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That same refusal to impose structure extends into his re- lationship with genre. Rather than functioning as a boundary, it becomes a set of tools, inter- changeable and fluid depending on context. The resistance is not ideological, but practical. Fixing the sound too tightly would li- mit the ability to respond to the room.
“I don’t think about it too much. To me, music is universal and shouldn’t have borders, so I feel just as at home playing techno as I do with house or anything in between and surrounding. It’s all about what the room needs. There’s definitely pressure to fit into a box because it’s easier to market, but I’d rather be hard to categorize than lose my free- dom. I think sticking to your guns pays off in the long run anyway, and thankfully, being genre-fluid is becoming much more normal these days.”
With BUTO BAYANG, that open- ness takes on a more defined cultural dimension. The project operates as both a platform and a network, addressing a gap that exists not in talent but in visibili- ty and connection. The intention is not to centralize attention, but to redistribute it, creating con- ditions where collaboration can emerge organically.
“There are so many Asian artists, but the visibility and connection between them, especially around the world, is still limited. We didn’t want to create just another co- llective that mainly shines a light on itself. The idea was more to build something collaborative. An actual network, a node, where ar- tists can connect, support each other, and create something to- gether. Balancing personal moti- vation and cultural responsibility is something we’re still figuring out. It’s important not to become too heavy or preachy. The project should still feel alive and creative. We believe that if you build so- mething authentic and real, the statement makes itself.”
That approach to identity re- mains deliberately understated. Representation is not framed as a message to deliver, but as so- mething that exists through pre- sence, through the accumulation of choices, collaborations, and references that carry meaning without needing to declare it ex- plicitly.
“I don’t sit down thinking ‘this needs to represent something.’ It happens more indirectly through who I work with, through what inspires me, or my personal life. I think subtlety is important. Peo- ple can feel things even if they don’t fully understand them inte- llectually. Music should still work without explanation. Represen- tation for me is more about pre- sence than explanation. Just be- ing there, collaborating, releasing, that already says something.”
Within that framework, playful- ness becomes a structural ele- ment rather than an aesthetic detail. It disrupts rigidity, preven- ting the music from becoming overly controlled or self-cons- cious. The tone remains open, allowing for shifts in energy that feel instinctive rather than cal- culated.
“I think it’s just how I approach things. I wanna have fun, stay naive, and not take things so seriously. I think it’s important because club music can beco- me very rigid or self-important. A child like gaiety breaks that. Dance music doesn’t need to be overthought. It’s about the raw feeling.
If I’m making ambient
music or otherwise, it’s more per- sonal and ‘deep’, but for the club, I just go with my gut. I don’t want to overanalyze what I’m doing and just want to feel it.”
What has changed most in re- cent years is not the instinct it- self, but the willingness to follow it outward. Visibility no longer carries the same weight of he- sitation. It becomes part of the process, something to navigate rather than avoid, even as the surrounding structures demand new forms of engagement.
“It’s moved from a feeling of he- sitation to a feeling of purpose. That said, keeping up with so- cial media culture is definitely a struggle. It’s hard when you’re ex- pected to be a promoter, content creator, and a manager on top of being an artist. I try to go with the flow of it without losing myself in the process. I don’t want to force a digital version of myself that isn’t real. If I can keep the joy in it and the music, that’s what mat- ters most. I try not to get caught up in expectations or external validation and focus on keeping that sense of fun and naivety. As long as it feels honest to me, everything else is secondary.”
What remains constant is the orientation. Not toward con- trol, not toward definition, but toward maintaining contact with the conditions that first made the work feel real. The instinct is still there, still leading, even as everything around it continues to expand.
“I never saw music as something distant or ‘professional.’ It didn’t feel like this unreachable thing, but normal. Something you live with.”
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