Music – Numéro Berlin

WEEKEND MUSIC TIP PT 106

Anna Klusmeier — Fri, 21 Aug 2026 09:16:36 +0000

Betty Hammerschlag’s music exists somewhere between memory and invention. Across four previous albums, Me & You (2023), Cold (2024), Forever Young (2025) and Fake Girl (2025), Hammerschlag has gradually developed a language of ambient pop, folk, emo and tape experimentation that she calls Cloudfolk, “not a genre but a gesture.” Her upcoming album, Psycho Summer, due for release on 25th September via Drowned By Locals, takes that language further, assembling thirteen songs from a larger archive of cassette recordings into something dreamlike, intimate and deliberately difficult to place.

Describing the album as “a soundtrack for memories I never had,” Hammerschlag treats music as a form of fiction that can nevertheless feel completely real. Recorded largely at home through a Fostex 4-track, Psycho Summer embraces hiss, saturation and mechanical imperfections, preserving the uncertainty at its core.

For Hammerschlag, the album is less a story than a selection: thirteen paintings from a studio, thirteen short stories, thirteen songs. Its fragments move between real people, imagined memories and fleeting observations, blurring the line between what happened and what might have. We spoke with the artist about Psycho Summer, the unreliability of memory, imperfection, why music genres are obsolete, and making fantasies real.

BILLY BURRELL: You describe Psycho Summer as “a soundtrack for memories I never had.” What does that mean to you?

BETTY HAMMERSCHLAG:

It means exactly that to me. Psycho Summer is a fictional work. It’s a story — my story. It just feels more real to me than some actual memories.

BB: Psycho Summer came together from a much bigger archive of cassette recordings rather than being written as a conventional album. What made these thirteen songs feel like they belonged together?

BH: I have various IKEA bags full of cassette recordings. They sit under my desk. Music happens continuously. Psycho Summer is a selection of 13 songs in a specific order. The album isn’t written like a script or anything; it’s more like a selection of paintings from my studio, curated for an exhibition. 13 paintings hanging, 13 short stories in a book, 13 songs on a record. In the other bags is probably stuff I will never touch again.

BB: Your music moves between ambient, pop, folk, emo and tape experimentation. When did you start to feel like all of those things belonged together?

Music genres are obsolete. Where does pop start or where does ambient end? I know people need guidelines, boundaries, drawers to place themselves and others, but personally I come from the art world. Things like that haven’t existed there for a long time. Questioning boundaries and rules is taught at art school from day one. The music world sometimes seems stuck in time. Questions are discussed there that make you think you live just before the invention of the drum machine… and in the end everyone asks for your star sign anywayyyy.

BB: You call that language Cloudfolk but say it’s “not a genre but a gesture.” What does Cloudfolk mean to you now?

BH: Cloud comes from the internet. Folk comes from offline. Lol. Like I said, people love genres, so I just gave myself and everyone else this hashtag. To me, “gesture” stands for a kind of artistic freedom, for a sense of transience and situational space. By “gesture” I also mean my personal limitations and preferences. I don’t have much at my disposal to make this music. I still owe Chris a small piece of art because he hooked me up with this killer Fostex 4-track about a year and a half ago. We had this deal that I’d give him something — he has a lot of empty walls at home and wants to hang something up. I ran into him on the street today and realised he’s probably subconsciously waiting for me to finally drop off that piece for his place. Shit, I really have to get that done this week. I used that Fostex a lot for Psycho Summer — every song ran through it. It’s just such a chill machine. I live in a cool neighbourhood where people often put boxes of unneeded stuff out on the street. Sometimes I find old pre-recorded cassettes in those boxes — tapes people listened to years ago. I love using those thrown-away tapes for my recordings most of all… hehe. I like it when there’s something handwritten on the shell, knowing it came from random people. Recording something by hand at home, whether it’s me or some stranger, is always kind of folk-like in a way.

BB: You leave the hiss, saturation, dropouts and other imperfections of the tape in the music. What do those imperfections give you that a cleaner recording doesn’t?

BH: I love it. Imperfection is the goal. I’m imperfect. My life is. My surroundings are. My friends. Imperfect doesn’t mean not being perfect — you have to make that clear first. I record everything a hundred times anyway, but in the end I almost always choose the cassette recording. That’s where I find the most honest moment. I also love using the old SP-404 for effects — I always love baking everything into one big audio sausage haha. Ideally things have to be finished in a single night. The vibe has to be right, it has to move fast. I hate projects that drag on forever and go through a hundred versions with replaceable MIDI tracks. In the end, cassette recording just helps me find that exact point and leave the songs as they are.

BB: When you look back at Me & You, Cold Forever Young and Fake Girl, can you hear yourself gradually arriving at Psycho Summer?

BH: Yeah, I can hear that very clearly. I mean, I wanted it to go there. There are a few other things in between, but you can definitely hear where I was heading — without claiming this was some plan or that I’ve arrived anywhere yet. It’s just a state right now that I really love and have always loved. I mean, musically speaking.

BB: Your songs can feel deeply personal without necessarily revealing very much. How important is that space between autobiography and invention?

BH: For me there is no space between autobiographical and invented. Being invented doesn’t mean it’s not real — if anything, those things are just as real. My music is my personal thing. First of all, all the music I make I make primarily for myself. I’m my own biggest listener. I listen to it over and over and it makes me feel good, it makes me happy. I sit alone at night making this music. What could be better than making fantasies real?

BB: There are titles like “Red Hair Working Keyfood Greenpoint”, “My Friend Milaa” and “Yannis” that feel almost like fragments from a diary. How much of the album comes from real people, places and moments?

BH:

I lived in Greenpoint, Brooklyn for a while. There was a supermarket where I shopped all the time and someone with red hair worked at the register. That person had great white soft skin and this gorgeous, beautiful red hair. I think about this person a lot. There was no real contact between us or something, just the normal routine of paying at the register — but I looked at their face and body and everything very closely. In a way this person means nothing to me, but on the other hand I think about them regularly. Omg. Milaa studied with me. She makes really cool art, mostly with clay and ceramics. I wanted to visit her when I was in Japan for an artist residency, but she couldn’t make it. She has two kids now and lives two and a half hours away in a suburb of Tokyo. We wanted to meet up, but it just didn’t happen. The title “Yannis” is named after Yannis from the French label Collerette, who put out my album Forever Young. I really like him. He is a real one. I think he’s a really good guy… even though I barely know him.

BB: We document so much of our lives now, whereas Psycho Summer seems fascinated by things becoming blurred, forgotten or misremembered. Do you think we’ve lost something by remembering everything?

BH: I really like this question. Beautiful. I can’t answer it.

BB: What do you hope stays with someone after they’ve listened to Psycho Summer?

BH: I hope it leaves a hovering ambivalence. In every senseeeeeeeeeeeeee

WEEKEND MUSIC TIP PT 105 FKJ

Anna Klusmeier — Fri, 14 Aug 2026 13:23:28 +0000

FKJ has a unique approach to music: he plays at least five different instruments, in addition to providing his own vocals, live looping and fine-tuning with a synthesizer.

No wonder his impro (!) session with singer Masego hit over 500 million views on YouTube. In said video, the viewer gets to witness both multi-instrumentalists building an entire musical landscape, layer by layer, using saxophone, guitar, bass, looping and their own vocals. The result is “Tadow”: a soulful yet groovy song merging the incredible talent of both. This was almost 10 years ago.

Ever since, FKJ has successfully established himself in the industry, releasing four albums, multiple singles and features, performing a COLORS Show and playing at festivals like Coachella.

The loose and colorful arrangements jump effortlessly between French House, Soul, Jazz, Funk, R&B and Pop, making it seem almost easy to move through music as a vibrant playground.

Recently, FKJ sought calm and balance in the Philippines, where the musician now lives with his partner and child. Away from the hectic pace and surrounded by nature, a new album was born: Tyber. It is set to be released on 11 September of this year.

In conversation with Numéro Berlin, FKJ gives context to his new album, talks about the big shifts and how “childlike innocence” is crucial for making music.

Leonie Kampen: Your new album Tyber will come out beginning of September. What does the name mean or refer to?

French Kiwi Juice: Tyber is the name of a being I incarnated during a dreamlike state and it carried a level of serenity beyond anything I had ever known. Specifically, it was a tree. I like to think of it as a higher version of myself existing in a different reality. Since that experience I have looked to it as an ideal state of being, one I aspire to embody in daily life, even though the world we live in constantly makes it challenging to do so.

LK: How does it differ from your previous albums?

FKJ:

Every album or EP I’ve made so far has been quite autobiographical. I look back at them like photo albums, each one representing a period of my life.

I haven’t yet been the type to lock myself away for weeks at a time to record an album around a preconceived concept. My process tends to be more organic : ideas emerge through thinking, playing, writing and I often discover the themes and meaning of a project after the music has already begun to reveal itself. I often change environments, and my identity evolves with them, so all of these projects end up sounding different.

Tyber, as an album, represents the bumpy shift that began when I turned 33 and continued until this chapter came to a close, when the incarnation happened.

LK: What are themes and moods on the album?

FKJ:

The big shifts. The ones in our lives and the ones in our world. The answers to how we deal with them. Sonically it oscillates between sun and rain, bright and shadowy.

LK: Is there a song on the album that felt hard or vulnerable to put out?

FKJ:

I wrote “Little Little Voice” during a pretty low moment in this period. It was originally called “Reach The Bottom.” I love hearing that my music helps people and uplifts them, but that one definitely wasn’t meant to. I still wanted to share that moment though. Having Labrinth take the lead on it helped to immortalise it without making it feel obviously like mine. Now it’s one of my favorite tracks on the album.

LK: Tadow remains one of your most popular songs. When recording it with Masego, did you know that you were creating a masterpiece? Or did it feel like a normal jamming session to you?

FKJ:

Not a masterpiece but we knew something happened. We did about 10 one-off takes that day and Tadow was one of them. I remember we looked at each other at the end of it and said “that one was special”. Then we moved on to the next one.

LK: Where does your mind go when improvising? To the next thing you will play or completely other thoughts?

FKJ: Being observed, recorded, or having a time limit can make me think more. Free playing, with the right people, often makes me more careless. But at the end of the day there’s no magic trick. Thinking about exactly what to play next or letting my imagination take over and visualising a scene for example can both lead me somewhere interesting while improvising. Some days it’s effortless, some days i’m too much in my head, some days I need something or simply some time to get somewhere interesting. There are so many variables and i’m not really in control of what matters most.

LK: You mentioned in earlier interviews how you are trying to get back to a point of childlike innocence when it comes to making music. What are ways to get there? Did you manage to get there by now?

FKJ: I was quite fascinated by that idea while making my previous album, V I N C E N T. Playing until I would let loose was one way of getting there. Using psychedelics was another. But this new record is also more about seeing all the good sides of growing up. I started with a shift when i was 33, where things began falling apart, and I realized that I was mainly resisting that process. Then the crumbling stopped when I met Tyber. I still love the idea of reaching that innocence when you need it as an artist, but I love combining it with the wisdom we gain as we grow.

LK: You became father in 2021. What do you teach your child about music?

FKJ:

I let him freeplay with whichever instrument is at home. I guess because I never had teachers myself, I’m not really trying to tell him how to do things or even tell him that he should be playing music at all. Music is present everywhere around him, from the records we play to the music we make. I believe he’s already learning the language without even really trying.

LK: Out of all instruments you play, which one is your secret favorite?

FKJ: I honestly can’t choose they’re all special for different reasons and moments.

LK: To conclude: What is your biggest achievement outside of music?

FKJ: Long-lasting friendships, building a family, and curating these special spaces where people can create and live.

THE CULTURE WE CARRY: INSIDE MS. LAURYN HILL’S DIASPORA CALLING!

Anna Klusmeier — Tue, 11 Aug 2026 09:49:04 +0000

Last friday, Ms. Lauryn Hill brought to live Diaspora Calling! for its first UK edition, ten years after she first conceived the project in Brooklyn. Artists, musicians, families, collaborators and audiences from different generations and geographies came together, connected by something that has always sat at the centre of Hill’s work: the understanding that culture can function simultaneously as memory, resistance, communication and healing. For one day, diaspora became physical.

The scale of the gathering was immense, yet the energy surrounding the event remained intimate. Backstage, between artists, musicians, friends and extended creative communities, the borders between performance and gathering dissolved. Gunna, Common, Rapsody, Tiwa Savage, Little Simz, Stonebwoy, Victony, Tolu Coker, Foday Dumbuya, Sabrina Elba, Zeze Millz and Derek Chisora were among those moving through a space that increasingly felt like a cultural convergence in its own right. Many of the people present belonged to an interconnected conversation that had been developing across countries and generations for years. Diaspora Calling! made that network visible.

The project was first conceived by Hill in 2016 as a combination of music, visual art and cultural exchange, but its roots reach further. Hill has spoken about an earlier trip to Ghana and a conversation there that made her recognise the communities she and Wyclef Jean had independently built throughout the African diaspora. The question became what might happen if those networks were deliberately brought into contact with one another.

A decade later, Milton Keynes offered one possible answer. Ms. Lauryn Hill was mapping relationships.

The programme moved geographically as much as musically: from the radical lineage of American soul represented by Erykah Badu, to Nigerian artist Fireboy DML, London rap through Giggs, and the continuing Jamaican lineage represented by Hill’s sons YG Marley and Zion Marley, grandsons of Bob Marley. Dave Chappelle, whose comedy has long occupied the intersection between entertainment, politics, race and cultural criticism, hosted the day.

The map expanded further through Nigerian DJ DJ OBI and Haitian-Guyanese producer and DJ Michael Brun, while British-Ghanaian live band The Compozers brought another bridge between West Africa, Britain and the wider diaspora. Later, The Compozers would join Hill during the closing performance, adding to the expansive live-musician architecture surrounding her onstage. During Giggs’ set, Kano appeared unexpectedly for “P’s & Q’s” and “Rudeboy” — a meeting between two defining voices of British rap and another reminder that the cultural geography of the day was continuously being redrawn in real time.

Africa, the Caribbean, Black Britain and Black America existed as points along a cultural continuum. Hip-hop moved into reggae; reggae into soul; soul into Afrobeats. Contemporary voices stood beside artists whose work helped construct the cultural languages from which newer generations continue to draw. This ability to connect histories while preserving their individual identities has long defined Hill’s position. For more than three decades, she has expanded the role an artist can occupy. Her work continuously engages with identity, spirituality, race, womanhood, love, exploitation, faith and self-determination. At a moment when culture increasingly moves through accelerated cycles of consumption, Hill continues to insist upon something slower and more demanding. She puts the message first. Diaspora Calling! takes that principle out of the record and turns it into a cultural space.

At the centre of the evening stood another reunion: Ms. Lauryn Hill and Wyclef Jean marking thirty years since the release of the Fugees’ The Score. Released in 1996, the album achieved something increasingly rare: enormous commercial reach alongside extraordinary cultural complexity. Hip-hop, reggae, soul, Caribbean musical memory and political consciousness coexisted inside a record capable of reaching audiences far beyond any one of those communities.

The Fugees themselves embodied diaspora. Their music carried Haiti, the United States, the Caribbean and the experience of migration into the centre of global popular culture. Even their name — derived from “refugees” — placed displacement and belonging inside the identity of one of the most commercially successful groups of their era.

Thirty years later, those questions have become even more urgent. Migration remains one of the defining political subjects of the present. Questions of borders, belonging and cultural ownership have intensified. Simultaneously, musical traditions across the African diaspora are more globally interconnected than ever: Afrobeats travels through Lagos, Accra, London and New York; dancehall continues to shape global pop; hip-hop has become an international language; younger artists inherit sounds whose histories stretch across continents. Returning to The Score in 2026 reveals how far ahead the record already was.

Hill has described revisiting this history through the language of reclaiming and healing timelines. During an intimate conversation surrounding the Milton Keynes gathering, she speaks about the idea of returning to the path. Relationships fracture, people separate and lives move in unexpected directions. Sometimes, as Hill explained that evening, we move away from the path we were supposed to be walking. Healing begins with recognising that distance and finding a way back — reclaiming the path.

In the context of her relationship with Wyclef Jean, the idea carries particular weight. Their reunion contains a history of extraordinary creative intimacy, global success, separation, conflict and reconnection. Seeing them together now allows those chapters to coexist. The distance itself gives the return its meaning.

Healing becomes the decision to move through history rather than remain trapped inside it. Thirty years were precisely the point.

One of the most compelling qualities of Diaspora Calling! was the way cultural legacy remained in motion.

The presence of YG Marley and Zion Marley made that particularly visible. Bob Marley’s cultural impact has long exceeded music itself; his work became part of a global vocabulary around liberation, spirituality, Africa and resistance. His grandsons standing within a programme alongside Hill and Jean created another generational line — Jamaica speaking to the United States, the Caribbean speaking to Africa, one musical inheritance being reinterpreted by another generation. YG Marley performed “Praise Jah in the Moonlight,” while Zion reached directly into that family archive with Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” before moving into his own music. Legacy here became something active and this is where the curatorial intelligence of Diaspora Calling! becomes clear: diaspora really is a living network. And that network extended beyond sound.

Before the Milton Keynes gathering even began, Hill had translated the idea into something powerfully visual. In central London, she curated the presentation of a short film created by Los Angeles artist Lauren Halsey across the monumental screens of Piccadilly Lights. Halsey’s animated collage of heroes and symbols of the global African diaspora transformed one of London’s most commercial public spaces into a temporary site of diasporic memory.

At Milton Keynes, visual art, fashion, film and community programming continued alongside the music. Halsey’s visual language reappeared within the festival, while Denim Tears, Kids of Immigrants and Topicals participated through cultural and fashion activations. A curated marketplace brought diasporic artists, designers and entrepreneurs into the same ecosystem. Weleh Dennis, co-founder of Kids of Immigrants, also designed Ms. Hill’s stage look, inspired by workforce garment designs, whereas the powerful background singers wore custom-designed, cropped LOVE hoodies.

The distinction matters. Music remained the gravitational centre, but the vision surrounding it was interdisciplinary. Culture was being allowed to speak to culture, fashion to music, art to politics, history to a younger generation. Commerce to community, Africa to its diaspora and the diaspora back to Africa.

Community is a word culture uses excessively and practices far less often. At Milton Keynes it felt unusually close.

Perhaps that is also why Hill appears so instinctive in this role. When speaking about bringing these artists and communities together, she described the impulse as something natural. Artists and cultural figures before her had already demonstrated what it meant to become a voice, to open doors, create language for others and understand the responsibility that can accompany influence. Among the figures Hill mentioned Bob Marley, Nelson Mandela, Bobby Seale, Harry Belafonte, Kwame Nkrumah and Sister Souljah — people operating across radically different disciplines and histories, connected by the understanding that visibility can carry responsibility. Diaspora Calling! becomes part of that inheritance and vision: Someone created space before her, she creates space for others, others will carry it forward.

Few encounters captured the spirit of Diaspora Calling! as powerfully as Erykah Badu and Lauryn Hill sharing the same space.

Their connection carries decades of cultural history. Hill and Badu emerged at a moment when Black women were radically expanding the language of contemporary music — its sound, politics, spirituality and image. Both established uncompromising artistic identities that moved freely across genre and challenged established ideas of femininity, success and creative autonomy.Their individual paths have remained singular, yet a deep artistic vision connects them: an understanding of music as a space for consciousness, self-determination and transformation.

Badu’s performance carried the magnetic presence that has defined her live work for decades. “On & On,” “Window Seat,” “Apple Tree” and “Back in the Day” moved through the Bowl with the freedom of music still evolving in the moment. Badu has always understood performance as something alive — responsive to the room, the musicians and the energy passing between stage and audience.

Later, Badu joined Hill onstage for “Doo Wop (That Thing)”, creating one of the evening’s defining images. A song released in 1998 suddenly held several histories at once: the era that produced it, the women who helped transform the cultural landscape around it, and a new generation experiencing that legacy in real time.

Hill and Badu have each built bodies of work around depth and independence. Their voices gave space to interiority, spirituality, sensuality, social consciousness and the complexities of Black womanhood. Decades later, both remain cultural reference points because they have protected that independence. Their friendship and artistic relationship reflected the wider architecture of Diaspora Calling!: artists connected through shared histories, mutual respect and a responsibility towards the generations coming after them.

Hill’s cultural position remains difficult to categorise because her influence exists far beyond the size of her discography.

There is the rapper whose phrasing helped dismantle assumptions about gender within hip-hop. The vocalist capable of moving between rap, soul and reggae with complete fluency. The songwriter who made emotional vulnerability coexist with political consciousness. The Black woman who achieved extraordinary commercial visibility while remaining openly critical of the machinery surrounding that success. And then there is the cultural figure who emerged from all of those things.

Perhaps the most remarkable measure of Hill’s cultural impact is how little material it has required to sustain itself. Her solo studio catalogue essentially rests on one album.

In an industry built around constant output, accelerated release cycles and the pressure to remain permanently visible, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill has travelled across almost three decades without losing its urgency. Artists can spend entire careers producing extensive catalogues without reaching as deeply across generations as Hill has with a single solo studio album. That longevity lies in what Hill chose to address in the first place: love, faith and self-worth; motherhood, power, injustice and identity; the tension between belonging and remaining yourself; the struggle to stay truthful inside systems designed to reshape you. These questions do not belong to one era. Hill articulated them through a language in which the personal, political, spiritual and social could exist simultaneously. A record made in 1998 can therefore still feel immediate to someone encountering it for the first time in 2026. Her legacy challenges one of contemporary culture’s most persistent assumptions: that relevance requires constant production.

Cultural permanence is built through depth.

The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill remains foundational because generations of artists have inherited its permission: to be intellectually rigorous and emotionally exposed; spiritual and political; feminine and self-defined; commercially visible while retaining ownership over the meaning of the work.That influence now runs through multiple generations.

Diaspora Calling! reveals another dimension of Hill’s work: She is building infrastructure. Who shares a stage? Who meets backstage? Which histories are placed beside one another? Which younger artists gain proximity to their predecessors? What happens when African, Caribbean, American and British creative communities encounter one another in a physical place? And who, having once been given that space themselves, assumes the responsibility of creating it for somebody else? That final question feels central to Hill’s understanding of her own position. Cultural influence becomes something to circulate.

And this is where Diaspora Calling! begins to move beyond the continuation of Hill’s own legacy. It proposes a model for what cultural spaces might become. For all the language of global connectivity surrounding contemporary culture, meaningful physical spaces for exchange have become increasingly precious. Digital culture moves music across continents in seconds, yet the deeper histories connecting those sounds can easily disappear in the process. Diaspora Calling! restores those relationships to the foreground: The past becomes active material for the future. Healing, in this context, means creating the conditions in which difference, fracture and history can exist alongside the possibility of connection.

Hill has described this moment as one for growth, healing and pushing forward. At Milton Keynes, those ideas became a methodology.

There were histories on that stage and throughout the Bowl of migration, of diasporic musical traditions travelling and transforming, of families carrying cultural legacies forward, of friendships fractured and repaired, of artists navigating industries that profit from their creativity while frequently failing to protect the people producing it.

Even the abrupt ending of the night became an expression of that relationship. As the National Bowl reached its licensing curfew and the Fugees’ performance could no longer continue as planned, Hill refused to let the energy disappear with the stage lights. She moved down towards the crowd, extending the connection beyond the formal boundaries of the performance. The gesture felt almost like a final articulation of the day itself: proximity over distance.

Diaspora contains the routes through which people continually find one another again, like a living network — constantly moving, constantly being redrawn.

And this is where Diaspora Calling! points beyond the legacy of one artist, one album or one generation. It proposes a different cultural model.

An industry built around algorithms, accelerated release cycles, individual visibility and constant consumption has taught us to understand culture through what comes next. The next record, the next artist, the next image., the next moment. It recalls a thought FKA twigs has raised around the need for a different value system in music — one capable of recognising what numbers cannot measure. Streams, sales and visibility can quantify reach, but they cannot fully account for cultural impact: the ideas an artist leaves behind, the communities they create, the doors they open, or the way a piece of work continues to shape people decades after its release.

Diaspora Calling! asks powerful questions: what happens when culture moves through connection rather than succession? When an elder does not disappear as a younger voice emerges. When legacy becomes responsibility rather than status. When influence circulates instead of being owned. When community becomes infrastructure rather than branding. In this model, history and innovation do not compete. Africa and its diaspora are not separated into centre and periphery. The past does not sit behind the future but they move through one another.

The future of music will inevitably be global. The more urgent question is whether it can remain connected to the histories, communities and human relationships that gave it its language in the first place. At Milton Keynes, Lauryn Hill offered one possible answer.

Perhaps the future of music also depends on learning how to value what cannot be counted. It shapes a vision of culture as circulation rather than consumption, legacy as responsibility rather than status and community as infrastructure rather than branding.

Thirty years after The Score, Hill is still drawing the routes. And making space for others to follow them home.

WEEKEND MUSIC TIP PT 104 BOONDAWG

Anna Klusmeier — Fri, 07 Aug 2026 15:17:17 +0000

Boondawg has been carving out his career for over 10 years now. Due to heavy Hip Hop influences during his childhood and youth, it came naturally to the Düsseldorf-born-and-raised artist to rap in English. Only in 2023 did he switch to German rap – and blew up. Whether it be headbangers such as „Gangsigns“, prayer-like reflections in „Ghetto Gospel“, or energetic features with Souly in „Igotthisfeeling“: Boondawg saw what Germany’s rap scene was missing and, without further ado, created it.

He keeps high standards for himself and his music. Creating for the sake of creation, rather than chasing hype or trends. In his lyrics, he is not afraid to point out political injustices or shine light on the ugly side of the industry.

For our interview, I was initially hoping to get the album release date out of him. Instead, I learned that Boondawg became a father last year. So we talked about fatherhood, hype culture versus an actual understanding of quality, the everlasting loyalty to NRW, but then, of course, also the album.

Leonie Kampen: Lets talk about Godspeed first. You’ve already teased it quite a bit. Can you tell us when it’s coming out?

Boondawg: I can’t say yet, but definitely this year. It’s not completely finished yet, we’re probably around 70%. But this is also the time where we’re increasing the pace, doing the final touches and everything.

LK: And what does the album mean to you? What kind of themes are on it?

B: My projects are always a reflection of my life and the things I experienced during the period when they happen. This is the first time where I had a bigger overall vision for an album and a message that I want to give people.

In a very general sense, it’s about hardship, the challenges and difficulties you have in life, and the beauty that comes from them. That’s the main idea of the album.

It’s also kind of the red thread that runs through my own life. You have a goal, then a lot of challenges come your way. And when you reach that goal, or arrive at a certain point, you recognize the beauty in the path you’ve taken.

That’s what the album is about and also what I want people to take away from it. Just because you have a difficult or long journey doesn’t mean it’s automatically something negative. It can actually be something positive, depending on how you look at it. You can learn a lot from it and take a lot with you.

LK: Is that also why the name is Godspeed?

B: Godspeed is kind of a duality in this case. The word itself comes from Old English. It was used to say something like “may God accompany you on your journey,” especially when someone was starting a new path.

And that’s obviously also relevant because I recently started a family and became a father.

LK: Wow, that’s amazing. Congratulations! When did that happen?

B: Last year. And that’s where everything started. The whole vision for the album also developed from that. Not in a very obvious way, like “hey guys, I had a child,” that’s not what the album is about, but it obviously changed a lot inside me.

That’s the obvious meaning behind the album title. But on the other side, when I break down the word Godspeed, I understood it as “God’s speed” before I even knew that this old term existed.

For me, that means God’s timing. Not too fast, not too slow – those things don’t really exist. There is only the perfect timing. One person might reach their goal faster, another slower, but your path is always the path that is right for you.

That’s the duality that feels very present in my life right now: becoming a father and building a family, but also the career path I’ve been on for more than ten years.

LK: How old are you?

B: 27.

LK: And what is it like being a father now?

B: Amazing. I think it’s the craziest thing I’ve ever experienced. On one hand, it’s very demanding. On the other hand, it’s extremely inspiring, motivating, and challenging.

It also keeps me grounded. It makes sure that I keep looking forward and don’t get distracted by everything happening around me, which can happen very quickly.

Especially in our scene, especially at our age and in our generation, I think it’s harder than ever to find what is actually important to you when there are so many distractions and influences.

Having a child has made that much clearer for me. It has brought my life much more to the point of understanding what I want to do and who I want to be.

LK: That’s probably also a good balance to the whole music world.

B: Absolutely. A balance to everything, actually. Society is so fast-paced and constantly demanding something from you.

Then you have this child who just loves you. Unconditionally.

LK: That’s really beautiful. You’re also a big advocate for NRW. What do you think makes NRW so special that you had to write a whole song about it?

B: I think you can understand it best if you’ve actually been there or lived there.

LK: I’m from Essen.

B: Oh, you’re from Essen? Then you get it.

For me, what makes NRW special is that you have so many different cities. Different cultures, but also so many different perspectives.

I feel like if you grow up in NRW, you experience so many different sides of life. Of course, you haven’t seen the whole world just because you grew up there, but in a way you already get a small feeling for it because you’re exposed to so many different perspectives.

And you only have to drive 20 minutes further and you’re in a completely different reality.

I’m from Düsseldorf. If I drive 20 minutes, I’m in Mülheim or Duisburg – completely different worlds, completely different people. But you also see both the beautiful and ugly sides. You have everything there, and that shapes you a lot.

LK: Yeah, definitely. I noticed something in German rap – I don’t know if it has always been like this or if it’s a newer development – but city and state pride seems to have become a really big thing. Everyone raps about their city and how great it is. Do you know where that comes from?

B: For me, that has always been part of hip-hop. Hip-hop is very representative. You represent your street, your city. It starts with the street and then it gets bigger.

Especially when you look at American or French artists, I think it’s just that spirit. At least for me, that was always the spirit of the artists I looked up to.

When I started listening to hip-hop seriously, whether it was Kendrick rapping about Compton, Drake about Toronto, Kanye about Chicago, Joey Bada$$ about New York, Rocky about New York and specifically Harlem – I always thought that was powerful.

You could feel how they brought their city and their people with them. That energy was crazy to me, and I wanted to do something similar.

When I was younger, there was always this BTM-Squad. They were basically a street crew, and they also made music. When we were kids, we thought they were incredible. We wanted to be like them, even though looking back they weren’t necessarily doing something positive. Their situation was actually very difficult and they were involved in a lot of criminal things.

But for us, that was our world. That was our horizon. That was what we wanted to be.

After that, there wasn’t really anything like that in our city for a long time. So when I started making music, I thought: that’s what I want to do.

LK: You already touched on it a little bit, but how do you think growing up in Düsseldorf shaped you – musically, but also personally?

B: Good question. Düsseldorf is a very superficial city.

LK: For sure.

B: But where I come from, it wasn’t really like that. Still, you experience that duality.

When you get older and you’re a teenager, you start meeting people from other parts of the city. Then you realize that for some people it’s all about who has the best designer clothes, whose parents drive the nicest car, or who lives in the biggest house.

That was always very present. Of course, that influenced you. But at the same time, at home it was never about that. Never. Not with my friends either, from where I come from. So you had this duality, and I think it shaped you. It made you ambitious.

Maybe when you’re younger, sometimes for the wrong reasons – wanting money, wanting to show off, wanting to impress people. But you definitely knew that you had to do something. You had to achieve something special.

And that spirit is still there today. The only problem is that, in my opinion, people often do it for the wrong reasons. They do it to impress others. It’s important that somewhere along the way you change your perspective and understand what it’s really about, because that’s actually not the reason you should be doing it.

LK: Do you still live in Düsseldorf?

B: Yeah.

LK: And what would have to happen for you to move away?

B: A lot. I’m already very settled. But that’s mostly because of where my people are, where my friends are. My day-one homie, who I also work with, is there. My family is still there. So permanently moving away isn’t really an option for me. But I love travelling. I love being away for longer periods of time. Now that I have a child, though, it’s definitely time to settle down a bit.

LK: I get that. You’ve also done a lot of features and I assume you have a good friendship with Souly. What do you think are the things that make you similar?

B: I would say taste. Even though, from the outside, we are obviously different artistic personas. We actually work with the exact same producers, and that was intentional. It’s not because we don’t have other options. We’re both in the same management, but we could both work with whoever we wanted. We’ve been working with the same producers for years because I think we have a similar taste when it comes to picking beats and things like that.

So I would say our taste level is very similar. That’s also something I really appreciate about him. He has an incredible sense of taste, and everything he does fits him 100%. That’s what it’s about. That’s also the standard I have for myself. It’s not about everyone liking what I do. It’s about everything I make fitting me 100% and being completely uncompromising. I think that’s something we have in common: being uncompromising with our lives and our art.

LK: In your songs, you also refer a lot to the USA and you’ve taken a lot of sounds and elements from trap and translated them into your own style. Where does that connection come from? Why is that connection so strong for you?

B: That American influence is actually a difficult topic for me because, over time, I’ve tried to separate myself from it a bit. It was just so present in my life because I was such a huge hip-hop fan. I listened to rap all the time and really immersed myself in it. That started when I was around 14 or 15. So naturally, the influence was very big.

But it was always important to me to develop my own identity and understand that it’s not about copying people. Especially because that’s something that happens a lot and is very present in Germany – just taking the American sound.

At some point, it stopped being about being inspired by the American sound itself. It’s simply that there are artists from America who I love and who inspire me. But it’s not about adopting a personality that doesn’t fit me, pretending to be someone I’m not, copying how they act, or rapping about the same topics they rap about. It’s about taking the musical influences, the sounds, the phonetic elements, and then creating my own thing from that. Bringing in my own experiences and my own personality. That has always been and still is very important to me.

LK: That was actually one of my questions too: How do you manage to take these influences and use them without losing your own identity?

B: I think it’s just a process. In the beginning, it wasn’t like that. Back then, you did a lot of things and said a lot of things that were just nonsense. But when you listen to something constantly, all day, every day, it stays in your head. Then you write something and think, “Wow, this line is crazy,” but actually it’s just exactly what another artist said. It doesn’t fit your life at all or it’s not something you would actually do. At some point, it becomes about asking yourself: Who do you want to be? Who do you want to speak to? Especially because I’m someone who thinks a lot about purpose and my own purpose. What is my purpose?

What do I want to stand for? That’s really the main thing.

LK: Could you imagine making songs in English again at some point, or are you focused on German for now?

B: I can definitely imagine it, but my full focus is on Germany right now. I always feel like Germany hasn’t really found its own taste yet. And I include myself in that – I’m not excluding myself. I think the German audience still doesn’t have this strong awareness for art within society.

And I’m not talking about my own bubble or the people who listen to me. I mean the wider public. It’s about having an understanding of art.

If you look at France, the UK, or America, and this is not supposed to be Germany-bashing, there are just so many unique artists that people are trained to differentiate. Here, sometimes I feel like people can’t really distinguish things. For example, if someone has a similar look, or if one person uses Auto-Tune and another person uses Auto-Tune, people immediately think it’s the same thing.

Everything gets put into categories. There’s also this follower mentality: “Everyone likes this, so we all like this.” instead of people really forming their own opinions. And that only happens when artists actually develop their own identities. The more unique artists we have, the more variety there is. And the more variety there is, the more society learns to recognize and appreciate different things. Sometimes I feel like really complex and impressive art isn’t always fully appreciated or understood, even when it’s successful. But maybe that’s just my perspective because I take it very seriously.

LK: I know what you mean. But do you think this only applies to music and rap?

B: No, not at all. That’s exactly what I mean. It’s about art in general. Whether it’s fashion, for example. I feel like things are often just consumed. Let’s say you have a brand and your brand becomes overhyped. Whether you drop a tracksuit or whether you spend two years working on one piece with hundreds of details – in the end, people only care about whether it sells out or not. If the brand is hyped, people will buy it anyway. But it’s not about the consumer being able to say: “This is my taste, this is not my taste.”It’s just buying, buying, wearing, wearing – regardless of whether it actually fits the person. There isn’t always that deeper, more individual perspective.

LK: Yeah, that’s a good point. I think a lot of it probably comes from Instagram and TikTok too. Because when you see that 200,000 people like something, you automatically think it has to be good. You don’t really ask yourself anymore: “Do I actually like this, or do I just like it because everyone else likes it?” Is there something that is your dream or goal that you still want to achieve musically?

B: Dream or goal… I actually stopped using the word “dream” a long time ago.

LK: Really?

B: Yeah. If anything, I only have goals. I don’t really have dreams anymore. I think when you call something a dream, it immediately feels like something unrealistic or far away. For me, there is nothing that feels impossible – at least when it comes to myself. If I imagine something, I think: I can definitely achieve that. But at the end of the day, they are just words. I feel like the word “dream” always makes something sound like it’s very far away. Parents always talk about dreams, like: “Yeah, I had dreams too,” you know what I mean?That’s why I definitely have goals. But nowadays, I let most things happen naturally. I always give 100%, and for me it’s more about what I’m saying and making really high-quality music. That’s the most important thing. But one thing that is always in my head is that I want to play the Mitsubishi Electric Hall in Düsseldorf. That is definitely a goal of mine. But it’s also kind of the only one because it’s my childhood dream, going back to dreams.

LK: Now you said it…

B: True… But it’s a childhood dream that I haven’t let go of. But everything else is more like… I’m already living the dream people always talked about. Now it’s just about seeing how far we can still go.

LK: What would you say, apart from music, is your biggest achievement?

B: I think making my parents proud. Getting to the point where my parents can relax and trust me – that’s probably my biggest achievement. That was the biggest fight.

LK: What did they use to say?

B: No, they were always supportive, actually, but in their own way. It was never dramatic. They let me do my thing, but they always wanted me to do something else. I was studying and everything, so I think it’s the classic story. I didn’t want that, and that was always the conflict. It took some time until they truly trusted me. But I can understand that because it’s kind of their job as parents to guide me through life. So when I eventually realized, “They’re actually proud of me,” that was a really great achievement.And now I’m happy that I’m doing what I’m doing. I’m also happy that I didn’t listen to them, you know? That’s probably one of my biggest achievements. Apart from that, just standing on my own two feet. Having my own apartment, having an underground garage – things like that.Those things have more meaning than you might think.You kind of come from nothing, and then you’re suddenly in this speedrun, this tunnel, for years, always moving forward, and you never really stop to look back at what you’ve actually achieved.

LK: And last question: what’s coming up next for you? What’s planned?

B: My album, Godspeed.

LK: The last 30 percent.

B: The last 30 percent. That’s always the worst phase.The cortisol levels are extremely high. And then the tour in 2027. A lot of things are happening in 2027 that I can’t talk about yet. But this year there’s still a lot coming. And 2027 will probably bring just as much. The next year and a half are definitely going to be wild.

LK: Okay, looking forward to that! Thank you so much.

B: Thank you for your time!

INSIDE THE MACHINE: POL CHAMORRO ON BUILDING LÍO’S HALFTIME SHOW

Anna Klusmeier — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 10:10:42 +0000

Pol Chamorro joined Lío Ibiza in 2011 as a singer and dancer, on the show’s very first night. Sixteen years, several roles and one Mykonos outpost later, he now sits at the top of the creative structure as Artistic Director, steering Lío’s latest chapter: Halftime Show, a production that trades the language of classic cabaret for the scale and spectacle of major televised live events. Ahead of the season’s final stretch, Chamorro spoke about what’s changed at Lío since that first uncertain season, what he fought to keep in this year’s show, and how a screen in Mykonos ended up reshaping what happens on stage in Ibiza.

Antonia Maria Schmidt: You joined Lío in 2011 as a singer and dancer, on its very first day. What do you remember about that first season, and how much of that original spirit is still in the DNA of what you’re building now as Artistic Director?

Pol Chamorro: I remember arriving in Ibiza with a real sense of uncertainty. We all knew we were about to build a project from the ground up, and that kind of creative process always comes with a lot of unknowns.
I also remember being surrounded by incredibly talented people. Some of them I already knew, while others I had the chance to meet for the first time. Looking back, what stands out most is how genuinely we embraced everything that was happening around us. There was a genuine sense of excitement and discovery.
That first season, we were completely open to listening to the audience. We listened closely to their reactions and refined the show almost night after night, experimenting with songs, choreography, characters and different moments throughout the experience. Very naturally, those ideas evolved into what would eventually become the Lío concept.
Sixteen years later, Lío, the island itself and the audience that comes to experience it have all grown and evolved. Times have changed and so have expectations. Yet I truly believe the essence of Lío remains the same. Everything we create is still driven by one simple objective: to give our guests an unforgettable experience where entertainment and joy always come first.
Over the years, we’ve preserved everything that truly resonated with our audience while continually refining and elevating every element of the experience. That constant evolution, without losing sight of our original spirit, is what has shaped the Lío people know today.

AMS: You’ve moved through nearly every creative role at Lío over more than a decade: dancer, choreographer, dance captain, Co-Artistic Director, and now Artistic Director. How has that trajectory shaped the way you direct today?

PC: I’ve always believed that the best way to learn something is by doing it. Over the past sixteen years, I’ve had the opportunity to work across many different roles, which has given me a genuine understanding of how each department operates.
Having that perspective is an invaluable asset in the position I’m in today. Every creative idea is naturally filtered through a sense of reality. When I’m developing a concept, I’m not only thinking about what would be exciting or inspiring. I instinctively understand how it can be executed, what challenges it may involve, and whether it can realistically be brought to life.
I believe that balance between creativity and practicality is essential. Great ideas only become meaningful when they can be transformed into real experiences, and having worked across so many different areas has given me the tools to bridge that gap.

AMS: Halftime Show is described as a new creative chapter for Lío. What was the starting point for it, and what did you want to do differently from what came before?

PC: We feel very comfortable with the direction we’ve built over the years, and we had no intention of changing the essence of what we’ve created. However, with Halftime Show, we wanted to inject a fresh energy and a new dynamic into this season’s production.
Choosing a theme that is instantly recognisable around the world worked in our favour. Simply announcing that the new show would be called Halftime Show immediately captured people’s imagination and created certain expectations before guests even arrived.
The halftime show has become one of the most iconic references in contemporary live entertainment. It’s associated with spectacle, ambition, innovation and unforgettable performances. By drawing inspiration from that cultural phenomenon, we were able to connect with audiences from the very beginning while interpreting the concept through the creative language that defines Lío.

AMS: The concept draws on the energy of major global halftime spectacles. What does that reference point give you that a more traditional cabaret or dinner-show structure wouldn’t?

PC: I think the creative universe of Halftime Show has a very distinctive identity. It moves us away from a more traditional cabaret aesthetic and the conventions of a classic dinner show, establishing a visual language that feels bold, contemporary and instantly recognisable.
From the beginning, we deliberately moved away from more conceptual, intimate or theatrical pieces, focusing instead on ambitious, large-scale performances inspired by the energy and impact of the world’s biggest live events.
That vision is reflected throughout the show, from mashups of globally recognised artists to performances built around iconic visual references such as American football players, cheerleaders and even the mascot. These are universal images that audiences immediately understand, allowing us to create a shared visual language while reinterpreting them through Lío’s own creative identity.

AMS: Lío talks about dissolving the boundary between stage and audience, with the venue itself becoming part of the performance. How does that idea actually translate into staging and choreography for Halftime Show?

PC: Although Halftime Show is a large-scale production, we’ve always believed the most memorable experiences come from breaking away from the conventions of traditional live shows. One of the principles that has always defined Lío is our desire to break the fourth wall and blur the line between performers and the audience.
This season, we embraced that philosophy more than ever. We created moments that encouraged audience participation and introduced new technical elements, including live screen direction that allowed guests to become part of the show in real time. Moments such as the Kiss Cam, inviting guests onto the stage and other spontaneous interactions transformed spectators into participants.
At the same time, we stayed true to one of Lío’s defining characteristics: when our artists aren’t performing, they’re out in the room celebrating alongside the guests. That constant interaction dissolves the boundaries between stage and audience, turning the entire venue into one continuous celebration. Rather than simply watching the show, our guests become part of it, and that’s what makes the Lío experience so unique.

AMS: Gastronomy, performance and nightlife are meant to flow as one continuous experience at Lío, rather than separate moments. As Artistic Director, how do you choreograph that transition so it feels seamless rather than staged?

PC: In many ways, everyone involved in creating the Lío experience works towards the same goal. We aren’t building separate departments, we’re creating one seamless experience.
Every team plays a role in making the night flow naturally. Without even realising it, guests move effortlessly between different moments: the show unfolds, dinner is served, desserts arrive, and every operational element is woven into the rhythm of the performance. Entertainment and hospitality are never treated as separate experiences. They exist as one.
Achieving that level of fluidity requires an extraordinary amount of coordination behind the scenes. Over the years, we’ve developed our own creative processes to make everything feel effortless. Of course, some of those remain part of the secret behind what makes Lío unique, but every artistic, technical and operational decision is made with the same goal in mind: creating a magical experience where guests never see the mechanics, only the emotion.

AMS: You trained as a competitive ballroom dancer before television and theatre. Is there anything from that early discipline, the precision, the structure, that still shows up in how you build a number today?

PC: I’ve always believed we’re the sum of everything we’ve experienced and learned. I feel incredibly fortunate to have worked on so many different projects throughout my career and, above all, to have shared that journey with exceptionally talented people who have taught me so much.
Every collaboration and every challenge has shaped the way I think about creative direction today. When I begin developing a new show, I’m never starting from a blank page. I’m drawing on years of experiences, lessons and inspirations gathered along the way.
Every project has left something behind, and every person I’ve worked with has influenced my perspective in one way or another. That’s what allows creativity to keep evolving, not by repeating the past, but by building on everything you’ve learned to create something new.

AMS: Lío positions itself as a queer cultural experience and a platform for contemporary expression, beyond a nightlife venue. How consciously do you carry that positioning into the creative choices you make?

PC: That’s absolutely true. As you mentioned, I see Lío as a contemporary creative platform, a space where artists are free to express themselves without being confined by traditional formats or expectations.
I’ve always believed that art should challenge boundaries rather than accept them. It should explore new ideas, blur conventions and constantly evolve. That mindset sits at the heart of every new show we create.
At the same time, we never lose sight of who we are and where we come from. Lío is a Spanish company born in Ibiza, a place unlike any other. Ibiza has always represented freedom, self-expression and the idea that people can simply be themselves without judgement. That spirit is deeply embedded in the island’s identity, and it’s something we consciously try to capture in our productions.
Every show we create is an opportunity to celebrate that philosophy. We want audiences to feel a sense of freedom, openness and possibility, to experience a world where creativity has no limits and everyone is invited to embrace the moment exactly as they are. That’s not just part of our artistic vision, it’s part of Lío’s DNA.

AMS: What is the one moment in Halftime Show you’re most proud of, something an audience might not clock as a creative decision but that you fought for?

PC: I’d really like to highlight Mar Canadell’s performance, as it represents a very special moment within the show. It comes during the final part of the evening, which naturally has both advantages and challenges. By that point, the audience has experienced an entire night of building energy, emotion and celebration. At the same time, that atmosphere can sometimes make it harder to fully appreciate the technical complexity and discipline behind what they’re seeing.
Mar took the initiative to incorporate a musical instrument into her performance and dedicated many months to developing that new skill. Finding an artist willing to step outside her comfort zone, commit so deeply to the creative process and build a performance with its own identity, embracing a discipline beyond her usual language of dance, is something truly remarkable.
The audience may not always realise how much work sits behind that moment, but from an artistic perspective it represents immense value. It reflects the curiosity, commitment and desire to evolve that we always look for in the artists who are part of Lío.

AMS: Looking at Ibiza in 2026, what do you think the island’s audience wants from a night out that it didn’t want five or ten years ago, and how has that shaped this show?

PC: Ibiza is attracting a younger audience with a stronger connection to nightlife and club culture, and that has had a significant influence on this year’s show.
From the beginning of the creative process, we wanted the energy to remain consistently high from start to finish. That was reflected in the dance styles we incorporated, but even more so in the musical direction and production.
We focused on creating a sound that feels current, vibrant and connected to today’s audience, developing musical arrangements that embrace the energy of club culture while maintaining the identity of Lío. The goal was to create a show that feels contemporary, festive and immersive, bringing the intensity and emotion of nightlife into a large-scale performance environment.

AMS: You’ve also led shows for Lío in Mykonos. How does directing for that audience and setting differ from Ibiza, and does Halftime Show translate there, or does it need to be reimagined?

PC: Ibiza and Mykonos have a lot in common, but they’re ultimately very different destinations, and that’s something we have to acknowledge when creating or adapting our shows for each location.
With Halftime Show and its adaptation for Mykonos, one element works particularly in our favour: the venue itself. Mykonos has a huge screen as its scenic backdrop, and because Halftime Show was conceived using the language of television production, with extensive live direction and real-time screen content, it connects perfectly with the space.
This allows the show to evolve naturally for Mykonos, using the venue’s technology and visual possibilities to enhance the concept even further. The screen becomes much more than a backdrop. It becomes an active part of the storytelling, helping us create a more dynamic, immersive and contemporary experience while preserving the essence of the original production.

AMS: Is there anything from Mykonos, a detail, a reaction, an idea, that has fed back into what you’re doing in Ibiza this season?

PC: Following on from the previous question, I think Lío Mykonos has changed the way we think about using screens as part of the creative experience.
Imagining, designing and developing the visuals, while exploring the relationship between the screen and the audience in Mykonos, has given me a new perspective on how technology can enhance storytelling and audience engagement.
That experience has also helped us rethink how we use the banners and screens in Ibiza. It’s opened up new creative possibilities and allowed us to see these elements as an active part of the show rather than simply visual support.

WEEKEND MUSIC TIP PT 103 CHARLIZE

Anna Klusmeier — Fri, 31 Jul 2026 12:41:21 +0000

It takes a good amount of self-reflection and emotional intelligence to recognize your own toxic habits – and even more courage to publicly sing about them. Charlize has both. The Hamburg-born rapper reflects with brutal honesty on insecurities, toxic relationships, and nights that might have lasted a little longer than they should have. A dreamy, ethereal voice floats over a broad range of trap beats, making it almost feel as though Charlize has opened up a new genre within Germany’s hip-hop scene. Listening to her doesn`t get boring, not last because she switches effortlessly between German, Italian, Spanish, and English in her songs.

After her first summer of touring, we can expect an album this winter centered on transformation, inspired by the mythical white swan/black swan metamorphosis.

Leonie Kampen: Could you tell us how you got into music in the first place? What were the beginnings for you?

Charlize: I think, like with many artists, it started in childhood. You kind of “therapize” your parents by constantly making music and singing. For me, it started really, really early. I think Pussycat Dolls was my first CD, and I would always sing along to it. Then I moved out relatively early, and the apartment I lived in had a piano. That’s where I wrote my first songs. I was around 16, and that was definitely when I started writing my own music.

I also started recording around that time. Through friends, it kind of happened that a lot of people around me were a little older and already had studios or parents with studios. I spent a lot of time there, and that’s basically how it all started. It was a long time ago – about ten years now.

LK: Wow, okay. And during that journey, were there moments when you wanted to give up or wondered if this was really the right thing for you?

C: In the beginning, I didn’t really set myself a big goal. I just did it because I enjoyed it, because it fulfilled me. Honestly, I don’t think I would have survived otherwise. I need to make music. Even if I had no goal and couldn’t make money from it, I would still do it.

So I never really thought about stopping. Of course, it’s different when you enter the industry. There are definitely moments where you think, “What the fuck is all of this?” But I haven’t really had a moment where I wanted to quit.

LK: So it’s also an emotional outlet for you?

C: Definitely. I think that’s the case for a lot of people. But I listen to music all the time – I can’t really live without it. I also listen to a lot of my own music. It kind of works as therapy for me.

LK: Did you ever have a Plan B? Do you know what you would be doing if you weren’t making music?

C: I was making music, but not seriously at first. Then I was in a clinic, and my roommate there – who is now a good friend of mine – introduced me to Thomas. At that time, I was doing my speech therapy training.

If I hadn’t met her, I honestly don’t know if I would be signed today or if any of this would have happened. It wasn’t really my huge goal at the time. Of course, I always wanted to be a superstar – I think everyone imagines that somehow. But it wasn’t like I had been hustling towards it intensely for years. A few things happened where I just thought, “I’ll see where this goes.”

LK: So you trained as a speech therapist?

C: Yes.

LK: Your last project, Indecisive Shawty, came out about a year ago. Would you say you’re still indecisive, or has that changed?

C: No, I’m still indecisive. Very much so.

LK: Can we already expect something new? Is there another album coming this year?

C: Yes, I’ve been working on my album, and it’s almost finished. I call Indecisive Shawty more of a mixtape because it’s a collection of everything I was making at that time.

The album that’s coming now is a real album. Everything fits together thematically, and there’s a clear storyline. It’s coming out in winter.

LK: Can you already tell us something about it? What kind of topics will it explore?

C: I already touched on having a toxic side on my first EP. I definitely don’t have a problem sharing that in my music. The album is very much about recognizing your toxic traits, realizing that they are toxic traits, trying to let them go, and growing from that.

For example, my next release, which comes out on August 6th, is called Blair Waldorf. Have you watched Gossip Girl?

LK: Of course.

C: It’s about this moment where you like someone and you just want that person to like you back. But you become obsessed and toxic. Even when you reflect on it, you think, “Why do I actually need another person to like me so badly?” It’s not really healthy. You should be comfortable with yourself and with the people who like you.

For me, it often ends up being about guys, but that’s basically the idea. It’s the beginning of the album: scandalous nights, excess, and then realizing, “Okay, something is a little wrong here.” Then it becomes about understanding what you actually want from life and what really matters.

LK: So it’s about processing and reflecting?

C: Definitely. And it also tells a story. Not every song is necessarily my own story. I’m telling the story of a swan. It starts as a white swan – white representing toxicity, because drugs are white, and many things that are toxic are associated with white. I also think white can be a color that blinds you.

The swan develops into a black swan that embraces everything that makes it who it is. That’s why all the colors eventually become black

LK: Beautiful. Do you already know what the album will be called?

C: Yes – or actually, not officially. The working title is Black Swan Breakthrough, but I might still change it.

LK: You describe your music as “conscious trap.” Are these the kinds of themes you want to explore, and what kind of awareness do you want to create through your music?

C: I’m always unsure about the term “conscious trap.” I just said it at some point. But yes, in a way it is conscious trap because it reflects on deeper topics while still being on trap beats, so you don’t always immediately realize that it’s deep.

For me, the most important thing is just being honest. I don’t want to flex with something that isn’t mine or create something that doesn’t represent me or something I haven’t experienced – whether it’s my own experience or something from people around me. It has to be honest.

I think you can hear that. The highest thing you can achieve with music is making people feel something. You notice it when you show people songs where you really put your emotions into them – they listen differently. It’s a different frequency.

That’s why I always make sure that what I put out isn’t dishonest. Of course, sometimes I accidentally make songs that aren’t like that, but those are usually the ones that don’t get released.

LK: Your lyrics are definitely very honest, and maybe that’s why they connect with so many people. Are you ever afraid of showing that side of yourself and making yourself vulnerable publicly?

C: Yes, definitely. For example, Therapierraum 3 – if you know that song – I was in a relationship when it came out. It’s obviously a little crazy when your partner knows that you’re a very honest person and that you wouldn’t say things from a perspective that isn’t true.

It’s also difficult when you talk about family or personal things. On this album, there are still some topics I haven’t been brave enough to release yet. Songs that are very, very honest about things that happened.

So yes, there is fear. But you have to try to separate yourself from that. Especially when the songs are good, it’s ultimately not that deep. I just try to tell myself that you have to do it. You have to share it – maybe because it helps someone else.

I think it’s important to stand behind what you do. So yes, the fear is there, but I do it anyway.

LK: You also switch between German, English, and Spanish in your lyrics. How do you decide which language to use? Is it connected to certain emotions?

C: I pay a lot of attention to phonetics. In German, there are often things you can’t express as beautifully phonetically, so I’ll say them in another language.

And there’s also research showing that people have different personalities in different languages. I think that’s true. When I speak German, I’m not as soft as when I speak Spanish or Italian.

So sometimes it’s probably subconscious – there are things I say in another language because they fit better. And honestly, sometimes it’s also because saying something in German feels a bit cringe.

LK: What kind of music do you listen to yourself? What’s your current go-to song?

C: I actually listen to a lot of my own music, especially when I’m working on an album. People around me are always like, “What the fuck, you only listen to your own music?” But when I’m working on something, I want to keep developing it.

I’m listening to a lot of ’80s music right now, but I’m also very inspired by the trap world, like Travis Scott or Lady Gaga. She especially inspired me a lot back then, also with using Auto-Tune.

Right now, because I’m on vacation, I’m listening to a lot of Latin music. I have two songs I play constantly at the moment – but it always changes for me. I really listen to everything: every era, every genre.

LK: If you could meet your 18-year-old self today, what advice would you give her?

C: I would tell her that everything that won’t matter in two years also doesn’t matter now. When you have moments where you don’t know what to do or where you feel stuck, you just have to get through that moment and keep going. Usually, it’s not as deep as it feels.

And I would tell her not to overthink so much. I would also tell my current self that. It doesn’t really help. You just have to try to stay present – even though that doesn’t always work.

LK: Is there a dream or goal you still want to achieve?

C: I want to reach the point where I can say I’m truly happy with what I’m doing. Of course, in terms of size and my musical reach, I definitely want to grow much more and reach many more people.

I think the moment where you can say, “I lowkey made it,” where you stand there and think, “Wow, this is really what I imagined as a little girl” – that’s the moment I’m working towards.

LK: I always see these artist “I made it” moments on TikTok. Would you say you haven’t had yours yet?

C: No, not at all. Sometimes you have moments where you think, “Wow, this is everything I wished for.” But I haven’t had that one big “I made it” moment yet.

I don’t even know if you ever really have one when you’re a little crazy and keep pushing yourself. But I think I’m still waiting for that moment.

SEXY ISSUE VOL A – BRAD ELTERMAN

Anna Klusmeier — Tue, 28 Jul 2026 08:00:00 +0000

WORDS AND INTERVIEW BY HENDRIK LAKEBERG

PHOTOGRAPHY Brad Elterman STYLING Tabitha Sanchez GROOMING & MAKE UP Mitzi Spallas PHOTOGRAPHY ASSISTANT @johnny_le EDITOR IN CHIEF & ARTISTIC DIRECTION Götz Offergeld ART DIRECTION Mirko Borsche

WORDS AND INTERVIEW BY HENDRIK LAKEBERG

PHOTOGRAPHY Brad Elterman STYLING Tabitha Sanchez GROOMING & MAKE UP Mitzi Spallas PHOTOGRAPHY ASSISTANT @johnny_le EDITOR IN CHIEF & ARTISTIC DIRECTION Götz Offergeld ART DIRECTION Mirko Borsche

There are artists who belong to an era — and artists who somehow survive several of
them: Billy Idol emerged from the wreckage of seventies England, when punk was less a
style than a reaction to a deep economic recession, social apathy, and political crisis.
Long before he became one of MTV’s defining faces, he was part of London’s original
punk underground: a scene shaped by economic crisis, youth frustration, radical self-
invention and figures like Malcolm McLaren, who understood earlier than most that pop
culture itself could become theater, provocation and strategy. But Billy Idol was never a
purist. Where many punk contemporaries rejected image, he embraced it. Where others
feared pop, he understood its power. Across the decades, he continuously mutated:
from London punk outsider and frontman of the iconically named band Generation X to
global rock icon, from leather-clad MTV antihero to the futuristic digital dreamscape of
Cyberpunk — an album once dismissed as excessive but, which, in retrospect, feels
strangely prophetic in an age of online identities, curated selves and algorithmic culture.
His latest album, Dream Into It, released in 2025, feels less like a comeback than a
reflection. Structured almost autobiographically, the record revisits the chaos and
seduction of punk, the excesses of fame, addiction, survival, reinvention and rebirth —
while still remaining strangely future-facing. Collaborations with younger artists like Avril
Lavigne underline something that has always separated Idol from many of his
contemporaries: an instinct to move with the times but staying true to a core idea: a
playful disruption of the status quo. Now more than four decades after punk first
announced “no future,” Billy Idol remains culturally legible in a way that many of his
peers do not. Perhaps because his career was never really about nostalgia. It was about self-invention: how rebellion changes shape across generations, technologies and
culture. In conversation with Numéro Berlin, Billy Idol reflects on coolness, charisma,
masculinity, digital identity, punk as liberation, and why the future he imagined in the
nineties no longer feels fictional at all.

Hendrik Lakeberg: Before punk became a style or a music scene, what did it mean to you personally? Was it rebellion, freedom, performance, escape — or something else entirely?

Billy Idol: All of those things. England was in a certain place where the economy had fallen apart completely. There were constant strikes and people protesting. As kids, we were told there was really no future for us. For us, it was liberating, in a way. It was being forced into doing what we truly wanted to do with our lives because there was no other option. But that was great because you really had to do what you loved, and in my case it was music. We were really doing it just for the sheer love of it. We didn’t think it was gonna go mega or anything like that. We were just trying to do something we found exciting for the few other people who are into it.

HL: Back in the early punk days, what made someone truly cool to you? Was it style, attitude, unpredictability, intelligence — or simply the feeling that they refused to belong? Do you think coolness still comes from resistance today, or has it become something else?

BI: David Bowie, Lou Reed, John Lennon or Iggy were telling you “find out who you are and be it.” We were looking for people who went out on a limb and tried something that wasn’t necessarily commercial. We were looking for substance more than commerciality. Funny enough, now you will hear some of this music in adverts, but at the time, if I played you Iggy’s Raw Power in my dorm room at University, people couldn’t understand why you were listening to that “terrible sound.” We liked putting people off, in a way, not doing something that was trying to placate people or pander at all. What’s cooler than that?

HL: In earlier eras, rock stars often performed invincibility. Today, self-awareness and vulnerability seem much more culturally present. Has getting older changed the way you think about masculinity, confidence, or performance?

BI: When I was in Generation X, we were doing punk rock music, and while it was relatively diverse for the genre, it was mostly short, succinct songs. Our records became more eclectic as we moved forward, even though they were still punk rock records. Then, later in my own career, musically I did start to go all over the map because that’s what I’d grown up with as a fan – artists who didn’t just stick to one style of music. So once I started my solo career, I started to do music that reflected what I personally liked – rock music, dance music, ballads – and that led to my performance style gradually changing. I also started to put sex into my music, and I deliberately developed my image with that aspect because I wasn’t seeing that in many other groups in the 70s. The 80s became all about sex, and that’s what I was already doing. So over time, my performance did change because the music I made was changing, and you could hopefully feel confidence but also vulnerability in what I was doing.

HL: In the seventies, rebellion happened physically: clubs, scenes, nightlife, people in rooms together. Today, identity is often constructed online. Is that a loss for culture?

BI: In the 70s and 80s, you had to be there. You had to be there in person or see the little grainy black and white pictures in the English magazines that came out weekly. Today, you can participate at arm’s length and still feel that you’re part of it, but back then, a big factor was knowing what was going on by going out and finding it. You had to be cool enough to seek things out and experience them for yourself.

HL: When you made Cyberpunk, digital identity still felt speculative and futuristic. Now people curate versions of themselves constantly online, and AI is beginning to shape creativity itself. Does this moment feel like the future you imagined — or something stranger?

BI: Many of the things that I was thinking about on Cyberpunk have come true. It was really a science fact album, not a science fiction album. The internet was already going, it was called the World Wide Web, and there was already a dark side to the internet at the time, as there is now. Prior to making Cyberpunk, I think I thought I would be dead by the time many of the things going on today materialized, but once I started making the record, I realized much of this stuff is going to happen in my lifetime. And it has.

It was all purely for the love. Maybe that comes through to the audience and inspires them as much as it has inspired me all these years.

HL: Your recent collaboration with Avril Lavigne connected two very different generations of punk and pop culture. What still feels shared between those generations — and what has completely changed?

BI: There are touchstones in punk rock music that reach across the generations, across that divide. I think that’s what Avril and I can see in each other. We’re turned on by the same things, whether it be sounds, clothes or attitudes. I think aspects of what’s going on today in America are very similar to what was happening in England in the 70s. On the song “77” I did with Avril, I’m singing about what I remembered and she’s singing about today, but we’re both identifying a similar polarization in society that unfortunately still remains.