mixmagMMW SPECIAL EDITION
“The moment it changed for me happened at Griessmuehle. The booth in the big room was basi- cally a construction made from wooden pallets, almost on floor level. I remember being extremely nervous because most people in the room were not strangers but friends and other artists. What stayed with me wasn’t the size of the crowd but the feeling that the room reacted to my deci- sions in real time. If I raised the tension, they stayed. If I released it, they moved differently. For the first time I understood that DJing wasn’t only participation anymo- re. My choices could hold a space together, let it fall apart or let it go absolutely feral.”
The weight grew gradually as his profile expanded. What had once been a communal expe- riment began to professionali- se at speed. Visibility became measurable,
income became
central, and comparison became constant. The same spaces that had felt like laboratories started operating within broader eco- nomic frameworks. Tham does not frame this as corruption, but as transformation. The shift from culture to industry changes the emotional temperature of participation.
He identifies the most profound shift not in the sound, but in the intention with which people arrive at a dancefloor. Earlier nights functioned as open systems. You entered without fully knowing what you would encounter, and that uncertainty was part of the attraction. The DJ guided but did not dominate. The room discovered itself in real time.
“When I was going out, I usually didn’t really know what to ex- pect. I would only roughly check the line-up or timetable, so I would give myself the chance to experience something unexpec- ted. It was supposed to feel like an adventure, a little journey without a bigger plan. I remember see- ing this gang of sporty dressed people dancing in the front left of the main floor. Instead of looking at me, they formed more of a cir-
cle and danced with each other with a big smile. That actually gave me goosebumps seeing people happily raving with each other while I played the sound- track.”
Today, in many contexts, the dancefloor feels preconfigured. People arrive knowing the time- table, the headline act, and the energy they expect. Attention converges toward the booth, and reaction travels vertically rather than circulating among dancers. Tham remembers playing Tieso’s
“Traffic”and watching a group of shaved-head ravers form a cir- cle facing each other instead of the DJ. Their intensity belonged to the circle, not the stage. That memory
because it represents a dan- cefloor
remains instructive generating its own
electricity.
This distinction shapes how he approaches his sets now. In rooms that feel social, he allows grooves to unfold gradually, trusting the crowd’s patience and curiosity. He stretches transitions, layers textures, and resists the impul- se to accelerate prematurely. In more event-oriented contexts, pacing tends to compress almost automatically. The pressure to deliver impact sooner is embed- ded in the environment.
He resists simplistic labels like underground
and commer-
cial. The same venue can feel radically different depending on its curation and audience. RSO during one event may opera- te as a communal experiment; during another, it can feel like a high-production showcase. Size is not the decisive factor. One of the most underground atmos- pheres he experienced occurred at Khidi in Tbilisi, beneath a brid- ge in a cavernous concrete room filled with thousands of dancers during a 12-hour closing set that erased temporal boundaries.
Duration changes behaviour. When time stretches, urgency dissolves. People stop checking their phones and surrender to repetition. When programming
tightens and sets shorten, in- tensity fragments into digestible segments. In that fragmentation, something subtle shifts from im- mersion toward consumption.
Parallel to these spatial and tem- poral changes is the transfor- mation of the artist’s role itself. Being Tham in 2026 requires navigating an ecosystem where presence is quantified and per- sonality is packaged. The res- ponsibilities extend far beyond track selection. Filming, editing, speaking to camera, maintai- ning algorithmic relevance have become integrated into the job description.
“There is a growing tension for me in music between being a DJ and being a content creator. Over the past year, I’ve realised that being an artist now means lear- ning a whole new set of skills. I’ve had to film and edit videos, work on photos and think about how I present myself. Social media keeps getting more important. Okay, you are a good DJ, but now you also need to brand yourself and stay ‘true’ and ‘underground’ at the same time. It’s exhausting.”
Tham speaks about the tension between being a DJ and being a content creator without cynicism but with honesty. Social media operates as one of the primary growth engines in contemporary electronic music. He understands this intellectually. Emotionally, it generates pressure. There are periods when he retreats delibe- rately into the studio, avoiding posting for days at a time as a way of recalibrating his priorities.
The presence of cameras inside the booth introduces a second audience. There is the room in front of him, reacting in real time, and the imagined viewer who will encounter the set later through a screen. He insists that his track selection remains grounded in the floor’s response, yet bodily awareness inevitably shifts. You stand differently when you know you are being filmed. You become conscious of your posture, your gestures, your visibility.
012
Page 1 |
Page 2 |
Page 3 |
Page 4 |
Page 5 |
Page 6 |
Page 7 |
Page 8 |
Page 9 |
Page 10 |
Page 11 |
Page 12 |
Page 13 |
Page 14 |
Page 15 |
Page 16 |
Page 17 |
Page 18 |
Page 19 |
Page 20 |
Page 21 |
Page 22 |
Page 23 |
Page 24 |
Page 25 |
Page 26 |
Page 27 |
Page 28 |
Page 29 |
Page 30 |
Page 31 |
Page 32 |
Page 33 |
Page 34 |
Page 35 |
Page 36 |
Page 37 |
Page 38 |
Page 39 |
Page 40 |
Page 41 |
Page 42 |
Page 43 |
Page 44 |
Page 45 |
Page 46 |
Page 47 |
Page 48
