Technology is brilliant. You can sync beats, quantize transitions, automate fades. But when everything’s perfect, nothing feels alive. I crave resistance—the drag of a jog wheel, the scratch of vinyl, the click of a fader that’s seen better days.
When I mix, I want accidents. Slight mismatches, unexpected overlaps—the small human flaws that turn rhythm into emotion. Those moments remind the crowd that there’s a person behind the decks, not a program.
I love tech; I use it every night. But I refuse to let machines dictate the groove. Music should serve the moment, not the algorithm. That’s why my hands will always stay on the controls.
