You've travelled from Australia to build your career in Europe. How has that journey shaped your sound, and what have you discovered about the different dance music cultures along the way?
It's reshaped everything, honestly. Australian club culture gave me my foundation — that sense of freedom and community on the dancefloor. But European audiences listen differently; there's a depth of house music history here that sharpens you as an artist. I've found that the emotional language of the dancefloor translates everywhere, even when the cultural details differ. That universality is something I've come to really value.
You've spoken about house music as a force that connects people. What is it about house that creates such a powerful sense of unity on the dancefloor?
There's something about the repetition and the groove — it pulls people into the same rhythm, literally and emotionally. House music doesn't ask you to perform or impress anyone; it just asks you to move and connect. That simplicity is what dissolves the barriers between strangers and turns a room full of individuals into something collective.
The dancefloor has long been a sanctuary for LGBTQ+ communities. What responsibility, if any, do DJs have in protecting and nurturing those spaces today?
A real one. The dancefloor has always been one of the few places where queer people could exist completely freely, and that's not something to take for granted — especially now. As a DJ, I see it as my job to protect that energy: to read the room, hold space, and make sure the set itself reflects safety, freedom, and joy rather than just entertainment.
Your sets often feel like they're telling a story rather than simply playing tracks. How do you approach creating an emotional journey for your audience?
I think about a set the way you'd think about a narrative arc — tension, build, release, reflection. I'm reading the crowd constantly and adjusting in real time, but I always
want there to be a sense of movement, not just a string of good tracks. The three-deck mashups help with that — they let me create transitions and emotional
shifts that feel unexpected but intentional whilst providing that future nostalgic feeling that takes people back to a time that they fondly remember.
Many people describe dancing as a spiritual or healing experience. Have you ever witnessed a moment behind the decks that reminded you just how transformative music
can be?
Many times, but there's always a specific kind of moment — where you look out and see someone completely lost in the music, eyes closed, hands-in-the-air, just
present. You can feel when a track has reached past the surface and touched something real in people. Those are the moments that remind you why this work
matters and its not just pushing buttons and turning knobs!
House music was born from Black, queer, and underground communities. How important is it for today's artists to honour those roots while continuing to evolve the genre?
I think it’s essential. House music exists because of those communities, and that history isn't a footnote — it's the foundation of everything the genre has become. As artists evolve the sound, I think it's important to stay conscious of where it came from and who created the culture we get to be part of, rather than treating it as
something disconnected from its origins.
As an Australian living and performing across Europe and the UK, what differences have you noticed in club culture, and what lessons do you think each scene could learn from the other?
The geography really does shape the culture. In Europe and the UK, you've got Ibiza, Amsterdam, and decades of house music history right on your doorstep — labels like Defected and Glitterbox have built entire movements around that proximity, and audiences have grown up immersed in it. There's a real appetite for discovery; people come out wanting to hear something new.
Australia's distance from that ecosystem creates a different relationship with the music. Commercial radio plays a bigger role in shaping what people want to hear on a night out, so there's often a preference for familiarity over exploration. I understand why — without that constant exposure to the wider house scene, it's harder to build the same culture of discovery.
If anything, I'd love to see more of that European appetite for new sounds find its way into Australian clubs — there's so much incredible music being made that deserves a wider audience there too.
The electronic music world is changing rapidly with social media, streaming, and AI. What do you believe will always remain irreplaceable about the shared experience of a live dancefloor?
The physical, collective presence of it. No algorithm or screen can replicate the feeling of being in a room where everyone's nervous system is synced to the same rhythm. That shared, embodied experience is something technology can amplify but never actually recreate.
Pride celebrations are often filled with music, joy, and community. What does Pride mean to you personally, and how does that influence the energy you bring to your performances?
Pride is about visibility and unapologetic joy — being fully yourself without needing to explain it. But what I think about just as much is belonging, and making sure that
belonging extends to everyone in the room, including our allies. The dancefloor works best when it doesn't feel like a space you have to qualify for — when straight friends, family, and allies who show up to celebrate with us feel just as woven into he energy as anyone else. That's something I try to carry into every Pride set. It's not about creating an
exclusive moment; it's about creating a genuinely inclusive one, where the joy and freedom we as a community have always found on the dancefloor is something everyone in the room gets to feel part of. That's when Pride is at its most powerful — when belonging isn't conditional, it's just the atmosphere of the whole night.
If someone stepped onto one of your dancefloors carrying the weight of the world, what would you hope they felt by the time your final track faded out?
Held, even if just for those hours. I'd want them to leave feeling like they'd been part of something, like whatever they walked in carrying had space to loosen its grip,
even briefly. That's the quiet power of a good night — it doesn't fix anything, but it reminds you that release and connection are still possible.
Finally, what's next for DJ Du Jour? Are there any upcoming releases, collaborations, or performances you'd like the g10 Group audience to know about?
There's new music on the way, building on the direction I set with "You See Me," along with a growing run of performances across Europe this season. I'm especially
focused on continuing to show up in queer and Pride spaces — those rooms mean the most to me, and that's where I want to keep deepening my presence.