning myself not to associate with certain people.For someone discovering you through Duplicity, what is the best way to listen to it?They can start anywhere. I usually make my intros and outros so they could swap – the outro could be the intro and vice versa. You can start from track one or from the end. It all flows. That said, I prefer they start from track one.The album’s out on Friday. What can people expect from you in the next few months?There are things coming, but I don’t like giving too much away. I’ll let people know as it happens. If you want to stay updated, just follow me on socials.You spend time between Nigeria and the UK. Is there a difference in how your music is received in London versus Lagos?I’m in Lagos now. To be honest, I don’t think there’s a huge difference. I cater to a certain demographic – a certain taste level – and that listener exists in both places. It feels similar across cities, even globally.You recently held a listening party in London. What was that experience like?It was dope – a small listening session with friends and day-one supporters. We played the songs, especially the one with Odu, and just vibed. People really liked it.You’ve got another listening party coming up in Lagos. What can people expect? It’s basically the Lagos version of the London night. Day-ones will come through, we’ll play the album, I’ll talk through the songs and the mindset behind them. Just a proper vibe.And if people want to attend the Lagos listening party, how do they get access?They just need to RSVP through the channels we’ve shared. Once that’s done, they’re in. If they aren’t in Lagos they can stream the record, it comes out on the same day.

Interview by Passion DzengaBefore Joshua Baraka became a familiar name on lineups, he was a 17-year-old in Kampala playing piano in bars and serving on church worship teams. Raised in a house where his mother led worship and his father preached from the pulpit, music wasn’t a hobby so much as a second language—gospel, Radio & Weasel, Lucky Dube and Bob Marley all folding into the same soundtrack. That mix of faith, family and constant rehearsal quietly shaped the artist he is now: a writer who treats songs like stories, and performances like testimony.On his debut album Juvie, executive-produced by JAE5, Joshua steps fully into his coming-of-age era—channelling young adulthood, love, doubt and growth through a sound that fuses Afrobeats, R&B, gospel and soul without ever losing sight of home. Fresh off a sold-out European tour, AFRIMA nominations, and a show-stealing co-headline with Tems in Kenya, he’s thinking less about numbers and more about connection: making young listeners feel less alone, and making sure the world knows exactly where this voice comes from—Uganda, East Africa, and a lifetime of familiar melodies turned into something new. You’ve had quite a remarkable journey—from playing piano in Kampala bars at 17 to headlining European shows today. When you look back, what kept you going through the toughest moments?First and foremost, God. I’m a firm believer, and He’s helped me through a lot. My friends and family too—I have a tight-knit circle that keeps me levelheaded. My parents, my team… I’m blessed to have good people around me who help me stay focused on the vision.Growing up in Uganda, in Kampala, what were some of your earliest musical memories?It was amazing. Kampala is such an inspiring place because you’re constantly interacting with different people, and that means different music. I grew up listening to acts like Radio & Weasel, Lucky Dube, Bob Marley—plus a lot of gospel from church. All of that shaped how I view and make music.You mentioned church—how did that environment shape your musical style?Church music is rich. Very musical. I learned instruments there—mainly piano and keyboard—and we were always rehearsing, always arranging songs in new ways each week. That trained my composition skills and made me approach music from a deeply musical place.What influence did your family have on your musical journey?A huge one. My mum was a worship leader—she always kept music in the house, so I’ve basically been listening to music since the womb. She coached me when I first showed interest. My dad, who’s a pastor, would take me to church and introduce me to all the best musicians. He’s also a great writer, so I picked up writing from him.When did you first realise music could be your path, not just a dream?After high school. Music was the main thing I was doing, and it just clicked—this is what I should be doing consistently.Your debut album Juvie is on the way and it’s executive-produced by JAE5. How did that collaboration come together?We were connected through someone on my team, and when we met we clicked instantly. I spent a lot of time in London at his studio building the album from scratch. It was humbling—I’ve always admired JAE5, so getting to work closely with him was a blessing.What was the studio process between you two like?It depended on the vibe of the day. Sometimes I’d start with piano while he did drums, sometimes he’d start melodies while I wrote. We bounced off each other. Whoever was inspired in the moment would lead.Can you talk about the album itself? What does Juvie mean to you?Juvie is short for “juvenile”—it’s about young adulthood. My experiences, my views on love, relationships, life. It’s my first album, something I’ve always wanted to make, and I’m really excited for it.As one of Africa’s rising stars, how did you approach crafting the sound of the album?I fused all my influences—R&B, gospel, soul, Afro sounds. I’m from Africa, so the African touch is always there, but I didn’t restrict myself to only Afrobeats. Every song feels different but still rooted in where I’m from.What message do you hope young listeners take from this project?I want young adults to feel less alone. The things I sing about are universal—I've travelled and seen that we all go through similar experiences in different ways. I just want to give my perspective and hopefully inspire someone.If Juvie were the soundtrack to a movie, what genre would that film be?A coming-of-age film—life, drama, love, growth. That’s the world the album lives in.You just wrapped a sold-out European tour, including a major London show. How did it feel performing to fans around the world?It’s crazy—in the best way. Seeing people across the world resonate with your music is special. It shows me I’m on the right path. Every show inspires me.Any standout moments from the tour?The London show at EartH was huge—biggest venue, so much love. Berlin’s crowd was amazing. Denmark had incredible sound. Finland was special because it was my first time there, and realising I have fans there was surreal.Did you travel with your team during the tour?Yes, I travelled with my team. Most cities were playback sets, but London was with a full band based there. It was all very organised and smooth.You recently co-headlined a major festival in Kenya alongside Tems. What was that like?Incredible. So many people, lights in the crowd, everyone singing. I felt like a rockstar. I love Tems, so sharing a headline with her and meeting her was amazing.Do you prefer playing in new territories or being back home in Africa?New spaces. It’s like a first date—you’re experiencing each other for the first time. I love that energy.You’ve been nominated for two AFRIMA Awards this year. How does that feel?It’s overwhelming in the best way. Things you dream about or watch on TV suddenly happening to you… it means everything.How do you see Uganda—and East Africa overall—fitting into the global spotlight on African music?East Africans are incredible storytellers. The music is rich. The world’s eyes are starting to shift to places they haven’t explored yet, including Uganda. There’s so much talent here—I’m excited for people to discover it.Your single “Dive In” dropped on Uganda Independence Day. Was the timing intentional?Yes—it was my way of tipping my hat to where I’m from. My music is mostly in English and global-sounding, so it’s easy for people to not know I’m Ugandan. Releases like this remind people of my roots.Dive In deals with heartbreak, healing, and vulnerability. Was it hard to open up like that?Music is the only place I’m comfortable being completely vulnerable. In real life I’m more closed off. Dive In is about the fear of falling in love—but choosing to risk it anyway.What keeps you grounded as things keep growing around you?Faith, family, friends, my team—and self-awareness. I take time to process what’s happening and separate reality from social media. Knowing who you are makes staying grounded easier.Beyond charts and tours, what does success look like to you?Being heard by as many people as possible—and people understanding the message. When Wrong Place blew up and people truly got what I was saying, that felt like success. (And yes, I want the Bugatti too!)Are there any artists or producers you dream of working with next?I want to do more festivals next year. And I want to work with more musicians—Cory Henry, Olivia Dean, artists making more “musical music,” if that makes sense.If you could speak to your 17-year-old self playing bars in Kampala, what would you say?Keep going. Show up. Everything will make sense eventually.And if you weren’t making music, what would you be doing?Honestly, I struggle to imagine that. Maybe something in church—maybe a pastor. Or business. Probably a very simple life: work, home, weekend parties. But music is all I’ve ever known. 

Photography by Patrick Sear | Interview by Passion DzengaFrom small-town beginnings in Bury St Edmunds to festival stages across the UK, Pozzy is fast becoming one of the most refreshing new voices in grime’s evolving landscape. His music sits somewhere between laid-back jazz, sample-rich hip-hop, and the percussive pulse of the 140 BPM underground—a sound that feels both familiar and forward-looking. What started with piano duets and late-night freestyles with friends has grown into a fully realised artistic vision built on honesty, humour, and homegrown perspective.At just 20 years old, Pozzy already moves with the focus of an artist who knows where he’s heading. He writes from his daily life—train journeys, late-night links, small wins, and big questions—and filters it all through a jazz-infused, mellow grime sensibility that’s distinctly his own. His latest singles, “Step on the Train,”, “wait and see” and upcoming EP, ‘it’s all up in the air.’, showcase that blend perfectly: conversational but poetic, playful but grounded, catchy but never shallow.Whether rapping about the commute, the come-up, or creative community, Pozzy’s voice feels rooted in something real—a reflection of a generation navigating uncertainty with optimism and soundtracking it with style. Ahead of his headline show at Camden Assembly on November 25th, he sat down with Team Patta to talk early influences, train rides, and the art of staying grounded while moving full speed ahead.Where are you from, and what music filled your home growing up?I’m from Bury St Edmunds in the east of England. At home, it was mostly whatever was on the radio, but my mum played piano and got me into keys early, so there was a lot of piano around—classical pieces and pop songs we’d play as little duets. I’d always sing along to the radio, too. That’s where the musicality started before I ever thought about rapping.Did you feel represented by what you heard around you?Where I’m from isn’t exactly an arts hub, so I wasn’t thinking “this isn’t experimental enough.” It wasn’t that deep—more just taking in whatever was there. For local references, Ed Sheeran’s from the same county, but a different town.How did you move from keys to rapping?It started with me and my friends rapping over instrumentals after school. At the same time I began studying music production at college, which helped me build skills and rap over my own beats as well.Which instrumentals defined those early sessions?MF DOOM beats were the go-to—there was that famous instrumentals playlist—and a lot of Pete Rock-related stuff. I didn’t clock it as “jazzy” back then, but that’s obviously the lane I kept gravitating toward.At college, were you making music for this project or ticking assignment boxes?I tried to bend every brief toward my own sound. It was early days, so there’s old music on my Spotify I’ve definitely outgrown—but it shows the journey. And it’s useful: when someone searches your name, something actually comes up.What’s changed most in your approach since then?I’m 20, still developing, but this year I started treating it like it has to work—leaning into the less glamorous bits: business, marketing, planning.Are you studying music now?Yeah—music production at uni. I’m in my final year.Is “train culture” just practical, or part of the aesthetic now?Both. I grew up countryside so I drive, but I don’t have a car. In London it’s all public transport—if you’re going anywhere, you’re on the train. It’s just life.Your recent single “Step on the Train” dropped recently. What’s the story?“Step on the Train” came out late September. The Producer Quill had sent a beat pack that landed in my spam; first beat I opened was the beat. I wrote it in about 25–30 minutes and recorded it at my desk. It’s jazzy, has breaks, and it’s part of my EP ‘it’s all up in the air.’,(out very soon). Lyrically it’s just my weekend perspective—get on the train, link mates, go out. Simple and real.Morning commute or late-night ride?Late night. Mornings are cold outside, boiling on the train, and packed.How do you usually make a track—lyrics first or beat first?Both. Sometimes I’ve got bars in my notes and I hunt for the right beat. Other times a beat sparks the first lines and I build from there. Keep it fluid.What do you and your friends actually get up to on a typical weekend?Depends on the day—park and football in summer, pub, cinema, shopping, studio. Normal stuff with the same people who inspire me.People group you with “mellow grime” or “alt-grime.” Fair?I like mellow grime—the community’s egoless and supportive. I don’t want to be boxed in forever, though. I listen to R&B, hip-hop, electronic, house, jazz. The EP hints at where I might go next while still owning grime DNA.Grime’s now global—how do you see your place in it?140’s worldwide. I love that the scene connects different people and cities. My friends and I are a little community we’ve built through music—that’s the bit I rate the most.Tell us about the EP — what should people take from ‘it’s all up in the air.’?The title’s about uncertainty—and being okay with it. There are different sounds on here; hopefully something for everyone. It shows I’m happy to make grime-adjacent music but with my own twist. Biggest message: be yourself, even when things feel up in the air.Do people ever judge you against the “traditional” idea of a grime artist?Some people are surprised at first—most in a good way. Some don’t get it and that’s fine. As long as I’m respectful and authentic, I’m enjoying it—and most people see that.Co-signs have been rolling in. How does that feel—and what about hearing from abroad?Surreal. I won’t name names, but there are artists I grew up on who’ve shown love. Hearing listeners from the Netherlands, the States, and Australia—wild, and motivating.Any live show plans?My headline at Camden Assembly on 25th November. We’re bringing special guests; Luis Rico is supporting. This one’s a concert, not a club set—me rapping full songs.How was festival season? Memorable moments?Mad. Wireless, Boomtown, All Points East, Leeds, Latitude, GEMFEST. All Points East went from 20 people at the start to 500 by the end. Boomtown was a bucket-list set; I’ll be back—hopefully on a bigger stage.Were these festivals you’d have gone to anyway?Yeah. I love dance music so I’m out in raves regardless. Boomtown’s always been on my list—first year there and I got to play it.Values without the manifesto—what guides you?Treat people how you want to be treated. I ask my friends to call me out if I slip.Does your circle keep you accountable—and are they all creatives too?Yeah—London circle is super creative: music, film, painting, dance, singing, producing. They gas me, but if something needs work they’ll say it. Feedback’s subjective, I take notes and keep moving. My friends are my biggest inspiration.Where do you want to take the sound next—more dance music?Definitely. I want to hit the dance world in a way that still feels Pozzy—maybe a bit alternative, but club-ready. I’ve got tunes; now it’s about plotting the rollout.Visuals and merch?We shot the biggest video of my career this past weekend. Merch will be exclusive to the live show—done with the designers behind the EP artwork. Clothes, CDs—tangible stuff. Proper world-building.Final thought on the journey from Bury to beyond?Never imagined it this fast. I dreamed it, sure—but seeing listeners pop up worldwide is mad. I’m grateful and hungry to see it all in person.As Pozzy steps confidently into this next chapter, his message is clear: keep moving, even when everything feels up in the air. With his debut EP ‘it’s all up in the air.’, on the horizon and the infectious single “step on the train” already setting the pace, it’s the perfect time to lock in and see what the buzz is about.Catch him live at Camden Assembly on November 25th for his first headline show — an intimate night of sharp bars, smooth breaks, and good energy, featuring special guests and exclusive merch drops.Grab your tickets now and experience the world of Pozzy in full colour — or if you can’t wait, hit play on “Step on the Train” and ride the wave wherever you are. 

Interview by Passion DzengaIn just a few years, T.NO has gone from quietly uploading beats on SoundCloud to becoming one of the most exciting names shaping the global electronic scene. His tracks — a hypnotic blend of gqom, Brazilian funk, bubbling, and bass-heavy club sounds — are now being played at Lowlands, at Glastonbury, and underground dance floors from Brazil to South Korea. Yet for T.NO, the journey began long before any festival stage or club setting.Raised in a house filled with R&B, soul, and hip-hop, music was stitched into his daily life. His father, a bassist in the band .nuClarity and a djembe teacher, filled their home with instruments and rhythms that naturally seeped into T.NO’s DNA. By 13, he was mixing drum & bass and dubstep with friends, and by 16, he was producing beats on FL Studio — though back then, he had no plans of turning music into a career; it was already a passion.It wasn’t until 2022, after witnessing a transformative DJ Weslee set at Lowlands, that everything shifted. T.NO dove headfirst into electronic music, crafting a sound that refuses to be boxed into any single genre. His edits on SoundCloud caught attention quickly, but recently, he’s been making a bold transition into original productions — carving out a sonic space entirely his own.Now, as he gears up to release his explosive new single “NO VAI” — a track built on deep basslines, chopped Brazilian vocals, and infectious energy — T.NO is entering a new chapter. We sat down to talk about his roots, his creative process, and how his globally inspired sound is reshaping club culture. Can you tell us a little bit about how you first got into music and what kind of sounds you grew up around?Growing up, there was a lot of R&B, soul, and hip-hop in my household — those were the main three genres. My dad was in a band called .nuClarity. He played bass guitar, and they did hip-hop, jazz, and soul, so music was always present.On top of that, he gave djembe lessons at AMP, so my environment was always full of instruments. On Wednesdays, I’d join him and my brother at his classes, soaking up rhythms and melodies from a young age. Music was part of everyday life.With all that early exposure, when did you realise that music wasn’t just something you loved, but something you wanted to pursue seriously?At first, I didn’t see it as a career — it was pure passion. In high school, when I was around 13, a friend and I would make drum & bass and dubstep mixes on Virtual DJ. By 16 or 17, one of my friends installed FL Studio for me on my birthday and said, “You’ve got to make beats too.” From that point, I was hooked — constantly producing, but only for myself.Things shifted in 2022 when I saw DJ Weslee perform at Lowlands. His set opened my eyes to what electronic music could be. I’d been making mostly hip-hop, R&B, and trap beats, but after that night, I made a full 180 and dove into electronic music. That’s when I first felt, “This is what I want the world to hear.”Before that transition, were you mostly making and collecting R&B and hip-hop?Yeah, that’s where my head was at musically. It’s what I listened to and what I produced.Rhythm clearly plays a big role in your artistry. You were also dancing at the time, right?Kind of. I never danced professionally, but it’s always been in my blood. I can watch someone do a move and instantly copy it. Being surrounded by rhythm growing up made it easy to catch the beat naturally.I remember when you first started releasing music, and you shared quite a lot via SoundCloud. What was that era like for you?Some of those early tracks are still on SoundCloud from like seven years ago. Back then, I wasn’t trying to build a brand or tell my story — I just wanted something online so people could hear what I was working on. I was heavily inspired by Soulection Radio. My main goal at the time was to get one of my tracks played there.Did you know how to make that happen back then?Not at all. I’d just upload tracks and hope for the best. I even once DM’d Joe Kay a track, but he never saw itNow your music is played at Lowlands, Glastonbury and highly respected dance floors all over the world. From Brazil to South Korea. How does that feel?It’s surreal. I make these tracks alone in my room — just me, my laptop, and headphones. To hear them booming through massive sound systems at festivals is still hard to process. It hasn’t fully landed for me yet.Are there any standout moments — big names who’ve supported your tracks?A few, yeah. Seeing RHR from Brazil play one of my tracks was huge. Then I noticed a purchase on Bandcamp and I kinda recognised the name, and it turned out to be Ben UFO! That blew my mind, especially because it wasn’t even the track I would’ve guessed he’d pick. Also, Toma Kamii, whose music I’ve loved for ages, asked me recently to do an official remix for one of his tracks. That was a full-circle moment.Over the past two years, you’ve moved from edits into original productions. What drove that shift?When I first got into electronic music, I dropped a lot of edits on SoundCloud, and they performed really well. But releasing originals is different — it’s more complex because you have to handle proper distribution across streaming platforms.Once I released my first original track, though, the feeling was unmatched. Hearing DJs play something I built entirely from scratch feels way more rewarding than edits. Edits are fun, but you’re kind of riding the wave of an existing track. Originals feel like me.Let’s talk about your creative process. How do you typically start a track?There isn’t one formula. Sometimes I’ll hear a rhythm or texture in a mix that sparks an idea. Other times, it starts with drums, a bassline, or a vocal chop.For my new single NO VAI, it began with a deep bassline. Then I found these Brazilian vocals in an old folder and chopped them up. I treat vocals like instruments — it’s more about their texture than their meaning. The goal was to make something that hits hard on the dance floor, where the bass literally shakes your body.Your sound pulls from so many global influences — South African gqom, Brazilian funk, bubbling, and more. How did that come together?Seeing DJ Weslee play Gqom at Lowlands opened the door for me. I started experimenting with gqom but didn’t stick strictly to the genre. I’d blend Brazilian vocals, gqom basslines, and rhythms from other styles. I’m not trying to replicate existing genres — I’m creating a grey area where all my influences coexist. It’s about taking pieces of what inspires me and making something new.Do you think this evolution in sound is also reshaping club culture?Definitely. Hearing sounds like bubbling, gqom, reggaeton, or baile funk makes a lot of people feel at home on the dance floor. That draws in more diverse DJs and crowds, which is beautiful.At the same time, it’s introducing new audiences to genres they’ve never experienced before. It’s opening minds and pushing culture forward.You’ve just shot your first music video for NO VAI. What was that like?Stressful but amazing. I quickly realised I’m a music guy, not a production guy. Luckily, I worked with Patta and brought my brother on board as director, which made me comfortable. He took my ideas and turned them into a proper story.I wanted the video to capture the sweaty energy of a club, so I invited my friends, brought in Yacht Private Club — an incredible dance group — and shot it in a dark, atmospheric space. There were dancers, trampolines, explosive shots… it was chaotic but so fun. We shot for over 12 hours, well past midnight. It was intense, but it paid off.Amsterdam’s T.NO lands on Club Djembe with a 5-track statement built for the late hours - dark, rave-ready and heavy. The release follows his recent Yards EP on re:lax, where he balanced grime weight with baile funk fire, and his link-up with DJ Polo on Ainda, a tribal drum workout that’s been shaking dancefloors across Europe. This EP takes that same raw energy and pushes it harder - rolling percussion, shadowy atmospheres, and basslines designed to cut straight through the rave. You can grab this now on Bandcamp.

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by James EdsonIn the ever-evolving landscape of hip hop, two artists have been quietly but consistently bending the rules. Birmingham rapper Sonnyjim and Sheffield producer Morriarchi come from different parts of the country, but share a deep commitment to craft, collaboration, and keeping things unpredictable.Sonnyjim’s deadpan flow and razor-sharp wordplay have seen him move between underground cult status and collaborations with legends like MF Doom, Jay Electronica, DJ Premier, and Madlib. Morriarchi, meanwhile, has carved out a reputation as a beatmaker with cinematic vision — pulling from dusty records, global travels, and Sheffield’s DIY spirit to create soundscapes that sit somewhere between hip hop, trip hop, and leftfield electronica.Together, they’ve built a partnership rooted in trust, experimentation, and an almost playful refusal to fit into one box. Their forthcoming record is their most expansive yet — spanning smoked-out jazz loops, heavy funk flips, and unexpected cinematic turns.Get familiar with the duo as they talk about their creative chemistry, the UK’s shifting musical landscape, and how to keep building when algorithms and AI threaten to flatten the sound. What follows is a conversation about community, chaos, and finding your voice in a scene that’s finally getting global attention.You’ve both been making waves in UK hip hop for quite a few years now, but your paths are very different. For anyone new to your work, how would you describe your sound?Sonnyjim: How would I describe my sound? Recently I’ve been asking ChatGPT this and it called it “deadpan luxury.” Personally, I don’t know. People say it’s smoked-out jazz, drumless — which I don’t really agree with. It’s always a hard one for me. I feel like I don’t really have a sound. I just rhyme on whatever I like — funk, disco, soul, abstract loops. Whatever I gravitate toward. I try not to put it in a box.Morriarchi: I’d say something similar. It’s not rooted in one style because I’m a DJ and collector first. I’m into sprawling tastes, going in multiple directions. Some people have called it chaotic, but I like adding a cinematic edge too — I’m a big film head. In the end, it’s not really for us to decide. The listener decides.Sonnyjim: Exactly. To us, it feels varied, but if you ask my girl, she’ll say all my shit sounds the same.Since you both started your musical journeys, the landscape has shifted a lot. How would you say Sheffield shaped your sound, Morriarchi? And Birmingham shaped yours, Sonnyjim?Morriarchi: Sheffield had more of a DIY techno and dub scene. No dominant hip hop scene. That made us breed something else, move at our own tempo.Sonnyjim: Birmingham was always active. Even when UK rap felt dead nationally 20 years ago, there was still a scene there. Being the second city, rooted in Jamaican and bhangra culture, there was always MCs, always a competitive spirit. That shaped me from early.Sonnyjim you’ve cited UK legends like Skinnyman alongside US influences like Jay-Z and Nas. How do you reconcile those two worlds?Sonnyjim: To me, it’s all the same. I don’t look at UK vs. US. If a rapper raps good, they rap good. I don’t differentiate. It’s just good music.Morriarchi your beats have a dusty, cinematic quality — almost like short films. Where does that come from? Old records, movies, experimentation?Morriarchi: All of it. I sometimes think of it like martial arts — learning techniques and finding what works for you. Early on I wanted to make beats like DJ Premier or DJ Muggs. Being in Sheffield, Warp Records and trip hop were huge influences too. But over time you want to dig deeper, find sounds that haven’t been over-sampled.At the end of the day, it’s not just what you do with a sample but the personality you add. Sometimes I think I should have added more technicality, but Sunny’s like, “Nah, it’s done.” His voice becomes the final instrument. Trusting that process is key.You’ve both worked with artists from Blah Records and beyond. What do you look for in a collaboration?Sonnyjim: These days, it’s more about knowing the person. Me and Morri knew each other for years before working. If I don’t enjoy the process, it’s not worth it, no matter how talented someone is.Morriarchi: Yeah, sense of humor helps too. Those inside jokes, little samples or skits we find funny — even if the audience doesn’t get them — they make it enjoyable for us. And that joy comes through in the music.Sonnyjim on the record White Girl Wasted you had an insane lineup — MF Doom, Jay Electronica, Premier, Madlib. How did those collaborations come about?Sonnyjim: Honestly, just from being around so long. It’s six degrees of separation. With Doom, we sent the beat and he wrote off it. Once we had Doom, we reached out to Jay. He was the hardest to get — we didn’t have a link until I saw him post on Instagram about four people to contact. I hit them all, one got back, and the rest is history. Premier I already had a relationship with, and Madlib came through Egon. I was sitting on Doom’s verse from 2018. Didn’t release it until five years later when the album came together.Let’s talk about your collaboration. What’s the creative process like? Beats first, bars first, chaos?Sonnyjim: Bit of everything. I’m always writing bars. Morri’s always cooking beats. Sometimes he brings me something saying, “I hear you on this.” Sometimes I ask him for a vibe I’ve been inspired by. He’s got so many crazy styles I haven’t even touched yet.Morriarchi: Mostly we’d send folders back and forth. A few times we worked in person. There was one beat I had to really convince Sonnyjim to get on. Took some psychedelic assistance to finish that one [laughs]. But then you get magic, like with Peace Ar. I played him the record in a pub, and he wrote the rhymes the next time we were in the studio.Sonnyjim: Yeah, that was the last song we recorded. Came together so organically. Some of these tracks were fresh — not sitting around for years — which makes the album feel alive to me.Do you ever disagree in the studio?Sonnyjim: Nah, never that. For me, part of picking collaborators is about trust and learning from each other. Sometimes I’ll think, “That doesn’t sit right,” and Morri will see it differently. Later I might realize he was right. We never had major disagreements — just small details.Morriarchi: Yeah, like whether to turn up a dog bark in the mix. Minor stuff. For the sequencing, I handled it, and Sonnyjim trusted me. I think sequencing still matters, even in the playlist era. It’s like chapters in a film.Sonnyjim: And Morri mixes are part of the production. First time I’ve experienced that. The mix itself shapes the sound.Your bars, Sonnyjim, are often dense with clever wordplay, references, and imagery. Do you start with concepts, or do the beats dictate where you take the vocal?Sonnyjim: It’s always different. Sometimes I’m just writing and I’ve got loads of bars anyway. Sometimes I’ll be in the studio, just playing beats all day and writing fresh. Sometimes I’ll write something for one beat, then try it over ten others and see what it fits best on. You’d be surprised how often a verse ends up fitting a beat I never would’ve chosen first. I try not to overthink. I’ve always got dozens of beats and rhymes on the go.Even when I’m not in the studio, verses just come to me. Sometimes in three or four minutes, sometimes in hours. It’s like crate-digging for producers — they’re always hunting records, new sounds, flipping stuff. For me it’s the same with rhymes. You don’t stop. It’s ingrained in your mind.And for yourself, Mitch, how do you balance experimenting with keeping your music listenable?Morriarchi: I think now, because I’ve built up a bunch of different styles, I don’t even notice what I’m doing half the time. I’ll just start making stuff, then bring more intention to it later.Experimentation is necessary. Especially now — when you’re up against AI, you’ve got to stay unpredictable. Like, if someone asks for a mariachi beat, hopefully the machine won’t even know what to do with that. I’ve seen Terminator — I’m not trying to lose that fight.Fingers crossed this interview doesn’t make it easier for the robots.Morriarchi: [laughs] They’re coding it out already.UK hip hop’s finally getting more international recognition, with stronger ties to the US underground. Do you feel like you’re part of a bigger global movement, or is what you’re doing still very much UK?Sonnyjim: For me, I’ve always felt part of the global movement. I’ve never considered myself strictly “UK hip hop.” I just saw myself as a rapper in the world who happened to live here. If anything, I’ve felt more of an outsider in the UK, and more accepted globally.Morriarchi: It’s an interesting one. Here, “UK hip hop” almost became a dirty word for a while. But now it’s healthier, more varied. Social media also leveled things out — people in Paris or London or anywhere can connect with it.Blah Records deserves a big shout too. They built on regionality — Manchester, Liverpool, Sheffield, London. All those personalities became part of something global. Personally, I’m proud to be from the UK, but I don’t want to just be boxed in as a “UK artist.” I’d rather just be seen as an artist, full stop.Keeping on the international theme — I want to touch on the Pataka Boys. You’ve spoken about bringing in sounds when traveling. What was it like creating music that’s so culturally layered?Sonnyjim: Credit for that goes fully to the producer. If you listen closely, there aren’t actually that many Indian textures — it’s more dialogue, little sounds, the atmosphere. That’s what gave it the feeling. Plus we were rapping in Punjabi and different dialects. But the producer really had the vision.When we started, he was just a kid. About 19. He’d never worked with rappers before — had made like a thousand beats, all crazy, but no experience in structuring an album. He trusted me and Pav, so in a way we produced it together. Honestly, it wasn’t even meant to be an album. Pav was staying at mine, we had a studio, he started recording me. Then he jumped on some tracks too. A few days later we had ten records, then we went to India and added more. Super organic. Funny thing is, now he’s my engineer. He records me remotely from India. He knows everything now. Six years later he’s a beast.What have been some of your favourite venues or cities to perform in?Sonnyjim: Paris. Always shows me love. London too. Amsterdam. But Paris is number one.Morriarchi: For me, it’s walking into a record shop abroad and seeing my vinyl in the stacks. That’s incredible. Japan is always special — Osaka’s got this unique energy. And Slovenia too — I played there recently, and the knowledge the crowd had blew me away.With so much music out, do you ever slow down?Sonnyjim: I will soon. I’ve got seven or eight albums sitting, waiting. After next year, I’ll probably take a break.Morriarchi: I work in cycles. 2020–21 I released loads, then slowed down. Now I’m trying to be more intentional, give things longevity. But if projects pile up, I’ve got to get them out.The new record, will we see it performed live?Sonnyjim: For sure. I’m so proud of this music, at least half the album’s going in my live set. Can’t wait to tour it.Morriarchi: Same. This album was really special. Sonny actually came up with the title.Sonnyjim: Yeah, just something I saw online that resonated. Showed it to Morri, and we built from there.Morriarchi: I love world-building. Whether it’s microwaves or ’90s rap, it’s about having a reference point, a box of inspiration to pull from. That makes the whole process richer. 

Interview by Passion DzengaRuff Sqwad's story begins long before the YouTube era—back when youth clubs had vinyl decks, pirate radio ruled the city, and a TDK tape could change your week. More than twenty years ago, a loose neighbourhood posse of about thirty friends tightened into a small music unit—Slicks, Shifty Ridos and company—carrying the street name “Rough Squad” into studios, stairwells, and transmitter rooms. Their early education was communal and hands-on: Ghanaian household sounds and pop radio at home, drum & bass and garage on the block, and hours spent DJing and MCing in youth centres that doubled as classrooms. Pirate radio turned that energy outward—bedroom recordings to Deja/Rinse reach—while pressing their own vinyl taught business before there was a blueprint.As Channel U/AKA beamed grime into living rooms, the crew condensed and professionalised, but the ethos stayed DIY: passion first, structure second. In-house producers pushed one another daily, forging a signature that’s emotional and militant at once—heard in era-defining instrumentals like “Together” and “Functions on the Low.” Two decades on, the landscape has shifted from subs to streams, yet the core hasn’t: community, craft, and the mission to move people at 140 BPM. This conversation traces that arc—from youth-club spark and pirate missions to national tours and international stages—and why, for Ruff Sqwad, the music still feels authentic.Take us back to the very beginning—how did Rough Squad form, and who were the founding members?It started over 20 years ago as a big neighbourhood crew—about 30 of us hanging out and moving between youth clubs. From that, a smaller music unit formed: myself, Slicks, and Shifty Ridos. We kept the larger crew’s name and carried it into the music—Rough Squad. We were about 12–13, learning as we went. Being together every day—DJing, MCing, messing with gear—turned friends into musical partners.For readers in the Netherlands who didn’t grow up with UK youth clubs—what were they like, and why were they important?Youth clubs were community spaces with pool tables, table tennis, and—crucially—music equipment. Many had vinyl decks or a little studio. If you had records or a way to get them, you could learn to mix; if you wrote bars, you could practise on the mic. One of my first memories is walking into Devas Youth Club, seeing a young DJ blending two drum & bass tunes so clean it sounded like one—turned out it was Dizzee Rascal. Without those clubs, a lot of us wouldn’t have developed our skills or confidence.What sounds shaped you at home and around the ends before grime?At home: Ghanaian music and whatever was on national radio—pop, rock, chart hits. TV introduced us to the packaging of music—boy bands, pop acts—before we discovered hip-hop, then UK sounds. In the area and at school we heard drum & bass and UK garage, which led us to grime. That mix—African/Caribbean roots, pop radio, and the UK underground—fed into our style.When did you first ‘see yourselves’ in the music?For some of us, drum & bass/jungle came a bit earlier; for others, UK garage into early grime was the first time we saw people who talked like us, dressed like us, and came from where we came from—So Solid, Pay As U Go, that generation. In school, loads of MCs were Afro-Caribbean; it felt natural to step in.What did the first steps into pirate radio look like, and how did the crew name fit into that journey?We were making tapes in bedrooms—TDKs recorded at each other’s houses—long before radio. Hearing our first track “Tings in Boots” on air (shout to Triple S Crew on Magic FM) was magical. From there, pirate was the next level. Stations had hierarchies—Rinse FM and Deja Vu had huge reach—so moving from a smaller station to Deja felt like going from a 50-cap room to 1,000 people. Rough Squad started as a street crew name; when radio came into the picture, the name was already established.What were those early pirate missions like—logistics, crews, and risks?We were kids travelling across London to abandoned flats or converted council spaces that hosted transmitters and studios. It could be risky—you’d hear rumours about certain areas—but the love for music outweighed it. We usually rolled five-deep at least, sometimes with non-musical friends in the entourage. Pirate radio took us out of our neighbourhoods and showed us the city.Was there guidance from elders, or was it self-driven?A bit of both. We were lucky: Dizzee, Wiley, DJ Target, and PAUG were from nearby, so those networks and youth clubs gave us proximity. You’d spit a lyric in a session, someone would clock you and invite you up. Early on, it was about being heard—getting a turn on the mic. When artists started getting signed, it clicked that this could change our lives.Talk us through your first vinyl—why press it, and how did you make it happen?“Tings in Boots” had heat on the underground—especially with a young Tinchey Strider on vocals—so pressing it felt obvious. The model was clear from our peers: build a tune in the underground, get it on radio, cut dubplates, then press. We handled everything: booking studios, getting mixes, cutting dubs for radio, then pressing vinyl and hand-to-handing to shops. Some shops said no (and later those tracks became some of our biggest). Vinyl sales became our first legit income stream before proper shows and bookings scaled.How did distribution evolve once demand grew?At first, it was literally records in a car, shop to shop. As demand picked up, distributors stepped in to place stock across the country. It turned DIY hustle into a small business and taught us about the industry—production costs, timelines, margins—while keeping the streets involved.Looking back, what did that ecosystem—youth clubs, pirates, vinyl—give Rough Squad that streaming can’t?Access and identity. Youth clubs gave us skills and community. Pirate radio gave us reach, urgency, and a live feedback loop. Vinyl gave us ownership and revenue. Together, they made a pathway for kids from our ends to be heard—before algorithms—by sheer force of sound and consistency.Channel U/AKA put you on TV screens. How did that shift—from pirate sets and vinyl—change things?It condensed the crew. We started as 30 friends on the road, became 6–7 for the pirate era, and tightened further once TV rotation kicked in. When one of us started smashing shows nationwide with a bigger camp and then signed a deal, the spotlight widened. It felt strange at first—seeing your guy on other stations while you’re still doing your own sets—but it made sense and lifted the whole name. Tours followed, some of us jumped on those dates, and suddenly we’d gone from radio rooms to arenas of 10–15k.Mid-2000s grime went entrepreneurial—DVDs, tees, CDs, Star in the Hood, as well as exposure on commercial radio such as BBC Radio 1Xtra and Kiss FM. How did you keep the engine running as you moved from teens to young adults?Passion first, then structure. We lived together musically—woke up making tunes, passed houses to listen, hit radio twice a week, booked studio, pressed records. It wasn’t Google Calendars; it was brotherhood. Roles emerged: some of us organised sessions, deadlines and drops; others handled mixes, vinyl, videos. Because we were around each other 24/7, decisions happened in motion.“Together” still erupts clubs. What’s the origin story?Dirty Danger made the beat at around 14. It began as a loop—open, musical, cinematic. The moment it came through the wall, it felt special. He nearly binned it; we pushed him to finish it. In a later studio run (he funded the time), the hook got laid and the tune became a crew staple. It’s the clarity and space that let everyone paint emotion—that’s why it lasts.And “Functions on the Low”? How did that sound crystallise?Nothing was board-roomed. We had multiple in-house producers (each with a distinct palette) feeding off one another—same DAWs, different ears. Friendly pressure kept the bar high: if someone dropped four new riddims today, you weren’t showing up empty-handed tomorrow. We’d build a tune in a week to test it on radio the next. The overlap wasn’t formula; it was shared standards and constant iteration.Quality control in a big crew is tricky. How did you keep the sound coherent without boxing yourselves in?By listening—to each other and to the crowd. It wasn’t competition so much as catalysts: one synth line would spark another tune; a drum pocket would trigger a new flip. Because the workflow was relentless—five ideas a day at times—the weak fell away and the strongest ideas defined “the sound” organically.What’s changed in grime across 20+ years—and what hasn’t?DIY radio is gone, streaming is king, labels and platforms shifted the power a few times. But the culture cycles back: collaboration is up, the community feel is returning, and people are making grime because it moves them, not just the metrics. It doesn’t feel like 20 years because we never stopped.Grime’s international pull is real. Why keep bringing the sound to places like the Netherlands?Because the sound is bigger than us. It sits around 140 BPM, but it’s its own lane—recognisable, iconic, still evolving. We’re grateful to travel with it and rebuild, city by city. The Netherlands has long supported UK bass culture, and linking with local pillars only strengthens the ecosystem.If your music lived in a film, what genre would it score?Epic battle cinema—think 300 or Gladiator. Melodic, martial, high-stakes energy. It’s war music.On Saturday, November 1st, La Cassette take over MONO, Rotterdam presenting a crewnight. Bridging the gap between the Netherlands and the UK. Tickets are available now with party contributions starting at €14 and going up to €17.50.

Interview by Passion Dzenga  For our AW25 lookbook, we wanted every detail to reflect heritage, craftsmanship and modern storytelling — which is why we chose to style the collection with pieces from Fokko Juweliers. Known for their authentic Surinamese designs and deep cultural roots, Fokko doesn’t just create jewelry — they craft connection.As the largest Surinamese jewelry brand today, Fokko Juweliers is redefining what it means to wear tradition with pride. Their pieces blend ancestral craftsmanship with contemporary detail, honoring heritage while looking ahead. We caught up with the founder to get familiar with the story behind the brand — from humble beginnings on Facebook to becoming a million-euro company bridging cultures across the Netherlands and Suriname. Let’s dive in.First things first — how did Fokko Juweliers come to life? What’s the story behind the brand?After finishing my studies, I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to do. Together with a friend, Remi’s Juwelen — a Surinamese jeweler in Groningen — I started selling Surinamese jewelry online via platforms like Marktplaats and Facebook. We had a one-week delivery time.Over time, demand started growing, not just locally but from all over the country. At the time, Surinamese jewelry wasn’t really available online, so I decided to start my own brand: Fokko Juweliers. I didn’t want to name the business after myself directly, so I used my middle name — Fokko, named after my Dutch grandfather. That was back in 2009.As the brand grew, I launched Fokko Design in 2011: my own line of Surinamese jewelry inspired by authentic cultural pieces. Today, we ship over 10,000 orders a year, with an annual turnover of more than a million euros, and have a team of 10 people working with us.That’s an impressive journey! What are the values that drive Fokko Juweliers?At Fokko Juweliers, we’re deeply rooted in several core values that guide everything we do. Authenticity is at the heart of our work — we’re committed to preserving the traditional Surinamese culture and craftsmanship in every single piece we create. Our jewelry is a celebration of heritage, and we strive to keep that spirit alive through careful, meaningful design.Craftsmanship is equally important. Every item is created with precision, care, and an eye for detail — high quality isn’t optional; it’s a standard. We also place great value on diversity, reflecting the richness of Suriname’s multicultural society, where different ethnic influences come together in harmony. Sustainability is another pillar of our approach. We use eco-friendly materials and ethical production methods to ensure that our impact is positive, not just culturally, but environmentally as well.Connection plays a big role in our mission. We aim to connect people with Surinamese history and culture through our jewelry, and we’re proud to collaborate with Surinamese businesses — from local photographers to marketing partners. Our photos are often taken in Suriname itself, reinforcing that connection.We also feel immense pride — in our heritage, our team, and in the ability to share Surinamese stories with the world. Through our blog, we strive to raise awareness and appreciation for Suriname and its unique jewelry traditions. Finally, creativity is woven into our process. We love innovating and creating designs that respect traditional elements while incorporating a modern style.You operate in both the Netherlands and Suriname. How do the markets differ?There’s a notable difference in production methods between the two markets. In Suriname, jewelry is often handmade or crafted using basic molds, which results in pieces that may not have the polished finish expected in the Netherlands. That’s why we’ve invested heavily in advanced machinery and in training local Surinamese talent. Thanks to these investments, we’re now able to produce Surinamese jewelry that matches Dutch standards in both quality and finish. We can achieve intricate details that wouldn’t have been possible by hand alone, allowing us to blend tradition with modern precision.What makes Fokko Design stand out from other jewelry brands?What sets us apart is the authentic cultural connection embedded in each of our designs. Our jewelry tells genuine stories rooted in Surinamese traditions and customs, whereas many competing brands often create more generic, commercial pieces that lack that specific cultural background — and often, any personal connection to Suriname at all.We also work with authentic Surinamese materials and traditional techniques. For instance, we use the original hand-blown Ala Kondre beads, while others opt for cheaper Chinese replicas. This commitment to authenticity is a defining aspect of our brand. But we don’t stop there. We offer more than just products — we provide a full cultural experience. Whether it’s through our blog or sponsorship of Surinamese events, we create a space where people can engage with and feel proud of their heritage.And importantly, our jewelry remains affordable. For us, it’s not just about profit. Our mission is to tell Suriname’s story — and we want as many people as possible to be able to access and connect with it. Each piece we create reflects Suriname’s rich history, traditions, and cultural diversity, allowing our customers to wear something meaningful and proudly rooted in identity.What kind of partners or retailers do you collaborate with?When we look for partners to carry our Surinamese jewelry brand, we seek those who align with our vision and values. It’s important that they have a deep respect and appreciation for the cultural heritage behind our designs. We want to work with people who can genuinely communicate that story to their customers, because in Surinamese culture, jewelry holds significant meaning.We also prioritize quality. Our ideal partners are committed to offering their clients high-quality, handcrafted pieces — not mass-produced products. On top of that, they should be passionate about creating a strong customer experience — one that’s personal, warm, and meaningful.We value collaboration and want to work with people who are enthusiastic about growing with us. We believe our jewelry is much more than an accessory — it carries stories, memories, and identity. So, any partner we work with needs to understand what they’re offering and why it matters.And who is your typical customer?Our typical customer is someone who’s not just shopping for jewelry, but looking for something truly meaningful. They value craftsmanship and authenticity and are often drawn to the cultural and personal significance behind our pieces. These are people who want to wear or gift something that tells a story — something that resonates with their heritage, or simply stands out for its uniqueness.When they visit Fokko Juweliers, they’re looking for more than just a purchase. They want to feel welcomed, receive expert guidance, and be inspired. Our customers appreciate the personal attention we offer, as well as the passion and care we put into every single piece. It’s crucial that our team has in-depth knowledge to match each customer with something that truly suits their style, story, and wishes.In short, they’re seeking a warm, trustworthy, and authentic shopping experience where they feel heard, valued, and understood.Looking ahead — what’s next for Fokko Juweliers?We’re always looking forward and evolving based on our experience and customer feedback. While we’re proud of our current collection, we’re also excited about its future growth. In the coming months, we plan to introduce new designs that bring together Suriname’s rich cultural elements with modern trends.Another key goal is expanding our network of retail partners, especially in Belgium and eastern parts of the Netherlands, so we can share our passion with even more people. But for us, growth needs to be sustainable. Expanding too quickly can compromise quality and our close connection with customers — something we never want to lose.That’s why we take our time. We’re focused on maintaining the high standards we’ve set, both in our jewelry and in our customer service. Quality will always come before quantity for us. Sustainable growth allows us to stay true to our values and ensures that we remain a reliable, thoughtful, and personal brand long into the future.What legacy do you hope Fokko Juweliers leaves behind?We’re proud that Fokko Design has become the largest Surinamese jewelry brand — and that didn’t happen overnight. It took years of passion, hard work, and staying true to our identity. We’ve built a strong, trusted name both in Suriname and the Netherlands, and our customers see us as a reliable and inspiring brand that honors Surinamese culture and brings it to life through beautiful jewelry.Our biggest hope is to continue connecting people to Suriname’s rich traditions, and to do so with authenticity, quality, and care. We want to be remembered not just for our products, but for the stories we told, the people we inspired, and the cultural pride we shared with the world.

Photography by Megan Jane Simons | Interview by Passion DzengaTwo decades deep in the Dutch underground, NoizBoiz stands as living proof that grime, garage, and bass music transcend borders. Emerging from the streets of Rotterdam in the early 2000s, they fused UK-inspired 140 energy with their own Caribbean-Dutch influences — long before “international grime” was even a term. What started as teens freestyling over jungle and drum & bass beats evolved into one of the Netherlands’ most pioneering collectives, bridging local street culture, graffiti, and skate scenes with a distinctly UK sound.From DIY setups to international tours, NoizBoiz’s journey mirrors the pulse of grime itself — resourceful, raw, and endlessly adaptive. Along the way, they connected with UK heavyweights like Wiley, Skepta, and JME, culminating in collaborations that helped cement their legacy as cross-continental innovators. Through their long-running series NoizBoiz Presenteert: Zware Bassen, Zware Beats, they’ve built a platform that not only champions Dutch producers and MCs but also keeps the UK–Dutch sound system dialogue alive and evolving.Now, with over twenty years in the game, a new generation of collaborators, and their official DJ Jill-Ann joining the crew, NoizBoiz continue to evolve while staying true to their foundation — heavy beats, heavy bars, and full authenticity. Speaking from Los Angeles, Axel and Don spoke to us ahead of their upcoming Patta x Keep Hush performance and new project drop. They reflect on the origins, lessons, and future of a movement that’s always been too real to fade.What was the spark moment when NoizBoiz became more than just friends messing about?Me and Mucky have known each other since I was about 15 and he was 13. Before either of us did music, we were just big on sound — hip-hop, dancehall, jungle. We started writing parts here and there in school before grime even existed. At the time, it was all drum & bass and jungle. We went to a lot of those raves in Rotterdam — the DNB nights called ‘Illy Noiz’ — and when grime came along, it felt like a natural next step because we were already deep into garage and jungle. Once we heard Eski beats and Wiley’s productions, we just wanted to make that kind of sound ourselves. That’s how it started.How were you exposed to those early grime beats?Garage was big here — especially around 2001–2002 — with collectives like SPEADFREAX (SPDFRX) in Rotterdam, a clubnight showcasing UK Garage music. It started evolving into something darker, and that sound caught us. We had MTV Base for a short while, so that’s how we first saw So Solid Crew and More Fire Crew. Then came Limewire and Kazaa — old-school download platforms. We’d type in whatever names we found and download sets. One day we saw “Rinse” pop up, and that’s how we discovered Rinse FM. From there, we found Deja, Heat FM, and other pirate stations. That’s what really pulled us into grime.Was there a pirate radio scene in the Netherlands?Not really. There were underground parties, but nothing like the pirate culture in the UK. Hip-hop was around, but it wasn’t big — more underground. There were maybe one or two mainstream artists, but the pirate MC-and-DJ format wasn’t really a thing. We had illegal hip-hop parties and warehouse events, but not radio. Drum & bass, though, that was thriving. In Rotterdam, we had nights like Illy Noiz at Nighttown and Resistance at Waterfront. You could smoke in there, they’d play drum & bass, and show skateboarding videos on small screens. Me and Mucky were into graffiti and skating too — it all came from the same energy.That crossover of music, graffiti, and skating feels like part of the same culture.Exactly. It’s street energy. And even though I come from a Caribbean background, my parents didn’t play that kind of music — more soul and Surinamese tunes. My cousins brought dancehall tapes from Suriname, so I grew up on Super Cat and Shabba Ranks. The MC energy in that music was what connected me to grime later. It’s the same spirit.How did you both start making music? Did you have musical backgrounds?Yeah. My dad was a gospel singer, so there was always music in the house. I played piano as a kid. Mucky played saxophone and was always technical — if you gave him software or gear, he’d master it in three days. That curiosity drove him to start producing. We’d listen to beats and think, “How’s this made?” and then try to make our own versions.How would you describe the NoizBoiz sound today?It’s always been a blend. From our first album in 2008, we had grime, garage, dubstep, drum & bass — everything. That’s why people couldn’t box us in. We’d get booked for house raves, hip-hop festivals, school parties — anywhere with loud music. In the Netherlands back then, people didn’t know what grime was. They’d see a Black guy with a mic and assume hip-hop, or think it sounded like pop or house. But we just did our thing. Over time, we’d win people over — by the end of the set, they’d be like, “What is this? It’s mad!”Where has music taken you that you never expected?Everywhere, man. I once took 60 flights in one summer just for music. I’m sitting in a studio in Los Angeles right now because of NoizBoiz. We’ve toured, travelled, and connected through this sound. I’ve been to Suriname multiple times because of music — sometimes for my own shows, sometimes managing artists. Music’s given me everything.Tell us about the ‘NoizBoiz Presenteert: Zware Bassen, Zware Beats’ series and your 2025 release.The series started in 2010, originally inspired by an early member, Kariszma, who coined a name that summed up our sound — heavy basses, heavy beats. NoizBoiz Presenteert is a banner to showcase the spectrum we love — grime, garage, dubstep, drum & bass — not just our own tracks. The 2010 launch party sold out and really put us on the map; people were buying tickets to another main-room event just to get into ours. From there we kept the series moving — 2012, 2014, and now into 2025 — always pushing the sound and platforming likeminded producers and MCs across the Netherlands. Hayzee (now Southeast Hayes) from Zwart Licht was part of the ZBZB series too, alongside day-ones like Hazat and newer faces such as Nelcon.What collaborations only happened because of the music—like your big collab with Wiley?We met Wiley through a chain of shows and mutual friends. Years back we played a small Amsterdam festival where Skepta and JME were also booked. Backstage they told us, “You lot have proper grime—but you’re not even from England.” We stayed in touch. Later, at a Westerpark festival where Skepta performed with Maximum, Wiley was around; Skepta introduced us properly. Wiley said he loved Rotterdam and took my number—then actually pulled up. He ended up staying in town for about half a year. Mucky was constantly making beats; producers were sending riddims daily. We were spinning ideas in the kitchen when Wiley clocked one beat, left for Cyprus, called back five days later like, “I need that one.” He came back, he and Mucky made “Speakerbox”, then we cut our version “Fris” (NoizBoiz ft. Wiley). From there Wiley dropped “Boasty”, which blew up. All of that sprang from live shows, real conversations, and the music connecting first.Who’s been part of the journey—day-ones and new faces?Both. Our guys Hazat have been with us since the beginning. More recently we’ve pulled in younger talent like Nelcon—he told us our work influenced his style, and when we linked up we could tell he really knows his stuff. From the second installment we had producers like Curifex (dubstep/garage). When I’m back in Holland after ADE we’ve got a session planned with Styn. The aim is always to bridge generations and keep the ecosystem alive.You mentioned Styn — what’s the story there?Fun one: Don hosted a radio show back in the day and was the first person to play a Styn tune on air — Styn told us that recently. I’ve done an official remix for a track he produced with Brunzyn, and there’s a little reel on Instagram where I’m styled like him. It’s garage-leaning; full-circle moments like that are what keep it exciting.Your latest 101Barz session made noise. What were you trying to push there?We’ve done a few 101Barz sessions. The most recent one was about platforming the scene: bringing through Lost (Soultrash), Nelcon, and GGG, an original NoizBoiz member from way back — we even brought GGG to 101Barz ourselves. 101Barz reaches the youth; after it dropped, kids at my football club were like, “Sir, we saw you on 101!” It’s a powerful way to put grime and bass music to new ears.What are the biggest lessons from 20+ years — artistic and business-wise?Artistically: authenticity is everything. We once overthought an album (2014’s Oase) and promised ourselves never again — remember why we started. Live shows are our superpower, so we work with people who understand that. Business-wise: partner with teams who actually listen and get your vision. We’re with Mojo now on terms that suit us, and it’s a respectful, flexible relationship.What can people expect from the next run of shows?At ADE we’re doing more DJ-driven sets, and at Patta x Keep Hush we’ll add a live performance — energy high, a mix of new cuts and classics. We’re in LA wrapping a new project and aiming for festival shows next summer. Stay tuned — new music is loading, and we’ll be road-testing it soon.As the beat of Amsterdam Dance Event 2025 builds, Patta and Keep Hush return for the third time — and you know what they say: three’s the magic number. This year, the partnership levels up, uniting three of the city’s most forward-thinking collectives — Sankofa Archives, Mosaiko, and Studio Strip — for a night that goes far beyond your standard ADE rave.This is community in motion: collectives linking up, sounds colliding, and energy multiplying into something bigger than the sum of its parts. From live sets by NoizBoiz to stacked B2Bs, selectors, and special guests, it’s an all-Amsterdam celebration of sound system culture, experimentation, and underground connection.Tickets are live now — don’t sleep. Join the movement and secure your spot at Patta x Keep Hush, where the community takes centre stage.

Photography by Axel Joseph | Interview by Passion DzengaFrom the streets of Luanda to the global stage, Pongo has turned movement into meaning. Once known as “M’Pongo Love,” a name given to her by her father during her recovery, she has carried that strength into a career defined by resilience, rhythm, and reinvention. As one of the most distinctive voices in Kuduro, Pongo embodies the duality of survival and celebration — transforming her personal story into an unstoppable force of sound and identity.In this conversation, she reflects on her journey from the train stations of Lisbon to international fame with Buraka Som Sistema, the creation of the anthemic “Kalemba (Wegue Wegue),” and the lessons learned about ownership, artistry, and self-worth. Speaking candidly about healing, independence, and the evolution of Kuduro, Pongo reveals how she’s balancing her Angolan roots with a global vision — and why her mission now is to inspire a new generation to move, dream, and express themselves unapologetically.Your father nicknamed you M’Pongo Love during your recovery. Do you feel that name and the story behind it still echoes in your identity as Pongo today?Partly, yes. Today I also identify with the strength of the artist M’Pongo Love. She deeply inspires me — not only through her resilience, but through her independence. She even created her own record label later in her career, and that motivates me to keep working toward having my own label one day too.Can you take me back to the moment you first saw Denon Squad performing on the street? What did that spark inside you?At the time, I used to make that journey twice a week, and I was always curious to see Denon Squad performing at the train station. On my way to physiotherapy, they would be dancing and singing Kuduro, and from the very first time I saw them, something powerful awoke inside me — a strong sense of belonging and identity.When you first began dancing and rapping, did you see it as escape, empowerment, or both?Both. I was already dancing at family events — it was always a competition between the kids! I also took part in neighborhood dance battles back in Angola. When I moved to Portugal, I started rapping in my teenage years, so for me, it was all connected: an escape from the challenges of growing up, and a source of empowerment from the very beginning.At just 16, you went from performing with friends in the street to sharing stages with Buraka Som Sistema. What was that transition like for you?When I joined Denon Squad, I was just a dancer. I ended up participating in a song they were recording, and that track was later shared with Buraka Som Sistema. That’s how they reached out to me — and for me, it felt surreal. Everything happened so fast.“Kalemba (Wegue Wegue)” became a global hit almost overnight. Did you realize, when you wrote it, how much impact it would have?Honestly, no. The entire composition of Kalemba (Wegue Wegue) was deeply personal for me. It was rooted in my story — in the way my parents, as immigrants in Portugal, kept our Angolan culture alive in our daily lives. The global impact was something I only realized later. Seeing the song cross borders and connect people around the world was a huge surprise, but also a confirmation that when art comes from an honest place, it finds its way. Kalemba was exactly that — a spontaneous celebration that grew into something much bigger than I ever imagined.Leaving Buraka Som Sistema must have been difficult. Looking back, what lessons did that chapter teach you about ownership and self-worth in the music industry?I didn’t choose to leave Buraka — the group made that decision for me. And because of that, I decided not to return. It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. That project wasn’t just about music; it was a movement, a community, a family. Over time, though, I realized that even as we were breaking sonic and cultural boundaries, I already had a strong sense of control over my creative identity — especially within Kuduro. That experience taught me that if you don’t define your role and your value from the start, someone else will do it for you. Since then, I’ve become much more intentional about understanding contracts, royalties, and the business side of art. But most importantly, I learned that self-worth isn’t tied to the size of the platform or the volume of applause. Sometimes, stepping away is the most powerful thing you can do — especially when it means choosing yourself, your voice, and your future.Kuduro has often been misunderstood or pigeonholed in Europe. How do you describe it, and what makes it so powerful to you?For me, Kuduro is much more than a musical style — it’s an expression of resistance, energy, and identity. It was born on the streets of Angola as a form of liberation, driven by the Kazukuta and Hip-Hop cultural movement. Its force comes from both body and soul. What makes it powerful is its ability to bring people together — to turn pain into dance, and to tell stories that come from our African roots.Your work brings in influences from Angola, Portugal, and global club culture. How do you balance honoring tradition with pushing boundaries?For me, tradition and innovation are not opposites — they walk side by side and strengthen each other. Honoring tradition means keeping the spirit and truth of Kuduro alive, but it’s also about experimenting, mixing sounds, and taking that energy into new spaces.You often sing in Kimbundu and Portuguese. How important is it for you to weave language and cultural identity into your music?Language carries memory, history, and emotion. By weaving it into my music, I invite listeners into my cultural universe. It’s my way of saying that our languages belong in contemporary music — and that we can stay true to ourselves even when we’re speaking to the whole world.After everything you’ve lived through, do you see music more as a form of survival or a celebration?For me, music is both survival and celebration. It’s still my refuge during difficult times and gives me strength when I feel like giving up. But it’s also joy, freedom, and celebration. Each song is a way of honoring what I’ve been through while celebrating who I am and who I’m still becoming.Mental health and trauma are often taboo topics in immigrant communities. How have you learned to process yours, and does that healing appear in your songs?It’s true — talking about mental health and trauma is still taboo in many communities, not only among immigrants. In my case, I had to find the courage to look inward, to face my pain, and to transform it into art. Music became a space for healing. When I write and sing, I’m often processing those wounds, and I believe that energy reaches the people who listen.Winning the Music Moves Europe Talent Award in 2020 was huge. Did that feel like recognition not only for you, but for Kuduro as a whole?Winning that award was a huge milestone. It wasn’t just personal recognition — it felt like recognition for Kuduro and for Angolan culture. I was proud to represent that collective strength and show that our music belongs on the global stage.Your EPs Baia and Uwa felt like bold statements of independence. How do they differ in terms of your personal journey?Baia was a cry for independence — a moment where I affirmed my voice and said, “I have my own path.” Uwa is more mature and introspective; it speaks about healing, ancestry, and rebirth. Together, they trace my evolution — from liberation to deeper self-discovery and creative vision.Kuduro is now inspiring younger generations globally. Do you feel a responsibility to guide where it goes next?Yes, I do — and I carry that responsibility with love. Kuduro is a living movement, and seeing it inspire younger generations is beautiful. I want to help show that it can grow without losing its roots — that it can speak to the world while staying authentic. I see myself as a bridge between the past and the future, inspiring others to respect where Kuduro comes from while exploring where it can go.If a young Angolan girl living in Lisbon listens to your music, what do you hope she feels?I hope she feels seen and represented. I want her to know that her voice matters — that her origins are something to be proud of — and that she can achieve anything without ever having to apologize for who she is. I want her to feel pride, strength, and freedom, and to know that she belongs, just as she is.Finally — what’s next for Pongo? Where do you want this journey to take you in the coming years?What comes next is growth — exploring new sounds, collaborating with artists from different parts of the world, and bringing Kuduro to spaces it’s never reached before. I want this journey to be long and full of discovery. Most of all, I want to keep telling real stories — my own, those of my people, and those of the world — and continue inspiring others to do the same.Don’t miss it! During Amsterdam Dance Event, Pongo brings her explosive blend of Kuduro, Afrofunk, and global club energy to Paradiso for an unforgettable live show full of rhythm, power, and freedom. Expect pure adrenaline, unstoppable movement, and a performance as visually striking as it is emotional. Experience the voice of a new Kuduro generation live — get your tickets now for Pongo at Paradiso during ADE!

Interview by Passion DzengaNorthwest London’s own Kekoto, known musically as Keko, has steadily carved a lane at the crossroads of culture, experimentation, and self-made innovation. An artist, creative director, and self-described cultural innovator, he carries the dual identity of a grounded Londoner and a global-minded creator. From R&B and Gambian-Senegalese melodies in his childhood home to the late-night Channel U discoveries that shaped a generation, Keko’s sound is rooted in heritage yet driven by experimentation.Balancing raw emotion with cinematic vision, his evolution from the introspective in the meantime to the defiant 2L2Q (Too Legit to Quit) reflects both personal growth and perseverance through hardship. Across projects like Crimson and K-onenine, Keko fuses alternative rap with melody, texture, and storytelling—crafting immersive worlds as much as records.Through his creative umbrella Mismaf, he extends his artistry beyond music into visuals, fashion, and direction—building an ecosystem where every element speaks the same language of independence and innovation. Grounded in community and sharpened by honesty, Keko’s ethos is clear: live creatively, own your craft, and let the work speak louder than the hype.For people discovering you through now—who is Kekoto/Keko, and when do you use each?Kekoto/Keko are both me. I’m an artist, creative director, and cultural innovator. “Keko” is the music-side nickname—more informal, more personal. If someone uses “Kekoto,” they probably just found me. In short: Kekoto/Keko is a cultural innovator—overall, a wavy youth.You’re from Northwest London. How did NW shape your sound and stories?It shaped everything—sound, style, even how I carry myself. What I do connects worldwide—Amsterdam, Germany, Paris—but I know who I speak for and where I’m rooted. Northwest London is deep in the music and in me.Take us into your early musical moments. What was playing at home? First CDs? First discoveries?Born in ’98, the house was R&B and native sounds—Senegalese/Gambian music, jelis and kora traditions. My first rap memory is Nas—“I Can” really stuck with me. Discovery-wise, Channel U was huge. I’d stay up late for grime and UK garage—seeing people who looked and sounded like me, shooting videos where I lived, on TV. Mind-blowing.You also read a lot growing up—did that feed the ambition?Always. On the tube I’d read the music sections in the newspapers as well as all the magazines—Clash, NME, especially the award show write-ups. Even before I made music I thought, “I want to be at one of these. I want to win one of these.” That fueled a goal to do something culturally innovative the next generation can point back to.Press often mentions your smooth lyricism and melodic approach. Where does that come from?I’m a rap artist—alternative rap—but melodies pulled me early. R&B at home plus Senegalese/Gambian patterns are ingrained. Later I got into odd edits—people called it “trap,” but a lot of it was more dubstep/techno-adjacent SoundCloud energy. I like that experimental edge.When did you realize, “I can really do this”?2018. I booked my first studio—one hour, turned up 30 minutes late, spent 20 minutes hunting a beat. The producer said, “Punch something in.” I recorded my first released song in ten minutes. Hearing it back, I knew I could do this. Getting truly serious came around 2023 with in the meantime—the listening party, the turnout—then doing it bigger for 2L2Q at Peckham Audio. Watching the footage like, “All these people were here for me.” Since then we’ve done multiple headliner-style listening parties. It keeps building.Walk us through your creative process—what’s non-negotiable?The beat. If I don’t feel it, I’m onto the next—no matter who sent it. I love ethereal sounds that give goosebumps—close your eyes and see a world. I prefer beats being built live in the session. I’ll start writing, lay something, then punch in—very in-the-moment and experimental. A lot of first-thought honesty.Your music feels cinematic. If it were a film genre, what would it be?A thinker you rewatch for new interpretations—David Lynch vibes (Mulholland Drive), Eyes Wide Shut, The Matrix. Visually bold like Belly, Fallen Angels, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas—colorful, stylish, still fun and gripping. Spike Lee’s stylization too.You’ve mentioned DIY and struggle shaping innovation. How so?Innovation comes from constraint. We weren’t born with silver spoons—so we live creatively because we have to. That resourcefulness is part of the culture and the art.Early on, did you tell people you were making music?No. I kept my head down and did the work. It leaked eventually—my private Insta linked to Facebook, aunties back home seeing it. But I moved quiet until the craft could speak.Your first tape, in the meantime—what did it prove to you?It captured a transition: where I was vs. where I knew I could go. I could complain about what I needed—or act. in the meantime asked, “While I’m heading to the version of me I see, what am I doing right now?” Sonically and visually, it’s a timestamp—busy artwork, real-life energy. It started as a “side mission” before a bigger album… then became the main mission. That happens a lot with me.What did listeners miss that you heard instantly on that record?People had notes on the mixes. I wanted a raw, authentic, slightly rugged sound—2L2Q doubled down on that: somehow polished yet rugged. We even lost stems on “2L2Q” with KBO and released the mix we had. It worked—good audio with texture. The point wasn’t clinical perfection; it was feeling.Moving into the next era—what was the goal for the sound?2L2Q is exactly what it says—Too Legit to Quit. 2024 was testing—trials nonstop. In hindsight it made me stronger, but living it wasn’t fun. The tape says: I didn’t come this far just to get this far. You hear it—I was writing on my worst days, speaking directly. It’s bigger than me.So in the meantime was discovery. What’s the arc after that?in the meantime was figuring it out. 2L2Q is: I’ve discovered it, and I’m here to say it. Crimson keeps that energy but is more curated—more world-building and artistic direction.Your release rhythm feels like 2000s mixtape culture—dropping between albums to show resilience. Why keep that pace?People grow up and move on, so from early you need to know who you’re speaking to. If they truly relate, time won’t break that bond. A lot of folks quit. Staying power matters, but only if you’ve got something real to say.Tell us about K-onenine—concept and how it came together.K-onenine is a collaboration between me, A19, and MV (producer). We locked in for a few months and suddenly had a tape. We sequenced it, got the cover right, tested it—Amsterdam trip, a pre-listening party where attendees got USBs with the tape—then the release party on drop day. The response made us double down. It could’ve stayed a side project while we worked on other things, but we said, “The world needs to hear this now.”Who are your core collaborators?Not exhaustive, but: producers nv, mannydubbs, Proton, A19, Kibo; creative team Melo (photographer/director), Detroit (artist), MS, Sam Swervo; Chinua (DJ); Retita (hair stylist); Cojo, Oscar—and family in Amsterdam too. So many people believe in this and make it happen. That’s another reason it’s “too legit to quit”—it’s bigger than me.Hip-hop has that “pull each other up” ethic—iron sharpening iron. Is that your circle?100%. My people won’t let me slack. If a song isn’t it, they’ll say it. That honesty keeps the bar high. I’m for bringing back a bit of gatekeeping—once someone proves themselves, cool, but standards matter. When bars drop, sub-genres get watered down.Let’s talk visuals—cover art and videos. How do you approach them, and where does Mismaf fit?I start with a rough concept that evolves. I don’t like text on covers—I want the image to tell the story and leave room for interpretation. Mismaf is my creative umbrella; clothing is one medium. I put all my creative work—music included—through Mismaf. Sometimes there’s joint venture distribution with labels, but it’s my house for ideas.Ownership keeps coming up. Why is it important to you?Ownership is key. Chasing hits for money kills passion. I keep it fresh—even if I have to switch process or environment. Whatever it takes.Off socials—when you’re not making music or building Mismaf—what keeps you inspired?Life. I’ll ditch the phone, end up in a bookstore, read something that sparks a whole Mismaf collection. My deepest, longest-lasting inspiration comes from living—not the phone.As the beat of Amsterdam Dance Event 2025 builds, Patta and Keep Hush return for the third time — and you know what they say: three’s the magic number. This year, the partnership levels up, uniting three of the city’s most forward-thinking collectives — Sankofa Archives, Mosaiko, and Studio Strip — for a night that goes far beyond your standard ADE rave. This is community in motion: collectives linking up, sounds colliding, and energy multiplying into something bigger than the sum of its parts.From live sets by NoizBoiz and Kekoto, to stacked B2Bs, selectors, and special guests, it’s an all-Amsterdam celebration of sound system culture, experimentation, and underground connection. Tickets are live now — don’t sleep. Join the movement and secure your spot at Patta x Keep Hush: where the community takes centre stage.

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Akadre Studio | Styling by Sonia IhuomaIf you haven’t already tapped into the world of Black Sherif, now’s the time to get familiar. The Ghanaian genre-bender has come a long way since his First Sermon days, evolving from a hometown hero into a global voice with a message rooted in resilience, spirit, and raw emotion. With a sound that blurs the lines between drill, reggae, highlife, and rap—and a style just as genre-defying—Blacko is the kind of artist who makes you feel something, even if you don’t understand the language.It’s been a busy year for the 23-year-old, whose real name is Mohammed Ismail Sherif. We spoke days before the release of his sophomore album Iron Boy, and the start of an arena tour across the US and UK. Sherif is entering his Iron Boy era with the quiet confidence of someone who’s lived, learned, and levelled up. He’s got love for his roots, love for the journey, and love for the people who see power in vulnerability—because for Black Sherif, that’s the real flex. We caught up with him to talk about patience, performances, personal growth, and the power of staying true to your source. Let’s get into it.You’ve come a long way since your debut album. How do you reflect on your growth as an artist? How have you changed over time?It’s been quite a journey—from The First Sermon to where I am now, preparing to drop my sophomore album. A lot has changed, especially in terms of how the world receives me and how the business works. But one thing that hasn’t changed is where my creativity comes from. The source remains the same. What has changed is me—I’ve grown. I’ve learned patience, and I’ve learned acceptance. Two or three years ago, things that happen to me now would've broken me. Today, I handle them with a different mindset. I respect the journey. As kids, we think success will come instantly—we write goals in our notes and expect them to happen on our timeline. But life teaches you patience.Patience really does sound like the defining theme of your journey. Would you say that’s the biggest lesson so far?Absolutely. Patience. This album, for instance, was supposed to drop eight months ago, but life happened. If I didn’t have patience, I would’ve crashed out. Learning to sit back, be part of a team, and let things unfold—that’s been everything.Your sound is a unique mix of drill, rap, reggae, and highlife. How did you develop this blend? And what role do your Ghanaian roots play in that?I don’t think I’ve ever said this before, but confusion helped me find my sound. I know how to do so many things, and I used to judge myself a lot—I'd write something and wish it sounded like reggae or something else. But then I let go. I stopped fighting the flow and started letting whatever came out, come out. The result is this unique mix. It’s not forced. It’s just who I am and what I’ve been exposed to—from Ghanaian music to Caribbean influences.Highlife is such a traditional Ghanaian genre. How does it find its way into your music, especially when you’re blending so many Western sounds?I even get surprised sometimes. I’ll be working with my in-house producer, Joker, and he’ll make these futuristic beats—but the rhythms, man, they just scream highlife. It’s not about language or lyrics. It’s in the rhythm, the melodies. And somehow, that same beat my Jamaican friends will hear and say, "This sounds Caribbean!" It’s wild.Different things, but especially my mom. I remember being 10; that was the last time I was home with her. And the music that shaped me came from those early years. My dad came back from Greece when I was eight and introduced me to Don Carlos. “Harvest Time” was the first reggae song I learned. That shaped my idea of what music and art should be. Also, I still have friends from when I was six or seven; we’re still close, some of us even work together now. Those relationships keep me grounded.You’re known for being vulnerable in your music. How do you manage that vulnerability while still showing strength and power in your art?I find power in being vulnerable. Not everyone can do that. I see vulnerability as a superpower. There are so many people in the world who can’t speak or express what they’re feeling—but I can. And I have a space to do it through music.You’ve worked with big names—Burna Boy, Vic Mensa, Mabel, Fireboy DML. What do you look for in a collaborator, and how do those collabs shape your sound?Funny enough, I don’t think I’ve fully entered my collaborative phase yet. Most of the songs I’ve done came from relationships—someone sent me a track, and I vibed with it. But after this album, I want to travel, sit with artists, connect spiritually, and create. To me, music is spiritual. A perfect collaboration is when everyone’s spirit aligns on a track. That’s the kind of collab I’m chasing.What sort of themes, sound, and your evolution as an artist on this second album?It’s more elevated. Some of the beliefs I had two or three years ago—I’m challenging them now. I’ve found new ways to be personal and vulnerable. There’s a song called One that talks about something that happened to my father last year that changed everything in my family. It’s a spiritual album. You’ll have to listen to it to feel what I’m saying.The album is called Iron Boy. What does that title mean to you?The title is layered. First, it’s a tribute to a highlife legend from where I’m from—Iron Boy was his nickname. But also, "iron" represents being tough. The stuff I’ve been through recently? If it had happened three years ago, I would’ve stopped making music. But now, I’m iron. I’ve become that.You’ve been called the voice of the Ghanaian youth. How do you carry that responsibility, and how do you reflect your community’s struggles in your work?I've learned we all fight the system in different ways. For me, music is how I respond. I’m honest in how I reflect what’s around me. Where I’m from—Zongos—you don’t often see guys being this vulnerable. They’ll say, “Being soft gets you nowhere.” But I say it anyway. And that gives me power.You mentioned a track called “Victory Song”, where you open up about crying in a hotel in London. Why was that moment important to share?Because no one talks about that part of success. People see you on stage or travelling, but they don’t see the moments when the noise fades, and you’re alone with your thoughts. That moment reminded me that I’m still that kid from back home, feeling things deeply. I want people to hear that. That’s the kind of artist I want to be.You’ve played massive shows—MOBOs, Wireless Festival, City Splash. What’s that experience like, and what stands out to you?Every time I get on stage outside of Ghana, I tell myself, “Nobody here knows me. I’m here to sell them something I believe in.” At Wireless, the sound was so good I forgot I was performing to a huge crowd. It felt like a rehearsal. I just wanted two hours to sing.What makes a great performance to you?There are some things about performing that you have to learn, even if you're born with talent. When I watch people like Kendrick Lamar, their performances feel like an emotional roller coaster. Some songs don’t need dancing; they just need to be felt. You get more from watching the artist express it through gestures and facial expressions. I love all of that because I don’t think I’m a good speaker, but I’m super talented in nonverbal communication. That’s why I believe I’m one of the best performers from where I’m from.You mentioned Kendrick. Are you aiming for a stage show that feels more like a play or theatre performance than just a concert?Yeah. It’s more than just turning up. It’s about creating an experience. Like theatre, with costumes and pacing.You’re considered one of the best-dressed men from Ghana. What sparked your interest in fashion?It came from when I was young. My whole style started in a woman’s closet—my auntie's. When my mom left for Greece, I stayed with my auntie, and she had all kinds of stylish stuff. I’d sneak into her things, steal belts, and glasses. That’s when I got into appearances. I also tried different hairstyles, like one called “backbone,” and got beaten for it because it was too bold for where I was living. I’ve always been chasing freedom to dress how I want.Did your mom’s background as a seamstress influence your fashion sense?Definitely. I used to sew my buttons for school. Even in high school, I’d alter my clothes because I couldn’t afford a tailor. If I didn’t like something about a shirt or a pair of sneakers, I’d cut it and make it my own.Last September, you walked for Labrum at London Fashion Week. What’s your relationship with high fashion?I’m just getting into it. As a teenager, I couldn’t afford real designer clothes, so I wore replicas. But now, I get these things as gifts, and I feel like I have a fashion dream that will come true. After walking for Labrum, people told me I was natural at it. I thought I didn’t do a great job, but the reactions were strong. I’m still figuring out my way in fashion, but I believe in it.How do you see your style connecting with your music?Iron Boy is a supernatural being, and how he looks shouldn’t be relatable. The music and visuals are all extensions of each other. How I sing, how I dress, how I look—it’s about making people feel something, even if they don’t understand the words.Tell us about your music video for the song “So It Goes” with Fireboy DML.I loved the styling. I didn’t style Fireboy, but I was involved in my own styling. Some of the looks feel like video game characters. When I was a kid, I was really into gaming—GTA, Winning Eleven, and Sega. I don’t play as much now, even though I have a PS5, but those inspirations still show in my visuals.What’s the concept of the music video?It’s like a greeting from abroad. The character is on his way to war, like a traveller sending a postcard to a lover. You see him on a horse, surrounded by dead men—it’s poetic and emotional.As a Ghanaian artist gaining international recognition, how important is it to remain rooted in your language and culture while appealing to a global audience?I think my music speaks globally, even in a different language. Some people in Ghana don’t get what I’m saying, and people abroad do—emotionally. Emotions and melodies are universal languages. I’m still learning how to reach everyone, but I believe in the power of feelings.Find out more about Patta and the world around us through the Patta Magazine Volume 5, which is available now only at Patta Chapter stores in Amsterdam, London, Milan and Lagos.

Interview by Passion DzengaFew bands can claim to have shaped music history while defying every neat genre label, but ESG has been doing exactly that for over four decades. Formed in the South Bronx by the Scroggins sisters — Renee, Valerie, Deborah, and Marie — along with their friend Tito Libran, ESG took their name from three precious elements: emerald, sapphire, and gold. With their stripped-down blend of funk, punk, hip-hop, and Latin rhythms, they forged a sound so distinctive that LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy once called it “irreducible.”Discovered by 99 Records’ Ed Bahlman at a local talent show, ESG quickly caught the attention of the owner of Manchester’s infamous Hacienda nightclub and Factory Records, Tony Wilson, after a Manhattan club gig. Within days, they were recording with producer Martin Hannett, creating tracks like “Moody,” “You’re No Good,” and the now-legendary “UFO” — a song that would become one of the most sampled in music history. From the Beastie Boys to Wu-Tang Clan, TLC to MF Doom, generations of artists have built upon ESG’s minimal, bass-driven grooves.Over the years, the group has released influential EPs and albums, taken their music around the world, and kept it all in the family — with Renee’s children now joining the lineup. Their work has been praised by critics, revered by musicians across genres, and celebrated by fans who know that ESG’s music isn’t just to be listened to — it’s to be felt, moved to, and danced to.Few bands embody the raw intersection of funk, punk, and Latin rhythm quite like ESG. Emerging from the South Bronx in the late 1970s, the Scroggins sisters carved out an inimitable sound. As the band approaches its 49th year — and its final European show at Skatecafé in Amsterdam at VOID — founding member Renee Scroggins reflects on ESG’s beginnings, their impact, and the lessons she’s carrying into retirement and passing on to the next generation.It’s very exciting that you’re coming back to Amsterdam to play in Europe once again. ESG began as a family affair, and it still is. Can you share a little bit about what those earliest jam sessions were like?Well, we were learning, so it wasn’t the greatest thing at first. But as time went on, it got better and better. We weren’t just freestyling — from the beginning, we had the intention of being a band. We were going to do this together.The name ESG comes from Emerald, Sapphire, and Gold. Why did you choose it, and did you have any idea it would become so iconic?No, actually, my mother chose the name for us. Emerald was my sister Valerie’s birth sign, Sapphire is mine, and Gold… well, we wanted to get gold records. Manifesting greatness, I guess.It sounds like ESG has always been a matriarchy at its core. When you started out, were there many female-led bands you could look up to, or were you creating a path of your own?One group that really inspired me was Labelle—Patti LaBelle, Nona Hendryx, and Sarah Dash. They blended funk and rock in a way that blew my mind. Seeing women do that made me believe it was possible for us too. Beyond that, I was influenced by all sorts of artists—from the Supremes in Motown, who taught me the power of harmony, to Queen, who always had funk hidden in their rock songs. Inspiration comes from everywhere, but at the end of the day, you take those feelings and make them your own.Not long after, you were discovered at a talent show. How did that change your trajectory as a group?It definitely took us into a whole different atmosphere. We were coming from the South Bronx, where we were used to funk, Latin music, and gospel, and suddenly we were thrown into Manhattan’s punk scene. It was a shock — a whole other world.Can you explain what the South Bronx was like back then compared to the downtown scene?In the early ’70s, the Bronx was really a mess — gangs, drugs, violence. My mom didn’t want us hanging out in the streets. We stayed inside watching Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert and Soul on PBS, saying, “Yeah, we can do that.” Meanwhile, through our windows on the 13th floor, we’d hear Latin gentlemen in the park playing congas, timbales, cowbells, even Coca-Cola bottles. That sound came through every night. Growing up in the Bronx, Latin music was everywhere—you could hear it outside your window. But I also loved artists like Celia Cruz, Willie Colón, Eddie Palmieri, and later Marc Anthony. Even today, I enjoy Enrique Iglesias. Latin rhythms—the congas, the timbales—have always inspired me. It’s beautiful to see Latin music at the forefront of pop culture now. Add my mom blasting James Brown records — breaking the music down to raw funk and drums — and you get the foundation of ESG. We took James Brown’s breakdowns and made them the whole song.Beyond James Brown and Latin rhythms, what else shaped ESG?It was everything — James Brown funk, salsa rhythms, but also the songs from Queen and Led Zeppelin we heard on TV. We wanted the funky parts of all of it. Later, when Ed Bahlman brought us into 99 Records, that became our home base. Ed was one of the talent show judges, asked to manage us unofficially. He invited us down to 99 Records. It became a meeting space — lots of music around — and where we built that connection with Ed. We built a community with other bands like Liquid Liquid, Bush Tetras and Glenn Branca. The Bush Tetras were really cool. They’d loan us amps when we didn’t have much. There was a lot of camaraderie, helping each other out. And visually, you had the artwork from Gina Franklyn. Did you collaborate closely with her?Not really — she was Ed’s partner at 99 Records. The design was presented to us, but it reflected our colours, the emerald, the sapphire and the gold, so we were satisfied.Back in the beginning, you worked with producer Martin Hannett. He was known for creating atmosphere in sound. Do you think that’s what he brought to ESG, or did you already have it?We already had our sound. Martin didn’t really change it much—he just magnified what was already there. He added a few touches, but mostly he let us be ourselves. I even hung around the studio with him and learned how the board worked. That knowledge still serves me today.So who handles the production now? Is it all in-house?Yes, I do it myself now. Of course, sometimes I wish I had the budget to go into bigger studios, but those costs add up. So we make the most of what we can do at home, and we always aim to get the best sound possible.You speak a lot about the business side of music. Is that something you wish all artists understood before starting out?Absolutely. This is your work, and each song is like a child. You want to protect it the same way you’d protect your kids. It’s heartbreaking to see music chopped up, stolen, or misused. That’s why it’s so important to understand your rights and protect your art.Nearly five decades later, ESG is still going strong. What has it been like transitioning into a new lineup with your children?This year is 48 years, next year will be 49, and then we’re retiring. People ask, “Why not 50?” but 49 is enough. Now my daughter Nicole plays bass, my son Nicholas plays percussion, and we’ve got Cat Dorsch on drums. My sister Marie still plays percussion. It’s still family. And I’ve passed lessons down — like keeping control of your publishing and masters. Business first, then art. It’s not easy, but it’s necessary.What lessons have you passed on to your children in music?I tell my son, who writes music, to keep control of his publishing and masters. Always make sure contracts are in place before a show. Business first, then art. That’s hard for artists, but it’s necessary.What keeps drawing you back to making music after all these years?It’s a combination of things. Part of it is having my family involved in the band now. But it’s also knowing that we’re still creating original music. We’re not borrowing or copying—we’re writing fresh material that I know will eventually be sampled by future generations. Making music still brings me joy, and I believe when that joy disappears, that’s when you stop.One track, “UFO,” became one of the most sampled songs of all time. Did you have any sense of that when you recorded it?Not at all. Martin Hannett asked if we had a three-minute song because there were three minutes left on the tape. My family hated it — I loved it. It became our most sampled track. At first, I didn’t like it, especially when rappers were saying negative things about women, and we weren’t getting paid. I was working regular jobs to feed my kids, while people were sampling our music and making money. Eventually, sampling laws changed, and that helped. I can always tell it’s UFO. That sound is unmistakable. I mean, the funny thing is that we didn't know how to tune our instruments at that time. These are notes that don't even exist on the music scale. So, yeah, I can tell that thing anywhere.I wrote UFO because at the time I had just finished watching “Close Encounters of the Third Kind" and “Star Wars”. So I was thinking about space and aliens. You know, people are going to do what they do, you know, whether you like it or not. So, you learn to go with the flow, become a part of the system, and deal with it. It doesn't make it right, but that's just how it is.You even titled your 1992 record “Sample Credits Don’t Pay the Bills”. That was a bold statement.It was real. I was still living in the projects. Everyone kept asking about these artists — but they didn’t work with me, they stole my music. That’s why we called it that.After all these years, does it surprise you that songs written in your bedroom with your sisters are now celebrated worldwide?Yes. I never set out to inspire the world. I just wanted to buy my mom a house. But to see people all over — in Italy, Spain, Amsterdam, Norway — dancing to what I wrote in the projects… that touches my heart.Streaming and remix culture dominate now. Do you think artists are better or worse off today?If you’ve got a known song, you’ll usually get paid now. But smaller artists still get ripped off. That cycle hasn’t changed.Still, ESG’s music keeps inspiring new generations. How do you define your sound after all these years?Dance. Always dance. No matter what decade, ESG will make you move. And we kept it simple: bass, drums, percussion, and vocals used as instruments. That’s what makes our sound.Looking back, what moments stand out as the proudest or most unexpected?Playing Lincoln Center recently, at an event honouring the first women to sign a major label contract, that was special. Earlier, in 1981, we played a New York club during a snowstorm — I thought no one would show up, the streets were insane, it was no easy feat pushing through that weather. However, when we got to the show, it was packed wall to wall! And of course, Japan. They didn’t speak English, but they understood the music. That’s when you realise music is a universal language. Back to James Brown, I remember that one time we were asked to open for him, and it felt very full circle for me. However, unfortunately, he passed away before the show ever took place. “Take it to the bridge”—those words inspired us. It would have been a dream come true. Still, his spirit has always been with me.That would have been such a full-circle moment. If you could go back and meet a young Renee in the Bronx, what advice would you give her?I’d tell her not to be afraid and to just do it. Early on, I had terrible stage fright. Then I met Billy Idol, who used to hang around us. One day he asked me, “Did you give the best show you could?” I said yes, and he told me a few things that changed my outlook forever. The very next day, I stepped on stage without fear—and I’ve never been afraid since. Meeting people like that along the way can inspire you in ways you don’t expect.Does rehearsal play a big part in building that confidence on stage?Rehearsal is absolutely essential. If you want to be a good artist, you need to prepare. Even then, you have to be ready for unexpected challenges—like when the soundboard goes crazy mid-show. But the more you rehearse, the more comfortable you become. For us, rehearsals are like jam sessions. We sometimes jam about three times a week. Jamming energises us and sometimes even leads to new songs.Do you think kids growing up in the South Bronx today could still hear ESG and feel the same spark you felt back then?Definitely. I’ve met young people who tell me that our story inspires them—to see that we came out of the projects and did something. Of course, environment shapes you, but it’s the individual who decides whether to stay stuck or to strive for something better. Hopefully, our journey inspires them to do better.48 years of touring must have shown you so much; what do you remember about your first European shows? I  just finished reading The Haçienda: How Not to Run a Club by Peter Hook. What was it like for you to be there on opening night? We were brought in to open the club on its very first night. I still have the little sticker posters from that gig. But honestly, the place wasn’t fully ready—there was sawdust everywhere, and I remember coughing and gagging, thinking, “Wow, this isn’t good for my throat.” So when people ask me what I remember most about the Hacienda, I always say, “Sawdust.” That being said, it was still an amazing experience. It was opening night, so the place was full of dignitaries, musicians, and all sorts of people there to see this new chapter in nightlife unfold. Years later, around 2015 or 2016, I even went back for a Hacienda tribute show. Playing there again after so many decades felt surreal. On that same trip, the first time to Europe, we played for a magazine called Actual in Paris. Everywhere we went, even without speaking the same language, people connected with the music. That’s what the world needs — love, peace, and music.And now you’re returning to Amsterdam for your final European show at VOID. How does it feel to end this chapter here?Amsterdam has always held a special place in our hearts. The people dance, and the energy is positive. We were supposed to retire this year, but I’ve got contracts until June 2026. After that, I’m done. It’s not that I don’t enjoy performing — I do — but sometimes promoters make it difficult. The people at VOID, though, have been nothing but wonderful. The club is great, the people are professional, and I know the fans will bring beautiful energy.Amsterdam is ready. ESG alongside Mad Professor, Volition Immanent, and so much great talent — that’s a night to remember. What can fans expect?A great time. Just let loose and dance. That’s what ESG has always been about.And beyond VOID, what’s next for you?The first show of our farewell tour is in San Francisco at the Great American Music Hall on January 30th. That’s the beginning of the end. But until then, we’re going to enjoy every last dance.Before we wrap up, is there anything you’d like to leave with our readers?Yes. In these times, we need to learn to love and respect one another. Forget politics for a moment—people can still choose to treat each other with kindness. Music is a universal language, and that’s what we’re bringing to you. On the business side, I want young artists to protect their work. Own your masters, own your publishing, register your songs. That way your art will take care of you in the long run. Most importantly, love what you’re doing—because if you don’t love your art, it’s not worth it.If you’ve made it this far, you know this is one night you won’t want to miss. On September 26th, VOID takes over Skatecafé in Amsterdam to stage a festival that breaks all the rules—punk, dub, experimental, hip-hop—all in one raw, genre-bending night. With legends like ESG in their final European performance, Shawty Pimp’s Dutch debut, Mad Professor in dub mode, and Volition Immanent rocking out, it’s a lineup built for those who hunger for something real. Tickets are flying fast. If you believe in sweaty floors, heart-in-throat sets, and discovering something beyond the mainstream, this is your moment. Grab your ticket now here, bring everyone you know, and let’s make this a farewell Europe show for the books. See you on the dancefloor. 

Interview by Passion DzengaAhead of the upcoming Void: Music Against the Grain event at Amsterdam's Skatecafe on Friday, September 26th, we sat down with Parrish Smith and Mark Knekelhuis, better known as Volition Immanent. Their formative collaborative moments can be traced back to a dimly lit attic somewhere in the Netherlands, surrounded by stacks of tapes, discarded drum machines and buzzing synths. When producer Parrish and vocalist Mark first crossed paths in Amsterdam’s underground scene, neither imagined their late-night jam sessions would evolve into one of the most boundary-pushing projects in contemporary electronic music. Rooted in DIY culture, informed by punk energy and shaped by a love of imperfection, their sound refuses easy categorisation — veering between industrial intensity, hypnotic techno and raw noise experimentation. Over the past decade, the duo has cultivated a reputation for visceral live performances that blur the line between chaos and control, drawing audiences into something closer to ritual than entertainment.Now, with a new album on the horizon and a run of live performances throughout the latter half of this year, Parrish and Mark reflect on their origins, their creative process and the ever-shifting landscapes of subculture and community.Let’s start with the basics: how did you two meet, and what made you start collaborating?Parrish Smith: It goes back more than 10 years, around 2014 or 2015. I was making music in my parents’ attic, sharing tracks on SoundCloud and going out to underground parties. That’s how I came across what Knekelhuis was doing — throwing these wild, raw parties at Doka.Mark Knekelhuis: I was throwing parties back then and we met at one of them, when we booked Veronica Vasicka (founder of Minimal Wave). Ron van de Kerkhof — was part of Knekelhuis for a little while — and he basically said, “You two need to work together.” He told us to bring our hardware, lock ourselves in the attic and see if there was a spark. And there was — immediately.Parrish Smith: I think we recorded Swarm Behaviour that same night. It just clicked.Mark, you come from a punk background. How did that play into your connection with Parrish?Mark Knekelhuis: I’d been singing in punk bands in the past and didn’t really play instruments. Meeting someone like Stefan [Parrish], who was deep into making music — synthesisers, drum machines, all of it — opened up a whole new world for me.You mentioned Doka. What was it about that space and the Amsterdam scene at the time that brought you together?Mark Knekelhuis: After the club Trouw closed, there was a bit of a gap in the city. A lack of cool clubs. There were only a few options. Studio 80 was still around, but leaned years more towards minimal techno. Then Tessa Nijdam started with a curate and re-brand the place with very adventurous lineups. Doka came in with this raw energy — dirty concrete floors, tiles falling off the walls, water dripping from the ceiling. It was unusual for Amsterdam, and it matched the music we were into: Chicago house, industrial, EBM, techno.Parrish Smith: Knekelhuis’ parties booked underground artists who were really pushing boundaries. It was small but intense — people showed up and it became this tight-knit community.When you first started working together, did you always intend to become Volition Immanent? How did it evolve from jamming to becoming a proper project?Mark Knekelhuis: At first, we were just jamming every week in Stefan’s attic. He was incredibly productive — shelves full of mini-discs and tapes. We made track after track and at some point, we thought, “People like these. Maybe we should release them.”Parrish Smith: Yeah, we actually played shows before releasing anything — our first one was at Studio 80 with Red Light Radio. I brought my entire studio setup, reprogrammed everything and performed the tracks live. The feedback was amazing and that gave us the confidence to take it further.You started out playing live quite a bit. Do you write with live performance in mind or do the tracks naturally evolve that way?Parrish Smith: Honestly, we never wrote music specifically for live shows. It started with us jamming and the songs just came out of that process. Later on, we became more conceptual but in the beginning, it was all about capturing the moment.Mark Knekelhuis: Yeah, the early recordings were raw and stripped down — very immediate. Later, after the first album, we spent more time refining things, layering sounds and being intentional about what we wanted to express.Has your approach changed since your debut album?Parrish Smith: Definitely. Over the years, we talked a lot about how to move forward. Our lives and tastes have changed. We didn’t want to lock ourselves into being just a “live band.” The new music is more conceptual and layered — it’s something you can listen to at home, not just in a club.Mark Knekelhuis: For me it feels more mature now, sonically and emotionally. It’s deeper. We embraced more influences — from hardcore punk to trap, spoken word, postpunk and poetry. It’s a more diverse album than our earlier work.Parrish, you work heavily with hardware and machines instead of traditional punk instruments. Why?Parrish Smith: For me, touching buttons and working with machines is a way to focus and channel energy. I was drawn to cheap “unwanted” devices with ugly sounds and tried to make them beautiful. I like imperfections and I like working with tools people reject. It became a personal mission — at one point, I even challenged myself to only make live music for two years straight.Mark, how do you channel your punk roots and personal energy into the collaboration?Mark Knekelhuis: Punk gave me an outlet for anger and frustration when I was younger. But over time, through therapy and growing older, I’ve found more peace and gentleness in my life. The new music reflects that. It’s less about pure aggression and more about depth, subtlety and collective experience.Do you see your work as a kind of catharsis or ritual?Mark Knekelhuis: Absolutely. The best live shows are when everything aligns — the crowd, the energy, the sound — and to lose yourself in it. It’s almost ritualistic when that synergy happens.Parrish Smith: For me, it’s also about experimentation. I’ve always been drawn to noise, industrial and other niche genres. I want to present something new, even if it fails. Growing up in a Surinamese household, listening to traditional music but being obsessed with noise and metal, I didn’t really see role models doing what I wanted to do. So I pushed further into the unknown. That’s still what drives me.With your multidisciplinary approach and planned ideas in the studio, how much of your live shows are chaos and how much are controlled?Mark Knekelhuis: It’s definitely not all chaos. In the early days, it was closer to pure jamming — messy, spontaneous, sometimes unpredictable — but now we’ve moved toward a more organised performance. That said, we always leave enough space to improvise, to stretch tracks, to play with the energy in the room. From the audience’s perspective, it might feel chaotic but for us, the way we present the work is deliberate.Parrish Smith: Yeah, though we’ve had our fair share of real chaos. One of the biggest examples was a festival show in Paris. I brought this old TR-707 drum machine — the backbone of our sound — and customs had opened it up during travel. When I got to soundcheck, all my drum patterns were gone. I rewrote the entire live set in my hotel room but when we got on stage, the programs disappeared again.Mark Knekelhuis: And this was in front of like 2,000 people on the same stage as Princess Nokia. Nervebreaking. Parrish Smith: Exactly. I ended up doing the entire one-hour show completely on the fly. Total improvisation. And somehow… it became one of our best shows ever.Mark Knekelhuis: Yeah, it was chaos but the good kind — the kind that pushes you to new places. Out of chaos comes order. Has there been a particular show recently that really stood out?Mark Knekelhuis: The Resident Advisor stage at Horst earlier this year was a special one. We made sure every technical detail was perfect — sound, monitoring, everything — so we could really let go during the set. When everything is in place, you can create a kind of storm in the room.The crowd was insane. People were hanging from the ceiling, screaming, completely losing themselves. When we came off stage, we looked at each other like: “This is why we still play live.”It sounds like the live component is essential for you. Could Volition Immanent exist without it?Mark Knekelhuis: No, I don’t think so. Writing in the studio is important but if we weren’t playing live, something vital would be missing. That interaction with the crowd, that energy exchange — it’s part of the essence of the project.Parrish Smith: Yeah. Even though we don’t want to play as much as we used to, the live element will always be fundamental.Your management mentioned you’re often compared to bands like Cabaret Voltaire and Throbbing Gristle. Do you embrace those comparisons?Mark Knekelhuis: Absolutely. Those bands broke rules and created new realities with their cut-and-paste techniques — sampling, collaging, reshaping sound, out of the box-thinking and pushing boundaries. That’s something we’ve embraced from the beginning.Parrish Smith: Richard H. Kirk from Cabaret Voltaire was especially inspiring. He was multidisciplinary, constantly blending genres and that openness shaped what later became techno and other forms of electronic music. We’re very much aligned with that spirit.Will people hear some of the new material at the upcoming Void event?Mark Knekelhuis: Definitely. We’ll play a mix of new tracks — especially the more energetic ones — alongside older material. Void is the perfect space for it because of how diverse the curation is.I’m proud we’ve brought together so many genres and scenes for this lineup — punk, funk, rap, electronic — and it feels like a melting pot. There’s a generational storytelling aspect to it too, with acts like ESG & Shawty Pimp alongside us.You both came up in a time when you could find your people at skate parks or punk shows. Where does someone find that kind of community now?Mark Knekelhuis: It changed a lot. Back then, subcultures had physical spaces. But the world changed for the worse after 9/11. Squatting culture got banned, the rise of ‘normalized’ racism, the loss of our privacy. Activism started to decline and globalisation exploded, plus the internet shifted everything. I felt there was some kind of a feeling of defeat among progressive cultures in those years.Now, with the state of the world — authoritarian leaders, wars, climate crisis, rising inequality — I see anger returning to youth culture. Punk is coming back. There’s a new wave of bands, collectives and venues where people are reconnecting. Go visit OCCII, Vrankrijk. Parrish Smith: You see it in the alternative nightlife scene too. These hybrid spaces — part club, part DIY venue — are where kids who don’t fit the mainstream are meeting. And it’s becoming more diverse, racially and gender-wise, than it ever was when we started.When someone sees you live for the first time, what do you want them to leave with?Mark Knekelhuis: I don’t want to dictate what they should feel — but I hope they feel something they won’t forget. It could be joy, discomfort, energy, catharsis — anything, as long as it moves them.Parrish Smith: Exactly. We want the crowd to activate something inside themselves. The shows work best when we’re improvising and reacting to the room — there’s this moment where everything locks in and the energy becomes mutual. That’s when it feels alive.On September 26th, VOID transforms Skatecafé Amsterdam into a nighttime festival celebrating music that defies boundaries — and Volition Immanent are at the heart of it. Known for their visceral, high-voltage live shows, the duo bring their raw, ritualistic energy to a lineup that bridges generations and genres.Headlined by legendary punk pioneers ESG in their final European performance, the night also features dub icon Mad Professor, Memphis rap visionary Shawty Pimp and a host of cutting-edge acts spanning post-punk, techno, garage-punk and experimental club sounds. Tickets are on sale now — don’t miss it.