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Interview by Passion Dzenga and Liesje Verhave | Photography by Sam Vanacker and Lowie van der GrintenThere is something fitting about Stapelgang taking their name from a street. What began as a group of friends from dance school gathering to listen to music, exchange references and talk about the details hidden inside the songs they loved has gradually developed into something much larger: a musical project, creative community and shared language built from years of moving, listening and working alongside one another.Formed around 2018, Stapelgang grew from friendships established through dance, but the group were never interested in remaining within a single discipline. Music, performance, production, theatre, DJing and visual culture all became part of the same creative vocabulary. Even their name has come to reflect that approach. A stapel is a pile or stack: something built by placing one thing on top of another. For Stapelgang, every experience becomes another layer. Knowledge picked up through dance feeds into music; theatre informs the live show; friendship shapes the studio; and the wider community around them continues to influence what the group can become.Now operating as the trio of Gary “Duimalot” Gravenbeek (vocalist), Jeffrey “Jackson” Loewenicht (producer) and Skeyenno “Kiddy” Talany (vocalist), Stapelgang are pushing that philosophy further with their self-titled EP. Developed through intensive writing camps, tiny rooms, ageing laptops and an instinctive creative relationship years in the making, the project captures a group learning how to turn the chemistry of friendship into something more deliberate without losing the spontaneity that made it exciting in the first place.Following the release of their EP, Stapel, we sat down with the group to talk about growing from dancers into musicians, learning to work professionally with your closest friends, making something from very little, building a live world around their music and why the people surrounding Stapelgang remain just as important as the three standing at its centre.You all knew each other through dance before Stapelgang existed. How did that friendship eventually become a musical project?Gary: Stapelgang started around 2018. We were a group of friends and most of us came from the dance academy, so there was already this whole family surrounding what we were doing. We would have nights where we came together, listened to a lot of music, shared music with each other and really talked about how it made us feel and all the different layers within it. I think that was when the depth of what we were doing together, beyond dancing, really started coming into the room. We started investigating what all of this meant to us individually and what it could mean collectively.At that point there were five of us, including Evan “N4VY” Blaaser - Lumen Atlas and Okke “Orka” Pieters. One night we were outside in Amersfoort and took a picture on this little street called Stapelgang. From there it became “gang”. But the idea of a stapel — putting things into a pile — actually ended up describing us really well. Everything we learn from other work, whether that's theatre, acting, performing or dancing, gets put back into the pile. All of that information comes back into Stapelgang.Jeffrey: We were schoolmates, classmates and dance mates, so our relationships had already developed across all these different layers. That made our connection through music stronger too. Some of us were DJing, some were interested in beats and production, and eventually all of those elements started coming together. We developed a language where somebody can say, “Can you make it more like this?” and we know what they mean because we already understand how the other person experiences music.As dancers, you're embodying the music. Now we're making the music. Those things are connected because you're already trained to recognise what you're looking for emotionally.Was there a clear moment when you decided to start making music, or did it simply become another extension of the way you already related to sound?Kiddy: I think it all comes down to loving music. Dance is one aspect of that love, but there is another realm of enjoying music where you're actually making it. For us, those things add to each other. They're different sides of the same coin.Dance was really the first layer. A lot of us were already interested in how music was made, but dance brought us close together and taught us how to enjoy and analyse music together. Eventually the question became: how do we actually make the kind of music that makes us feel this way? Then suddenly we're vocalists, we're making beats and we're all sitting together in this tiny room that's way too hot with way too many people inside it.Gary: I don't even think there was one real starting point. Some of us grew up around music through our parents, and I was already a vocalist before I seriously started dancing. We were all so obsessed with finding music and listening to SoundCloud beats that eventually somebody had to take the next step and start making it themselves.Because we came from dance, we'd also been exposed to a lot of really high-quality music, so our ears were already slightly spoiled. When you begin producing, you immediately know the thing you're making could be better. You're not necessarily ashamed of it, but you understand that you're still in a process.We'd also worked together creatively before Stapelgang properly became a musical project. We choreographed a performance for the National Theater and had to create music for it, which taught us a lot about how we function professionally. Being friends is one thing; actually being responsible for something together is completely different. By the time we started doing proper studio sessions and writing camps, it didn't feel like we were suddenly jumping into something completely new. We already knew quite a lot about how each other worked.Friendship and working relationships don't always translate easily. How have you learned to work professionally together without losing what made you friends in the first place?Jeffrey: It happened quite organically because we know each other's strengths and we're also aware of each other's weaknesses. I know what I can expect from Gary during a certain part of the day, and I know when his concentration is gone and it's time for me to go to Kiddy instead. You learn each other's rhythm in the room.We've also all worked professionally outside of Stapelgang. We've had our own experiences with companies, groups, theatre and other projects, so we understand what it means to work professionally. We didn't need to spend years discovering basic things about one another before we could actually start creating.Kiddy: The years of friendship matter because we've spent years listening to music together and discussing why a sound hits for one person but maybe doesn't hit for somebody else. After enough of those conversations, you almost start living inside each other's brains.When we're working now, sometimes we only need to look at each other. Somebody can use one metaphor and suddenly everybody understands what needs to happen. We've officially been working together on music for a few years, but in another sense we've been developing this sound and this communication for much longer than that.Gary: And the community around us is part of that too. We're the three people stepping forward now saying, “We're Stapelgang,” and that's true, but the people around us have also been involved in this research. They've listened to music with us, talked about music with us and worked on projects with us.When we did the campaign shoot, for example, there were a lot of friends working on it. Everybody already understood each other's expectations. In some ways, we've already done the work because we've spent so many years learning how the people around us operate.Your self-titled EP came out of writing camps rather than a rigid concept. What were you trying to discover when you began making it?Jeffrey: It started with a writing camp in 2025 that was connected to one of my development projects. Part of my research was about producing, and I already knew Gary and Kiddy were making music individually, so I wanted to invite them into the project.We went into it completely blank. Whatever happened, happened. We knew there were certain colours we were attracted to. We wanted things that sounded cinematic, but we also wanted things that felt raw. Once we were in the room, the direction became clearer.That's basically what the EP represents. It's all of our tastes coming together and what happened between us in that room. There wasn't a meeting where we planned exactly what the project needed to sound like. Somebody would hit the first piano chord and we'd suddenly know: okay, it has to go this way.What were those writing camps actually like? Was getting away from your normal environment important to making the project?Gary: We did two writing camps. The first was almost like being at a Center Parcs-type holiday situation, except we genuinely went there to work. I have to give Jeffrey props for that because writing camps can easily turn into partying and messing around, but we really went in. We'd sleep two or three hours and then go straight back into that little room.The first camp was really about making whatever we felt. Megan was there to take photo’s, Joshua was there to cook the food, and there were people around us who were already friends but who were also there because they're professionals at what they do. That distinction was important. You can be friends and still take each other's craft seriously.The second camp was a little harder because we deliberately tried something different and invited other people in. But both experiences taught us about the conditions we need to make the music hit as hard as possible. Even small things matter. There was catering. Things were organised. We weren't living off instant noodles and turning every night into a party. We ate well and we worked.You've spoken about making music in tiny rooms and sometimes working without ideal equipment. Has limitation become part of the Stapelgang process?Kiddy: Technology might genuinely be our biggest enemy sometimes. When it doesn't work the way you want it to, it can slow everything down. But besides that, these are the people I want to work with for the rest of my life.Jeffrey: We've learned how to work with less. Sometimes all we have is a laptop. My laptop is seven years old now, so it definitely has its moments. The sound treatment hasn't always been right either. But we learned how to ask: if we don't have professional equipment, how do we still make this sound professional? How do we get everything possible out of what we have?That taught me something important about these guys and everybody around us. We don't need to have everything. Whatever we do have, we're going to get the most out of it. Of course, sometimes you just want the great studio, the great microphone and the great laptop. But learning without those things means that when they're finally there, we know what to do with them.Kiddy: That's probably where we shine most. We've always been used to creating something out of nothing. That's part of dancing and it's part of our friendship. Those environments can be difficult, but they're also where we thrive.There is a huge amount of energy around Stapelgang. How much of that comes from the fact that you're creating alongside people you genuinely trust?Gary: The energy feels normal to us. Dance definitely has something to do with it, but I think the bigger thing is feeling safe enough to explore and have whatever outlet you need. Those things create a space where you can do whatever you want.We've worked hard, and my motivation now comes from feeling like everything is possible because I'm working with my friends. I'm really close to them. That's something I want other people listening to us to feel as well: find your people and make something together.That's also part of why we want the music to be something everyone can tap into. I want people to hear what we're saying, find their own clique and move. When I'm standing onstage and I look behind me and see Jeffrey and Kiddy, I explode. That's all I ever wanted. I think everybody deserves to find their own version of that, whatever their lane might be.“FC Stapel” feels like one of the clearest examples of that community becoming visible. How did the track and its visual world come together?Kiddy: We were asked to make an anthem for a dance festival “Freedom City” in Utrecht. Raymond “Baba” Ramdihal, who runs the event, is also a friend of ours. That's what made it special: he's doing his thing by organising an event, we're doing ours, and then those worlds can meet.It gave us the opportunity to work with people like Daring “G” Guermonprez, Arif Gusejnov - Sound Masters Academy, Roy “Royal”, Megan Jane Simons, Trak Studios, Sansho Weynschenk, Jochem van der Velden, Gogo Lupin, Lowie van der Grinten - Lowiegraphy, Macy Sarinah, Joshua Bagano - Shempreh and Elsemieke van Essen. It became another stapel, another pile of different people, but everything still came from the source of who we are.The song itself was funny because we spent two or three days making completely different tracks. We were deep in the process, but nobody was saying anything. Eventually I just told everyone, “I'm not going to lie, I'm not feeling this.” Everybody looked at me like, “Yep. Nobody is.” Then we started again. Jeffrey made the new beat in about five minutes.Gary: We asked him what he actually wanted to make and he basically said: just hip-hop. He found a sample, loaded it in and then we separated. He did his part, we did ours, and suddenly it worked.Kiddy: Then Darin G came in and put his magical fingers on it. After all those days trying to force something, FC Stapel basically just happened.Jeffrey: I think we're free spirits when we're inside the studio. Outside the studio, we're hard workers. But in that freedom, that's where the magic comes from. Some of our songs just happen. When we have too many borders and we're told exactly what something has to be, that's more challenging for us. It's something we're learning, but the songs that arrive organically are often the ones closest to my heart.You all come from theatre and dance, so a Stapelgang performance was never likely to be three people simply standing under a spotlight. What did you want people to experience at the EP release show?Jeffrey: We come from theatre, so we don't want people to simply watch us perform. We want them to experience a moment. There is nothing wrong with just having one light and going raw and rapping, but that represents maybe two percent of who we are.We wanted everything to contribute to the experience: VJing, stage design, outfits and lighting. For me, “Blauwe Vinkjes” was probably my favourite song to perform because everything came together during that track. There was so much happening visually. I'm a very visual person, so when the VJing, lighting and everything else clicked at the same time, I could feel that the whole thing was switched on.Gary: The live setup is important to us because we want it to sound genuinely good as well. We've been working with our own sound engineer and using a MIDI controller within the setup. We play with in-ears and monitors, and then we have the visual stage design around us made by Esmeralda van Kekem — the grass mat, pink objects, blocks, circles. We're still developing it, but we want the technical and visual sides to be taken seriously because the performance isn't separate from the music. It's another part of it.You've built this project through instinct, but you're now talking much more deliberately about organisation and the future. What does the next stage of Stapelgang look like?Gary: This upcoming year is going to involve a lot of focus on the organisational side. We're going to continue releasing singles and keep building the online buzz we're creating now through good music, high-quality videos, funny videos and giving people more depth into who we actually are.We're also looking at fundings so we can plan further ahead instead of constantly reacting. Jeffrey is becoming a father, which means we're thinking seriously about how we can work ahead, unload some of his workload and become more efficient as a group.Kiddy and I are also going to be working together on a theatre performance with two other organisations, which means we're going to be around each other for four months. The plan is to make 32 songs during that period.There's already another single almost ready. It was made during the first writing camp and originally could have been part of the EP, but we decided to leave it off and release it separately.The bigger goal is to create enough music and plan enough of the coming year that we have the headspace to properly develop the organisation around Stapelgang. We want to know who we want to work with, which venues we want to be in, who we need to talk to and where the important moments are going to happen. Then we can plan releases around those moments and make sure the people who need to see us actually see us. It's about building Stapelgang into something where we know exactly what we're doing.For all the talk of releases, writing camps, stage design and future plans, the most important part of Stapelgang might still be the simplest: these are friends who learned how to listen to one another.Long before the EP, they were already building its foundations in dance studios, theatre productions, late-night conversations and sessions spent pulling apart the music they loved. That history explains why so much of their process appears instinctive today. A glance can replace a paragraph. A metaphor can redirect an entire session. After days spent forcing a song that doesn't work, somebody can finally admit it and everybody else immediately understands.That trust extends beyond Gary, Jeffrey and Kiddy. Throughout the conversation, they repeatedly return to the people around them: N4VY and Orka in Stapelgang's beginnings; Megan and Joshua at the writing camps; Raymond and the community behind FC Stapel; and collaborators including Daring G, Arif, Royal, Megan Jane, Trak Studios, Sansho, Jochem, Gogo, Lowie, Macy, Shempreh and Els who helped expand the group's ideas into something larger. Stapelgang may now have three people at its front, but they make it clear that the pile was never built by three people alone.That makes the name feel increasingly appropriate. Every discipline, friendship, limitation, performance and collaboration becomes another thing added to the stack. Nothing has to exist independently when it can feed the next idea.And as Stapelgang move from making music in overcrowded rooms towards a more ambitious live show and increasingly deliberate future, they don't seem interested in abandoning the conditions that first made the project work. The equipment can improve. The stages can become bigger. The organisation can become sharper. But the principle remains the same: find the people who understand your language, make the most of what's in front of you, and keep adding to the pile.

Interview by Passion DEEZ Ezra Collective’s new album, Here Because of Hope, feels like a record made by a band looking at where they have come from without losing sight of where they could still go. For bassist TJ Koleoso, that growth is less about becoming better musicians and more about developing the patience, perspective and understanding needed to make music about something as complicated as hope.Having grown up playing alongside his brother and Ezra Collective bandmate Femi Koleoso, TJ has spent more than a decade developing the rhythmic relationship at the centre of the band. Along the way, Ezra Collective have gone from Tomorrow’s Warriors sessions to winning the Mercury Prize, being named BRIT Group of the Year and playing Wembley Arena, all while pushing jazz into spaces where it has historically struggled to receive the same mainstream recognition.With Here Because of Hope, the ambition remains, but so does the humility. Speaking with Patta, TJ discusses learning when not to play, the bass as the glue holding Ezra Collective together, what Gary Crosby taught him about confidence without arrogance, the importance of developing away from the spotlight and why the band still wants to be the most ambitious people in every room they enter.You’ve described Here Because of Hope as a record that reflects Ezra Collective growing up. What does that maturity actually sound like to you?I’m not sure I necessarily meant that we’re going from being children to adults as if we’re better at playing now, or as if to say that we were childish in anything previously. I think the theme of hope is one that requires a more mature understanding of humanity and life.The meaning behind a lot of the songs requires a slightly more mature outlook to really grasp what we’re trying to say. Musically, as we’re growing older, there’s maybe an increased patience with getting to a point of release. We’re waiting a little bit more and trusting the journey of certain songs, and more so the journey of the whole album.Femi has spoken about studying West African and specifically Gambian music while making “Only Love”, and how that informed both the drums and bassline. As the actual bassist in the band, what happens when your drummer walks in with a bassline?I don’t always write the basslines for Ezra songs. In fact, it’s probably rarer for me to write a bassline because we’re all songwriters. Everyone spends time writing their own music and brings it into Ezra.At that point, it’s more a case of me putting my bassist hat on and approaching basslines that might have been written by somebody else, then adapting them in a way that I feel is going to sound like me and therefore sound like Ezra. We’re completely used to it. I never think, “Why have you written a bassline?” I love it when people come in with different ideas.The magic comes when each of us takes responsibility for making those ideas sound like ourselves and, ultimately, making them sound like Ezra Collective.You and Femi grew up together, played in church together and have now spent more than a decade in the same band. What can you do together rhythmically now that you couldn’t ten years ago?Ten years ago, I was probably a lot worse at the bass guitar. Not even in a self-deprecating way; I just hadn’t played that much, relatively speaking. I’d played in school bands and was still trying to find my feet in the jazz world.But the thing we prided ourselves on most was always being able to lock in rhythmically, especially on Afrobeat songs. That’s been really consistent over the last decade.Now, there’s probably an increased amount of linking up that we do on certain songs, but there are also more surprises when we play together because we don’t live with each other anymore. We’re not kids anymore. Sometimes when Femi plays certain things, I’m forced to be a little bit more reactive than I might have been in the past, which is great. I love playing with him. I wouldn’t have it any other way.There’s a lot of virtuosity in Ezra Collective, but the music rarely feels like five musicians trying to prove how good they are. As a bassist, how do you know when not to play?I’ve had the benefit of never necessarily seeing myself as a virtuoso in any way, shape or form. I never studied jazz and always felt like I was maybe the least experienced person in the rooms I was in growing up. I just felt an immense sense of privilege to be playing with such talented musicians.Especially having a brother like Femi, who has been playing drums since he was about three, while I didn’t start until I was 11, I was always in a position of humility. It was always: let me listen and play what is necessary.I had a teacher at school who described the bass as the glue in the music because it has the ability to speak rhythm, melody and harmony. Our job is to translate for the rest of the players in the band and make sure everything sticks together and everyone understands.If you take that job as a translator seriously, you don’t necessarily add too much of yourself. If somebody was translating my words and started adding their own opinions and bits and pieces, they wouldn’t be a very good translator.That’s how I’ve always tried to approach bass. First and foremost: what does the song need to tie these different elements together? Sometimes that means doing something difficult or virtuosic, but more often than not it’s sitting down on the groove and providing a beautiful foundation for the more colourful melodic instruments to do their thing over the top.The album asks why so much Black music created through difficult circumstances can contain so much joy. What’s your own answer to that?The only way that’s possible is because of hope.Our predecessors, our ancestors, those who came before us, our influences and inspirations, saw music as a tool for inspiring and invoking a fight in people — a fight for better tomorrows. That inherently is what hope is.Music and writing were often, and still are, used as a means of resistance, survival, faith and community, but always in the direction of something better. When you make that decision to say, “I’m going to hope for a better tomorrow,” sometimes you have to sing it for your soul to believe it. And when your soul believes it, I think your actions are affected by that.On “Only Love”, Pa Salieu is talking from a genuinely difficult period in his life while the band behind him sounds almost euphoric. How do you honour the pain in those words without simply turning it into celebration?I think Pa did that himself. Hearing the music and what we were laying down and deciding to recount moments from his life is exactly what I was speaking about before.If it was just poetry and you were listening to those words, it would be quite difficult to hear that somebody’s life had been like that. But then you think about the tension built up during the verses and what the release is. The release in the chorus is him saying, “Only love is what I have deep inside my soul.”That becomes an anthem of resistance and perseverance. You’re not dwelling or sticking in a bad situation. There’s that release of: this is how I kept fighting, this is how I continue, this is why I’m dancing right now.He’s such a musical rapper that he got that straight away. The theme of the lyrics fits the music absolutely perfectly.You came through Tomorrow’s Warriors, which was co-founded by Gary Crosby, himself a bassist. What did seeing a bass player become a mentor and community-builder teach you about what your own role could be?Gary is a special, special man, mentor and inspiration. His superpower is that he can make you feel like you can do anything.If you play one bass note but play it with your whole soul, he’ll stop the whole class and say, “Well done.” Or you’ll be playing and feeling like things are difficult, and he’ll identify you in the class, walk over and whisper in your ear, “Man, keep going. You’re sounding great. Just dig in a little bit more.”Those moments are invaluable because they make you feel like you can do anything.I take the lessons I learned from him onto the stage every single time we step out there. It’s not about how much you’re getting rated by everybody else. It’s about the feeling you have deep in your soul and the conviction you have when you’re playing the music. That’s what carries out to the people listening.Even if you hit a couple of duff notes, you can hit them properly, if that makes sense.I hope I’m honouring Gary with how I approach bass, not just in what I’m playing, but in trying to have confidence without arrogance. That’s something he definitely taught us.Tomorrow’s Warriors gave you somewhere to develop before there was any guarantee Ezra Collective would become successful. Now that you’ve played Wembley Arena, won the Mercury Prize and won BRIT Group of the Year, what responsibility do successful musicians have to protect those spaces?Tomorrow’s Warriors was a place of inspiration, education and beautiful obscurity, which is needed.We’ve all got examples of child stars who attain fame at such a young age, and we know how that story can go. There’s such an importance in developing in obscurity. There’s a massive place for organisations like Tomorrow’s Warriors where you can hone your craft, but also develop an approach to music that is well-rounded, holistic, always listening, meek, confident and yet not egotistical.It’s our responsibility as people who are maybe a little bit ahead of those 10 or 15 years younger than us to pass on these lessons, teach one another and create spaces where people can grow and develop in obscurity.Someone once told me it’s like taking photographs on a film camera. They have to be developed in a darkroom. If you expose them to the light too quickly, you can lose what could have been something beautiful.I try to hold onto that. Success or the spotlight may happen afterwards, or it may not. But at the very least, young people can have a level of grounding and know that their value isn’t built on success as deemed by other people. It’s about success as deemed by their integrity and the effort they’ve put into what they’re doing.The five of you increasingly have substantial musical lives outside Ezra. What does the word “Collective” mean now compared with when you started the band as teenagers?I’m super happy everyone’s doing their thing. We’re creatives and artists at the end of the day, so there’s spillover and there are projects people want to pursue.I don’t think the word “Collective” means anything different today than it did when we started the band. We are individuals who come together to do something with a common goal and agenda. That’s what a collective really is. It’s the identification of individuals without the veneration of one individual over the others.When we play shows, it feels like we’re making the crowd part of the collective. Our crew, staff and management all know they’re part of the collective as well. There’s this holistic way of looking at the music where we’re all trying to achieve one goal together.It speaks to the five of us as a band, then the whole crew, and then the crowds who come and watch and listen as well.Which bassline on Here Because of Hope are you most proud of — not necessarily because it’s technically difficult, but because it does exactly what the song needs?I don’t know if “proud” is the word, but I do like “Black Flag”. It’s one that I wrote, and I like the way it came about because I’d spent all day working on another song that wasn’t quite happening. Then, in about three minutes, I wrote “Black Flag”, played it to the guys and they were all like, “Yeah, that’s it.”Sometimes it’s a good reminder that there isn’t an equal ratio between how much time you spend on something and whether it’s going to work.If we’re looking at UK broken beat and a bit of what UK jazz sounded like early on, I think that song really nails it. We’ve had that kind of sound throughout quite a lot of our albums, so it’s nice to have that on this one.It is quite difficult to play as well. It kind of burns your hands if it goes on for too long. But yeah, I love that one.If the last ten years were about proving Ezra Collective could take this music into spaces people didn’t necessarily associate with jazz, what do you want the next ten years to prove?Our job is to stay the most ambitious people in the room every time. That’s something me and Femi have spoken about in random chats. We just need to stay the most ambitious people.Whatever that looks like in the next ten years remains to be seen. But if we end up playing a stadium tour, we can’t be surprised by it. Everyone else can be surprised, but we can’t. It was the same with Wembley or whatever accolades have come our way. They’re things we’d spoken about before and said, “You know what? I reckon we could do that. I reckon we could get there.”I see Ezra as having a bit of a mandate to keep going. Whenever somebody says, “the first jazz band to do something,” I’m like, that’s cool, but it’s also not cool because jazz has been around for a really long time. It shouldn’t have taken 100 years for certain things to happen.As long as there are still things to be done first, I see Ezra as having a mandate to knock on that door and see if it opens. The main thing is doing that without losing who we are. Can we be ourselves, play the music we love, not compromise on who we are and still pioneer certain things?The reason we want to do that isn’t for ourselves. When something gets done once, it becomes attainable and realistic for everybody coming after.There are so many bands coming out of the UK from a jazz background, and I’m looking forward to seeing how many of them become staples in UK music and are appreciated by people who, deep down, would probably love the music if they just knew about it.So yeah, onwards and upwards, by the grace of God.For Ezra Collective, ambition has never seemed to be about collecting milestones for their own sake. The Wembley shows, awards and “firsts” matter because each one makes the next possibility feel a little less distant for the musicians coming behind them. Here Because of Hope captures that same outlook: understanding where you come from, believing something better is possible and doing the work required to get there. More than a decade into their journey, Ezra Collective are still looking for the next door to knock on — only now, they know that when it opens, they are not walking through it alone.

Interview by Marco Sottana and Passion Dzenga For Angelo Marcus Elizabeth, fragrance has always been about more than smelling good. It is a way of holding onto memory, identity and the places that shape you. Born and raised in Curaçao and now based in Amsterdam, Angelo brings those worlds together through Marcus Elizabeth, a constantly evolving creative universe rooted in an Afro-Atlantic perspective.That world now crosses paths with Patta for Saffron Attitude, a warm and confident fragrance built around saffron, leather, incense and woods, with bergamot, ginger and cardamom cutting through the mix. After first introducing the collaboration in Paris, we bring things back home to Amsterdam.We caught up with Angelo to talk about his unexpected route into perfumery, turning confidence into something you can smell, and why the best fragrances need a little dirt under their fingernails.Before we get into perfume, who is Angelo Marcus Elizabeth, and what was the creative journey that brought you to where you are today?I’m a designer and perfumer from Curaçao, now based in Amsterdam. I’ve always been interested in the way objects, clothes, images and scents can carry identity and memory. As a child, I was constantly drawing and paying attention to patterns, colours, shapes and materials. Fashion eventually became the first professional language through which I could turn those observations into something tangible.Fragrance came into my life much more unexpectedly. During the pandemic, I started making scented candles at home, initially because I wanted to work with my hands and quiet my mind. At first, I was making them for myself, then for friends and family, but gradually I became much more interested in the scent itself. I became fascinated by how a handful of materials could create an entire atmosphere, bring back someone you hadn’t thought about for years, or completely change the feeling of a room.That curiosity eventually became Marcus Elizabeth. Today, I don’t really see fashion, perfume and objects as separate disciplines anymore. To me, they are simply different ways of telling and expressing the same story.You originally came from fashion and design. What could working with scent give you creatively that clothing couldn’t?Scent gets past the eye. With clothing, there is almost always an immediate visual judgement: you notice the silhouette, the colour, the styling, perhaps gender or status. Fragrance is much harder to control in that way. Someone can smell something and connect emotionally with it before they have even decided whether they consciously “like” it. I found that incredibly powerful.Fashion taught me about proportion, material, contrast and construction, and I still use all of those ideas when I think about perfume. Fragrance gives another level of intimacy. You can wear a perfume underneath everything and nobody necessarily has to know it is there. It can feel completely private, while at the same time changing the way other people experience your presence. That combination of intimacy and impact is something I find very special.You were born and raised in Curaçao before making Amsterdam home. What do those two places smell like to you?Curaçao smells warm to me. I think of sun on skin, humidity,  salt, dry earth, plants just after they have been watered, fruit ripening, flowers, cooking and the sea. There is a certain density to smell in a hot climate; everything seems to project differently.One of my strongest memories is my grandmother’s garden. There were mangoes, mispel, papaya, guava, watermelon and citrus. I had to water the plants every day, and that is where I really started noticing that every plant had its own smell. I loved the lemon tree in particular. Sometimes I would put pieces of lemon peel in my pocket just so I could keep smelling them throughout the day.Amsterdam is completely different. I associate it with cooler air, rain, wet stone, wood, old buildings, coffee and, during winter, sometimes smoke drifting out of chimneys. At the same time, Amsterdam is such an international city that you can turn a corner and suddenly smell spices or food that transport you somewhere completely different.Curaçao gave me warmth and instinct, while Amsterdam gave me structure and contrast. I think Marcus Elizabeth exists somewhere between those two worlds.Are there particular materials, smells or olfactive memories from either place that continue to find their way into your work?Definitely. Citrus peel, green leaves, tropical fruits, flowers, dry woods, warm skin and the smell of the sea keep returning in different ways. But I’m usually more interested in translating the memory than reproducing the smell literally.If I think about fruit from Curaçao, for example, I don’t necessarily want to make a perfume that smells like fruit juice. I might be more interested in the skin of the fruit, its bitterness, a green stem, the humidity around it or simply the sensation of eating it in the heat. Those details often feel more personal and more interesting to me.Amsterdam brings another set of textures into the work: woods, leather, wet stone or mineral notes, smoke and clean musks. Those materials allow me to put structure around the warmth. Again, it is that contrast between the two places that often becomes the starting point.Marcus Elizabeth describes itself as being carried by an “Afro-Atlantic essence.” What does that mean to you personally, and how does something as broad and layered as that actually translate into an olfactive identity?For me, Afro-Atlantic is not a perfume note and it isn’t a formula. It is a way of understanding where I come from. Curaçao sits at an intersection of Africa, the Caribbean, the Americas and Europe. Our language, food, music, architecture and rituals have all been shaped by movement across the Atlantic. There is a lot of beauty in that, but also a very complicated history.I don’t want to reduce something so layered to “tropical notes” or to a stereotypical idea of what a Caribbean fragrance is supposed to smell like. Instead, it influences how I put materials together. I’m interested in warmth alongside discipline, sensuality alongside restraint, something natural against something polished or urban.That can mean a tropical fruit meeting leather, or a floral placed next to something mineral or woody. Something familiar can be made slightly strange. That tension feels much closer to my identity than simply making something and saying: this smells Caribbean.Your journey into fragrance started with you making candles in your attic for yourself, friends and family. Do you remember the first scent you made where you thought, “there might actually be something here”?I remember the feeling more clearly than one exact formula. I was making scented candles very intuitively, without really thinking of them as a business, and then people started responding to them much more strongly than I had expected. They weren’t just saying, “this smells nice.” They wanted to know what the scent was, whether I could make another one or whether they could buy one for somebody else.That was when something shifted for me. I realised that I wasn’t simply making a scented object; I was creating an atmosphere that people wanted to bring into their own lives. From that moment on, I started taking the materials, formulation and the actual craft of perfumery much more seriously.How important is memory to the way you create a fragrance? Are there smells from your childhood that you can still access instantly?Memory is probably one of the most important things in my work. Smell is strange because a memory can disappear from your conscious mind for years, and then one scent suddenly brings the entire thing back. It is not only the image. You remember the temperature, the place, the person and sometimes even exactly how you felt in that moment.My grandmother’s garden is still very accessible to me in that way, especially the citrus leaves and peels, but also bananas, mangoes, flowers and the smell of plants after they have just been watered.I don’t necessarily try to reconstruct those memories literally in a perfume. I use them more as raw material. Sometimes only one small part of a memory enters the fragrance: a green note, a bitter peel effect, a humid floral feeling or a warm wood.For me, perfume can be a door to memory, but the beautiful thing is that it can also create completely new memories for the person wearing it.How do you reference where you come from without becoming nostalgic or overly literal?That is something I think about a lot, because heritage should never become costume. If you translate everything literally, you can very quickly reduce a culture to a set of recognisable symbols: coconut, rum, tropical flowers, bright colours. That doesn’t represent my experience of Curaçao.I would rather take something culturally specific and ask myself what it actually means to me emotionally or materially. What is the texture of that memory? Where is the tension in it? What happened around that smell?From there, I can translate it into something contemporary. The goal is never to recreate the past perfectly. I want the past to have a conversation with the person I am today.When you begin developing a new fragrance, what comes first?A new fragrance can begin almost anywhere. Sometimes the starting point is a material, sometimes a name arrives first, and sometimes it is an image, a person, a place or even a contradiction that I find interesting.The first question I normally ask myself is: what should this perfume feel like? From there, I begin collecting references and materials and start building an accord that captures the central idea. Once that accord works, the process becomes almost architectural. I start asking what needs to support it, where the tension should come from, what needs to disappear and how the fragrance should move from the opening into the skin.I rarely want a perfume to explain itself completely within the first five seconds. I like the idea that you have to discover it gradually.Let’s get into Saffron Attitude. What was the first conversation between Marcus Elizabeth and Patta, and at what point did you realise there was a fragrance to be made together?The first conversation actually wasn’t about making a perfume. It was much more fundamental: we were talking about whether Marcus Elizabeth and Patta were genuinely a good match, and whether bringing these two worlds together could become the beginning of something beautiful rather than simply a one-off collaboration.A big part of that conversation was also about my ambitions as a black perfumer and founder. The perfume industry still has very few black perfumers and black-owned houses with real visibility, particularly at the level where I want Marcus Elizabeth to operate. I spoke very openly about where I want to take the brand, the space I want to create within the fragrance industry and what it means to build that from my own perspective.The question then became: what role could Patta play in that journey? Patta truly asked how can we help? That made the collaboration much bigger to me than simply putting two brand names next to each other. Patta has spent years building a platform around culture and community and creating space for people and ideas that do not necessarily come through traditional routes.Once we realised there was a genuine alignment between us, fragrance became the natural medium through which to express it. Saffron Attitude grew from that conversation and became a fragrance about presence, confidence and taking up space without apologising for it. In that sense, the idea behind the scent is very closely connected to the reason the collaboration exists in the first place.If you had to describe Patta into an olfactive identity before this collaboration existed, what would it smell like?Warm, direct, textured and slightly rebellious. I would imagine spice, worn leather, woods and incense, perhaps with something mineral or metallic underneath. But there would also have to be freshness, because Patta has a lot of energy. I wouldn’t want it to become too heavy or nostalgic.It should smell like someone entering a room without asking permission to be there. And actually, when you describe it that way, you end up quite close to Saffron Attitude.Which side of saffron were you interested in bringing forward for Patta?The leathery, dry and spicy side. We didn’t want saffron to become overly sweet or conventionally luxurious. Saffron can have this almost metallic tension to it, and I find that incredibly contemporary.In Saffron Attitude, leather, incense and woods give the fragrance depth, while bergamot, ginger and cardamom keep energy running through the composition. So the saffron has presence, but it isn’t sitting there like a precious jewel that you aren’t allowed to touch. It has a little dirt under its fingernails.How do you translate something abstract like confidence into the texture, projection and composition of a fragrance?Confidence isn’t necessarily loud. Someone can walk into a room, barely say anything and still completely change the energy. That distinction was important when we were developing Saffron Attitude. I didn’t want to create a fragrance that simply screamed through enormous projection; I wanted it to have presence.You build that presence through contrast and structure. The opening immediately brings energy, while saffron, incense, iris and leather give the fragrance texture and identity. Then the woods underneath create stability and keep everything grounded.The end result has to feel composed rather than desperate for attention. For me, that is confidence: you notice it, but it doesn’t need your approval.How important was the progression, or drydown, to the fragrance?Very important, because I don’t think a perfume should be a photograph. It should be a film. The first spray of Saffron Attitude is bright, spicy and energetic, but then it gradually begins to reveal more texture. The iris changes the surface of the fragrance, incense introduces smoke, and the saffron and leather create warmth and tension.As it develops further, the woods, vetiver and amber become increasingly important. That evolution is part of the personality of the fragrance. You encounter the confidence first, but as you spend more time with it, you begin to understand the depth underneath.Was the contrast between bright and dark, fresh and warm, spicy and woody deliberately built into the fragrance?Absolutely. I’m very interested in contrast because people aren’t one thing either. Patta can be street and sophisticated at the same time, rebellious but also incredibly precise. Marcus Elizabeth similarly exists somewhere between island warmth and urban structure.It therefore felt very natural for the fragrance to contain those contradictions. Without the brighter elements, the leather, saffron and woods could easily become too heavy. At the same time, without those darker materials, the freshness would not have enough gravity.It is really the tension between those two sides that makes the fragrance interesting.Was there a version of Saffron Attitude that almost became the final fragrance but ultimately got rejected?We actually started with three completely different fragrance directions. Two of them were rejected, while Saffron Attitude was the one that immediately stood out to us.What made it feel right was its spicy, bold and warm character. It simply had more presence. There was something about the combination of saffron, spice, leather and woods that connected very naturally with the energy we associated with Patta, while still feeling refined and wearable.The other two fragrances had interesting qualities, but Saffron Attitude had the strongest identity. It didn’t just smell good; it had an attitude. Once we recognised that, the decision became quite clear.What does Patta bring to the fragrance that Marcus Elizabeth might not have arrived at on its own, and what did Marcus Elizabeth bring into Patta’s world?Patta brought a certain directness into the process. Marcus Elizabeth can sometimes be very introspective; we think a lot about memory, ritual, material and atmosphere. Patta brought community, street energy and a kind of unapologetic cultural confidence that pushed the collaboration in another direction.At the same time, I think Marcus Elizabeth brought another sensory dimension into Patta’s universe. Clothing is something you see and touch, and music is something you hear, while perfume is almost invisible yet incredibly intimate and personal.In that sense, both brands pushed each other slightly outside their usual medium, which is when I think collaborations become genuinely interesting. I’m very thankful that Patta gave us the opportunity and trust to create something together in this way.How did you translate the same olfactive idea into the Saffron Attitude candle?You can’t simply pour a perfume formula into wax and expect exactly the same experience. Skin has warmth, movement and its own chemistry, whereas a candle interacts with a flame, a room and the air around it.For the candle, I wanted the saffron, leather, woods and amber to create more of an atmosphere around you. It can be slightly warmer and more enveloping because it is scenting an entire space rather than sitting on one person’s skin.The perfume becomes part of your personal presence, while the candle changes the environment around you. They speak the same language, but they speak it in different voices.Paris was effectively the introduction, but this is a collaboration between two Amsterdam-rooted worlds. Does bringing Saffron Attitude back to Amsterdam for the official launch feel different?Definitely. Paris was very exciting because you have that Fashion Week energy around you, and it was essentially our first opportunity to introduce Saffron Attitude to a wider audience.Amsterdam feels much more personal. This is where Marcus Elizabeth has its atelier, where Patta has built such an important cultural presence and where our communities actually overlap. Bringing the fragrance back here therefore feels a little like completing the circle. Paris was the introduction; Amsterdam is where Saffron Attitude comes home.Has anyone’s interpretation of Saffron Attitude made you smell the fragrance differently yourself?What I really enjoy is seeing how differently people move through exactly the same fragrance. One person immediately finds the saffron and leather, while someone else connects much more strongly with the incense. Others first notice the brighter spices or the softness of the iris.As a creator, you know every decision that went into the composition, so at some point you stop experiencing it completely innocently. Then somebody describes something you made using completely different words and suddenly you smell that part of the fragrance again.I actually like losing some of that control. Once a fragrance belongs to somebody else, their own experiences and memories become part of it too.Who did you imagine wearing Saffron Attitude while you were making it?I deliberately didn’t imagine one specific person. I was much more interested in imagining an attitude: someone who has their own point of view and a certain confidence in who they are.That person could be twenty or sixty. They could be incredibly expressive or extremely quiet. What connects them is that they are not dressing, speaking or living primarily for somebody else’s approval.That feels much more interesting to me than designing a perfume around a conventional demographic.Do you think the traditional idea of “men’s” and “women’s” perfume still has any relevance?As a marketing category, it obviously still exists, but creatively it isn’t very useful to me. Smell itself doesn’t have a gender.Leather can be beautiful on anyone, rose can be powerful, woods can be sensual, vanilla can be dark and florals can feel masculine. Those classifications tell us much more about cultural conventions than they do about the materials themselves.I would much rather ask someone: does this smell like you? To me, that is a much more contemporary and personal way of thinking about fragrance.Do you see Marcus Elizabeth ultimately as a perfume house, or as a much wider creative universe where scent happens to be the starting point?Perfume is at the centre, but Marcus Elizabeth is gradually becoming a wider creative universe. I still very much think of it as a perfume house because scent is our most important language and the place where many of our ideas begin, but I’ve never wanted creativity to stop at the bottle.Artifacts, candles, fashion, objects, imagery and exhibitions can all belong to the same world, as long as there is a clear reason for them to exist. Ultimately, I’m interested in building a universe that you can smell, wear, touch and live with.What do you think people misunderstand most about the craft of perfumery?Probably how much editing is involved. From the outside, perfumery can sound incredibly romantic: you choose a few beautiful ingredients, mix them together and suddenly you have a perfume.The reality is much more precise. A tiny adjustment can completely change the balance of a composition. Sometimes you add more of something because you want it to become more noticeable and somehow it becomes less visible. You remove one ingredient and another suddenly becomes incredibly loud. Something can smell beautiful on a blotter and behave completely differently on skin.A lot of perfumery is repetition, evaluation and restraint. Knowing what not to add is often just as important as knowing what to add.What scent do you personally never get tired of?Fresh citrus peel. I think that probably goes all the way back to the lemon tree in my grandmother’s garden.When you cut or peel a citrus fruit and the oils are released into the air, there is something incredibly alive about that smell. It is so familiar to me, but somehow it still manages to surprise me every time.And finally, when somebody sprays Saffron Attitude and walks out of the door, what do you want them to feel?I want Saffron Attitude to feel like the final thing you put on before leaving the house. You’ve chosen your clothes, your shoes and maybe your jewellery, and then the fragrance is that final gesture that completes everything.Not because the perfume suddenly transforms you into somebody else, but because it brings something forward that was already there. It gives you that final sense of presence, confidence and attitude.You spray it, and you’re ready to go.Saffron Attitude is that final move before you step out the door. It is not about becoming someone else, but bringing a little more of yourself forward. Now, the fragrance comes home to Amsterdam, the city where both Marcus Elizabeth and Patta have built their communities.Come experience Saffron Attitude for yourself this Friday, September 11 at Patta Amsterdam, where the fragrance and accompanying candle will be available in-store.

Interview by Passion Dzenga A year after releasing Pages of Philosophy, Ruby Francis still isn’t quite ready to close the book on it. If anything, the London singer, songwriter, producer and DJ has found another way into the record.Written and produced by Francis herself, Pages of Philosophy sits somewhere between R&B, neo-soul, jazz and electronic music, reflecting an artist who has never had much interest in staying inside one musical lane. Now, a new collection of remixes opens the album up even further, handing its songs to friends and collaborators from London to New York, Australia and South Africa and allowing them to pull the music into completely different spaces.It also arrives as Francis’ relationship with the dancefloor continues to deepen. Alongside making her own music, DJing has become another important part of her practice, changing how she thinks about movement, arrangement and what happens to a song once it leaves the studio.We caught up with Ruby to talk about giving Pages of Philosophy a second life, trusting other producers with her music, the difference between thinking like a songwriter and a DJ, her Jamaican and Italian-British roots, and what comes next.Pages of Philosophy has been out for a year now. When you listen back to the album today, what do you hear differently from when you first finished it?It’s hard to put into words because I feel a lot of different, contradicting things. It still feels brand new to me, and I’m still excited by it and its future. But at the same time, when I listen back, I feel that it’s ageing and nurturing, like good cheese or wine!I’m really proud of it and still feel excited by it. I love the musical and sonic choices I made, and I’m excited to watch it grow. It’s a bit like a baby turning into a toddler.What made this project feel like the right one to revisit through remixes rather than simply moving straight on to the next record?It almost wasn’t my decision! I got such great feedback from people, including a lot of artists, and a few of them asked if they could remix the record. It felt right to honour that, and I’m so happy I did.I’ve also been deepening my knowledge and career as a DJ, and I’m really starting to understand the power of remixes. Whether it’s bringing something onto the dancefloor or playing it on my radio shows, you’re giving the music a new life and giving different people new ways to digest it.I guess if you’re asking me why, my answer is: why not?You wrote and produced the original album yourself. What was it like handing those songs over to other producers and letting them reshape something so personal?If I’m honest, once the original project was released, I felt a sense of detachment from it. It no longer belongs to me. As an artist, I’ve done my part and handed it over to the world.I felt similarly about handing it over to other producers. These are producers I’m a fan of and also friends with, so there was already an element of trust and excitement around it.The remix project brings together artists from South Africa, Australia, New York and London. How did you choose the collaborators?It was all quite organic. I had pre-existing relationships with each of the artists involved and I’m genuinely a fan of all of their music.Geo Jordan is my chosen family. We’ve been friends and collaborators for years. MXXWLL I’ve known for many years too; we’ve always kept in touch online and started working on a few bits when he came to London. Geotheory and Fiji Mageba are artists I’ve been a fan of for a while — I love everything they release and we’ve always been in touch online. Jamie and Basile are friends and are always up to cool stuff, whether that’s playing live or DJing at events around the city.I’m super lucky to be in touch with all of them.Did you give anyone direction on where you wanted them to take the originals?None at all. I honestly didn’t have any expectations, because if I did, I feel like that would defeat the point of a remix.I wasn’t approaching it thinking about making music that sells. It was more about creative curiosity and seeing how each producer would interpret the music individually. I gave no direction to any of them and simply trusted their talents to create something unique to them.Was there one remix that completely surprised you or made you understand the original differently?They all did to an extent. I really loved hearing my vocals on Geotheory’s liquid vibe, and Fiji’s super slow, ethereal one.I also loved how all of the remixes reharmonised the chords I’d written. I’m a huge fan of chords and always love a good reharm. It’s so rewarding to my brain and spirit.Your own contribution is the club edit of “Y U Always On My Mind?”. How does your approach change when you’re thinking like a DJ rather than a songwriter or producer?I’m thinking more about bringing the mood and how it might fit with other songs rather than the arrangement or individual technical bits. I’m thinking, “How can I make people get gassed and move?” rather than, “How can this lyric tell this particular story?” or, “What type of snare should I use?”With this remix in particular, I pretty much just sped it up and made the arrangement longer so DJs can mix it with other tracks easily. I didn’t actually change anything in the production.Your music pulls from ’00s R&B, neo-soul, jazz and electronic music without ever sitting neatly in one space. Have you always been comfortable moving between those worlds?Absolutely. I’m always most comfortable outside the box.Each of these sounds has raised me both as an artist and as a human, and I love being able to pull inspiration from each genre. My expression has never strictly fallen into any one category. That’s just how it has always naturally been for me. I don’t know any different.You started writing and producing from a really young age. What did learning to produce your own music give you creatively that songwriting alone couldn’t?More ways to communicate and express myself — often more than lyrics can. Production says things that words cannot. Sometimes a progression of chords, a melody or an arrangement can say it all.With words, you can say, “I love you,” and of course there are other poetic ways to convey that. But musically, there are limitless ways to communicate the same feeling. It could be through the movement of chords, the space you use, bringing strings into one section and taking them away in another, or through synth lines that are slightly detuned, reverbs and textures.“I love you” can really be felt without the words.Your dad played bass and you grew up around a lot of music. What parts of your Jamaican and Italian-British upbringing do you recognise in your music now?It’s interesting because my cultures didn’t really play a huge part in my musical upbringing. It came more through subtle values at home and my wider family. I’d visit my Jamaican grandparents and hear their beautiful accents and stories from the past, or visit my Nonno and have risotto and learn words with him. Those things trickled down into my home as a child, but they weren’t necessarily the most prominent part of growing up.It’s actually in my adult years that I’ve become much more interested in the music and culture of Jamaica and Italy. Especially Italy. I’m obsessed with Italian film music from the ’50s through to the ’70s. Composers like Henry Mancini and Piero Piccioni have really inspired me.I’m also feeling called to travel to Jamaica and Italy to deepen my knowledge of my Jamaican Black history as well as my Italian history.And through my dad being with an Icelander and moving to Iceland, I now call Reykjavík a second home. I’m often back and forth between there and London and feel really familiar with the culture there too — Björk, hot springs, soup and the Northern Lights!You’ve mentioned everyone from Stevie Wonder and Jill Scott to Björk and Astrud Gilberto as influences. What part of your musical taste do you think might surprise someone who only knows you through your R&B records?Anyone who really knows me would say none of it is surprising! But perhaps people who are more familiar with the R&B side of my sound might be surprised by the more alternative stuff.I love indie, alternative and slightly rocky stuff like Men I Trust, as well as the old-school film music I mentioned earlier.On 10 September you’re performing at Gamla Bíó in Reykjavík around Yasiin Bey’s show. What does sharing a bill with an artist like him mean to you?It’s pretty nuts! It’s a massive privilege to share the stage with such a legend.Although I’m not the most familiar with his music, I love pretty much anything that came out of the Soulquarians, and I love what he stands for lyrically. I’ve heard he’s a wicked performer, so I’m excited to watch him do his thing. That’s the best way to fully educate myself!I also think it’s great that his music is being brought to the small population of Iceland. Big ups to my boy Benni, B Ruff, for making it all happen.The performance itself will be a DJ set by REW, with a few other artists joining for a kind of cypher set with some crazy visuals. It’ll be a vibe.After giving Pages of Philosophy this second life, what feels like the next chapter for Ruby Francis?New music! I’m going to be locking in over the next few months to work on my demos and a new direction.I’ll also be travelling to Jazzy Jeff’s Playlist Retreat this month, which I’m sure will bring about new inspiration and collaborations. I’m excited to finish up and release new stuff.I’m also working on my next live headline show in time for the five-year anniversary of my debut album, Archives.A year on, Pages of Philosophy feels less like a record Ruby Francis is looking back on and more like one that is still finding new places to go. Handing the songs over to friends and collaborators has opened them up to different tempos, dance floors and interpretations, while her own growing relationship with DJing has given her another way to understand how music can move between people.That same curiosity seems to be carrying Francis into whatever comes next. With new demos taking shape, time set aside for writing and collaboration, and the fifth anniversary of her debut album Archives approaching, she is already thinking beyond the world of Pages of Philosophy. If the remix project proves anything, though, it is that moving forward does not always mean leaving old work behind. Sometimes a song just needs a different set of ears, a different room or a few extra BPM to reveal what else was hiding inside it.

Few people embody the relationship between creativity and the outdoors as naturally as Elisa. Born in Venice but drawn to the peaks of the Italian Alps, she has built a life where exploration, design and storytelling exist in constant dialogue with the landscapes that surround her. Whether hiking remote trails, climbing exposed ridgelines, wild camping beneath the stars or sleeping in the snow, Elisa approaches the mountains not as somewhere to escape everyday life, but as the place where she feels most at home. That connection extends beyond adventure. As one-third of the creative collective MBRACE, she brings the patience, observation and respect she has developed outdoors into projects spanning design, fashion and visual storytelling, collaborating with brands such as The North Face while advocating for a more thoughtful relationship with both the products we consume and the environments we inhabit. We caught up with Elisa to discuss growing up between Venice and the Dolomites, embracing discomfort, finding confidence through solitude and why curiosity remains the driving force behind everything she creates.Elisa is wearing the Patta Chapter Series, available now only in Patta Amsterdam, London, Milan and Lagos.You were born in Venice, but you've built much of your life around the mountains. Can you tell me about that journey? Was there a moment when the outdoors shifted from being somewhere you visited to somewhere you truly belonged?I’ve always felt connected to nature; my parents spent a lot of time taking me into the forests and the mountains, so being outdoors has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. As I got older, I naturally started exploring on my own, and that’s when something changed. The mountains stopped being a place I visited with my family and became a place where I felt myself completely. They’re where I feel the most present, the most grounded, and the most free. It never felt like I consciously chose that life, it simply grew with me and became who I am.Growing up between the lagoon and the mountains offers two very different landscapes. How has that shaped the way you experience nature today, and what was it about the Dolomites that ultimately made them feel like home?I think growing up between such different environments taught me that nature has so many ways of making you feel connected. The lagoon has a calm, quiet energy, while the mountains are raw, powerful and constantly changing. I love both, but the Dolomites have always given me a stronger sense of belonging. Every season transforms the landscape, and no matter how many times I return, they always have something new to teach me. They challenge me, inspire me and make me feel grounded at the same time.You spend a lot of time hiking, climbing, wild camping and even sleeping in the snow. What keeps pulling you back, and do you see the outdoors as an escape from everyday life or simply another way of living?For me, it’s not really an escape; it’s simply a way of living. Being outdoors gives me a sense of freedom and motivation that I can’t find anywhere else. It pushes me to know myself better, to understand my limits, and at the same time it reminds me to appreciate the simple things. Life feels more real when you’re outside, moving through nature one step at a time.Living so closely with nature inevitably changes your perspective. How has spending so much time outdoors reshaped your relationship with discomfort, and what's something people often misunderstand about life in the mountains?Spending so much time outside has taught me that discomfort isn’t something to avoid; it’s often where you grow the most. Being cold, tired or facing unexpected conditions makes you adapt and stay present. I think many people imagine life in the mountains as either romantic or extreme, but the reality is somewhere in between. It’s about respecting nature, being prepared, and accepting that you can’t control everything. Many of your adventures take place alone in remote places. What have those moments of solitude taught you about yourself? Has being alone become a source of comfort, or does it still come with moments of uncertainty?I genuinely love being alone in the mountains because it reminds me how much I can rely on myself. Of course, some moments can be a little scary, especially in remote places, and I won’t pretend otherwise. But overcoming those situations on my own gives me a much stronger sense of confidence and awareness. Solitude has become something I really value because it allows me to listen to myself without distractions.Whether you're sleeping in the snow or climbing remote peaks, there's always an element of risk. How do you prepare yourself mentally before setting off, and where do you personally draw the line between adventure and unnecessary risk? Have you ever found yourself in a situation where you genuinely questioned whether to continue?Preparation is everything. Before every trip, I make sure I have the right equipment, I carefully check the weather forecast, study the route, look at GPS tracks and gather as much information as possible. That preparation gives me confidence, but it also helps me recognise when it’s time to stop. I remember one trip where the snow conditions made it unsafe to continue, so I decided to turn back. It wasn’t the outcome I wanted, but it was the right decision. I think real adventure also means knowing when to let go of your original plan. The mountain will always be there another day.You recently explored Valle Aurina. What drew you there, what made the landscape stand out, and did that journey change your perspective on the Italian Alps in any way?I had wanted to visit Valle Aurina for a long time because I’d heard how wild and untouched it feels compared to other parts of the Alps. What really impressed me was the silence and the feeling of space you can spend hours walking without seeing many people. It reminded me that even in places I think I already know, there are still landscapes capable of surprising me. That trip made me appreciate even more how different the Italian Alps really are.Beyond your outdoor practice, you're also one-third of MBRACE. How did the three of you come together, and how do your different creative backgrounds complement one another?MBRACE was born from the connection between the three of us: me, Enrico and Jonny.We’re three very different people, but we share the same vision and curiosity. Each of us observes the world from a different perspective and brings different skills to the table. When those perspectives come together, they create something that’s always fresh and inspiring. We all share a passion for nature, fashion, sport, art and creativity, and I think that’s what makes our work feel authentic. Your work sits at the intersection of the outdoors, design and storytelling. In what ways do your experiences in nature directly influence the creative projects you take on?Nature influences almost everything I create. Spending time outdoors teaches me to slow down, observe details and pay attention to light, textures and movement. Those experiences naturally shape the way I approach storytelling and design. I like creating projects that feel honest and that communicate real experiences rather than just beautiful images. Being outside constantly reminds me that the strongest stories come from genuine moments.You recently worked with The North Face around circular design during Milan Design Week. What interested you about that project, and how do you think design can encourage people to build a deeper relationship with the environments they inhabit?What I found most interesting was the idea of giving materials a second life instead of seeing them as waste. I think good design has the power to make people think differently about the products they own, encouraging them to repair, reuse and value things for longer. When design tells a story, it can also strengthen our connection with the environment and remind us that every choice has an impact.Sustainability has become a buzzword, but your work is rooted in spending real time outdoors. What does sustainability actually look like in your day-to-day life, and have you noticed the mountains themselves changing over the years?For me, sustainability isn’t something you talk about; it’s something you practise every day through small choices. I try to buy less but better, repair my gear whenever possible, reuse what I already own and always leave nature exactly as I found it. Spending so much time outdoors also makes it impossible not to notice the changes happening in the mountains. Snow arrives later, glaciers are shrinking and weather conditions have become much more unpredictable. Seeing those changes with my own eyes makes protecting these places feel even more important.Looking ahead, you've built a life that connects exploration, design and creativity. What kind of legacy do you hope that way of living leaves behind—for the people who follow your work and for the landscapes that continue to inspire it?I hope my work encourages people to spend more time outside and build their own relationship with nature, whatever that looks like for them. You don’t need to climb the highest peaks to experience something meaningful; you just need to be curious and willing to explore. If I can inspire even a few people to respect nature more, move through it with awareness and appreciate its value, then I’ll be happy. At the same time, I hope the landscapes that inspire me will remain protected so future generations can experience the same sense of freedom that I have.For Elisa, the mountains are far more than a backdrop for adventure. They are a place of learning, creativity and perspective, where every journey reinforces the value of patience, preparation and respect for the natural world. In this photoshoot, she is wearing the Patta Chapter Series, available now only in Patta Amsterdam, London, Milan and Lagos.Whether through MBRACE, her collaborations with The North Face or the countless hours she spends exploring remote landscapes, her work is guided by the belief that meaningful stories begin with genuine experience. In an age where the outdoors is increasingly filtered through social media and spectacle, Elisa offers a quieter alternative—one rooted in curiosity, self-reliance and a lasting commitment to protecting the places that continue to shape her. Her hope is simple: that others are inspired to step outside, move through nature with intention and leave it just as they found it, ensuring future generations can discover the same sense of freedom that first drew her to the mountains.

Words by Passion DEEZ | Phootgraphy by Lyza JaneFor nearly twenty years, Blah Records has quietly been proving that there is another way to build a career in music. Not through major labels, algorithm-friendly singles or carefully engineered moments of virality, but through something far less glamorous: consistency. While much of the industry has spent the past two decades chasing the next platform, the next trend or the next shortcut to visibility, the collective has done the opposite. They've built slowly, deliberately and almost entirely on their own terms. That wasn't the plan.When Lee Scott started releasing music in the mid-2000s, streaming platforms didn't exist. Social media wasn't a career strategy and "independent artist" hadn't yet become a marketing slogan. If you wanted people to hear your music, you either convinced someone else to release it or you figured out how to do it yourself. Blah Records was born out of the second option.Long before the label became one of the defining names in British underground rap, Scott and his friends were burning CDs at home, selling them through MySpace and posting them out one order at a time. There was no business model, no investment and certainly no ambition to build an institution. Every milestone that followed was simply the solution to whatever problem lay in front of them.Need more CDs? Get them replicated. Need distribution? Start a label. Need somewhere to perform? Book the show yourself. Need a scene? Build one.Looking back, it's easy to mistake that progression for careful planning. Spend enough time talking to Lee Scott and Black Josh, however, and another picture emerges. Blah wasn't built around some master strategy. It was built through momentum. Every decision led naturally to the next until, almost without noticing, they had created an ecosystem that could survive without asking anyone else for permission.Today that ecosystem stretches far beyond a record label. Blah has become home to one of British rap's most distinctive communities, producing solo records, collaborative projects, Cult of the Damned releases and an audience that has remained fiercely loyal despite existing almost entirely outside the machinery of the mainstream music industry. In an era increasingly dominated by playlists, engagement metrics and fleeting internet fame, that longevity feels almost radical.Fresh from an independently organised Australian tour and preparing to release their collaborative album It Made Sense at the Time, Scott and Josh aren't interested in celebrating survival for survival's sake. They're far more interested in whatever comes next. The conversation moves effortlessly between British rap's formative years, regional identity, creative discipline, disastrous tours and the peculiar satisfaction that comes from solving your own problems. Throughout it all, one idea keeps resurfacing. Blah never waited for an industry to believe in them. They built their own.Ask Lee Scott how Blah Records began and he almost sounds amused that anyone would imagine there was a grand design behind it. "There wasn't some master plan," he says. "We just needed somewhere to put our music out."It's an answer that immediately dismantles nearly twenty years of mythology. Blah has become one of British rap's defining independent institutions, but its origins were almost laughably ordinary. Before the label existed, Scott and his friends were already operating under the Anti-Heroes banner, recording mixtapes, burning CDs at home and selling them directly through MySpace. Every sale arrived through a tiny PayPal button embedded on a profile page. When somebody placed an order, another disc was burned, packaged by hand and taken to the post office."It was DIY before people even called it DIY," Scott recalls. Eventually the limitations of that approach became impossible to ignore. Burning individual CDs wasn't sustainable, so the group ordered a thousand professionally replicated copies. Suddenly they had boxes of records stacked around them and no way of getting those records into shops."The next logical step was distribution," Scott says. "Then the next logical step after that was creating a record label." That practical way of thinking has remained remarkably consistent throughout Blah's existence. Every obstacle simply became another task to solve. When their friend Alex — better known as Swiss — moved back to Switzerland after handling much of the label's early administration, Scott reluctantly found himself responsible for the business side too. "If you've met me," he laughs, "you'll know administration probably isn't where my strengths lie." Even so, the work got done.Looking back, Scott doesn't romanticise those early years. He doesn't describe them as visionary or revolutionary. Instead, he talks about them with the matter-of-fact tone of somebody fixing one leaking pipe after another. That mindset, more than any business strategy, would eventually define Blah Records. Because independence, for them, was never an identity. It was simply the only option.The story of Blah Records is often told through releases, tours and milestones, but Scott insists those things arrived much later. Before there was a label, there was simply a group of friends making music together because they enjoyed each other's company."The original crew was me, Salar, Bill Shakes and Tony Broke," he says. "I'd known some of those people since I was sixteen. Before there were labels or tours, we were just hanging around."As the years passed, that circle naturally expanded. Friends from London became collaborators. Manchester, Blackburn and Liverpool slowly blurred into one community. The geography changed, but the logic never did. Relationships came first. Music followed. That's perhaps why Blah has always felt different from a conventional record label. It doesn't operate like a roster assembled by A&R executives searching for complementary artists. It feels more like a constantly evolving friendship group whose members happen to make records together."When people describe Blah as a company, it always sounds a bit strange," Scott says. "Everyone on the label is someone I'd happily spend time with whether music existed or not."That chemistry explains why the catalogue is filled with collaborations that never feel manufactured. Duo records, posse cuts and one-off projects emerge organically because the artists already share the same spaces. They're in the studio together, travelling together or simply spending weekends together."If you're already sitting in the same room with your mates," Scott shrugs, "eventually somebody says, 'Let's make a tune.'"It's an understated observation, but one that reveals something fundamental about Blah's longevity. The label was never sustained by contracts or commercial obligations. It was sustained by genuine relationships. Long before "community" became one of the music industry's favourite buzzwords, Blah had accidentally built one.That sense of community extends beyond the artists themselves. Fans don't simply consume the music; they participate in the world around it. Shows feel less like isolated performances than reunions. Faces become familiar. New listeners are introduced by old ones. Records are bought not because they're being pushed by an algorithm but because people genuinely want to support the artists making them.It's a slower kind of growth, but one that's proved remarkably resilient. For listeners discovering Blah today, it's easy to forget just how unusual British rap once sounded. Or perhaps more accurately, how unusual it didn't. "When I first started recording," Scott says, "I was doing an American accent."He laughs as he says it, but the admission reflects a much broader moment in British hip-hop history. Throughout the late nineties and early 2000s, many UK rappers borrowed not only the sound but the cadence and pronunciation of the American artists they'd grown up listening to. Regional British accents were often viewed as obstacles rather than identities.Scott didn't think he was pretending to be someone else. He simply hadn't heard an alternative. "I'd literally never heard anybody from where I came from rapping," he says. "I wasn't trying to copy anyone. I was just imitating the music I loved." The turning point came through an unexpectedly simple question. Somebody older asked him why he was rapping in an American accent. "It sounds ridiculous now," he says, "but I'd never even considered there was another option."The internet was still fragmented. Music discovery relied on word of mouth, independent record shops and whatever happened to circulate through local scenes. Liverpool wasn't necessarily listening to London. Manchester wasn't constantly aware of what was happening in Glasgow or Bristol. Regional scenes often developed in parallel rather than together. "You had to actually go and find music," Scott remembers. "People forget that. You weren't endlessly scrolling."As British rap slowly became more confident in its own identity, artists across the country began embracing the voices they'd previously tried to suppress. Looking back, Scott describes hearing those records for the first time as strangely unfamiliar. "I'd spent so long listening to American hip-hop that hearing British accents almost sounded weird."Today, that idea feels almost impossible to imagine. Black Josh belongs to the generation that inherited that shift rather than initiating it. "For me, hearing Children of the Damned was massive," he says. "Those were actual regional accents. Not fake American voices. Just people sounding like where they were from." Around the same time, grime was making a similar argument from London. "When Dizzee Rascal came through, nobody thought he sounded American," Josh says. "He sounded exactly like London."For him, hearing Mancunian voices carry the same confidence was equally significant. It demonstrated that authenticity wasn't something to be polished away. Your accent wasn't a limitation. It was part of the music itself. That evolution mirrored Blah's wider philosophy. Just as they refused to imitate the industry's business model, they also refused to imitate someone else's identity. Instead of asking how close they could get to American rap, they asked a different question altogether. What would this sound like if it could only have come from here?The word independent has become one of the music industry's favourite buzzwords. It's applied so liberally that it has almost lost its meaning. Artists backed by distribution companies, management agencies and major-label funding routinely describe themselves as independent, often because they technically own their masters.Lee Scott has never been particularly interested in the distinction. "I don't think we ever called it a philosophy," he says. "It was just survival." That difference is important.Blah wasn't founded because its members rejected the music industry. It was founded because, at least in those early years, the industry simply wasn't paying attention. There was no queue of labels waiting to sign them, no established touring circuit for the kind of music they were making and no blueprint for building a career from regional underground rap. Rather than waiting for those opportunities to appear, they created their own."If nobody wanted to release the record, we'd release it ourselves," Scott says matter-of-factly. "If nobody booked us, we'd book our own shows. If nobody wanted to distribute it, we'd figure that out as well."Looking back, it's tempting to describe those decisions as visionary, but Scott refuses to romanticise them. Every milestone emerged from necessity rather than ambition. Every solution created another possibility."I think people assume we've always had this machine behind us," he says. "But every stage has been built from the previous one. You don't suddenly wake up with a functioning label, an audience and touring infrastructure. You spend years solving one problem after another until eventually you realise you've accidentally built an ecosystem."That ecosystem has become Blah's greatest achievement. Long before artists were talking about direct-to-fan relationships, Blah were cultivating one. They weren't simply releasing records. They were creating an audience that felt personally invested in everything surrounding the label. Shows became meeting points. Collaborations happened naturally because the artists already occupied the same spaces. Every release strengthened the world around it instead of existing as a standalone product.The result is a model that feels increasingly unusual in an age dominated by short attention spans. Rather than chasing as many listeners as possible, Blah focused on building deeper relationships with the ones they already had. Scott has little interest in viral success. "I'd much rather have a thousand people who genuinely care than a million people who watched something for fifteen seconds because an algorithm showed it to them."To him, longevity has always been a far more meaningful measure than visibility. "A career is people buying your records ten years later. It's somebody travelling across Europe to see you perform. It's fans introducing your music to their kids."Streaming numbers rarely tell that story. "If people are buying vinyl, buying merch and coming to shows," he says, "that's a community." Black Josh has seen that difference firsthand every time the pair step on stage. "Our crowds aren't there because one song blew up six weeks ago," he says. "A lot of them have been listening for years. They know album tracks. They know lyrics that were never singles. Some of them have literally grown up with us." He pauses before smiling. "That's worth way more than a number on a screen."That same practicality extends into Blah's creative process. The label's distinctive visual language — grainy music videos, surreal artwork and unmistakably DIY aesthetics — has become part of its identity, but Scott insists very little of it was ever planned.People often assume the rough edges are deliberate, an aesthetic statement designed to separate Blah from polished commercial rap. In reality, they were usually the product of limited budgets, available time and whoever happened to own a camera."Sometimes we'd literally wake up and decide to shoot a video that afternoon," Scott says. "You'd ring a mate, drive somewhere, film it, edit it... done."That approach eventually became a philosophy in its own right. "People read all sorts of meaning into it," he laughs. "Honestly, we just wanted to get things made." Perfection has never interested him as much as momentum. "I'd rather finish something that's eighty or ninety percent there than spend two years chasing perfection and never release anything."It's a lesson he's applied across almost every part of his creative life. Songs, artwork, videos — eventually everything reaches the same point where further refinement begins stripping away the spontaneity that made it compelling in the first place."Sometimes the first version captures something the twentieth one doesn't," he says. "You've got to know when to stop." That instinct has also shaped projects like Cult of the Damned, a collective that has become almost mythical within British underground rap. While fans often speak about it as though it were carefully curated, Scott remembers something much looser."There wasn't loads of planning," he says. "It was more like, 'Who's about today?'" The chemistry came from unpredictability. Throw eight or nine entirely different rappers into the same room and nobody knew what would happen next. "You could hear people enjoying themselves," he says. "I think listeners can tell when that's genuine." For Black Josh, that unpredictability also created a healthy sense of competition. "If you're on a track with six other rappers," he laughs, "you definitely don't want to have the weakest verse." Nobody coasted. Everybody pushed each other. Without anyone saying it out loud, the standard kept getting higher.For a label approaching its twentieth anniversary, Blah spends remarkably little time looking backwards. The Australian tour is a perfect example. From the outside, it looked like another milestone for a collective that has steadily expanded its reach without compromising its identity. Behind the scenes, however, it nearly collapsed before it began."Everything that could go wrong basically did," Scott says. "People disappeared. Plans changed. Money vanished." At one point, the tour looked beyond saving. Most artists would've cancelled. Scott admits they probably should have. Instead, they did what Blah has always done. They solved the next problem."I think we ended up spending something like twenty-five grand in the space of a week just to keep everything alive," he recalls. "It was terrifying. But once we'd committed, there wasn't really another option. You either lose everything or you make it work." Eventually, they made it work. Black Josh laughs at how differently those moments are remembered by everyone else. "People only see the photos afterwards," he says. "They see sold-out rooms, happy faces, everyone smiling. They don't see the weeks beforehand where you're wondering whether you've just made the worst financial decision of your life." He shrugs. "That's touring when you're doing it yourself."It's a story that feels strangely representative of Blah as a whole. The audience sees the finished record, the packed venue or the sold-out vinyl pressing. What they rarely see are the years of incremental problem-solving that made those moments possible in the first place. That same philosophy continues to shape the music itself.Despite the longevity of the label, neither Scott nor Josh speaks like someone preserving a legacy. The new collaborative album, It Made Sense at the Time, isn't presented as the culmination of twenty years' work, but simply the latest chapter in an ongoing conversation they've been having for most of their adult lives."If it ever started feeling like a job," Josh says, "I'd probably lose interest." Touring is work. Running a label is work. Answering emails is certainly work. Making music, however, remains something else entirely. "That's still the fun bit," he says. "That's still me and Lee sitting in a room making each other laugh."Scott's process hasn't changed much either. Ideas still arrive unexpectedly—sometimes while he's asleep. "I'll literally wake up with a line in my head," he says. "If I don't write it down immediately, it's gone forever." His phone is filled with half-asleep voice notes recorded in the middle of the night. Some become songs. Others make no sense whatsoever. "I'll listen back a week later and think, 'Actually... that's not bad.' Or I'll think, 'What on earth was I talking about?'" He laughs. "Either way, that's always been my process." The instinct to trust the first idea, to keep moving and to resist overthinking, extends beyond songwriting. Scott has never been interested in endlessly polishing creative work for the sake of perfection. "Sometimes the first version captures something the twentieth one doesn't," he says. "You've got to know when to stop."It's advice that feels increasingly relevant in a music industry obsessed with optimisation. Artists are encouraged to chase trends, feed algorithms and treat every platform as though it might determine the course of their careers. Scott sees that as a dangerous way to think."Don't build your career around something you don't control," he says. "Algorithms change. Platforms disappear." The things that actually endure, he argues, are much simpler. "The work. Your audience. Your reputation." Everything else comes and goes. Josh agrees."The quickest way to make yourself miserable is comparing yourself to everyone else," he says. "Somebody will always have more followers. Somebody will always have bigger numbers. That doesn't mean they're making better music."For both of them, curiosity remains a far stronger motivator than recognition. "I've never really been interested in proving people wrong," Scott says. "I'm much more interested in proving to myself that I can still make something exciting."Every record, he believes, should surprise him. "If I already know exactly how it's going to sound before I make it, then what's the point?" Josh nods. "I don't really think in terms of legacy," he says. "People talk about legacy when they're looking backwards." He smiles. "We're still looking forwards."Nearly twenty years after its founding, Blah Records remains one of the rare examples of independence that extends beyond ownership. It isn't simply a label operating outside the mainstream; it's an ecosystem built through patience, friendship and an unwavering belief that if something doesn't exist, you can create it yourself. Every record, every tour and every collaboration has been another step in a process that was never meticulously planned, only continually refined.Blah never set out to become a blueprint for independent music. Lee Scott and Black Josh simply kept making the next record, booking the next tour and solving the next problem in front of them. Looking back, that's exactly what made them one.

Interview by Passion Dzenga and Liesje Verhave | Imagery courtesy spazioSERRAMost galleries ask people to come to them. spazioSERRA asks something different. Hidden inside Milan's Lancetti railway station, the independent exhibition space exists in a place designed for movement rather than contemplation. Every day, commuters, students, families and local residents pass through its doors, often encountering contemporary art entirely by accident.That tension has shaped the collective's practice since its founding. Rather than treating the station as simply another venue, spazioSERRA has embraced it as both subject and collaborator. Here, exhibitions are conceived specifically for a public in transit, where artworks compete with train announcements, morning routines and the constant rhythm of the city itself. There is no white cube, no controlled viewing experience and no expectation that visitors arrive already interested in contemporary art. Instead, every exhibition begins with a simple question: what happens when art interrupts everyday life?We spoke with the spazioSERRA collective about nearly a decade of working inside a railway station, developing a curatorial practice rooted in site-specificity, and why they believe public art should never be neutral.spazioSERRA has always existed inside a railway station rather than a traditional gallery. Why was that important from the beginning?The station has never simply been a venue for us. From the very beginning, it was the starting point for the entire project. Rather than asking how we could fit contemporary art into a railway station, we were interested in understanding what kind of exhibitions could only exist in a place like this. The context changes everything. A station is designed for movement, transition and routine. People aren't there because they've decided to spend an afternoon looking at contemporary art. They're commuting to work, heading home, meeting friends or simply passing through.That completely transforms the relationship between the artwork and its audience. In a traditional gallery, visitors have already made a conscious decision to engage with an exhibition before they even walk through the door. They arrive prepared to spend time looking, reading and reflecting. Here, that expectation disappears. Most people encounter the exhibitions unexpectedly. Some only glance at them while waiting for a train. Others return every day as part of their commute and slowly build a relationship with the work over weeks or months without even realising they're doing so.For us, that's incredibly exciting because it means the exhibitions become part of everyday life rather than something separate from it. During the pandemic, for example, many museums and galleries were closed, but because our exhibitions were visible from the station itself, people could continue experiencing contemporary art simply by moving through the city. That reinforced something we'd always believed: art doesn't need to exist inside isolated cultural institutions. It can become another layer of the urban landscape, living alongside the rhythms and routines of the people who pass through it every day.Your audience is often accidental rather than intentional. How does that change the way you think about curating exhibitions?It influences almost every curatorial decision we make. Unlike a museum or commercial gallery, we can't assume that our audience already has an interest in contemporary art or even knows who the exhibiting artist is. Most visitors didn't wake up planning to see an exhibition. They're simply moving through the station as part of their daily routine. That means we have to think very carefully about how somebody encounters the work for the first time.Accessibility is important to us, but we don't think of accessibility as simplifying ideas. Instead, it's about creating multiple points of entry. Someone who only has thirty seconds before their train arrives should still be able to connect with something visually or emotionally. At the same time, somebody who returns every day for a month should continue discovering new layers, new references and new meanings each time they encounter the work.That creates a very different kind of exhibition design. We think about sightlines, movement through the station, how the architecture frames the work and how people experience it from different distances. The audience isn't standing still. They're constantly in motion. The exhibitions have to acknowledge that movement rather than resist it.What's particularly interesting is that people begin creating their own relationships with the exhibitions over time. Some commuters see the same installation every morning on their way to work and every evening on their way home. Without necessarily intending to, they become long-term spectators. Their understanding develops gradually through repetition rather than through a single dedicated visit. Site-specificity seems to be central to your programme.How do artists respond differently when they know their work will exist in a public space?That's one of the reasons artists are often excited to work with us. We don't invite people to simply install an existing body of work inside the station. We ask them to begin with the station itself. The architecture, the movement of people, the visibility of the space and the surrounding neighbourhood all become part of the conversation before a single artwork is made.That process often changes the work dramatically. Instead of treating the exhibition as something independent from its surroundings, artists begin responding directly to the environment. Sometimes the architecture becomes part of the installation. Sometimes the public becomes part of the work. Sometimes the exhibition only makes sense because it's happening in that precise location.Over the years, we've realised that there isn't really a clear boundary between the artwork and the station anymore. The two continuously influence one another. The work transforms the space, but the space also transforms the work. The audience completes that relationship because every person experiences the exhibition differently depending on where they're coming from, how much time they have, and what they're bringing with them emotionally that day. For us, that's what site-specific practice really means. It's not simply adapting something to fit a location. It's allowing the location itself to become an active collaborator in the exhibition.This year's programme is titled Co-presence Is a Passing Gesture. What does that phrase mean to you?The title emerged quite naturally once we began looking at all of the selected projects together. Originally, we approached this season differently from previous years. Rather than establishing a broad curatorial theme and asking artists to respond to it, we opened the call without prescribing a subject. We wanted to understand what artists themselves were already thinking about and what kinds of questions felt urgent to them.After selecting the projects, we started noticing unexpected connections. Again and again, artists were exploring ideas around spectatorship, participation, waiting, public space and the different ways people occupy environments together without necessarily interacting.A railway station became the perfect place to think about those ideas because it is fundamentally a place of co-presence. Thousands of people share the same physical environment every day. They're together, but they're rarely connected. They're passing one another constantly without necessarily acknowledging one another's existence.The exhibitions each approach that condition differently. Some invite participation. Others ask people to observe. Some explore waiting as a political condition, while others think about performance, intimacy or memory. What connects them all is this idea that relationships can exist even if they're brief, temporary or almost invisible.In many ways, that's exactly what happens inside the station every single day. It shows that these ideas are being tested through the exhibitions themselves.The exhibitions this season all seem to approach co-presence from different perspectives. Could you tell us about some of the recent projects and how they connect to the wider programme?One of the things we've been interested in throughout this season is how each artist approaches the idea of co-presence differently. Rather than illustrating the concept directly, every exhibition has explored a different relationship between the artwork, the audience and the public space of the station.Joan Horrach's installation was a good example of that. The work centred on waiting, but it wasn't simply about representing waiting as a theme. Instead, it mirrored what was already happening inside the station. The installation resembled a waiting room that could easily have belonged to the railway station itself, blurring the boundary between the exhibition and everyday life. People waiting for trains became part of the work without necessarily realising it, while the work itself reflected the rhythms, routines and temporary encounters that already define the station. In many ways, it asked visitors to recognise that waiting isn't an interruption to public life but one of its fundamental conditions.Valerio Torrisi's exhibition approached waiting from a much more personal and political perspective. Through a long-duration performance, he explored the ongoing struggle for LGBTQ+ rights in Italy, particularly the fact that same-sex couples are still denied full marriage equality. Rather than presenting this through explicit political messaging, he built the work around the poetic image of a partner waiting for a wedding that never arrives. Throughout the exhibition, the flowers within the installation slowly decayed, becoming a physical measure of time passing without resolution. That gradual transformation reflected both the emotional exhaustion of waiting and the reality that progress, while happening, often feels painfully slow for the communities directly affected.What interested us most about Valerio Torrisi's project was the way it embodied these ideas rather than illustrating them. Visitors didn't necessarily arrive knowing when the performer would appear or even exactly what they were waiting for. They found themselves sharing that uncertainty with the work itself. The performance resisted fixed identities and clear definitions, allowing the body, language and duration of the piece to communicate experiences that couldn't easily be reduced to a single statement or slogan. In that sense, it became less about explaining LGBTQ+ rights and more about allowing people to inhabit, even briefly, the emotional condition of waiting for recognition.The unpredictability of public space makes these encounters especially meaningful. We can carefully consider how an exhibition is installed, how it addresses the architecture and how people might move through it, but we never truly know how the public will respond. Sometimes an installation encourages immediate participation. Other times people simply walk straight past. With Fidaty Collective's football field installation, for example, we initially thought the project wasn't working because nobody wanted to engage with it. Then, unexpectedly, a group of visitors stayed for almost an hour playing together. Those moments remind us that public space always resists complete control. The audience ultimately completes the work in ways that can't be anticipated.Looking ahead, the final exhibitions continue expanding these ideas in new directions. What can visitors expect from the remainder of the programme?The next projects continue exploring spectatorship and participation, but each approaches those ideas through very different forms. The next exhibition is by Elisi’s collective, whose practice sits somewhere between design, research and installation. Their project introduces the idea of the "mnemosphere," a term they developed to describe the relationship between atmosphere and memory. Rather than presenting a series of individual snow globes, the installation transforms the entire space into a boule à neige. What makes the work particularly interesting is that it only becomes active through the movement of visitors passing by the space.Hidden sensors respond to the presence of commuters, generating bursts of movement that cause the snow throughout the space to swirl. Most visitors won't even realise they've activated the installation. They're simply walking through the station as they always would. That invisible participation perfectly reflects the wider theme of the season. Whether intentionally or not, people continuously shape the exhibition simply through their presence. We hope that for those who stop to spend more time with the work, these moments of activation begin to open up more personal reflections around memory, atmosphere and the ways our environments quietly influence our emotional lives.The final project, by Sveva Crisafulli, moves in a completely different direction. Through a performance and accompanying editorial publication, she investigates the practice of cake sitting—a subject that initially surprised us because none of us were familiar with its history. As we began researching the project together, we realised it opened up much broader conversations around the body, sexuality, food, spectacle and feminist theory.Rather than treating cake sitting as an isolated or sensational act, Sveva traces its cultural history from the Renaissance through to contemporary internet culture, asking what this unusual practice reveals about desire, consumption, performance and the ways bodies are viewed in public. Unlike many of our previous exhibitions, this project invites audiences directly into the exhibition space itself, creating a shared encounter rather than one experienced solely through the station windows.Although the two exhibitions are formally very different, they continue the same conversation that has shaped the entire season. Both ask how people participate in artworks, whether consciously or unconsciously. Both question the relationship between spectatorship and embodiment. And both remind us that contemporary art doesn't simply exist to be looked at. It creates situations where audiences become active participants, sometimes without even realising it.After nearly a decade, spazioSERRA has demonstrated that contemporary art doesn't need the neutrality of the white cube to have an impact. If anything, its power is amplified by the unpredictability of public life. Within the constant movement of Milan's Lancetti station, exhibitions become part of the city's rhythm rather than an escape from it. They ask commuters to pause, if only briefly, and reconsider the spaces they move through every day.Throughout our conversation, one idea surfaced repeatedly: relationships. Relationships between artworks and architecture, artists and audiences, strangers sharing the same space, and the fleeting moments of attention that connect them. Whether through Joan Horrach's reflections on waiting, Valerio Torrisi's meditation on queer recognition, Elisi’s collective’s invisible interactions with memory or Sveva Crisafulli's exploration of bodies, intimacy and spectatorship, every exhibition extends the same conversation. Rather than presenting finished conclusions, they create situations where meaning emerges through encounter.In a city that often prioritises speed, efficiency and constant movement, spazioSERRA offers something increasingly rare: permission to linger. Even if that pause lasts no longer than the time it takes for a train to arrive, the collective hopes that moment of interruption is enough to shift someone's perspective. The station remains a place of transit, but for a few seconds, it also becomes a place of reflection.Ultimately, that's what spazioSERRA has been building all along. Not simply an exhibition space inside a railway station, but a cultural landmark embedded within everyday life, one that reminds us that art doesn't always ask us to step outside the city. Sometimes, it simply asks us to see it differently.

Interview by Passion Dzenga and Liesje VerhaveAs Afrobeats continues its global rise, Dope Caesar is emerging as one of the most exciting DJs shaping its sound and culture, but her success didn’t happen overnight. Long before the viral transitions, international bookings and sold-out shows, there were years spent studying other DJs, practising endlessly at home, learning technical precision at Vibes DJ Academy, and grinding through weekly club residencies in Lagos, one of the most demanding nightlife scenes in the world.For nearly a decade, Dope Caesar has been refining her craft in real time: playing four-night-a-week residencies, learning how to read impatient Lagos crowds, testing risky transitions live in clubs, and developing the instinct required to control a room rather than simply play songs. The viral moments people see online today are often ideas she’s been quietly sitting on for years, waiting for the right crowd and the right moment to finally understand them.Get familiar as Dope Caesar reflects on the unseen hours behind her rise, the discipline required to survive Lagos nightlife, balancing technical skill with crowd control, and why boldness matters more than perfection. As she prepares for a new chapter of global touring, she speaks on staying grounded, navigating a male-dominated industry, and understanding that true success is built long before the world starts paying attention.Recently, you’ve really broken through online. Your sets are going viral and your name is travelling globally. Does it feel like you’re in your “I’ve made it” era now, or do you still feel like you’re just getting started?Well, it’s in between. I approach life from the perspective that you don’t really know how far you’ve come until the journey has ended. Someone else is going to write that story eventually. I don’t even know myself yet. So I feel like I’ve made it because obviously I’ve grown, but at the same time I’m also just getting started because I don’t know where the story ends. It sits somewhere between those two things.And you’ve been doing this for almost a decade now, right?Nine years.Congratulations. Maybe we can go back to the beginning a little bit. What did those early days at Vibes DJ Academy look like for you?Honestly, those days felt like, “Do you even know what you’re doing?” — but you kind of do. I was already DJing before I got there, but I didn’t fully know whether I was doing things correctly. Going to Vibes DJ Academy validated everything I had taught myself through research and practice.But then another challenge came up: how do you present technical skill in a way that regular people can connect to? Because people can easily box you in as “a DJ’s DJ” or someone who should just do competitions, but that doesn’t always work on a dance floor. So it became about translating technical ability into something people can actually feel in a party environment.So it was a transition from technical skill into learning how to control a room?Exactly.What was it about the academy environment that created that shift?The tutors. They had very technical DJs there, like DJ Massive and DJ Consequence, who are some of the best party DJs in Nigeria. So you had both worlds in one space: technical precision and crowd control. You could learn different things from each person and merge them into your own style.Dope Caesar is wearing the Patta Track Top Cardigan, the Patta Acid Wash Fuchsia Purple Denim Pants, and the Patta Boxing T-Shirt.Lagos nightlife is famously intense and competitive. Did growing within that environment shape your identity as a DJ?Definitely. The real leap happened in 2022 when I started working in a club. That became my platform to really show myself. But Lagos crowds are already used to certain things. You can’t just come in and say, “This is what I do now.”So it forced me to think differently. You can do all the hard technical stuff, but how do you make simple things exciting? Nigerians are impatient — everything has to hit immediately. Timing matters. Precision matters. Lagos keeps you on your toes constantly.Were you performing for yourself at that stage, or for the crowd?At first, definitely for the club. But I also have to put myself into it because that’s why I DJ. I have a piece of myself to give people. If I remove myself completely, then something is missing. But DJing is still for the dance floor too. You can’t make it entirely about yourself. It’s about balance.How did you first enter the Lagos nightlife scene?It’s actually the craziest story. I got a random WhatsApp message from someone saying he wanted to open a club and believed in me. I genuinely thought it was a scam because I wasn’t popular at all. But it turned out to be real.The funniest part is that at the time, I had barely even been to clubs myself. I’d probably only gone out three times in my life. But I still said yes. Then I started calling my DJ friends asking what songs they played. I studied other DJs constantly, recorded sets, watched how they controlled rooms, and practiced from there.And what did that residency look like?Four nights a week. Full-time job energy.And now you’re resident at two places, right?Yeah, now I’m a resident at Mr Panther and Guest List every Saturday. The sound, the drinks, the people - everything is amazing there and it’s for the few only, you just have to be there!One thing people really associate with you now is transitions. Your sets feel very fluid and unexpected. How do you approach building them?Chaotically, honestly. Ideas just come to me and I test them out. But over time I’ve developed rules for myself: musicality, timing, key, energy. A lot of my transitions are personal challenges. Sometimes I’m literally trying things just to prove to myself that I can do them. Transitions are risky. When they work, it’s incredible. When they fail, it’s disastrous. But I enjoy that risk.Do you test those ideas beforehand or live in the club?It depends on the crowd and the environment. You have to earn certain moments. Some transitions I’ve had for years and never played because the environment wasn’t right yet. That viral transition everyone knows? I’d already been doing it long before people saw it online. It just finally reached the right audience at the right moment.What separates a DJ who simply plays songs from someone who actually controls a room?Being bold. I don’t even think DJing itself is my talent. I know how much work it took to learn. The difference is being willing to take risks. If you take risks, you gain power over the room. You can’t play safe forever. No single moment defines you anyway. You learn from the good moments and the bad ones.Dope Caesar is wearing the Patta Track Top Cardigan, the Patta Acid Wash Fuchsia Purple Denim Pants, and the Patta Boxing T-Shirt.Your career is becoming increasingly global now. How has that changed your life?It’s crazy because I’ve been to countries where I genuinely wonder how people even know me there. But at the same time, my life is still normal. I still play with kids in my neighbourhood. It’s not that deep to me. What I appreciate most is experiencing different cultures while sharing mine too. It’s very symbiotic. What excites you most about touring? The challenge. Certain regions are so multicultural. For instance, my  Amsterdam show at Melkweg had the most diverse crowd I’ve ever seen. That really challenged me because you can’t rely only on what works in Lagos anymore. You have to understand different cultures and figure things out in real time. That excites me.What’s the difference between Dope Caesar online and Dope Caesar in real life?I honestly don’t know how people perceive me online. I think people assume I’m mysterious because I wear glasses and don’t speak too much. But I’m actually very playful. Everybody around me knows I joke constantly. I’m very minimal in how I dress and move, and I think people build a perception around that. But I’m not trying to create some fake persona. I’m just myself.Your image has become very recognisable too — the shaved head, the minimal styling. How did that become part of your identity?It happened naturally. I used to grow my hair before, but during a certain period in my life I kept telling my friends I wanted to shave it off. Everyone said I’d never actually do it. Then one day I looked in the mirror and decided to do it. My sister shaved it off for me. Some people loved it, some people hated it, but I liked it, so I kept it. I never planned for it to become part of my identity. Same with the way I dress. I like comfortable clothes and sneakers. I’m not overly fashion-focused. It just became associated with me naturally.Are original productions the next step for you musically?Yeah, definitely. I want to explore it and see where it takes me creatively.The DJ space — especially in Nigeria — has historically been very male-dominated. What has your experience been like as a woman entering that space?The ecosystem has changed a lot. More women are entering DJ culture now and I love seeing it.I always tell female DJs: just do you. People are going to talk regardless. Come with your nails done. Come feminine. Come however you want and still destroy the set. DJing isn’t about physical strength. It’s mental. It’s rhythm. It’s energy. And honestly, for a long time — controversial or not — the best DJ in Nigeria was DJ Switch. But because the industry was so male-dominated, she didn’t always receive the visibility she deserved. Now things are changing. Female DJs are finally part of the main conversation.What advice would you give to young women trying to enter that world now?Practice. Practice. Practice. Stay humble. Virality is not professionalism. When hype disappears, skill is what remains. So you need to actually know what you’re doing. And don’t just follow trends because they worked for someone else. Know yourself first. Beyoncé still rehearses constantly, so what excuse does anyone else really have?Before we wrap, what’s one song that always works in the club?“All I Do Is Win.” Every single time. People complain online about DJs always playing it, but the second it comes on, everybody’s hands go up. It’s hilarious. So that makes it funny. So that’s a track that always works multiculturally, but personally? “Ozeba” by Rema. Anytime I hear that song, I lose my mind.Check out Dope Caesar's upcoming shows or music releases here.  

Interview by Liesje Verhave | Photography by Joël stay away from dante!, is one of the most vibrant sounds currently emerging from Amsterdam-Zuidoost. Since the release of his EP Duizend Volle Manen and his participation in Popronde 2025, it has become increasingly difficult to stay away from him, with a busy festival season and a headline tour now on the horizon.His dedication to his creative practice is evident in the way he expands his musical releases into larger visual and narrative worlds, as seen in the short film that accompanied Duizend Volle Manen. Literary references, endless curiosity, and a self-proclaimed nerdy fascination with storytelling are woven throughout both his work and personality.We spoke with him about the beginnings of his musical journey, his recent performance at Lentekabinet, and what lies ahead this summer.You've been releasing music since 2022, but what made you decide to create such a conceptual and narrative-driven project with Duizend Volle Manen?I've actually been making music since I was sixteen. Back then, I looked up to artists like Kanye West and Tyler, The Creator, who were incredible storytellers. Their music was about building worlds. At first, making music was more of a joke. Then, a few years later, I started learning piano and producing my own songs. That's when I began working on Duizend Volle Manen.I wanted my first major project to feel like a complete story. I was inspired by artists who built worlds through their music and wanted my debut project to feel like a world of its own.Alongside the project, you also released a short film. What was it like translating the music into a visual story?It was a completely different process. I spent years working on the music itself, but I also spent years developing the story behind it. Once the music was finished, I had to figure out how to translate those ideas into visuals. I created a detailed mood board and outlined the entire narrative before presenting it to the video team. Together, we refined the story and assembled a production team to bring it to life.The biggest challenge was making sure the visuals communicated what I already understood through the music. In my head, the songs made perfect sense, but they also had to make sense on screen. The team at Time Code Productions helped me bring that vision to life. It was a lot of work, but it was also an incredible experience.You perform under the name stay away from dante! Where did that name come from?The name comes from the Italian writer Dante Alighieri.I was reading about him and learned more about his life, particularly the fact that he wrote The Divine Comedy while living in exile from Florence. That book went on to influence literature, religion, and culture in a massive way.I found that incredibly inspiring. I wanted to incorporate his name into my artistry somehow. The "Stay Away" part is a reference to his exile from Florence, while "Dante" comes directly from him. The name became a way of acknowledging both his influence and the idea of creating something meaningful despite being pushed away from familiar spaces.You seem deeply interested in storytelling and world-building. What were you like growing up? Were you already creating imaginary worlds as a child?Definitely, my mother always tells me that when I was young, I spent hours looking through atlases and maps. I was fascinated by geography, pirate stories, space, and anything that suggested a larger world beyond what I knew.I've always been drawn to imagination and discovery. As I got older, that fascination expanded through anime. Shows like Avatar: The Last Airbender, Dragon Ball Z, and Naruto had a huge impact on me because they created these rich, fully realised worlds.At the same time, I was discovering music. I naturally gravitated towards albums that told stories and felt cinematic. That's why projects like The College Dropout and The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill resonated with me so strongly; they felt like complete experiences. I've always been attracted to worlds that don't quite exist in reality but feel real through imagination.You grew up in the Bijlmer, and it seems to play an important role in both your life and your work. What is it about the Bijlmer that continues to inspire you, and why do you think it has produced so many artists and storytellers?The Bijlmer is, in my opinion, the warmest and most colourful neighbourhood in Amsterdam. That warmth and colour are still present in everything I do. You can hear it in my music, see it in my videos, and even notice it in the way I dress and communicate. The energy of where I grew up has stayed with me.I think what makes the Bijlmer so inspiring is a combination of the environment and the people. It's incredibly green. There are parks, trees, and open spaces everywhere. Whenever I need inspiration or simply want to clear my head, I go for a walk or a bike ride through the area. There's a place near where I live called the Bijlmerweide, and every time I'm there I'm reminded of how unique it is to live somewhere that feels both urban and connected to nature at the same time.The other thing is the culture. Growing up, everyone wanted to create something. People were freestyling, dancing, acting, making music, playing football, or dreaming about performing on bigger stages. I honestly can't think of a single friend from my childhood who didn't have some kind of creative ambition. When you're surrounded by that energy from such a young age, it becomes normal. You grow up believing that creating something is possible because everyone around you is trying to do it too. More than anything, it's that warmth, creativity, and sense of possibility that continue to shape my work.You taught yourself piano and production. What drove that obsession with sound and learning instruments?It's actually a funny story because when I first started making music, I only saw myself as a rapper.I started writing raps when I was sixteen and spent about three years focusing entirely on lyrics. Then, when I was around nineteen, a friend of mine—someone a few years older—gave me some advice that completely changed my perspective, "You're unique. You tell stories in a way that feels different. If you really want to do this, you need to understand music."If I wanted to become the best version of myself as an artist and truly build worlds through my music, I needed to learn an instrument and understand how songs were constructed.Eventually I took his advice seriously and started studying the artists I admired. I realised they all had a deep understanding of music beyond simply writing lyrics. That inspired me to start learning piano and producing my own material. Looking back, that advice changed everything.Last year you participated in the Popronde and performed at the final showcase in Amsterdam. What was that experience like?It was an incredible experience. For the first time, I was performing almost every weekend. The schedule could start on Thursday and continue through Sunday, so there was a constant rhythm of travelling, performing, and adapting.Not every venue was ideal. Sometimes you'd find yourself playing in a small bar that didn't seem suited for a hip-hop show at all. But that's exactly what made it valuable.You learn how to make something work regardless of the circumstances. You learn how to create energy in a room, connect with people, and build a performance no matter where you are. Earlier that year, I had been supporting Sef during his tour. During that run, we worked with a live performance coach who taught me and the band how to be more present on stage and engage more effectively with an audience.By the time Popronde came around, I had already released the EP, so I went into the tour with a clear objective: tell the story of the project live while applying everything we'd learned.By the end of the tour, we were performing a completely different version of the show than the one we started with. When we eventually played our headline show at Paradiso, it stood above everything else. The show sold out. The audience showed so much love. We were finally able to present the complete version of the live concept we'd been developing all year. That was a very special moment.You're heading out on your first proper headline tour later this year. Will audiences see the same show, or are you building something new?We're building something new. By the time the tour starts, the next project will be out as well, which means there will be a lot of new music to work with. Because of that, the show needs to evolve.I always want the live experience to reflect where I am creatively at that particular moment. So while some elements will carry over from the previous performances, we're definitely creating something fresh for this tour.Your tour is called the “FREE SANTI”, and the character of Santiago plays a major role throughout the EP. Who is Santiago?Santiago is essentially a character based on my personality between the ages of nineteen and twenty-four. That period of your life is a strange transition. You're moving from being a teenager into adulthood, and suddenly everything becomes more serious. You're learning new lessons, taking on more responsibilities, and figuring out who you are.I think all of us have a fight-or-flight response when life becomes challenging. You can either let circumstances overwhelm you, or you can confront them and try to become a better version of yourself. In the story, Santiago chooses to run. But that escape is really a metaphor. He's trying to escape unhealthy patterns, old habits, and parts of himself that no longer serve him.Ultimately, he's searching for growth. In many ways, Santiago is me during that chapter of my life.The next project is arriving later this year. Is it a continuation of Santiago's story?Not exactly. It's not “Santiago 2.0” or a direct sequel. What it is, though, is another chapter in the larger story of my life. The new project focuses much more on love, relationships, and the lessons that come with them.It's a different theme and a different stage of personal growth, but it's still rooted in storytelling.I see it as another chapter in the same book rather than a continuation of the exact same narrative.Aside from the new project, are there any performances you're particularly excited about this summer?Absolutely. I'm really looking forward to Down The Rabbit Hole. That's a huge one.I'm also excited for Into The Great Wide Open, Solar Festival, and Wildeburg. Those are all festivals I've wanted to play for a long time. It's going to be a busy summer, but in the best possible way.There are some great collaborations on the EP, including IGOR, Nnelg, and more. How did those collaborations come about?The collaboration with IGOR happened very naturally. We've known each other since around 2023. He first reached out after hearing one of my singles and suggested we make some music together. We ended up spending a lot of time in the studio and actually made enough material for an entire collaborative EP.While I was working on Duizen Volle Manen, it felt obvious to involve him. He immediately connected with "Santiago Zei" and ended up becoming the final addition to the project.He wrote his verse, added some string arrangements, and helped elevate the track. It all happened very organically.The collaborations with Nnelg and Ray Fuego came from admiration. I grew up listening to SMIB and always imagined having at least one SMIB feature on my first major project. When I was working on the song, I sent it to them and explained the vision. As someone who grew up listening to their music, having them involved felt very special.How do songs usually begin for you? Does a project start with a story, a visual idea, a melody, or something else entirely?Most songs begin with an emotion. I'll experience something, watch a film, hear a story, or connect with a character, and that creates a feeling. Once I identify that feeling, I start asking myself what its soundtrack would sound like. Then I'll sit behind the piano, find the right chords, and start building from there with melodies, drums, and rough ideas.Most songs begin as simple 30-second loops with placeholder lyrics and unfinished production. I'll listen to those ideas for days or even weeks, gradually refining them while making sure I never lose sight of the original emotion. I keep adjusting and rebuilding until the music captures exactly the feeling I imagined.Your music blends hip-hop, soul, pop, and more experimental influences. Are there any new sounds you're excited to explore in the future?Definitely. The new project already pushes me into some new territory while also going deeper into the sounds I've explored before. There's still a lot of soul music in it. There's funk, and a strong influence from the late '70s and early '80s. You'll also hear touches of reggae and dub throughout the project. More generally, though, I'm always discovering new music.If in a few years I decide I want to make a full reggae album, I'll do it. I've never wanted to limit myself to one genre. I want to follow my curiosity and let the music lead me wherever it wants to  go.People know you through your music, your visuals, and your performances, but what's something people often misunderstand about you?That's a great question. One thing I hear a lot is that people expect me to be very quiet and extremely introverted when they meet me for the first time. I understand why they think that. A lot of my work is reflective and thoughtful, and I'm definitely a nerd in many ways. I love stories, books, films, and world-building. But at the same time, I'm also very extroverted.I'm still a Bijlmer kid. I enjoy football, going to the gym, hanging out with friends, joking around, and being social. I think people sometimes assume that creative people only exist inside their creative identities. But I'm not just a musician or storyteller. I'm also just a regular person with ordinary interests and experiences.Maybe that's what surprises people the most.Finally, is there anything you'd like people to know before the tour and the next chapter of your journey begins?More than anything, I hope people come out and experience the live show.I've spent years building these stories, creating the music, and developing the world around the project. The live performance is all those pieces coming together. Between the upcoming festivals, the new music, and the tour, this feels like the beginning of a new chapter. I'm excited to share it with people and see where the journey goes next.Catch stay away from dante! live this summer at Down The Rabbit Hole, Into The Great Wide Open, Solar Festival, and Wildeburg or later this year when he takes his world on the road with the FREE SANTI TOUR.

Interview by Passion DEEZSixteen years after their last full-length release, Roll Deep return not as a nostalgia act, but as a living institution. Through generations of artists, changing line-ups and shifting eras of grime, the crew never really disappeared. Now, with Best in the Game arriving via FABRICLIVE., they're reminding everyone why their influence remains woven into the DNA of British music.For many artists, a comeback implies a period of absence. For Roll Deep, the story is different. The founding grime crew may not have released a full project together in sixteen years, but the collective never stopped moving. Members continued building careers across music, fashion, business and broadcasting, while the wider Roll Deep legacy continued to echo through every generation of grime that followed. "We never really left," says Breeze. "It wasn't like we ever sat down and said, 'We're not doing this anymore.' We've always been in contact. We've always been around each other. Making music together again just felt natural."That sense of continuity runs throughout Best in the Game. Rather than attempting to recreate a past moment or chase contemporary trends, the project feels like a reaffirmation of what Roll Deep has always represented: raw energy, brotherhood and the collective spirit that helped define grime from its earliest days. For Manga St Hilare, the return is less about nostalgia and more about perspective. "We've been here for so long," he explains. "The sound has gone through different generations, different stages, different artists. People said grime was alive, then dead, then alive again. So to still be here making music and enjoying it after all that is a blessing."That perspective comes naturally when your alumni network includes some of the most influential names in British music. Wiley, Skepta, JME, Flowdan, Tinchey Stryder, Trim and countless others all passed through Roll Deep's ranks at different points, making the crew less of a group and more of an ecosystem. Yet none of the members speak about that legacy with surprise. "This is all we know," says Breeze. "We've always been great. Everyone's always had their own thing going on individually, and then when we come together, it just works." Karnage agrees, comparing Roll Deep to a giant machine whose individual parts never stopped moving. "Everyone's got their own path," he says. "Flowdan's doing his thing. J2K's got his trainer brand. Everybody's always been active. Then, when we come together, like Voltron, it becomes something bigger."Ask any member what truly defines Roll Deep and none of them mention chart positions or records sold. Instead, they talk about brotherhood. "It's not a boy band," Breeze laughs. "Nobody put us together. We grew up together. This is family." That family dynamic remains central to how Roll Deep operate creatively. There are no complicated formulas when it comes to writing music. No calculations around who should appear on a particular track. No strategic discussions about streaming numbers. Instead, songs emerge organically. "We'll hear a rhythm and whoever wants to jump on it jumps on it," Breeze explains. "Some people might suit one track more than others. Some people might not want to be on it at all. We just want whatever's best for the team."Manga describes the process even more simply. "It's not a business decision," he says. "It's just vibes. If everyone wants to be on a track, cool. If only two people want to do it, that's cool too. We're brothers first." That spirit has allowed Roll Deep to survive where many other collectives disappeared. Individual success was never viewed as a threat to the group. Instead, it strengthened it. Roachee believes that being part of Roll Deep creates a standard of quality that members carry throughout their lives. "When you're around people constantly achieving things, it pushes you," he says. "Everybody who came through Roll Deep has gone on to do something. Music, business, fashion, whatever it is. Being around that energy keeps you accountable."Despite grime's journey into arenas, fashion campaigns and global culture, the crew remain adamant that everything starts with pirate radio. For Karnage, the pirate era remains the single most important part of Roll Deep's identity. "It was the foundation," he says. "Before social media, before streaming, before any of that. Pirate radio was where people heard us. It was where we developed."As Roll Deep describe it, pirate radio functioned as both training ground and proving ground. It taught timing, chemistry, crowd control and the instinctive understanding that still defines their music today. "Everything comes from radio," Manga explains. "The way we write songs. The way we perform. Even knowing when it's someone else's turn to come in. All of that comes from radio."Breeze agrees. "You always go back to what you know," he says. "That's the roots."That rawness remains central to Roll Deep's philosophy today. While many artists spend years polishing records for streaming platforms, the crew still think about music through the lens of performance. For Manga, grime loses something when it becomes too clean. "The songs are one thing," he says. "But when you see grime live, it's completely different. That's where the energy is." He believes this is why grime can sometimes be misunderstood by audiences unfamiliar with its live culture. "When people watch a clip online, they think they're watching rappers perform. But we're not just rappers. The energy is different. You have to be there." Breeze is even more direct. "It's called grime for a reason," he says. "It's not supposed to be polished."The crew's return arrives through FABRICLIVE., a partnership that feels almost inevitable given the shared history between grime and London's most iconic club space. Interestingly, the collaboration only happened after the music was already finished. "We had the project done," Manga explains. "The music, artwork, everything. We just needed the right home for it." That home turned out to be fabric. "They understand what we're trying to do," he says. "Some places don't always understand where grime belongs or how to position it. fabric gets it." Beyond the label itself, the venue carries symbolic weight."fabric is grime's club," Manga says. "When people around the world talk about clubs in London, they talk about fabric. Roll Deep is a London institution and fabric is a London institution. It just makes sense."Leading the campaign is B.U.N, a track built around one of the most iconic lyrics in grime history. For the crew, choosing it as the first single was an easy decision. "We wanted people to hear something instantly recognisable," says Manga. "When you hear that lyric, you know exactly what it is." The track also serves as a showcase for Scratchy, whose contributions as a producer are often overlooked. "A lot of people don't realise how good Scratchy is as a producer," Manga says. "So it felt right to come back with one of his beats and one of his most famous lyrics." The result acts as both a reminder and a statement: Roll Deep's foundations remain intact, but their creative energy remains firmly rooted in the present.Perhaps the most striking aspect of Roll Deep's return is their relationship with younger artists. Rather than viewing new generations through the lens of competition, the crew speak about them with admiration and curiosity. Manga points to emerging artists carrying the torch in their own way. "The new generation have their own energy," he says. "They respect the history but they're not trying to recreate 2003. They're trying to make their own history."Roachee has experienced the generational shift firsthand. "I get voice notes from young artists all the time," he says. "One kid told me he felt blessed just to be born and know Roll Deep. That's crazy to hear." For him, those interactions provide motivation. "The young generation give me energy," he says. "Being around them makes me want to keep writing and keep going." The influence now stretches across multiple generations. Some of the artists inspired by Roll Deep weren't even born when the crew first emerged. "It's surreal," Breeze admits. "Seeing kids who weren't alive when we started looking up to us—that's surreal."The title of Roll Deep's forthcoming mixtape carries a certain weight. Yet after speaking with the crew, it doesn't feel like arrogance. Instead, it feels like confidence built over decades of consistency. The members know exactly what they are, where they came from and what made them important in the first place. They are not interested in reinventing themselves for algorithms or chasing whatever sound happens to be trending. Instead, Best in the Game serves as a reminder that some foundations never disappear.Sixteen years after their last full-length release, Roll Deep are still operating according to the same principles that built grime in the first place: community, competition, creativity and collective energy. The format may evolve. The generations may change. But the essence remains the same. As Breeze puts it: "We wanted to keep it raw. We wanted to keep it Roll Deep."Roll Deep's influence is written into the DNA of British music. With Best in the Game on the horizon, now is the perfect time to reconnect with the crew that helped shape grime as we know it. Check out B.U.N and follow the journey via FABRICLIVE.

Interview by Liesje Verhave | Photography by Nick HeldermanFor most people, a debut novel would be enough of a creative milestone. For Xillan Macrooy, it became one part of a much larger transformation. Over the past year, the Surinamese-born multidisciplinary artist has expanded beyond the role of musician with an ambitious three-part project spanning literature, theatre and music. Beginning with a debut novel recently nominated for the Hebban Debuutprijs, continuing through an award-nominated theatre production and culminating in an upcoming album, the work traces a deeply personal journey through queerness, memory, identity and self-invention.Xillan Macrooy doesn't see these projects as separate disciplines. They're different manifestations of the same impulse: storytelling. Long before studying music at conservatory level, before performing on stages across the Netherlands, and before writing songs from a queer perspective, he was a child drawing pictures inspired by books and inventing stories to accompany them. Somewhere along the way, music became the dominant medium. The last few years have been about remembering that it never had to be the only one.At the centre of this creative expansion sits a question that has followed him throughout his life: what becomes possible when you allow yourself to be more than one thing? We caught up with Xillan to discuss storytelling, Suriname, language, queer representation, artistic transformation and why his latest body of work is ultimately about learning to let go.You recently published your debut novel, Mensen als zonnen en mensen als manen, but writing seems to have been part of your creative life long before that. When did you realise you wanted to be a storyteller rather than simply a musician?Music has been my main focus since I was a teenager. I moved to the Netherlands to study at the conservatory, and over time, music became such a central part of my identity that I almost forgot how I worked as a child. When I was younger, I moved naturally between different forms of creativity. If I read a book, I would draw something inspired by it. If I painted something, there was usually a story attached to it. I wasn't separating disciplines in the way we often do as adults. Everything was connected.At some point, I realised there was something that still felt incomplete. I love music and I always will, but when I started asking myself why I make songs in the first place, the answer wasn't that I wanted to sing. It wasn't even that I wanted to make records. The answer was that I wanted to tell stories.Once I started saying that out loud, things began to happen. People started responding to that idea. The publisher who eventually released my novel heard me talk about storytelling during a podcast and asked if I'd ever considered writing a book. It was a question I'd secretly wanted someone to ask my entire life.Writing a novel always felt like one of those dreams reserved for a very small group of people. It seemed distant. Unrealistic. But by that point I was already beginning to accept that I didn't want to be limited to a single artistic identity. I wanted to experiment. I wanted to move between worlds. I wanted to be a shape shifter.The novel began as a memoir before becoming fiction. Why did that change?Initially, I thought I was writing a coming-of-age memoir. I spent months creating timelines and mapping significant moments from my life. But the deeper I went into that process, the more I realised it was triggering things I wasn't ready to relive exactly as they happened. What I discovered was that I needed control. As a child and teenager, there were many moments where I felt powerless. Through fiction, I could become the director for once. I could decide what happened. I could alter reality without abandoning it entirely. The book became an alternate version of my life rather than a direct recreation of it.I'm very inspired by Afro-surrealism and shows like Atlanta, where the world appears familiar but something is slightly different. The rules are bent rather than completely broken. That's how I approached the novel. It's not only a story about what happened. It's also a story about what could have happened. About the versions of myself I might have become, the versions I never became, and the versions I'm still trying to become.That's why I didn't give the main character my own name. I wanted readers to understand that this was connected to my life without pretending it was a documentary. It's an alternate reality. And in some ways, that's closer to how memory works anyway. Two people can experience the exact same event and carry entirely different stories about it for the rest of their lives.Queerness sits at the heart of the novel. Why was it important to make that impossible to ignore?When I started writing, I was thinking about the stories I needed as a child growing up in Suriname. For a long time, I believed those stories didn't exist. I thought there were no books written from an openly queer Surinamese perspective. Later, while researching both the novel and my theatre work, I discovered that wasn't entirely true. There are writers who came before me. There is a queer legacy. There are people whose shoulders I can stand on. Finding that legacy made me happy, but it also made me angry.Because if those stories existed, why didn't I know about them? How different would my life have been if I'd encountered them earlier? How much confusion, loneliness and shame could have been avoided? That realisation gave me courage.I didn't want readers to wonder whether the story was queer. I didn't want the central relationships to be interpreted as friendships or hidden beneath layers of implication. The queerness is the heart of the book. It's not a subplot. I felt a responsibility to make that visible in a way I didn't always encounter growing up.The novel centres around twins. Why was that dynamic so important?Partly because I'm a twin myself. But more importantly, twins allowed me to explore the idea that there is no single way to experience queerness. We often focus on outcomes. We celebrate the moment someone comes out, finds love, becomes successful or arrives at some version of themselves. But the journey there is rarely straightforward. There is no blueprint for growing up queer in Suriname. There isn't really a blueprint for growing up queer anywhere. The twins allowed me to explore different responses to the same circumstances. Different ways of processing trauma. Different ways of finding joy. Different ways of surviving. I hope readers recognise themselves in both characters. Not because they're identical, but because they're not. That's the point. There isn't one correct way to be queer. There isn't one correct way to heal. There isn't one correct way to live a meaningful life. I think that's a lesson we still struggle with as societies. We want things to fit neatly into categories. We want a single version of the truth. But there are always multiple truths existing at the same time.Language plays a huge role in the novel. Why was it important to include Dutch, Sranan Tongo and Surinamese Dutch?That was one of the first conversations I had with my publisher. I said that if I'm writing a story about a boy growing up in Suriname, then the book needs to sound like Suriname. I wasn't interested in simplifying that experience for a Dutch audience. When I was growing up, I read books from all over the world and often had to work to understand them. Sometimes I didn't know the references. Sometimes I didn't know the words. But I still entered those worlds. I wanted readers here to experience something similar.What I love about Suriname is the fluidity of language. People move between languages constantly. Within a single sentence, someone might switch from Dutch to Sranan Tongo and back again depending on what they're trying to express.Language isn't just communication. It's culture. It's history. It's rhythm. In Suriname, multilingualism feels natural. It's alive. I wanted to celebrate that. I was also inspired by writers like Edgar Cairo, who challenged traditional ideas about how Dutch should be written and whose work embraced the reality of how people actually speak. That gave me permission to do the same.You describe language almost like music.Because for me, it is. The writing process felt surprisingly musical. I realised very quickly that language has melody. It has rhythm. It has tempo. A lot of the time, I knew a sentence was right because I could hear it. I wasn't analysing grammar or structure in those moments. I was listening. The same instincts I use when writing songs became part of the writing process. I would hear the cadence of a conversation, the flow of dialogue, the rhythm of a scene. In that sense, writing the novel didn't feel like leaving music behind at all. It felt like discovering another version of it.The novel, theatre production and upcoming album all form part of a larger three-part project. What have you learned from working across different mediums?The biggest lesson was realising how much I could trust my writing. Whether I'm writing a song, a play or a novel, storytelling remains the foundation. What changes is the medium. Theatre taught me about presence. About using the body as an instrument. About creating a moment that only exists for the people in the room that night. The novel taught me patience and depth. It gave me the space to explore things I didn't yet have the courage to write about in songs. And the album became something different because of both experiences.What's been fascinating is seeing how each project keeps influencing the others. The book inspired songs. The theatre production changed how I think about performance and even got nominated for the BNG Theaterprijs. Certain scenes in the novel gave me access to emotions I hadn't been able to reach musically before. The projects have been in constant conversation with one another.You've described this entire body of work as an act of shedding.Very much so. I had to write about a lot of things that I needed to let go of. That's one reason why I've decided to end the theatre production this year, even though there are opportunities to continue performing it. I need to move on. The project has served its purpose. Of course, there are moments of joy throughout the work, but much of it required me to revisit difficult experiences. I've learned what I needed to learn from that process.Now I'm interested in exploring joy more deliberately. Not because darkness isn't valuable, but because I've spent a lot of time there already. I want to see what happens when I direct the same level of curiosity toward joy.The album, ACT III: Time Traveler and Graver, arrives later this year. How does it fit into that journey?The album feels like a return, but not a return to who I was before. Music has been my primary medium for so long that it feels natural to end the project there. But I'm returning to it as a changed artist. I'm not going back to being a musician. I'm still a storyteller. The challenge now is bringing everything I've learned from theatre and literature back into music. Making sure those experiences remain part of the work. The album is probably the most shape-shifting project I've ever made. It moves between languages, sounds and perspectives. It's deliberately resistant to being placed in a single box. That feels important to me. For a long time, people wanted clear definitions. They wanted to know exactly what kind of artist I was. This project is my way of saying I don't want to choose.What excites you most about the future?Change. I've always been fascinated by transformation. Being a shape shifter isn't about abandoning previous versions of yourself. It's about carrying them forward while continuing to evolve. I think people are often afraid of change, both individually and collectively. We want certainty. We want stability. But I find change exciting. This project feels less like an arrival and more like a beginning. For the first time, I feel like my vision and its execution are aligned. The work looks the way I imagined it. It feels the way I imagined it. Now I want to see what happens next. I want to keep experimenting. I want to keep surprising myself. And most of all, I want to keep telling stories.Mensen als zonnen en mensen als manen is available now. The final chapter of Xillan Macrooy's three-part project continues later this year with the release of his debut album ACT III: SON. To introduce the final chapter of his project, Time Traveler and Graver will release a double single. Before that, audiences have one last chance to experience the award-nominated theatre production "A coming of (r)age ritual" live during its final performance. 

Words by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Olive GilsonBefore we discovered KINGH's DARE TO DREAM EP, we caught up with the London-based artist to talk about identity, ambition, faith, and building a creative universe on her own terms. Born in the UK, raised in Italy, and now back in London, KINGH's journey sits at the intersection of cultures, sounds, and disciplines. From working alongside Shy FX to directing her own visuals, she's an artist committed to honouring her vision while creating space for others to see themselves in the process. At a time when many are questioning what's possible,  DARE TO DREAM arrives as both a statement and an invitation. One rooted in belief, self-trust, and the understanding that when we share knowledge, inspiration and opportunity, we all grow. Read on as KINGH reflects on creativity, community, trusting the journey, and the power of daring to dream.You were born in the UK, raised in Italy, and now based in London, your music feels shaped by both places. How has moving between cultures influenced the way you see yourself as an artist?I’ve always felt in between worlds. It gives a unique perspective. Growing up between British and Italian cultures taught me that there isn't just one way of understanding life. I've always been influenced by different sounds, different ways of communicating, different energies. I've learned to embrace all the various parts of myself. My roots naturally feed into my music and the way I create.The title DARE TO DREAM feels almost like a manifesto. What were you dreaming about when you wrote it, and what did you have to overcome to allow yourself to believe those things were possible?At its core, DARE TO DREAM is about allowing yourself to imagine a bigger version of your life. I believe anything is possible. Ambition and drive have always been at the essence of who I am, so in many ways, the title has always lived within me. But something I had to focus on was total surrender and trust. Trust the timing, trust the process, and trust that what's meant for me won't pass me by.You describe the song as being about giving yourself permission to want more. Why do you think so many people struggle with that, especially creatives?Creatives spend a lot of time putting themselves and their work out there, which can make you second-guess yourself. Doubt is a part of being an artist. But your power lies in your uniqueness and in leaning into it. I felt a real shift when I realised that the more I embrace who I am, the more I can channel.There's a sense of optimism running through the record, but it doesn't feel naïve or escapist. How do you balance ambition with the realities of trying to build a creative career?Building a creative career comes with challenges and uncertainty. I've worked hard and made sacrifices to get myself here, but I am here. Times are uncertain and the world can feel like a scary place these days. If my music can help people believe a little more in themselves and what's possible for their lives, that's important to me. I focus on creating a feeling of possibility and aspiration. My job is to stay connected to myself and the reason I started. Belief keeps me moving forward, but trust keeps me grounded. I'm surrounded by people who understand and support what I'm building, and that's gold.Your collaboration with Shy FX feels like an interesting meeting point between generations and scenes. How did that relationship first develop, and what did he bring out of you creatively?Some of my early demos reached Shy and he invited me into the studio. We connected straight away. We have similar tastes and found we naturally gravitate towards a lot of the same sounds. He understood my story and encouraged me to dive deeper into myself. He helped me learn to trust myself more.Shy FX is known for creating music that connects deeply with sound-system culture. What did working with him teach you about songwriting, production, or trusting your instincts?Working alongside Shy, I’m a student every day. He rarely stresses and trusts that things reveal themselves when they’re ready. The way he approaches not just music, but life, is different from anyone I’ve ever come across, and that’s what sets him apart. He watches how people listen and move to music, and instinctively knows what grooves will connect with them. Being around that has taught me not to overthink, and to be led by my instincts.The production on DARE TO DREAM draws from rare groove and street soul traditions. Were those sounds already part of your musical vocabulary, or did this project push you into new territory?Thanks to my parents, I was naturally exposed to an eclectic range of music, but I always resonated most with sounds that felt raw, soulful and real. With this project, I was able to dive deeper into those influences and explore them more fully. It felt very natural. Like reconnecting with and deepening sounds and emotions that were already within me. A big part of my collaborative relationship with Shy is talking about and sharing music. When we first started working together, we'd have listening sessions where he'd introduce me to records and artists I'd never heard before. I call him the Human Jukebox. The way he absorbs, understands and stores music is unlike anything I've ever seen. There wasn't a better person to go on this journey with.The Street Soul sound had its roots deep in club culture. What are some of your favourite hits from the sound?Too many gems to mention... From the music that came out of the Manchester scene, like 5th Of Heaven, to the more well-known ones like Loose Ends and Soul II Soul. Anything that carries authenticity and connection.You've worked across music, film, fashion, and creative direction. Do you see these as separate disciplines, or are they all part of the same creative language for you?I see them as different expressions of the same thing. For me, creativity isn't really separated into categories. Whether it's music, film, or fashion, it’s all world-building. Each medium allows me to communicate something slightly different, but they're all intertwined, and I am the anchor.You directed the video for DARE TO DREAM yourself. What interests you about storytelling through visuals, and how important is creative control to you?Visuals have always been a huge part of how I think. I went to film school and I've always been a visual artist too. I see the songs whilst I write them. It all comes from the same place and gets channelled through different mediums. Creative control is everything to me. As artists, we work with sacred energy and we are responsible for honouring the message. We can't play with that.London has a long history of artists crossing between different creative worlds—music, fashion, art and film. Do you feel part of that tradition, or are you carving out something entirely your own?London has always been special because of that crossover, which is one of the reasons I came back. I think every artist is constantly trying to find their own language and build their own world. I'm inspired by that space and mentality, but I'm ultimately focused on building something that feels authentic to me. I value feeling free to expand into whatever feels right.There's a growing conversation around artists needing to be multidisciplinary just to survive. Do you think being able to move between different creative fields has become a necessity today?I think it depends on the person. Not everyone needs to do everything. But I do think having a broader understanding of creativity is valuable. For me, moving between disciplines feels natural because that's how my mind works. But it comes from genuine curiosity and instinct.Your music carries a strong sense of faith, mindset and belief in possibility. Where does that optimism come from?Some things you can’t explain, you just know and feel.  I have always been driven by something bigger than me, and that’s what keeps me moving forward. Looking back at the version of yourself who first moved to London, what do you think she would make of the position you're in now?I think she'd be proud. She had a lot of dreams and a lot of belief, but she couldn't have known exactly how things would unfold. I think she'd be excited to see that I'm still following the things that mattered to me back then. I would definitely tell her to relax.The EP is called DARE TO DREAM, but once you achieve one dream, another usually appears. What are you daring to dream about now?I am constantly stepping into new versions of myself, so I'm excited by the idea of expanding the world I'm building and creating music that reflects where I am now. At the moment I'm focused on growth, new material, and continuing to evolve creatively.Beyond streams, followers and industry milestones, what would success actually look like for KINGH five years from now?Success would be having the freedom to create at the highest level without limitation. To continue making meaningful work and to still have the ability to keep channelling and connecting with people.If somebody discovers your music through this EP, what do you hope they understand about you after listening from beginning to end?I hope they feel immersed in a world. I hope they feel a sense of connection. I write about my life and the layered experience of being human, with all its ebbs and flows. I hope they feel encouraged to lean into their essence, like I am on my own journey. I hope they discover the power of committing to themselves. I hope they dare to dream.If you've got love for music that speaks to purpose, possibility and authenticity, make sure you spend time with DARE TO DREAM. Whether you're chasing your own ambitions, navigating uncertainty, or simply looking for something real to connect with, KINGH's latest project offers a reminder that growth begins with belief. Get familiar with KINGH and step into the world she's building. DARE TO DREAM is out now.

Interview by Passion Dzenga and Liesje Verhave | Photography by Fidelio Faustino Ferrier-OlivieiraFor Shavero Ferrier, punk was never just a sound. It was a way to survive, organise, connect and build something where nothing existed before. Growing up in Paramaribo, he found himself drawn to skateboarding, heavy music and alternative culture at a time when rock music in Suriname carried heavy stigma. To be visibly different was not always easy, but it also gave him a reason to create.Over the years, that instinct turned into bands, tours, documentaries, festivals and an entire production platform. From early projects like De Rotte Appels and Skafu to the heavier world of Luguber and the current force of Mutha Flac, Ferrier has helped shape one of the most unexpected underground stories in the Caribbean. Through Phara0h Productions and events like Alt Market, he has created stages for punk bands, metal bands, underground rappers, DJs and alternative kids who might otherwise never have had a place to gather.Ahead of the release of Mutha Flac’s new single Leven and their collaboration with Patta for Keti Koti, we spoke with Shavero about discovering punk, growing up alternative in Suriname, building a scene without infrastructure, connecting Caribbean underground communities, and why the frustrations he wrote about as a teenager still feel urgent today.Growing up in Paramaribo, what first drew you towards punk rock?I was always an alternative kid in some way. As a teenager, I was already skateboarding, listening to metal and looking for things that felt different from what everybody around me was doing. Then one of my friends, who was also skating at the time, told me I needed to stop listening to all that metal stuff because he thought it was whack. He gave me this documentary called Punk’s Not Dead, and the moment I saw it, something clicked.That documentary changed everything for me. I got inspired immediately. I started listening to all the old school bands: Minor Threat, Bad Brains, Black Flag, all of that. I got the mohawk, I started dressing differently, and I fully stepped into punk rock culture.What caught me most was the DIY spirit. It wasn’t just the music. It was the way the community seemed driven to do everything themselves. They made their own shows, their own flyers, their own records, their own spaces. I saw a lot of similarities with my friends and me, because we were already trying to do things together without much support. Punk gave me a language for that. It showed me that you didn’t need permission to start something.Before punk, you were already into skateboarding and heavier music. Did being alternative already feel like part of your personality?Yes, definitely. I was already into heavy music before I discovered punk properly, so the guitars and the aggression were already part of what I liked. But punk gave it more direction. Once I got into punk rock, I started playing guitar more seriously. I got an electric guitar, and that was really the beginning of everything.Being alternative in Suriname at that time was not easy, though. Around the early 2000s, there had been a big situation where some alternative teenagers who were into occult stuff murdered different homeless people in Suriname. When people found out they were into black metal and alternative music, it created a huge stigma. It was in the newspapers, parents were warning their children not to listen to rock music, and people started associating that whole culture with something dangerous.So between the early 2000s and maybe 2008 or 2010, rock music was really taboo. If you looked alternative, people would stare at you in the street. They would assume things about you. They would connect you to that story even if you had nothing to do with it.It was a strange time to be into this kind of culture. You were just a kid who liked guitars and skateboarding, but people looked at you like you were part of something evil.How did you move from listening to the music to actually playing it?The guitar was my first instrument. I had an acoustic guitar at first, but I didn’t know how to play anything. So I went to guitar lessons and music school, and the moment I learned power chords, I basically stopped. That was all I needed. I wasn’t trying to become a technical guitarist. I wanted to write punk songs.After that, I gathered a few friends and started a band. In the beginning, it was just us riffing in my room. But after watching Punk’s Not Dead, I became so inspired that I immediately wrote a couple of songs. One of those songs is actually the first song that appears in the video clip we made for this campaign.That song has crazy lore because it goes all the way back to me being a teenager. It was one of the first songs I ever wrote, and now it’s coming back in this completely different context years later.How did your early bands lead into Skafu?The first band was De Rotte Appels. That started around 2010. Around that same period, there was another punk band in Suriname called A Distant Head Disorder. I was blown away when I discovered that other people were making punk rock music there too. One of my good friends played in that band, and I asked him to join mine because I had written some songs.For a while, both bands existed at the same time. Eventually, we realised we were doing the same kind of thing and moving in the same direction, so we decided to merge the bands. De Rotte Appels and A Distant Head Disorder became one band, and that became Skafu.That period really felt like the beginning of a scene. It wasn’t like there were hundreds of bands around. It was small, but there was this energy. People were finding each other, joining each other’s bands, sharing ideas and trying to figure out how to make punk work in Suriname.Later, when you came to the Netherlands, De Rotte Appels returned in a different form. How did that happen?De Rotte Appels have a long history, but the version people saw in the Netherlands came from a very specific situation. When I first came here, I didn’t have all my other band members with me, but there were shows arranged at venues like Melkweg and other places. I really wanted to play.So I reached out to Gerold, who used to play with The Rotten Apples. We hadn’t played music together in almost ten or fifteen years, but I asked him if he would be willing to do the band with me again. He immediately said yes.That’s how I reformed De Rotte Appels for that period. We played old songs, some Mutha Flac songs and a few things from other projects. It wasn’t necessarily my main band anymore, because Mutha flac is my main focus now, but it was a beautiful way to reconnect with that earlier chapter and bring those songs into a new space.What did Mutha Flac allow you to express that you couldn’t do through Skafu?Skafu stopped playing around in 2019 because the singer moved to Malaysia. After that, I formed Mutha flac with some of the remaining members. At first, it wasn’t supposed to be too serious. It was mostly jokes between my bassist and me at the time. We were writing songs, messing around, and just having fun.Then we released Bastard Son, and people in the community started connecting with it heavily. Suddenly, people were asking us to play shows. At that point, we didn’t really have a choice anymore. We had to take the band seriously because people were responding to it.With Mutha Flac, I wanted to create a more old-school punk sound at first. I wanted it to feel like early Black Flag and classic hardcore punk. But as the band developed, the sound started shifting. I began revisiting songs I had written years earlier with De Rotte Appels, especially Dutch-language songs that had never been properly released or recorded.Over time, Mutha Flac became less strictly 80s hardcore and moved more into a mix between old school punk rock and pop punk. I think that balance makes sense for us. Punk can be raw and countercultural, but it can also be catchy and direct. I like that tension.The documentary Tra Fasi introduced a lot of people in the Netherlands to the Surinamese punk scene. How has the scene changed since then?Most people in Suriname have not seen the documentary yet. Although, the scene is much bigger now than it was before. In the documentary, you see one of our events, and at that time, there hadn’t been an event like that in a while. A lot of people came, but looking back, it still felt kind of mild compared to what’s happening now.These days, if we announce a show, hundreds of people can show up. The alternative scene in Suriname is really picking up. A lot of people want to experience what happens at these shows. For many of them, it’s their first time seeing a mosh pit, seeing punk bands play or being around all these different underground genres in one place.I also think alternative music has become more visible globally because of TikTok and the internet. Younger people are discovering punk, metal, emo and alternative fashion differently now. They want to be part of it and see what’s happening locally.But the documentary definitely helped create awareness. Even if people in Suriname haven’t all seen it yet, the conversation around the scene has grown. People know something is happening.What are the biggest obstacles to building a punk community in Paramaribo?The biggest obstacle is infrastructure. In the Netherlands, you have pop venues and spaces that are built for live music. In Suriname, you have to do everything yourself. You have to go to venues personally, explain what kind of music you play, convince them that people will actually show up and hope they trust you enough to let you organise something.In the beginning, we got a lot of weird looks. People would ask who was going to come see a punk band play. They didn’t understand it. But over time, the fanbase grew and the community got bigger.Another challenge is that there aren’t many bands. If there’s only one punk band in the whole country, it’s hard to build a scene. So we had to combine different underground sounds. A show might have a punk band, an underground rapper and a hardstyle DJ, because the goal was to bring together people doing things outside the mainstream.For me, the biggest goal was always to inspire people to create more. Don’t just come to the show and enjoy it. Start your own band. Make your own music. Organise your own thing. If people had music, I would tell them to send it to me and we could find a way for them to perform.A scene survives through participation. If people only consume, it dies. If they start creating, it grows.Is that what led you to start Phara0h Productions?Yes. Phara0h Productions came from the fact that I was already doing all of this for my own bands. At first, the goal was simple: create shows so my band could play. But then I noticed other artists had the same problem. They also didn’t have a stage. They also didn’t have spaces where their music made sense.So I started organising events where different artists could perform. That slowly became something bigger.I never really had a straight job. I quit school early, and the only thing that truly mattered to me was playing in bands and organising shows. Around three years ago, I had a moment of self-reflection. I was almost turning 30 and I asked myself what I was going to do with my life.I realised that if I really wanted this to work, I had to give it everything.That’s when I started Phara0h Productions properly. I went all in. I began organising festivals, and one of the main projects became Alt Market. The first edition was a huge success. Around 500 people came, which meant a lot because this was an alternative festival in a country where people often say that kind of scene doesn’t exist.Seeing so many alternative people in one place showed me the potential. That was the moment Far Production became real to me.Have you noticed that Suriname is connected to other Caribbean alternative scenes? The main thing I do now is create alternative events, and Alt Market has become the biggest one. We do it at the end of the year, and through that festival, we’ve been able to bring in bands from different places.Two years ago, we had a band from Columbus, Ohio come over. The year before, we had a hardcore punk band from Trinidad and Tobago. This year, we’re working on bringing bands from Guyana, maybe the Netherlands, and Aruba.The idea is to bring the Caribbean alternative scene together.There’s a really strong alternative scene in Trinidad. They have amazing rock and punk bands. Back in 2016, one of my bands participated in the Wacken Metal Battle Caribbean, and that connected us with bands from Trinidad, French Guiana, Aruba and other places. Since then, we’ve stayed in touch with a lot of those communities.The scenes are small, but they’re real. They face similar challenges, but there are people making music, organising shows and trying to build something. The internet helps, but the real connection happens when people travel, play together and see each other in real life.You’ve also played in heavier projects like Luguber. What did that band mean to you?Luguber started when I was living in Nickerie, which is about four hours away from Paramaribo. I moved there around 2011 and lived there for five years. In my last year there, I met Akeem, who became the drummer of Luguber.I had always wanted to make heavier music, and when I saw Akeem play drums, I got inspired immediately. We started writing songs right away. The original idea was to make a doom stoner metal band, which is why we ended up with a stupid name like Luguber. But eventually the sound shifted more towards hardcore.By that point, because I had already played in De Rotte Appels and Skafu, I understood how being in a band worked. I knew we had to write songs, get into the studio and record them quickly. With Luguber, we did that. We recorded EPs, played Wacken Metal Battle in 2016, and that event really helped shape the band.The last thing we did was a split EP with Anti-Everything, a punk band from Trinidad and Tobago. As far as we know, it was the first inter-Caribbean hardcore split EP. That means a lot to me because split records are such a classic punk tradition. It’s how bands connect scenes and share audiences.Let’s talk about Guillotine, which appears in the Patta campaign. What is that song about?Guillotine is about corruption in Suriname. It’s about bad leadership. It doesn’t matter who takes charge or which government comes in, it often feels like the same thing keeps happening. People get into power and put money in their own pockets while society keeps struggling.The song is dramatic, but that’s the point. It comes from frustration. It’s about people being tired of corruption and tired of leaders who don’t do anything for the people.The title is extreme because punk is extreme. It’s not meant to be polite. It’s a song about anger, frustration and resistance.How does your songwriting usually begin?For me, it usually starts with something catchy. I like hooks. I like music that sticks in your head. A lot of the time, I’ll hear a chorus first. It starts in my head, then I write it down, and once I have the chorus, I build the rest of the song around it.After that, I usually make a small demo on my computer. I open my DAW, put in some sample drums or something simple, record the idea and send it to the band. If everybody likes it, then we start working on it together and give it our own twist.Punk music is built on repetition and directness. Power chords, hooks, choruses—that’s where the energy comes from. So, for me, it makes sense to start with the part that people remember.You recently came to Europe for the No Borders Tour. How did that come together?The No Borders Tour was partly about promoting the Tra fasi documentary and bringing more attention to the Surinamese punk scene. But it is also connected to years of networking.Back when I had my first band, De Rotte Appels, we played at this random jam session in the middle of Paramaribo. After we played, a tourist came up to me and said I reminded him of himself when he was younger. He had played in a hardcore punk band in the 80s. He gave me his contact details and added me to a Facebook group called Punk Rock Netherlands.That was around 2010.From there, I started connecting with people in the Dutch punk scene. I learned how things worked here. So when I finally came to the Netherlands years later, it felt like a full circle moment. I went to shows and already knew people there.The No Borders Tour came from that network. I planned it with my friend Lucas from Frankie Teardrop in Zaandam. We did shows in Zaandam, Rotterdam, Amsterdam and Haarlem. It was all DIY. We did it ourselves, which made it feel even more meaningful.You’ve had a lot of cameras around you recently, from Tra fasi to the tour footage and now this campaign. How has that experience been?At first, it was strange. When Charity first came to film me, I had to get used to people following me around with cameras and trying to capture everything I did. I’m not really a polished media person, so it felt uncomfortable at the beginning.But after doing Tra fasi, I got more used to it. By the time the Patta campaign came around, I felt more comfortable taking charge and thinking along creatively. With Fidelio, it felt very natural and organic. We discussed ideas together, built the deck together and figured out how to make the music video work collaboratively.That experience helped a lot.I still find it hard to watch myself. When I see myself in the documentary, I cringe. It’s like hearing your own voice note played back. You think, “Is that really how I sound?” But then I see how other people react to it, and that helps me put those feelings aside.At the screening in the Netherlands, especially with Surinamese people who left in the 70s, the reaction was powerful. They couldn’t believe this kind of punk scene existed in Suriname. Some people came up to me and said they never imagined seeing something like that back home.That gave me hope.The new single Leven is also part of the campaign. Why did you want to include that song?Leven is one of the first songs I ever wrote. When I was in the Netherlands for the No Borders Tour, I finally got the chance to record those early songs properly with Gerold, who used to drum for The Rotten Apples. The idea is to bring those songs out, but in a modified form.When I wrote Leven, I was around sixteen. It was about everything that disturbed me at that age: a messed-up government, feeling rejected because I was alternative, hating school, feeling like society didn’t understand people like me. It was all of those frustrations in one song.When I listen back to it now, it feels like an interpretation of how I saw the world as a teenager.But the crazy thing is that not much has changed.That’s why it still feels relevant. The frustrations I had then are still present now. That made it the right song for this campaign, because it connects the beginning of my story to where I am today.What should people look out for next?Mutha Flac’s new single Leven comes out on July 1st. For us, this campaign felt like the perfect opportunity to release it. When Patta reached out about making a video around us, it made sense to connect it to this song because it carries so much history. The single is out today on all platforms, and we’re excited for people to hear it properly. It’s an old song, but it still speaks to the present. That’s the whole point.More than a decade after discovering punk through a borrowed documentary, Shavero Ferrier has become one of the key figures shaping Suriname's alternative music landscape. What began as a teenager learning power chords in his bedroom has grown into something far bigger: multiple bands, international tours, a documentary, a festival platform and a growing network connecting underground scenes across the Caribbean.Throughout our conversation, one theme surfaced again and again: participation. Ferrier's work has never been solely about creating space for himself. It's about proving that those spaces can exist at all. In a country where alternative music once carried stigma and where artists often have to build their own infrastructure from scratch, every show, festival and release becomes an act of possibility.That spirit is perhaps best captured by Leven, a song written as a frustrated teenager and released years later to a very different audience. The details may have changed, but the desire to challenge systems, create community and imagine alternatives remains the same. If Tra Fasi documented the emergence of a scene, Ferrier's work today suggests something even more significant: that the scene is no longer emerging. It's here, it's growing, and it's inspiring a new generation to pick up instruments, start bands and build something of their own.As Mutha Flac prepares to release Leven and continue its journey beyond Suriname's borders, Ferrier remains focused on the same DIY philosophy that first drew him to punk all those years ago. Don't wait for permission. Create the thing you want to see.

Interview by Liesje Verhave | Photography by Tengbeh KamaraFor Faria van Creij-Callender, painting is more extensive than just image-making. It’s a method of navigating identity, space, and belonging. Drawing from personal memory, family archives, art historical references, and recent experiences in Suriname, the Dutch-Surinamese artist creates dreamlike worlds that sit between reality and imagination.Her paintings explore what it means to exist between cultures without the need to choose one over another. Figures emerge from layered compositions that blend observation, memory, and fiction. Reflecting a lived experience that is deeply personal and widely relatable. Whether exhibiting in museums, developing new bodies of work inspired by travel, or preparing for major art fairs, van Creij-Callender continues to build works with a visual language rooted in nuance, curiosity, and self-discovery.Following her recent solo exhibition at Lang Gallery and being exhibited at the Dordrechts Museum for winning the Scheffer Kunstprijs 2026, we caught up with the artist to discuss representation, Surinamese identity, painting practices, and the creative impact of her first visit to Suriname.How did you first get into painting?My mother was a painter, so art was always accessible to me. There was always paint around the house, so making things felt very natural. But that being said,  I never planned on becoming an artist. I first studied several different subjects at university before realising that art history was what interested me most. At some point, I realised: I don't just want to study art, I want to contribute to it. Through trying different things that didn't quite fit, I realised that everything I felt passionate about could be expressed through painting.I studied illustration before moving into fine arts at KABK, and once I got there, I never really questioned it again. It felt like the right path.Your work is currently being shown at the Dordrechts Museum as part of De Scheffer Kunstprijs. How does it feel to see your paintings in a museum setting?It's incredibly special. It was the first time my work had ever been shown in a museum.There is always this balancing act of how people perceive your work. You don’t want to be seen only as a Black artist. For me, being Black and Surinamese is where the work starts, but there are many other aspects to my identity. My family comes from many different places, and there are many layers to who I am.Seeing my work in a museum felt like a meaningful step forward. Simply having that presence as a Surinamese artist in that space already means a lot.Has recognition changed your confidence as an artist?Recognition is always nice. After graduating from KABK, there was a real question about whether I could continue my practice full-time or if I would need another job.A few months later, I was very fortunate and received the Royal Award for Modern Painting in 2025, which gave me both recognition and practical support. It helped me pay for studio rent and materials. But the most important validation comes from the work itself. Every time I finish a painting, I feel a sense of peace. It reminds me that this is what I'm supposed to be doing.Many of your paintings embrace multiple identities rather than choosing between them. Why is that important to you?Growing up, I often felt like I had to choose between different sides of myself. My mother is from Brabant and my father's family is Surinamese. There was always this feeling of being asked to identify with one side or the other.But that wasn't my reality. I've always felt like I existed somewhere in between. When I was studying, I found inspiration in Black American artists and saw parts of myself reflected there. But I still wanted to express something more specific to my own experience. I couldn't really find images that reflected that feeling of existing between cultures, so I decided to create them myself.Your work often exists somewhere between reality and imagination. How do your characters come to life?It happens in many different ways. This year, I visited Suriname for the first time and took hundreds of photographs. Many recent paintings are based on those images and the people I encountered there. Other works begin with art history. I'll look at Renaissance paintings or 18th- and 19th-century works and borrow elements like compositions, poses, or gestures. I also use family archives, old photographs, objects from daily life, and references from my own surroundings.Then I start cutting, combining, and pasting everything together until it becomes a world of its own. All those references merge into a world that feels grounded in reality but also dreamlike. It’s important to me that I recognise something from my own life within the work, but also that I recognise my community and people who look like me. You mentioned that aspects of yourself appear throughout your paintings. What role does self-portraiture play in your work?Whenever you paint faces long enough, they eventually start looking a little bit like you.For me, it begins with wanting to recognise myself in the work. Sometimes I use my own features as references because it's practical. If I need to understand how an eye tilts or how light falls across a face, I can simply photograph myself. But I don't necessarily want every painting to be a portrait of me. I use myself as a starting point, then move away from it.You recently visited Suriname for the first time. How did that experience affect your work?It had a huge impact.I took so many photographs and filled sketchbooks with ideas. I wasn't painting while I was there because I wanted to fully experience the moment, but I was constantly drawing and collecting references. Being in Suriname for the first time made that process even more meaningful. I wanted to capture the atmosphere, the colours, the air, the feeling of being there as quickly as possible so I could hold onto that experience for longer.When I returned to the Netherlands, all of those experiences immediately became paintings.Would you describe yourself as a nostalgic person?I’m definitely a nostalgic person. Memory enters my work in different ways. Sometimes I'll experience something and feel an immediate urge to paint it. I'll come back to the studio and want to begin as soon as possible.Other times, a memory takes much longer to reveal its importance. Some moments only become meaningful years later, and then I suddenly feel the need to return to them through painting. Because I work with so many references and images, memories often become layered. Sometimes a memory isn't complete on its own and needs other references to help build the image. Different memories move at different speeds.For example, one of the paintings behind me was inspired by my girlfriend in the Surinamese jungle. I remember taking the photograph and immediately wanting to return to the studio and paint it. There was a sense of urgency to that work. At the same time, another painting contains two figures in the distance who appear to be sharing their first kiss. That image was also inspired by a moment in Suriname, but it developed much more slowly. It required many different elements to come together before it felt complete.So memory exists at different paces within the work. Some moments arrive immediately, while others take years to fully form.What does a typical day in the studio look like?I usually start with a run in the morning and then head straight to the studio.I work with oil paint, so planning is important. Each layer needs time to dry, which means I usually have three paintings in progress at the same time.What part of the painting process do you enjoy most?The third layer.The first layer is about structure. The second introduces colour. But it's the next stage where the painting really starts revealing itself. That's the moment I love most because I can finally see whether the image is becoming what I imagined. It's the point where the painting begins to tell me where it's going. It's not finished yet, but suddenly I understand its direction.Your recent solo exhibition at Lang Gallery was inspired by your trip to Suriname. What did that show represent for you?It represented a very immediate response to the experience.I returned from Suriname with so many ideas and was able to translate them into paintings almost immediately. Then, shortly after finishing them, I was able to show them to an audience.That felt incredibly rewarding. The opening also incorporated Surinamese food, which made the exhibition feel multi-layered and communal. It became a broader celebration of the experience and the culture that had inspired them. Where do you usually find inspiration?Travel definitely helps, but it's not my only source.I spend a lot of time looking at historical paintings and visiting exhibitions. I'm particularly interested in how artists capture light, posture, and atmosphere. Running is also surprisingly important. That's often when ideas come together. Things that feel complicated in the studio suddenly become clear when I'm moving. My girlfriend and I always try to run together, wherever we are. We even kept running while we were in Suriname, although doing that in 32-degree heat was definitely intense. It was very sweaty, but we still did it.Running has become such an important part of my routine that I take it with me wherever I go.What's next for you?The main focus right now is preparing new work for Unfair Amsterdam. I'm also working towards several upcoming exhibitions that I can't fully announce yet, but they're very exciting. For now, I'm concentrating on making the strongest work possible and continuing to build on everything I've learned over the past year.Faria van Creij-Callender's work is currently on view through the Dordrechts Museum Kunstprijs exhibition, and will show a new set of works at Unfair Amsterdam later this year. Visit her work in person as she continues to explore identity, memory, and belonging through vibrant paintings that bridge personal experience and collective histories.

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Britt HaanstraFor Amazone, music has never been just about songs. It is about identity, belonging, and creating space where none existed before. Drawing from her Surinamese roots while growing up between cultures in the Netherlands, the singer-songwriter has built a sound that fuses contemporary Afro, R&B and house influences with traditional Surinamese rhythms and percussion. The result is music that feels both deeply personal and globally minded.Her 2025 EP Who Is She? explored questions of identity and self-discovery, while breakout tracks like Sa na San and collaborations with artists such as Jarreau Vandal have introduced her to audiences far beyond the Netherlands. At the same time, she's extending her vision beyond music through initiatives like Bloodline Sessions and the debut of her all-female live band, creating platforms for cultural exchange, community building, and female empowerment.Ahead of her performance on the Keti Koti main stage and the release of new music, we caught up with Amazone to discuss cultural identity, songwriting, Surinamese heritage, and why she's determined to take traditional sounds to a global audience.Your 2025 EP is titled Who Is She? Let's start there. Who is Amazone today?She’s fearless, curious, and always evolving. I love music in all its forms, and I’m inspired by a wide range of genres. One thing I discovered when I started making music is how much I come alive on stage. Performing brings out a side of me that feels natural and powerful. Music has taught me to embrace every part of myself and turn vulnerability into strength. She’s someone who’s still discovering herself, but fully owning every version of who she is.You grew up between cultures. When did you realise that being between worlds could actually be a strength?That took time. There were moments when I felt like I didn't fully belong anywhere. People underestimate how complicated it can be growing up with multiple cultural identities. Sometimes you're told you're too Dutch for one side and too Surinamese for the other. You start wondering where exactly you fit. Eventually, I realised that I didn't need to choose. I could create my own space and define my own identity. That's something that's become very important to me, especially for other mixed-race kids who might be struggling with similar questions.Your Surinamese roots are central to your work. What aspects of the culture do you feel most connected to right now?The percussion. Whenever I attended events where Surinamese bands were performing, something happened inside me. My body would just start moving. At some point, I realised how much I loved those traditional rhythms and percussion patterns. They carry so much history and energy. I'm also becoming increasingly interested in traditional dances like Awasa and Banamba. That's something I'm actively exploring and celebrating through Bloodline Sessions as well.One of the tracks that introduced many people to your music was your collaboration with Jarreau Vandal. How did that relationship come about?I’ve known him from his experimental background with different influences and sounds, so I felt like it would be a good match creatively. The rest after that small section is great. One day I simply reached out to him. I sent the message, we got into the studio, and the first session produced the song that eventually got released. Sometimes timing is everything. It doesn't happen often that the very first studio session leads directly to a finished record, but that's exactly what happened.Traditional percussion plays such a big role in your music. How does a song usually begin for you?It usually starts with a feeling. I'll hear something that inspires me and then begin building from there. A big part of my process has involved collaborating with people who are deeply rooted in traditional percussion. A good friend of mine, Fantison Araby, has been incredibly important in that journey. He's a true kawina specialist and helped shape many of the rhythmic foundations throughout my EP. For me it's less about playing every instrument myself and more about bringing the right people together around my vision.So you're more of an orchestrator than a multi-instrumentalist?Exactly. I can play some piano and percussion, but I prefer letting people focus on what they do best. I know my strengths are songwriting, performance, storytelling, and creating a vision. Then I bring in talented musicians who can help elevate those ideas. That collaboration is really important to me.Have you always been writing songs?Pretty much. I remember lying in bed when I was around nine or ten years old, recording little melodies into my Nokia phone and writing lyrics. At the time, I thought they were amazing. Looking back, they're probably terrible, but the impulse was already there. I always loved creating songs and building little worlds through music.Your music blends Afro influences, house, R&B and traditional Surinamese sounds. Where does that combination come from?I make music that makes me want to dance. Whenever I'm at a party or club, I'm constantly discovering new sounds. I'm usually the person recording snippets into my phone because I want to remember what inspired me. Those references eventually find their way into the studio. I love contemporary sounds, but I also want to hear Surinamese rhythms living inside them. That's where the excitement comes from.You've described yourself as a musical explorer. What currently excites you creatively?I feel like I'm only scratching the surface of what can be done with kawina and traditional Surinamese rhythms. Artists like FS Green and Jarreau Vandal have already introduced these sounds to wider audiences from a DJ perspective. What excites me is exploring what happens when those rhythms become the foundation for songwriting and vocal music. I haven't seen many female artists doing that yet. I want to keep pushing further and see how far these sounds can travel.I want to make more noise in the emerging space of “island pop” and continue exploring how I can bring my culture into that. I feel like I’m only scratching the surface of what’s possible with kawina and traditional Surinamese rhythms. Artists like FS Green and Jarreau Vandal have already helped introduce these sounds to wider audiences from a DJ and production perspective. What excites me is taking those same influences and building songs around them, making them the foundation for songwriting and vocal-driven music. I haven’t seen many female artists doing that yet. I want to keep pushing that boundary and see how far these sounds can travel.Sa Na San became a huge success and even reached number one in Suriname. What was that experience like?It was surreal. I was in Suriname during Christmas and New Year's and I remember standing at a petrol station with my father. Suddenly, people started driving by singing the song. My dad had already been hearing it on the radio, but seeing strangers sing it in public was something completely different. To experience that kind of connection thousands of kilometres away from where I live was was amazing.. It's one of those moments you never forget.Your music feels joyful, but also deeply grounded. How do you stay centred as your profile continues to grow?Faith is a huge part of that. I genuinely believe there's something greater than us. I don't think we're the highest authority in the universe. I'm ambitious, but I also believe that if something has been placed inside you, it will eventually find its way into the world. That doesn't mean you stop working. You still have to stay disciplined and patient. But faith helps me trust the process.You're preparing to debut an all-female band at Keti Koti. Why was that important to you?One day I just thought: Amazone needs a female band. The easy option would have been working with whoever was already available, and often that means male musicians because there are simply more of them. But I wanted to create something intentional. It took time to find the right people and build the group, but now that it's finally happening, I'm incredibly proud that I stayed committed to the idea. It feels completely aligned with everything I stand for.Tell us about Bloodline Sessions.Bloodline Sessions started very organically. I filmed a dance class with a friend who teaches Awasa, and the video unexpectedly went viral. After that, I realised there was a real need for spaces where people—especially younger people—could reconnect with their roots without feeling intimidated. What started as dance classes has now expanded into jam sessions, cultural programming, and community-building events. The goal is simple: create spaces where culture can be celebrated, shared, and passed on.What role does community play in your work?A huge one. Creating a community around your art is one of the biggest blessings. Music is important, but I also want to create spaces where people can connect with each other. Whether that's through dance, live performance, workshops, or jam sessions, it's all part of the same vision. Culture survives through participation.Looking ahead, what's next?A lot of music. I recently filmed a music video in Suriname for the first single "Defibrillator" from my upcoming album. That's a huge step for me because it's the beginning of a much larger body of work. The album is really about defining the world I'm building musically and taking everything I've learned over the past few years to another level. I'm very excited about it.Finally, what advice would you give to a young Surinamese girl who wants to follow a similar path?Just do it. You can spend years overthinking things, but eventually you have to take the first step. Find people who believe in you. Build a team around yourself. Create opportunities if they don't already exist. Most importantly, believe in yourself. You can achieve far more than you think.Check out Amazone's new single Debrillator, out now on all platforms! 

Interview by Passion Dzenga | Photography by Violette EsmeraldaWhen Essa Främbs first stepped into a kickboxing gym at the age of twenty, she wasn't chasing titles or dreaming of championship belts. What she was looking for was something much simpler: strength. Growing up, she never considered herself particularly athletic. She describes herself as skinny, physically insecure and uncertain about what her body was capable of. Yet one training session was enough to spark an obsession that would eventually take her across the world to Thailand, into competitive Muay Thai and onto a path that fundamentally reshaped how she viewed herself.Today, Essa balances life as an athlete, coach, wife and mother while continuing to pursue her ambitions inside the ring. Along the way, martial arts has taught her lessons that extend far beyond fighting, about confidence, patience, humility and the importance of finding the right community. We sat down with Essa to discuss training in Thailand, overcoming self-doubt, motherhood, competition and why true strength often has very little to do with violence.What has martial arts taught you about yourself?More than anything, it's taught me confidence, but not in the way people usually think. Before I started training, I wasn't somebody who felt particularly strong. I wasn't athletic growing up, and I definitely didn't think of myself as someone who would one day step into a ring and compete. A lot of my confidence came from other places, but not from my physical abilities.What martial arts taught me was that confidence isn't something you're born with. It's something you build. Every time you show up to training, every time you fail at something, every time you look foolish trying to learn a new technique and come back anyway, you're slowly building evidence that you're capable of more than you thought.When you're a beginner, everything feels awkward. You look around and everybody else seems better than you. If I look back at old videos of myself, I can see how uncomfortable I was. My movements weren't smooth, my technique wasn't good, and half the time I had no idea what I was doing. But the beautiful thing about martial arts is that nobody expects you to be good immediately. The only expectation is that you keep showing up.Over time, I realised that confidence comes from repetition. It comes from proving to yourself, again and again, that you're willing to keep going even when something is difficult. That's a lesson I've taken into every part of my life. Whether it's training, family, work or competition, I know that progress isn't instant. You just keep showing up and eventually things begin to change.Many people assume combat sports are aggressive environments. What was your first impression of the gym?That assumption is exactly what I expected to encounter. A lot of people imagine fighting gyms as intimidating places filled with aggressive people. I went in with no expectations at all and was actually surprised by how welcoming everyone was. The atmosphere was incredibly supportive. People wanted to help each other improve. More experienced athletes were willing to teach beginners. Coaches were patient. There was a genuine sense of respect throughout the gym.That became one of the biggest reasons I stayed. Martial arts attracts people for many different reasons. Some people come from difficult backgrounds. Some are trying to avoid destructive habits. Some are looking for discipline or direction. But what I found was a community of people genuinely trying to become better versions of themselves. That was beautiful to witness. And it taught me very early on that fighting and aggression are not the same thing.You spent almost nine months training in Thailand. What did that experience give you beyond fighting?Thailand changed me in ways that had very little to do with fighting. Of course, from a technical perspective, I improved enormously. You're training twice a day, six days a week. Everything revolves around Muay Thai. You're surrounded by people who have dedicated their lives to the sport, so naturally, you absorb a huge amount of knowledge in a very short period of time.But the bigger lessons happened outside the gym. For the first time in my life, I was completely responsible for myself. I had to organise where I lived, how I got around, what I ate and how I managed my daily life. There was nobody to solve problems for me. If something went wrong, I had to figure it out. That teaches you independence very quickly.What surprised me most, though, was the sense of community. Before going there, I thought I was travelling to improve as a fighter. What I didn't expect was how much I would learn from the people around me. My coach, Samsak, had a huge impact on me. He wasn't just interested in making people better fighters. He cared about people. He wanted to know if you were okay, if you were eating properly, if you needed help with something outside training.There were days when we'd train together, go to the beach together, have dinner together and spend hours talking. It felt less like a gym and more like a family. I remember thinking that these people barely knew me, yet they were treating me with so much kindness and generosity. That changed my understanding of what strength looks like. Before then, I probably associated strength with toughness. Thailand taught me that some of the strongest people are also the most caring.Becoming a mother seems to have changed your relationship with the sport. How did you navigate that?Honestly, becoming a mother was one of the most challenging periods of my life, not because of my son, but because of all the questions I suddenly started asking myself.Before that, my identity felt relatively straightforward. I was an athlete. I was training, competing and chasing goals. Then I became a wife and a mother within a relatively short period of time and suddenly I found myself wondering who I was supposed to be now.I remember thinking: Is this still appropriate? Should I still be fighting? Should I be focusing on other things? Should I be more feminine? More traditional? More focused on family? None of those thoughts came from anybody around me. They came from me.My husband was supportive. My family was supportive. My in-laws were supportive. Nobody was telling me to stop. In fact, they were encouraging me to continue. But I had built these expectations in my own mind about what a mother should look like, and I was struggling to reconcile those expectations with the person I already was. It took time to realise that the only person judging me was myself.Once I understood that, something shifted. I stopped trying to fit into an idea of motherhood that didn't belong to me. I realised I could be a mother and an athlete. I could be a wife and still chase ambitious goals. Those things weren't in conflict with each other.Now my husband brings my son to training. They sit together while I work. Sometimes my son copies my coach and pretends he's holding pads. It's become part of our family life. Looking back, I think motherhood didn't take anything away from me. It actually gave me a new reason to keep going.There was also a deeply personal experience that pushed you further into martial arts.There was. When I was younger, I experienced something that left me feeling powerless and vulnerable. I won't go into every detail, but it affected me deeply. At the time, I carried a lot of anger. I remember asking my coach if I could work as a cleaner in the gym so I could have access to the space outside training hours. He said yes. So I would clean and then stay behind for hours training by myself. I'd hit the heavy bag, film myself, watch the footage back, analyse every mistake and start again. Over and over. Looking back, that period shaped me enormously. At the time, I was trying to process pain. What I didn't realise was that I was also building discipline. And that discipline eventually became something much healthier than angerCombat sports remain heavily male-dominated. What's your experience been like as a woman in that environment?Overall, I've been fortunate. Most of the gyms I've trained in have been respectful environments. But I do think women need to be careful and trust their instincts. There are fantastic gyms full of good people, and there are places where boundaries aren't respected. If something feels wrong, leave. You don't owe anyone your loyalty if they're making you uncomfortable. At the same time, I think visibility matters. The more women participate, coach, compete and lead, the more normal it becomes. I've never wanted special treatment. I've always wanted equal respect. That's something I've generally been lucky enough to receive.What advice would you give somebody who's curious about Muay Thai but doesn't know where to start?Start. That's the most important thing. Go to a class. Try it. See how it feels. And if the first gym doesn't feel right, try another one. Finding the right environment matters just as much as finding the right sport. The gym that changed my life wasn't the first one I walked into. The same thing happened in Thailand. I visited multiple gyms before finding the place that felt like home. Don't give up because one experience wasn't right. Keep looking. Eventually, you'll find your people. And once you find your people, everything becomes easier.Essa would like to thank the team at Boni Gym, her former coach Samsak and everyone at Phuket Top Team for their support and guidance throughout her journey. She also credits her husband, family and training community for helping her continue pursuing her goals as both an athlete and a mother.