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E-CHOES issue #22 comes from Ryan Bishop, the San Francisco-based founder of Dream Chimney, a music site that started in 2000 with a group of friends across the US posting a track a day to each other. The taste has barely moved since: balearic, cosmic disco, AOR, new age, country-funk oddities. Its Mix of the Week has hosted a new mix every Monday since January 2014, from members and like-minded guests. A record label followed in 2018.

650+ mixes. 400+ different DJs. 700+ hours of music. 12+ years.

The original version of Mix of the Week launched in 2012, featuring purely non-exclusive mixes I collected from recent SoundCloud discoveries. At that point SoundCloud was still pretty new and gaining popularity. I was coming across new mixes nearly everyday and typically I’d have at least one favorite. Mixes from Albion, TAKO, Mike Burns, JAZ and so many others were popping up and a favorite mix would typically have my attention for a week of repeat listens and multiple track IDs. I had put up a page on Dream Chimney to highlight a mix each week and at some point felt people were starting to notice it.

After a few years of finding favorite mixes, I decided to keep it going but with exclusive mixes…. every week. It didn’t seem that daunting at first, I knew I could get mixes from members of Dream Chimney, close DJ friends from across the globe or I could make a mix or two as a back up if I needed. But as I soon found out, that’s barely enough just to get started. On January 6th 2014 I began the long journey of hosting a new mix every week if for no other reason than the name “Mix of the Week” required it. The first mix, still one of my favorites, is from Sorcerer and sets the tone that still carries on today. Loose, mid tempo, listener friendly with just the right amount of familiar, rare and unknown tracks.

Since then I’ve hosted a mix every Monday (available at 10pm PST every Sunday), only missing one memorable week that I can think of, in which I had to have emergency surgery for a skateboarding accident. The surgery was at midnight on Sunday, but I had scheduled the mix beforehand which made me feel only slightly better. Not even the operating table can stop me! The week after that however I was bed ridden and had to let the weekly mix slip.
There were plenty of close calls to meet the deadline, I do remember nearly scrapping the entire project one Monday morning with no mix ready to share and nothing planned, when miraculously a new mix from Hatchback came in to save the day. There was some turning point right there then for some reason it seemed that after that mixes started flowing into my inbox every week.

So many of our weekly mixes come from like-minded DJs that have reached out asking how to contribute which really helps make this work. I am also casually asking DJs and friends to contribute but so much has been organic and with no doubt some luck involved too. There are times too that it feels like I am working the front desk at a dentist office “Sorry next week is full, can you do the first week of November?” I maintain a constantly updating calendar of upcoming mixes. However, nothing is official until the mix is actually delivered. The schedule requires real-time adjustments without booking too far ahead, so completed mixes aren’t sitting around for a month.

On top of the weekly mix series, we now have Dream Chimney Radio streaming 24/7 including 2 monthly guest shows (and looking for more!) We host weekly track premieres, and share daily favorite tracks on Dream Chimney and ive been doing a 2 hour monthly show on ROVR radio for the last few years. So the music coordination isn’t just weekly, it never ends.

– Ryan Bishop

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E-CHOES issue #21 comes from Kapote, aka Mathias Modica – Italo-German DJ, producer, keyboardist and founder of the Berlin label Toy Tonics. Before Toy Tonics he ran the experimental electronic music label Gomma Records and released his own music as Munk, collaborating with the likes of James Murphy (WhoMadeWho), Peaches and graffiti legend The Rammellzee.

Daniele Baldelli

I became friends with Daniele Baldelli in the early 2000s. But the first time I became aware of the “cosmic music” DJ Baldelli was when I was riding in my brother’s Renault 5 as a young boy. My brother was a “cosmic head” back then, attending what were called “Cosmic conventions” in Italy. He owned a collection of rare tapes from legendary Italian cosmic DJs — Moz-Art, Loda, and Baldelli.

At the time, I was mostly into jazz and hip-hop and playing in bands, but these musical journeys on those tapes drew me in, even though I didn’t quite understand them. My brother explained to me what cosmic disco was and its culture of mixing rare, deep music into one great journey by pitching the tempos, creating almost trippy atmospheres.

That was the moment I became hooked on DJ culture, on the art of blending diverse styles into one seamless flow.

Later on, when I was running our first record label Gomma Records and organizing parties in Germany, I invited Baldelli to DJ. And he offered to make a record for my label. We released two EPs by Baldelli on Gomma Records: Phobos in 2006, and Cosmicdiba (with Dionigi) in 2007. Later, he invited me to his home in Gabicce, which is almost a museum of Italian dance culture. A rare opportunity, as he doesn’t allow many visitors.

Baldelli’s way of DJing taught me the art of blending extremely diverse styles into one flow. The way he connects unconnectable records is an art form no one else has perfected like him. For me, this is the ultimate DJing — it’s not just about playing records, but creating a vibe, striving for that mastery of creating one magical, divine flow using different musical styles. Baldelli’s DJing is about creating your own special atmosphere, taking people on a trip.

If you want to hear Baldelli’s records on our label Gomma Records, check all streaming platforms or Discogs. (Vinyl on Discogs.)

The Rammellzee

Rammellzee is a hero to many, and I bet: one day he will be as famous as his friend Jean-Michel Basquiat.

He didn’t receive the recognition in the art world that he truly deserved yet, but it’s gonna happen. I am sure.

He was one of the originators of train painting in 1970s New York, tagging the subways of the big apple alongside early graffiti legends like Face 2, Lee Quinones and later Futura 2000. In the ‘80s, he shared an apartment with Basquiat, and left the train painting scene to create his own artistic universe.

Yet, while Basquiat became a global star, thanks to Andy Warhol, Rammellzee was perhaps too much of an “outsider personality” to be fully embraced.

Instead, for over 30 years, he developed what he called Gothic Futurism, crafting figures, puppets, paintings, and toy sculptures from trash he found around his home in New York. He created an early manifesto of afro-futurism.

I met him through a friend, Stuart Argabright from the legendary Death Comet Crew, in the early 2000s, when I was visiting New York regularly to explore the music scene and buy records. My buddy Jonas and me had just started our first label, Gomma Records, after finishing school, releasing some weird electronic music, trying to find our own style.

Rammellzee was looking for someone to create a soundtrack for his art universe. Somehow, he liked these two odd kids from Germany, our attitude and our work. After a few visits to his legendary “Battle Station” on Canal Street, where we had to drink AXE beer with straws in the morning with him, he invited us to create an album together. And so we did.

We produced instrumental tracks, sent them over, and he recorded his vocals in his bathroom. I can’t even begin to describe how crazy and life-changing this experience was — two young German kids working with such an icon.

The biggest lesson from creating that record was this: Be as weird as you can be! Being weird is an asset few have, and what feels weird or cringey in the moment might be your winning asset in the long run.

RIP, Rammellzee — thank you for this experience.

If you want to hear the record, it’s still on Spotify. It’s called ‘The Bi-Conicals of the Rammellzee’ (Vinyl on Discogs only).

Jaki Liebezeit of CAN

One of the most iconic German musicians of the 20th century is Jaki Liebezeit, drummer of krautrock band CAN. He was the one introducing a drumming style that was “mechanical.” Not inspired by the jazz or rock drumming heroes of that time, but as he said: by the “coolest drummers he knew, the first drum machines” that came out in the 1960s. He wanted to play as tight as a drum machine.

And this mechanical drumming was part of CAN’s musical identity. That loopy vibe in many of their songs.

I had the great luck to be able to work with Jaki in Cologne. It was the days when I already had my first little success with my first project MUNK. I had produced dance records with James Murphy, WhoMadeWho and DJ Chloé, but on the side I was also doing different music in my free time that I didn’t release. Slow music, strange music with no aim to release it, just for myself.

At one point, I played that stuff to a friend, and I was complaining that somehow I’d need a drummer for that record, because I wasn’t satisfied with my own drum programming. Luckily, this friend was also a friend of Jaki Liebezeit and was just on the way to meet him at his home in Cologne.

He offered to talk about my music to Jaki, and you can imagine how blown away I was when he called me a few days later and told me Jaki offered to play the drums on these tracks! A few weeks later, in November 2016, I went to Cologne and for two days, we re-recorded my music with him drumming. Isn’t this crazy?

The sad part: only 2 months after the recording, he left the planet. His wife called me. He died.

Since then, these recordings are buried somewhere in my computer, and I never dared to release them. It didn’t feel right.

But these 2 days were a great lesson for me. What I learned from master Liebezeit was more than a musical teaching, it was a school of human behavior.

He, being one of the biggest icons of German music, was one of the kindest and friendliest persons I ever met! He came to the train station to pick me up himself with his old car. His (very special) drumkit in the back of the van. He brought me to the hotel. He offered to pay for my food. And he was the most patient person with me recording the music.

You can be a star, you can be an icon, and at the same time stay the nicest person in the world.

Thanks, Jaki, for doing this. Let’s see if I’m ever gonna hesitate to release this music.

- Mathias Modica aka Kapote

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E-CHOES issue #20 comes from Alexei, one half of Stump Valley, the Italo-Ukrainian DJ and production duo based in Turin. The two dig deep into Italo disco and Italian afro-cosmic records, with releases on labels including Rush Hour, Dekmantel, and Toy Tonics. He’s also active solo as Brain de Palma.

There’s something quite romantic about how I got into music.

I moved from Ukraine to Italy when I was five years old, and honestly, it felt like moving to Mars. I grew up in Zaporizhzhya, still in the Soviet Union. In the building where we lived there were maybe 100 families and two cars parked outside. There was one shop for clothes, one for food.

No brands, no huge advertisements, none of the things that were completely normal in Italy. It felt like the Soviet Union was 50 years behind — maybe even more. My mother still remembers that during my first months in Italy she was constantly telling me, “Close your mouth,” because I was walking around with my mouth open, shocked by everything I saw.

Integration wasn’t easy at the beginning. When I started kindergarten, I remember going into the backyard and immediately climbing a tree. That’s what we did in Ukraine. During summer we were outside barefoot all day. My wife laughs when I tell her these stories because she says it sounds like listening to her grandfather talking about growing up in Italy.

Some of the kids would call me a monkey because I was different. You know, kids can be a pain in the ass. But there was one thing that strangely felt exactly the same in Italy and Ukraine: music. And there’s a story behind that too.

Getting Western music in the Soviet Union wasn’t so easy. Melodiya, the state record label, would release some of the big international records, but a lot of the newer stuff — especially electronic music — simply wasn’t there.

My uncle, my mother’s brother, was part of the national sports shooting team, so he was able to travel to places like Poland and East Germany, which were already a little more open. He would come back with cassettes: lots of Depeche Mode, Italo disco, I remember Sauvage, Samantha Fox… things that were difficult to find back home.

He was kind of smuggling music into our house. Of course, nobody was going to send him to prison for a couple of cassettes, but those tapes felt rare and precious.

My uncle would play music at home and I was like 3yo jumping on the bed and dancing to it in Zaporizhzhya. Then we moved to Turin, everything around me changed, but I still had those same songs.

So somehow music became the only piece of my old world that had travelled with me. It made me feel at home when nothing else did.

Whenever I was sad, I would spend the whole day listening to music. When I started school, I basically lived with my Walkman on. I think that relationship never really changed. Music became a kind of cure for me before I even understood what that meant.

That’s why when people ask me why music became such a big part of my life, I always come back to the same answer: Music saved me

- Alexei

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E-CHOES issue #19 comes from Ricardo Baez, a Florence-based DJ and producer, and the founder of Tropical Animals — a weekly party running since 2010. He also runs the label of the same name, with releases from artists including Daniele Baldelli, Whitesquare, and Robert Owens, and has released his own music on labels such as Running Back, Permanent Vacation, and Mule Musiq.

When people ask me what the secret is behind Tropical Animals lasting for more than seventeen years, I never really know what to answer.

The truth is, there isn’t a secret.

Like any long journey, it has been full of highs and lows. There were years when everything seemed to fall into place, and others when keeping the party alive felt incredibly difficult. Attendance changed, costs increased, trends came and went. More than once, I wondered if it was still worth carrying on.

But somehow, it always was.

Not because I wanted to run the biggest party or book the biggest names, but because I genuinely loved creating a place where people could come together through music.

Looking back, I realise that running a party for so many years has taught me something far more valuable than how to organise events.

It taught me the value of being a resident DJ.

Today, it often feels like the role of the resident has become secondary. The spotlight is almost entirely on the guest. Promoters compete over bigger line-ups, DJs dream of playing in a different city every weekend, and success is often measured by how many flights you catch or how many followers you have.

There’s nothing wrong with ambition.
I’ve always loved travelling and playing in different countries myself.
But somewhere along the way, I think we’ve forgotten one of the most important figures in club culture. For decades, the greatest clubs in the world weren’t built around guests. They were built around residents.

Residents created the identity of a club. They understood their crowd better than anyone else. They knew how to open a night, how to close it, when to take risks and when to hold back. Week after week, they built trust.. not only through great music, but through consistency.

People didn’t return simply because of who was on the flyer.
They came back because they believed in what that party represented. Being a resident taught me almost everything I know about DJing.

When you play regularly for the same audience, you can’t rely on a handful of records that always work. You have to keep digging, stay curious, evolve without losing your identity and constantly challenge yourself. You learn to read people instead of chasing reactions.

Running your own party teaches you something else, too. Success is never a straight line.

There will always be exciting periods and difficult ones. There will always be moments when it feels easier to quit than to continue.

What keeps a party alive isn’t hype. It’s identity.

Over the years, Tropical Animals has changed many times. Different venues, different formats, different guests. But one thing has never changed: music has always come first.

Not social media. Not trends.

Not algorithms.

Just music, shared with a community that slowly grew around the same values.

If there’s one thing these seventeen years have taught me, it’s that building something meaningful takes time.

Communities aren’t created overnight.
Trust isn’t built through one successful event.
And a lasting identity can’t be copied from someone else.
If I could offer one piece of advice to anyone starting a party today, it would simply be this: Build an identity before you build hype.
Because line-ups will change.
Algorithms will change.
Trends will change.
But if people believe in what your night stands for, they’ll keep coming back.
And maybe it’s worth asking ourselves one final question:

If every DJ dreams of becoming a guest, who’s left to be a resident?

- Ricardo Baez

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E-CHOES issue #18 comes from Lennart, a Dutch DJ based in Berlin, blending Italo, Acid, New Beat, and House across his sets. He holds a residency at Wrong Era in Berlin, with releases on labels including Slow Motion Records, Ritmo Fatale, Bordello A Parigi, and Skylax.

One of the craziest internet things that’s ever happened to me started with my neighbour’s dog last December

I was walking him one day when we got into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, he walked into the corner and started sniffing it intensively. I thought it was quite funny so the next time in the elevator, I decided to film it so I could send it to a few friends.

What I didn’t expect was the longest, most dramatic sniff I’d ever heard.

Every now and then I post random things on TikTok. Nothing strategic, just little moments that make me laugh or things I find interesting. So I uploaded the video on there and it started to popoff a bit.

Then it suddenly took off.

Within a short time it had hundreds of thousands of views, and it just kept growing. I know how unpredictable the internet can be, so I started wondering if I could somehow redirect some of that attention to my Instagram. A dog video has absolutely nothing to do with DJing, but my Instagram has never only been about music anyway. It’s always been a mix of my music, videos of gigs, me trying to be funny and just random moments from my life.

So I posted it there too.

That was when things got really crazy.

The video went completely viral and eventually reached around 32 million views. For weeks I woke up to around a hundred new followers every single day. What surprised me most was that people didn’t just watch the video also a lot of them actually stayed. They followed me and became (hopefully) interested in what I was doing beyond one funny clip.

Around that time I was making a series of reels where I mixed my favorite 80s tracks and lip synced in front of a 360 camera. Just for fun, I sampled the dog’s sniff and worked it into one of those videos. It felt like a fun (and maybe the only) way to connect the viral moment with the content I was already making.

The reactions afterwards were probably my favorite part. Friends would message me saying, “Someone in Mexico just sent me your video.” Colleagues told me they had already shared it with people before they realised it was actually mine.

It still makes me laugh.

I’ve been building my Instagram since 2015, sharing music, collecting records, posting videos, and documenting whatever I found interesting along the way. After all those years, the first thing that truly went viral wasn’t one of my tracks or a DJ set.

It was a dog deep sniffing the corner of an elevator.

The internet is a strange place.

Let me know what you think!

- Lennart

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E-CHOES issue #17 comes from Maï-Linh, a Paris-based DJ, curator, and NTS Radio resident, also affiliated with the label Macadam Mambo. She’s the founder of podcast series CTW Podcasts, a project she’s run for over a decade.

I’m 153 cm tall.
Which means that, before I can worry about reading the crowd (if I can even see them), beatmatching, or deciding which record to open with, there’s usually another question to answer:

“Do you have something I can stand on?”

After more than a decade of DJing, I’ve come to realise there isn’t one standard DJ booth stepper. There are many species.

Level 1 — The Beer Crate

The festival special.
Two beer crates.
It’s slippery? Don’t worry.
They always have an old dirty towel somewhere. That’s what makes the crate “safe.”

Usually arrives with the reassuring sentence: “This should do.”

It never really does.
It’s just stable enough to make you believe you can relax — until you instinctively move with the music and suddenly remember you’re balancing on an empty beer crate. Every transition becomes a conscious decision. The crowd is dancing. You are not.

Level 2 — The Flight Case

Looks premium.
Feels professional.
Looks stable.
It isn’t.

It’s basically a Pilates reformer with XLR inputs — constant micro-adjustments just to stay upright. Until someone needs THAT XLR cable that’s conveniently stored inside your brand new stepper.

Now the entire booth has to move. You step off. They open it. They close it. You climb back on. Pilates reformer or step session? We are confused but I still DJ. The music never stopped. Neither did your anxiety.

Level 3 — The Folding Chair

Usually suggested by someone who has clearly never stood on a folding chair.
It squeaks. It shifts. It folds in your imagination every thirty seconds. You spend the whole set wondering whether your next transition will also be your last.

Level 4 — The Bench

A personal favourite.
For the first time in my life, I understood what it feels like to be tall.
Unfortunately, the mixer suddenly felt very far away. So far that it became unreachable.

The solution?
Remove the CDJ stands.
Let me stand on my own two feet.
Revolutionary.

Level 5 — “We’ll Find Something.”

The phrase I’ve been told most often.

Five people disappear backstage. A production manager. Two security guards. Someone from the bar. A guy who definitely doesn’t work there. Everyone suddenly becomes emotionally invested in finding THE stepper.

Ten minutes later, they emerge carrying an anonymous wooden cube that’s apparently lived in the venue for twenty years. Nobody has ever seen it before. Yet somehow, every venue has one.

Level 6 — The Post-Set Compliment

The music stops. The stage manager smiles.

“I wasn’t expecting someone so small to play something so powerful.”

I know it’s meant as a compliment. But it’s a funny one.
As if low frequencies somehow depended on body height.
As if grooves were stored somewhere between your knees and your shoulders.
As if BPM stood for Body Proportion Measurement.

________________________________

It’s a small thing. Literally.
People are almost always incredibly helpful... and then they realise the standard DJ is apparently assumed to be around 1.80m tall.

Funny how we spend so much time talking about accessibility for audiences, while performers are still expected to adapt to environments designed around a default body type.

Maybe the perfect rider doesn’t need another bottle of sparkling water.
Maybe it just needs a moveable-size booth.

Or, at the very least...
cleaner towel.

- Maï-Linh

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E-CHOES issue #16 comes from Sam Ruffillo, an Italian DJ, producer and musician. His releases include the Italianissimo series, collaborations with Bárbara Boeing and Kapote, and his debut album Tipo Così on Toy Tonics. Over the past years, he has been constantly on the road, playing clubs and festivals around the globe.

People often say inspiration strikes like lightning. Well, it’s not always like that, but sometimes it actually does.

Every now and then I’m lying in bed, usually slightly under the influence of… let’s call it “night-time creativity”, and suddenly an entire track appears out of nowhere. It feels like it’s already been written somewhere else. I can hear and see the groove, the bassline, the chords, the melodies. Sometimes I have to get out of bed, walk into another room half asleep and hum everything into my phone before it disappears forever.

I genuinely believe those moments are gifts. If the universe sends you a melody for free, the least you can do is press record.

But that’s the exception.

The truth is that inspiration rarely arrives like lightning. It usually finds you while you’re already working.

I’ve spent more than twenty years sitting in front of speakers, making things, trying ideas, starting over. You show up every day, and every now and then something magical happens. The important part is that you’re there when it does.

There’s boredom, frustration, hours where nothing seems to work. But those moments are part of it. Every failed attempt teaches you something. Maybe not what to do, but definitely what not to do. Slowly, almost without noticing, you start defining your own taste. Your own language.

People think making music is about having ideas. I think it’s about recognising which ones deserve to survive.

I think the search for originality is a much more complicated process than people imagine. Of course you can take the bassline from one song, the melody from another, the drums from another. You can study what already works, and there is nothing wrong with learning from others.

But for me, if you just follow a recipe, it becomes a sterile exercise in style. If there was a magic formula for creating great music, everyone would already be using it.

The difficult path is the only way I know to get closer to something personal. I’m inspired by other music all the time, but I always try to transform those influences into something that belongs to me.

Every finished track is born alongside another ten that never make it past quality control. They sit quietly inside folders, waiting. I don’t think of them as failures or wasted time. They’re more like compost. One day you’ll open one of those forgotten projects, steal a bassline, a chord progression or just a tiny rhythmic idea, and suddenly it becomes the missing piece of something better.

Starting a track is easy. Finishing one is the difficult part.

Over the years I’ve become pretty ruthless about it. I know the journey from a rough loop to something that actually feels like a record. More importantly, I’ve learned when to stop.

Actually, making music is often about not doing something. Not adding another synth. Not opening another plugin. Not “improving” the arrangement one more time until you accidentally remove everything that made it exciting in the first place.

The first version of every track is just what it is. Then, little by little, it starts breathing.

A demo might take me two hours or twenty minutes. Finishing the track could take two weeks. Or two months, or more. Sometimes you have to leave it alone for a while, like good tomato sauce. It tastes better after resting.

People also love talking about gear. I do too.

I own more than thirty pieces of hardware, so I’m definitely not the right person to tell you that equipment doesn’t matter.

The gear can help you tell the story, but it isn’t the story itself.

If you gave me the choice between an incredible idea on a cheap yamaha keyboard or a boring idea on the most expensive synthesizer ever built, I’d choose the first one every single time.

The hardest part has never been finding the perfect machine.

It’s simply showing up.

Again.

And again.

- Sam Ruffillo

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E-CHOES issue #15 comes from Crihs Thormann, a New York-based photographer whose work moves between street photography, nightlife and portraiture. He studied fine art at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York and recently released his photo book Dance Dance Revolution, with images taken at the club Nightmoves.

Photography is a tool I use to remember moments and to share them with friends and strangers alike. My background with photography grew in interest with street photographers. Such masters like Lee Friedlander, Bruce Gilden, Vivian Maier and Boogie. I went to school in NYC at Fashion Institute for Technology where I received a BFA in fine art. Currently I am just trying to become the closest thing to a professional photographer as possible. It has not been easy, but with my show in October in 2025 and my booked that I released last month, I can get closer to achieving those goals.

Shooting the dance floor can be hard, but it can also be easy if you know the space and understand that people are there for music. People are there to dance and at times to be photographed. Not interrupting the dance floor or being in the way is very important. Unlike street photographers that depend on the “fly on the wall” mentality, I want to be seen. I want them to notice the camera. I want them subjects to engage or not. Reading the subject is important. Often times people at night want to be noticed. When people drink, they become more open. More approachable. You can tell who and who does not want to be photographed.

Nightmoves has a no flash photography policy. Because of that I had no choice to shoot the highest ISO film available. Also I had to shoot with a fast lens. Wide open. NM is low lit space. The dance floor is my main source of light. It’s a very sporadic option, but it works.

Music is first. Stopping someone from dancing or conversation can be a buzz kill. I found a place in the club to shoot portraits. It’s not your likely place but it works. Using available light with (still) no flash, I started taking portraits in the bathroom. Isolating my subject from the dance floor. The portraits show the connection between me and my subject.

The reception of the book has been great. “10 years down the line this book will be timeless. A yearbook of sorts” and I agree with that.

It’s been very reassuring and I am already working on my next focus, which will be Japan.

- Crihs Thormann

Below are a few moments from Chris Thormann’s photo book Dance Dance Revolution. You can order it here.

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E-CHOES issue #14 comes from Rhode & Brown, a Munich-based DJ and production duo and founders of Slam City Jams. They have released music on various labels including Permanent Vacation, Planet Trip and Toy Tonics. In 2026, Slam City Jams celebrates its 10-year anniversary, while Rhode & Brown release their second album Multitudes on September 4 via Permanent Vacation.

Back in 2016 we founded our own label, Slam City Jams, and the first vinyl record we released was by this amazing Canadian underground artist called gonima.

At the time, most people were into the A-side and the lovely Khotin remix. But the B-side of that otherwise housey EP was a dreamy, drumless ambient track called “Organ Tutorials” that barely got any attention...

Fast forward almost ten years. We somehow ended up revisiting that ambient track on our YouTube channel, only to discover over a hundred hilarious (and not always very nice) comments from people saying Shazam had identified this track instead of the one they were actually looking for.

People had tried to Shazam everything from the Battlefield 2 soundtrack to Playboi Carti, or even the music from a Volvo commercial—and somehow all ended up on gonima’s ambient B-side.

So we went on to check Shazam ourselves, and it turns out the track has now been Shazamed more than 1.5 million times.

No idea why, but somehow the washy synths in “Organ Tutorials” seem to confuse the Shazam algorithm. It’s a pretty unusual way for a track to gain attention… but who knows? Maybe some of those people ended up enjoying this little ambient surprise.

We love the idea of people accidentally discovering new music through wrong Shazams! We’ve even talked about putting together a mix made entirely of “wrong Shazamed“ tracks - once we’ve collected enough genuinely good ones (which will take some time to be honest haha).

- Rhode & Brown

The City with the Door

There’s probably no other city where clubbing is as central as in Berlin, and I’m right in the thick of it. Between 500 and 1400 people pass you by, and you have to decide who gets to help shape the night and who doesn’t. It sounds like a mythological tale in a city where the passage of time is as fleeting and forgettable as Dory’s thoughts from Finding Nemo.

Waiting Time in Line

This time might seem like a complete waste to an outsider or non-visitor, but that’s not how it is for the evening itself. That’s precisely where the night begins. As the line goes, so goes the party, as the club philosophy would say, if it existed. A time that creates friendships, relationships, marriages, and so on...

The list of interactions is long, and I can’t even decipher them anymore—a code in the matrix that blends everything together.

The Story of the Night

It was one of those evenings where a crowd of people seemed to merge into a single individual. I couldn’t see the last person in line when suddenly two women complained to me about someone behind me, saying that this person was saying strange things, speaking in an odd language, and harassing them. A situation that seemed appropriate to me; not everyone has to get along with everyone else. When the two women pointed out the person behind them, I was quite taken aback! A woman with very long gray hair and glassy eyes, looking 60, 70, or even 150 years old. I was quite surprised by her appearance and her aura. After the two women passed me, they addressed the old woman and asked her how she was. Her reply was immediate: “How are you?” she asked me. A question followed by another, delivered with the same speed. She seemed almost like my reflection, a moment in my life where I could see myself in another person. Of course, at first I thought it was a joke or that there was a hidden camera somewhere, but that wasn’t the case. I couldn’t quite grasp what was happening; for a while, we just looked at each other. I asked her to step out of line, and she did. She moved to the end of the queue and watched me for 10 to 15 minutes, and then suddenly disappeared. An encounter that won’t soon be forgotten.

- A.tari

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E-CHOES issue #12 comes from Italian producer and DJ Whodamanny, a central figure in Naples’ electronic underground and closely associated with Periodica Records. His productions move between Italo disco, proto-house, Latin rhythms and the distinct electronic sound of Naples. Since 2023, he has also been running his own label, Biloba. For this issue, he takes us through his days at the studio and the role serendipity plays in his work.

I’m naturally a morning person, so my day starts early, usually between 6:30 and 7:00 AM. The very first thing I do is step into the garden with my dog to breathe in the fresh air. I’m lucky enough to have a beautiful sea view from my house, looking out at the islands, surrounded by fruit trees. Watching the horizon and seeing my dog run around happily sets a positive, grounded tone for the morning. After that, I help my partner get ready for work. I make her breakfast, trying to perfect her cappuccino and make it even better than the day before. I pack her lunch, wish her a great day, and then it’s time to lock myself away in my studio.

This is Biloba Studio, a room inside my house where I spend about 60% of my life. I don’t just see it as a recording studio; I view it as a laboratory for experiments where I never know what reactions will take place or what paths will open up. I always start the day with a clear mind, a precise strategy, and a geometric sense of organization, almost like an office worker. But once the process begins, things inevitably shift, and I am always ready to adapt and follow where the music takes me.

I’m incredibly fortunate to have my closest friends and colleagues, Rico Milord and Dario Mystic Jungle, living just minutes away. Without them, I couldn’t do what I do. We share our days from morning to afternoon, constantly collaborating. Sometimes we have intense, focused sessions to finalize projects. Other times, we just sit back, listen to new records, test new gear, and talk, imagining future scenarios and figuring out how to bring our inspirations to life. After working together for over a decade, we’ve developed our own shared language. We have a strict rule in the studio: certain words are banned. Over the years, we’ve built an entire private vocabulary and alphabet. It’s a bond that goes way beyond music; it’s a deep, genuine friendship.

I can’t stand self-serving ego or people who take themselves too seriously, but at the same time, I treat my work with absolute professionalism from the moment I turn on the gear to the moment I switch it off. Every single day I try to make things in a unique way that no one else is doing at that exact moment. Lately, I’ve been obsessed with subverting traditional mixing rules. I don’t aim for that ultra-compressed, loud sound where the kick drum overpowers everything. I listen closely to reference tracks, but I use my analog gear to carve out a different path. I notice this modern fear that people won’t dance if there isn’t a massive kick drum pounding away. But the kick isn’t what makes you move, it’s the emotion, the harmony, and the groove. And a true groove isn’t dictated by a metronome blasting low frequencies.

Because Biloba Studio is a dense, fast-paced work environment, there’s never time to stop and take photos or videos. I rarely capture content unless I actively force myself to, and even then, it’s just as a personal keepsake for the future. I despise content sharing for the sake of it, just to show off what I’m doing. My focus is entirely on the music and on creating an interesting, thought-provoking catalog that stands the test of time, beyond the visual hype. I have zero interest in being a camera-ready clown. I hate those cringe-worthy videos where people go, “Hey, I’m [Producer Name] and I’m doing my new album, coming soon!” However, I do love archival footage, old clips of studio sessions where the artists had no idea they were being filmed. They were just in the zone, and maybe a friend hanging out on the couch happened to bring a camera and captured the magic organically.

That concept of serendipity is a huge part of my life. Even though I start with a strategy, I let myself be carried away by my surroundings and the influences that find me. Interestingly, I never actively go out looking for things. The records, the people, the gear, the new ideas, they all come to me on their own. I always say that I’ve never discovered anything. During my day in the studio, I’m not trying to hunt down something new. Instead, I set up a mechanism of magnetism and manifestation, and then I just wait. I wait for what I want to arrive and for the things I didn’t even know I wanted, but will end up loving.

Ultimately, my day begins with strict schedules and a routine that seems almost predictable. But the moment I step into the studio, the routine vanishes. I enter a vortex of pure creativity. In the end, it’s all about the ability to create what you didn’t know you wanted, and having the patience to let it arrive naturally, without ever forcing it.

- Whodamanny

E-CHOES issue #11 comes from Karolina BNV a Berlin-based DJ and producer. She recently played at the Intergalactic FM Festival in The Hague for the first time. Founded by Dutch electro pioneer and key figure of the Italo disco revival I-F, the legendary online radio station brought its international community together for the festival’s 18th edition. I asked Karolina to send me a few impressions from the weekend.

I’ve been listening to Intergalactic FM for years, long before I ever imagined I’d end up playing the festival myself. A few things I noticed while I was there.

What makes Intergalactic FM Festival different?

The festival feels refreshingly disconnected from whatever the music industry is currently worried about. People seemed more interested in music than in promoting themselves.

Who was everywhere?

People whose names I’d known for years but had never actually met. One of those moments was meeting Mick Wills. I knew exactly who he was. I just had no idea what he looked like.

Where did you stay?

At a hostel called The Pink Flamingo. Whether it was named after the film or not, I chose to believe it was. It seemed like the right place to stay during Intergalactic FM.

Where did the festival’s heart beat?

Panama Racing Club.

To get there, you had to leave the main festival grounds, walk a little further and pass through a gate. It felt like a parallel universe. Maybe because it was one of the few places where nobody seemed to be in a hurry to be anywhere else. DJs, musicians, friends and complete strangers drifted in and out all weekend. Somebody would put on a record, somebody else would take over later. People danced, sang along, hugged, disappeared and reappeared hours later. By the end of the weekend, it felt less like a stage and more like the festival’s living room.

What was the most unexpected festival warm-up?

Standing in front of Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring at the Mauritshuis a few hours before my set. Not the usual pre-gig ritual, but highly recommended.

What was the real afterparty?

Mushroom soup and coffee at Intergalactic Gary’s place after a long day of music.No VIP area could compete.

What stays with you after the festival?

I felt that places like this still exist. And that there are still plenty of people who care more about music than everything that comes with it. That felt reassuring somehow.

- Karolina BNV

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E-CHOES issue #10 comes from Luca Averna, an Italian DJ and producer based in Ibiza. He is part of Homies, the Ibiza collective and label connected to Pikes, where he runs the musical side — curating lineups, DJing and managing the label.

This is the story behind “There Is No Planet B”, a track I created together with my friend Chris Coco.

It wasn’t born out of strategy, deadlines, or any plan to make a track for a specific release. It happened naturally, almost instinctively, the way things used to happen back in the day — after a heavy night out, with the music still ringing in your ears and the energy of the dancefloor still running through your body. More than anything, though, this track carries years of memories from one very special dancefloor, absorbing its sound, atmosphere and emotions without me even realizing it. Because some tracks aren’t simply produced. Some tracks are the natural result of the places you live, the people you meet, and the nights that stay with you forever. And for me, this is one of those tracks.

There are parties you enjoy. And then there are parties that somehow change something inside you. For me, Mercury Rising has always been that kind of party. Ever since it started, I honestly don’t think I’ve missed a single one. Ibiza is full of incredible parties, huge lineups and massive productions, but Mercury Rising always felt different. Musically, it’s probably the only party on the island where I can stay dancing in front of the booth all night long without getting distracted, completely locked into the journey.

Anyone who knows DJ Harvey understands that his sets don’t work like most DJs’ sets. They’re not built around instant gratification or obvious peak-time moments. They’re slow, sensual, psychedelic, dark, elegant. They pull you into another dimension. And the setting of Pikes Ibiza makes everything even more special — the low lights, the sweat, the weird characters, the almost cinematic energy that fills that room. Over time I also had the chance to get to know Harvey personally. We spent a lot of time together and today I can genuinely call him a friend. There’s a small group of us who always end up hanging out whenever he’s in Ibiza — dinners, afterhours, endless conversations about music, simple moments that somehow mean a lot. But this story really starts on that dancefloor.

After going to Mercury Rising for so many years, I think I started unconsciously absorbing its essence. Not just the records themselves, but the way the atmosphere slowly built during the night — that mixture of cosmic disco, psychedelic rock, dub, italo, wave, slow house and darker sounds that somehow only made sense in that room.

The spark came at the closing party of the 2019 season. That morning I got home around midday. I was completely exhausted but at the same time way too wired to sleep. That happens after certain nights — you still feel the bass in your stomach, the flashes of the night looping in your head, the adrenaline still running through you. Harvey had ended the night playing “Save A Prayer” by Duran Duran, and that melody was stuck in my head in an almost obsessive way.

So I turned on my MPC 1000. I didn’t have a plan. No goals. No idea of making a track “for” anything. I just wanted to translate that feeling into music. I started sampling random sounds, loops and little fragments, letting the mood of the night guide me. Then, completely by chance, I ended up on a YouTube video of a guy playing random keyboard riffs from different songs. And suddenly, among all those melodies, there it was — the riff from “Save A Prayer”.

I remember being genuinely shocked. After spending the whole night with that melody looping in my head, randomly finding it again like that felt almost like a sign. So I sampled the riff and started building around it, adding drums, textures and basslines until, within a few hours, the first rough version of the track was born. A while later I showed it to my friend Chris Coco, who I had already been collaborating with for years on different projects. He was also a regular at the party and knew that atmosphere really well. I suggested we continue working on the track together. Chris replayed the melody, added new elements to the arrangement and helped shape the track into something more complete, while still keeping the original emotion and energy from that morning intact.

The final result naturally ended up carrying the feeling of those deeper moments at Pikes — that darker, emotional, psychedelic part of the night where time almost disappears. The funny thing is that the track was never intentionally made for Mercury Rising. But without realizing it, years of memories and energy from that dancefloor somehow found their way into the music. Maybe that was inevitable.

A few months later the track got released on a UK label alongside some other productions. Everything seemed normal. Then one day, out of nowhere, an email arrived from the label. Harvey had chosen the track for the Mercury Rising Vol. 3 compilation.

I still remember exactly how that felt. Going from being someone dancing at the party every week to suddenly seeing my own track included in the official Mercury Rising tracklist felt surreal. Especially knowing how the track was born — after one night at the party, with zero expectations or plans, simply as an emotional reaction to all those years spent losing myself in front of that booth. Seeing that title next to the name Mercury Rising felt like closing a circle. One of those rare moments where music, real life and emotion align perfectly.

- Luca Averna

E-CHOES issue #9 comes from Peachonfuse, a Japanese DJ and producer from the beachside town of Hayama, Japan. She has been active in the electronic and experimental music scenes in Tokyo and Berlin, and is known for digging hidden disco, boogie and electronica mainly from across Asia.

One thing I appreciate about Japanese clubs is their strong focus on sound systems and audio quality. Many venues create comfortable environments for both DJs and listeners, allowing performers to fully focus on the music.

Small clubs and DJ bars in Japan also have very unique personalities. Because the spaces are intimate, it becomes easy to connect with interesting people naturally, creating a strong sense of community between artists, organizers, and guests.

Compared to Berlin, Japanese clubs often have shorter opening hours, but the underground scene still feels very passionate and energetic. What impressed me most is how quickly people connect through music and shared experiences.

I feel clubs are places where people express emotions they cannot fully show in everyday life. That is why I love the DJ booth — it is not only about playing music, but also about sharing atmosphere and emotion with the dance floor.

In Japan, many people seem to think deeply even while enjoying music. Rather than simply partying, people often come carrying their own emotions, stress, dreams, and personal experiences. Because of this, even quiet moments on the dance floor can feel emotionally powerful, and music creates a silent understanding between people.

Recently, I have become more interested in daytime and early evening events. Softer afternoon atmospheres feel more open, relaxed, and balanced. I enjoy seeing people connect naturally through music, conversation, food, nature, and changing sunlight. Maybe this is also part of what it means for people to grow older, Also, since returning to Japan and DJing here again, I no longer have to answer the question “Where are you from?” every time, which is honestly a bit refreshing, haha.

For me, this represents a new possibility within neo underground culture — one that keeps creativity and emotional depth while creating healthier and more sustainable ways for people to gather and connect.

Here are three tracks I enjoy playing at the moment:

“The Stars of Asia” / 亞洲之星

When it comes to melancholic Italo-style tracks, this is definitely one that holds a special place in my heart. I even used to quietly play it in Berlin. I especially love the spoken line near the end of the chorus.

Since I mainly play music from various Asian countries, I’m always wishing for peace across Asia. Apparently, this song was a commemorative track recorded in 1988 by all participants of the “Asian International Newcomer Contest,” organized by CBS/SONY, featuring representatives from China, Taiwan, South Korea, and Japan.

KEY WEST CLUB / “Yume wa Majorica Señorita”

This was the idol-era unit of two women who later became well known in Japan: actress Miki Nakatani and Keiko Azuma. It’s apparently said to be the original version that later became the basis for the Sailor Moon theme song.

The shocking lyric, “That person was actually a cow,” is unforgettable too.

Since Japanese idol music in the 1990s was mainly released as 8cm CD singles, this was only sold in that format as well.

“Just Like Magic” by Golbies

This is Eurobeat, but I really love how this Golbies track has an Italo city-pop flavor to it. The original song is by Red Monster. I also love how the chorus properly “works its magic.” Sadly, this CD is digital-only as well.

- Momo (Peachonfuse)

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E-CHOES issue #8 comes from COEO, a German DJ and production duo. They have released music on labels such as Toy Tonics, Razor-N-Tape and Permanent Vacation. Their name comes from Latin and can be translated as “to unite” or “to form an alliance.

The problems already started at the airport in Germany. Andy was traveling from Berlin, and I — Florian — from Munich. I was standing at the gate when a flight attendant examined my passport. First the front and back, then she ran her finger along the edges and turned it back and forth skeptically. Her head was lowered towards the passport, but a brief, puzzled— almost disdainful—glance reached me.

Then she opened it and flipped through the stamped pages. Thoughtfully, she looked at me once more. Her head was still lowered towards the document, but this time the look lingered—far too long for my taste—and it made me nervous. Had I overlooked something? She picked up the phone, stared into the air, and kept me waiting. No one answered her call, so I cautiously asked whether everything was alright. And then came the explanation: my passport was in a questionable condition, and she first had to check whether she was allowed to let me board the flight. I explained that the trip was very important, that I was traveling for work, and that I even had a work visa for Australia—so Denpasar in Bali was not my only destination. I asked whether she would like to see my visa. I’m a musician, going on tour in Australia and Bali, to be precise. But she seemed unimpressed, picked up the phone again, and waited until someone on the other end answered so she could describe the situation.

The assistant’s complaints did not catch me entirely off guard, because of course I knew that my passport was showing its age. In Germany, passports are valid for a full ten years and therefore reflect a significant part of a DJ’s musical career. On the outside, the corners were frayed, and the white plastic beneath the cover was beginning to show through. Inside, almost all the stamp pages were filled. Wonderful memories of all those journeys—but constant use had clearly left its marks. In my opinion, however, its condition was good enough to get me through one last tour, so I kept interrupting the conversation to throw in questions: „Are any pages loose or falling out?” “You can’t see anything like that, right?” I added that just two months earlier I had performed in the United States with this very passport—and everyone knows that the border officers there are really strict. “You can see the U.S. artist visa in there, can’t you?” After a long back and forth, she finally let me pass, but not without pointing out that tourists had frequently been turned back at the Indonesian border with passports in similar condition.

And so I boarded the plane with a racing pulse—but relieved. The journey itself was pleasant. All I really remember are my seat neighbors: a middle-aged woman traveling to Dubai with her daughter. In the thickest Bavarian dialect, she explained that back home she and her husband ran a family- owned driving school. After she asked me what I am doing, she wanted to know whether I was famous. I replied: “No, truly famous DJs don’t fly economy.” After a stopover in Dubai, I arrived safely in Bali and had no problems whatsoever at immigration.

But- as you will find out later in the story- you shouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch. Arriving in Canggu in the evening, Andy was already waiting at our appartment. We cooled off in the pool and talked about the journey behind us. When Andy mentioned that he’d had the same issues with his passport during boarding at BER, we burst out laughing and made fun of German precision.

Our anticipation was huge, as we usually don’t play outside of Europe more than once a year. But when we do, everything is carefully planned, and we usually have plenty of time on-site, especially between gigs. Typically, this means doing some sightseeing during the day and then talking about music until the sun comes up. The great advantage of being a DJ duo is that touring feels like a vacation with your best mate.

Our first gig went great, and the following day we visited the Monkey Forest in Ubud. I never would have believed that a 25 km car ride could take two hours due to the traffic and dilapidated roads—or that such a long taxi ride could be so cheap. At first, while in the Monkey Forest, I thought the Indonesian heat was really getting to me, but after vomiting several times in a restaurant restroom afterwards, it was clear that I had caught exactly what the promoter had so urgently warned me about at the artist dinner the day before: “The Bali Belly”.

Hunched over, half-lying with my head against the window, I sat sweating in the backseat of the taxi, praying I wouldn’t have to empty my stomach on the way back and that the roads would have fewer potholes. My stomach was merciful, but the traffic just wouldn’t let the journey end.

Once we reached our accommodation, I was unable to move, so Andy went to a pharmacy to get me some meds—medication whose package insert stated it was also used after chemotherapy. My stomach was completely sealed off, and by the next morning, I felt well enough for us to head out on our pre-booked tour to the island of Nusa Penida. It was a terrible idea—I knew that—but my bedroom was on the first floor, where the roof consisted of a thin and thus poorly soundproofed wooden partition. And on the construction site next to our accommodation, the sawing, milling, and hammering started at 8 a.m. sharp.

So we hopped into a car that took us to a ferry within an hour, which in turn brought us to the island, where we spent the next nine hours in yet another car. Aside from a few stops at Instagram hotspots, we spent the day being rattled around the island on bumpy roads. My stomach took another beating. Thanks to the meds, I pulled through, but until our departure two days later, I consumed nothing but water.

The weekend was approaching, and our gigs in Melbourne and Sydney were coming up. When we arrived at the security check at Denpasar airport, we pulled our passports out of our bags. To my horror, Andy’s passport was in much worse shape than I had assumed—had I known, my laughter upon arriving in Bali would have been a lot quieter. Andy looked at me in disbelief, holding the photo page of his passport in his left hand and the actual passport in his right. The pages appeared warped, as if they had soaked up the Bali humidity over the last few days. The two halves were barely held together by a tiny, almost invisible silk thread. After a quick, frantic Google search, it was immediately clear to us: this passport was no longer valid.

The officers’ first reaction was instant: ‘Off to Jakarta to apply for a temporary passport at the only German consulate in Indonesia.’ That would ruin the weekend, so Andy remained persistent, pleading with the border official to check all possibilities since we were traveling for work and the financial loss would be significant. I had already cleared the check and had no idea what was going on.

Incredibly, Andy was asked into the back office. He described the scene to me as follows: three officers were sitting in the room, and not a word was spoken. His passport appeared on a screen. The image loaded painfully slowly, just like websites used to on Windows Internet Explorer. The tension must have been unbearable, as the three Balinese officials didn’t react to any questions.

After what felt like an eternity, one of the officers asked what had happened, only to counter Andy’s explanation with a dry, annoyed: ‘Aha, okay... Well then, off to Jakarta and get a new one!’ Andy added that we are DJs on tour and that a lot of people were counting on us.”

The officer: “Aha! Tour, DJ... Are you famous?”

“Well, it’s not our first time playing tours like this, and we have fans all over the world.”

“Can you show me?” A bit embarrassed, Andy handed the officer his phone and opened Spotify. The officer scrolled through our tracks, playing one or two of them. Then he continued: “Did you play here as well? If so, where? What’s the name of the club?”

Andi nervously nodded and politely answered every single questions the Balinese man asked him. He couldn’t quite tell you how he navigated through the following questions, but eventually, the officer just sat there again in silence, brooding with his head resting on his hand until Andy broke the silence: He promised him that he would go straight to the consulate in Oz. And hey—at that point, he’d be the Australian authorities’ problem anyway. Again, the officer said nothing. For five minutes. Then he pulled the passport towards him and began circling the exit stamp over the document.

With every swing, he muttered something like: “I don’t know… can I do this… I don’t know… can I do this…” — almost like a loop, with a slight grin as if he was enjoying making him squirm a little longer. Suddenly he slammed the stamp into the passport and said: “Now, get out of here.”

The relief was immense, but it only lasted for a brief moment, because airlines, too, can deny a passenger boarding. No shop in the world in an airport departure area sells sticky tape. Why would they? We asked everywhere, and finally, Andy managed to borrow a roll of sticky tape from a shop counter. During the remaining thirty minutes before departure, he used it to tape the photo page back into his passport. You couldn’t exactly say the result looked authentic or that the repair wasn’t obvious, but the photo page was reattached to the passport.

During boarding, Andy was held back by the flight attendants. I had to move ahead and take my seat on the plane so as not to block the other passengers. ‘Off to Jakarta after all,’ I thought, disappointed. But then Andy boarded as the very last passenger, rolling his eyes. He hadn’t been assigned a seat. This had to be sorted out with the flight attendants. And he had to pay for it. Why? To this day, we don’t know—but it didn’t matter anyway, because we were allowed to leave.

And then began what were perhaps the most unpleasant six hours of my traveling life so far: the effects of the Anti-Bali-Belly meds started to wear off. With every sprint to the bathroom, I had to endure a annoyed groan from the old white man sitting next to me. He was in the aisle seat and had to get up every single time. This sun-drenched man in a cowboy hat had perhaps the leatheriest skin I have ever seen in my life.

Nothing wakes you up faster after a red-eye flight than a passport control in Melbourne with an invalid passport. We still had those detector dogs in our mind’s eye, which had inspected us and our luggage so thoroughly on our last tour. Our assumption was: if a country is that strict about food imports and biosafety, they’ll probably be just as tough at passport controls.

We stood there nervously and were split between two officers. I kept glancing over at Andi, who was gesturing wildly as he explained his situation to the female officer. And it worked. Andy got through. Just like that. Of course, he was also asked what had happened to the passport, but he managed to convincingly present our plan to apply for a temporary passport at the German Consulate in Sydney immediately after entry. Looking back, I don’t think it was just luck or that we happened to meet nice and understanding border officials. No—and I explained this to Andy on the way to the hotel—I believe it’s mostly due to Andy’s personality and the fact that he’s just great with people.

The following days we were no longer dependent on the goodwill of border officials, but we were facing a massive organizational challenge. After our gig in Melbourne, we had less than 24 hours in Sydney before traveling on. But after several phone calls with the consulate in Sydney, the staff assured us they had issued passports on such short notice that the ink hadn’t even been dry by the time of boarding. With all the excitement, my Bali Belly vanished into thin air, and right after the tour, we both applied for brand-new passports immediately.

- COEO

E-CHOES issue #7 comes from Franz Scala, Italian-born, Berlin-based DJ and founder of Slow Motion Records. He also co-runs the label and party series Wrong Era and has released music and edits across several labels.

I was browsing Mercatino Musicale, the Italian eBay for music instruments, and I spotted an EMU Vintage Keys module for a price that barely made sense, just a small listing, a couple of photos and a “why not” feeling.

When it arrived and I plugged it in, I didn’t expect much. But then I started to go true the presets and discover the sounds are pure magic. Digging online I realize it samples of some of the most iconic synths and keyboards ever made: Rhodes, Wurlitzer, Minimoog, ARP 2600, Fairlight, Solina, Mellotron, DX7, Hammond, Farfisa, Memory Moog and so on.. all of it, packed into 8MB of memory.

There’s something special about cheap gear like this. No menus, no endless options, just sound. I recently got an external controller to trigger all the presets and it turned it in one of the most powerful synth in my collection.

I’ve ended up using a bit of it everywhere in my productions. It’s funny how a small, overlooked module bought online from Italy can end up shaping so much of your music.

- Franz Scala

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E-CHOES issue #6 comes from Tobias Thomas, a DJ, producer and longtime member of the legendary Cologne-based Kompakt circle. Between 1998 and 2014, he hosted the “Total Confusion” clubnight in Cologne. As a DJ he played records in more than 30 countries and on 4 continents.

Playing into that cathedral-like emptiness – that’s what we always called it when the DJs before us, right at the start of the night, would blast their so-called hits and bangers – pitched up really fast and hysterically – into the club, which, naturally, was still fairly empty just after 11 pm. It physically hurt us. It wounded our feelings and defied our understanding. How could they? How could other people who – like us – called themselves DJs treat that time, which is so beautiful, with its reverent, expectant atmosphere that prevails at the start of every party, in such an unempathetic, crude and brutal manner? For us that time was sacred.

We wondered, how do these people have sex? How do they start a conversation? How do they experience the first hour of a film, when the plot unfolds and tension builds very slowly and almost imperceptibly?

To express our disgust and contempt, and to salvage what could still be salvaged, we simply began our sets at 2 am with an ambient track. Stop! Back to square one. Let’s start all over again from the very beginning.

From then on, we rebuilt the entire collapsed cathedral, stone by stone, track by track, steering the narrative by modulating only microscopic parts of the music; we raised the temperature, altered the states, blended, interwove and spun the narrative threads together into a dense, warm stream of emotion and sound.

The spaces seemed to arch and expand beneath our hands, like massive rock formations from whose fine fissures magma was already emerging, glowing red. Obsessed, we worked on our audience’s ears with the finest tools, as if carving the perfect sculpture from a block of marble, peeling body, structure and form from the music, making the dance floor crowded like an aquarium filling in slow motion. So, there we stood, bent over the mixing desk, adjusting volume and frequencies by mere millimetres at a time, in deep concentration, before pulling the next piece of the mosaic from the depths of our record box.

The DJ decides when it starts, DJ Koze always said. Not the whingeing kids with eyes like saucers, nor the impatient ones, nor the non-believers.

Taking on the warm-up was always an honour and a huge responsibility; there were never any arguments about who would play the warm-up or prime time. When playing first the biggest challenge was to delay the entry of a beat or a bass drum for as long as possible. Life punishes those who arrive too early. In the archaeological layers of my record collection, there are still visible traces of former warm-up sets. There they stand, close together, the great masters of crackling and clattering. The king among them was Jan Jelinek and his magnum opus ‘Loop-Finding-Jazz-Records’. An incredible record, which may serve as a backdrop to my narrative for the reader of these lines.

- Tobias Thomas

E-CHOES issue #5 comes from Geneva, a Paris-based DJ, producer and curator. With her debut track just released on Fauve Records, we spoke about the thoughts and feelings that come with putting out your first record.

Congrats on your first release on FAUVE Records!
Thanks, Max. Looking back from this point in time, when this whole journey was just an idea, it’s especially cool to see it actually come to life.

Before you started producing, what felt most intimidating about it?
It might sound a bit strange, but for me it was really about the scale of the unknown and how endless the learning process felt. I have a lot of talented producer friends who’ve been making music for years and are still constantly discovering new techniques and evolving their sound. “That’s the fun part,” they’d say (hi Romain FX! laughs).
As a beginner, that sense of boundlessness felt more intimidating than exciting. I’d compare it to swimming in very deep water. When you know there’s an ocean trench beneath you, it’s easy to panic and feel like you might just sink. But in reality, the key is to relax and enjoy the process — then you just float.
Now that I’ve developed some technique and have a bit more direction in how I work, it feels different. That depth doesn’t really matter anymore — whether it’s two meters or a hundred. At this point, it finally feels more exciting than scary.

Did you ever feel a kind of pressure to start producing in order to move forward - or was that never really on your mind?
Yes, but I want to clarify right away that this was my own personal pressure on myself, rather than some kind of stereotype like “to move forward as a DJ, you have to become a producer.” Moving forward can happen in different ways: you could explore new genres, level up your digging, start a podcast or a series of parties, or, of course, start making your own music. That’s what I chose.

And, considering I can be quite a pain in the ass to myself, the pressure was real (laughs). I spent hours and days in Logic, tutorials, and endless experiments. In exchange, I gave up good weather, hanging out with friends, awesome parties, posture, and healthy skin. Do I regret it? Not at all, hehe.

I sometimes think: what if my first release ends up defining how people see my sound — even though how I play is much broader? Or that I might outgrow the released tracks quickly. Did that ever cross your mind?
I love this question! I think one of the big advantages here is that you can actually do something different from your usual style. You don’t have a playlist in rekordbox where the track has to fit, no fixed time slot — it’s a blank canvas. The track will still reflect your personality, because behind any genre there’s always something more: mood, nuances, favorite themes.

Most often, people see me playing groovy house, but my first track ended up being electro clash. And yet, many friends immediately said, “this is really you,” because it’s full of irony and a hint of eroticism — things I try to keep as a red thread in my music selection.

As for outgrowing the released tracks — to be completely honest, I couldn’t even listen to my track when it was finished (laughs). But that wasn’t about outgrowing it; it was just the overwhelm from listening to a track a million times while making it. Being afraid of outgrowing yourself isn’t something to worry about. I would even wish for myself to regularly outgrow myself and my tracks.

What would you tell someone who keeps thinking about starting but never actually does it?
It’s banal as hell, but just go ahead! Even knowing that this adventure could end in disappointment. Could it? Yes. There are lots of tricky and subtle things in the process of production that might simply not match your expectations. But if you go through the most challenging and “nerdy” part, stopping is almost impossible. So... let’s go!

P.S. Endless thanks to my friend Romain FX for his precious feedback and guidance, which helped me get to where I am now.

Thanks a lot Eugénie for taking the time to answer this. Would be nice to revisit at some point and talk again about how your perspective might have changed over time.

E-CHOES issue #4 comes from Delfonic, a Berlin-based DJ with a deep digging background. He works as A&R and label manager at Wordandsound and is well known for his edits and reworks released across various labels.

Why I Edit Disco Tracks (and why it’s more than “just” a remix)

There’s that moment in a club that every DJ knows: You’re playing a record, the groove is perfect—but the part that’s really getting the crowd going is already over after 16 bars. Or vice versa: A song is actually a tad too long, but it has that one magical part you absolutely want to hold onto so the energy can build properly.

That’s exactly where edits begin for me.

I make disco edits because I work with music like it’s raw material: cutting, extending, reweighting—not to “put my stamp” on the originals, but to make them even more playable on the dance floor. Many of my edits arise quite simply from everyday DJing: I create versions that I actually need in my sets. Not for the streaming game, but for flow, tension, and timing.

1) Edits are a love letter to the original – but with club dynamics.

For me, disco isn’t a nostalgia filter. Disco is sound design, musicality, and physicality. When I edit, I do so with respect for what’s already there: groove, vocals, strings, percussion – that organic “breathing.” I try not to smother it, but to reveal it: more space for breaks, clearer drops, longer intros/outros, so that a track can have the impact it deserves in the mix.

2) “No gimmicks” – just groove, tension, flow.

I’m not a fan of overproduction in edits. If an edit only “works” because it’s crammed full of effects, it usually doesn’t last two nights. My favorite edits are the ones where people ask after the set, “Which version was that?!” – and you realize it wasn’t the effect, but the structure.

At Dazz It Up! That’s pretty much the idea: DJ-driven reworks that are warm, soulful, and built around movement – ​​disco and house roots, but with fresh dancefloor energy. No hype, no noise, just vibe.

3) A Bridge Between Past and Present

A good disco track often has a time-capsule quality – and at the same time, many of these arrangements are so modern that they can easily hold their own alongside current house/broken-beat tracks. For me, edits are the bridge: not to “remake” the old, but to frame it in such a way that it shines brightest in today’s club context.

And sometimes that also means shifting the focus slightly – for example, more towards Afro-influenced rhythms, more percussion, more hypnotic loops, longer arcs of tension. Not as a stylistic statement, but because it simply feels right in certain spaces and at certain times.

4) Why I Keep Many Edits “Under Speculation” for a Long Time

To be honest: many edits are like secret weapons. You collect versions that work on dance floors over the years – and only when people keep asking, “When is this coming out?”, do you realize: okay, this has taken on a life of its own. Dazz It Up! It was born out of that very moment: a home for the exclusive reworks that I’ve played in sets for years.

- Delfonic

E-CHOES issue #3 comes from Seattle based DJ and radio host Sharlese. Known for dark, genre-blurring sets moving between electro, EBM, Italo and techno, she has played clubs such as Panorama Bar and Merge in New York.

Hello! My name is Sharlese, and I work for KEXP Radio in Seattle, WA and I like to DJ in clubs from time to time. One thing people don’t know about me is that I have a Tumblr account dedicated solely to music videos. I’m obsessed with watching and compiling the best ones in one place so I can revisit them later or show them off to my friends. Today I’ve compiled some that I really love. There’s a mix of Italo, R&B, Electro-Funk, Freestyle, New Wave, etc.

— you get the picture! Some you might know, others might be new to you, but all of these are fun to watch.

For me, a good music video has some key elements. I love colors, people, and a visual enhancement of why I liked the song in the first place. I appreciate style, creativity, or even just watching the musicians themselves. I love how the way videos are shot make them timestamps of an era – a mix of nostalgia and even campiness.

I think some—or all—of these elements are present in the videos mentioned below, so sit back and get ready for Sharlese’s Nostalgic Music Video Roundup!

De-De-Mo ‘Cause I need you, ‘cause I love you’

I love the way this one was shot and the colors and visual effects!

Dee D. Jackson ‘Automatic Lover’

I saw this video before I heard the song and it was ‘love at first sight’.

Klymaxx - ‘Meeting In The Ladies Room‘

The fashion, the style, the dancing! This is the best!

Alphaville - ‘Sounds Like A Melody‘

Visual stimulation to the max! Is this what heaven looks like?! In my heart, I hope it does!

New Edition - ‘Cool It Now‘

A very cute video for such a classic track!

Yellow Magic Orchestra - ‘Kimi Ni Mune Kyun‘

Truly one of my favorite videos to watch! The moves, YMO, the colors, their hair!

Lil Suzy - ‘Take Me In Your Arms‘

I just love the look and feel of this track! Its perfect for the song!

Righeira - ‘Vamos a la playa‘

The colors, the capture of an era, their dancing! This one is such a visual winner!

Mike Oldfield - ‘Five Miles Out‘

Shout out to The Baldeejays who first played this track on an IFM stream. I didn’t know it was a rock opera track and only knew it as an Italo hit. This video is the best and is a true audio visual of the song

Lime - ‘Babe We’re Gonna Love Tonight‘

I just love how fun and campy Lime was. This video so fun to look at, especially them! Such treasures!

- Sharlese