It was a quiet Sunday morning at home. I flicked on the TV, searched Kerrang! with the Sky remote and suddenly… There she was. A woman’s head submerged in a fish tank with tiny orange fish drifting around her. At only ten years old, I didn’t understand the meaning behind that song – and that was definitely for the best – but that image caught my attention. It was unique, unusual and strangely beautiful. That single shot changed my artistic instinct to pause, look closer, to wonder why a director chose that visual, that symbol, that moment. It was the beginning of a curiosity that would quietly shape the way I saw art for years to come. And still does now. I didn’t have the language for it then, but I’d started becoming fascinated by music that felt bigger than the song itself – where the visuals, storytelling and sound all seemed to belong to the same world. Years later, I’d realise that instinct was pulling me towards concept albums.

Me with my family at The O2 for Status Quo. Music has always been a big part of our lives and something we’ve shared together.

It wasn’t long before I found myself falling headfirst into Green Day’s American Idiot. It was the first rock album I remember experiencing as a complete world – one with characters, a storyline and political themes – rather than just a collection of nice songs. Or… so I thought! I began paying closer attention to the music my dad was playing in the car. Suddenly, I started to recognise the patterns between Queen’s songs. A Night at the Opera was more than the song “Bohemian Rhapsody”; it was an audio-visual, British-humour soundscape of a rendezvous at the theatre or the seaside. Iron Maiden relentlessly channelled political commentary through myth, battle scenes and epic tales of violent oppressors. “Run to the Hills” was written by Steve Harris with intent to draw attention towards the violence and brutality inflicted on Native Americans through colonialism. And then I discovered The Black Parade. My music taste had formed.

So, it was hardly a surprise when I approached my mum in HMV and handed her System of a Down’s Mezmerize. Grateful she didn’t check the title names in the track list, she bought the album for me. Mezmerize might not explicitly be a concept album, but it is part of a conceptual project alongside another album called Hypnotize. Eager to hear how they compared, I clicked download on Limewire – and I’m pretty sure in the process I infected my family computer with a tonne of pop-up ad viruses. I did go back to HMV to buy the second CD in the end, but not before I discovered their album Steal This Album!. I was thrown into a political world of media manipulation, satirical commentary and surrealism. The irony that I had illegally downloaded an album designed to criticise illegal downloads was certainly not lost on me.

Me with my mum and sister on our way to see Green Day at Hyde Park back in 2017.

That was when the era of my CD collection began. Friday night pocket money and HMV’s 3‑for‑£10 deal – pure heaven for an undiagnosed neurodivergent kid. I picked out my albums by gut instinct, drawn to artwork that made me feel something. Torches by Foster the People was one of those impulse buys. It ended up shaping everything: Bombay Bicycle Club indie‑pop brightness, Passion Pit‑style synths, MGMT colour and Two Door Cinema Club level lyricism. It was the first album that I had heard about youth anxiety that didn’t lean into the angst of punk rock and alternative rock I’d been consuming. I still return to it. I even used tracks from Torches in mixes last year, including a mix intro that ended up catching promoters’ attention and opening the door to guest mix opportunities.

So what makes an album a “concept” album?

A concept album is where every track is part of a larger idea, story or emotional world. Think of it as a self-contained universe with recurring motifs, narrative arcs and thematic links between the production quality or sounds. It’s basically your English teacher’s musical dream. Some concept albums tell quite obvious stories. Pink Floyd’s The Wall is an exploration of the walls people put up as a response to trauma and isolation. Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs is about the slow, painful changes of a suburban area from childhood. Kendrick Lamar’s good kid, m.A.A.d city is a memoir of life growing up in Compton, exploring faith, violence and race. Beyoncé and Taylor Swift have written conceptual albums like Lemonade and Midnights.

Some concept albums need a few listens to connect with the themes. The Beatles performed as a fake band with strange costumes for Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band as they explored the concept of identity. It was intentionally designed to be a psychedelic and humorous experience that they would only perform in that way for that specific album. And if you were a metalhead like me back in the day, you’ll definitely be familiar with the conceptually written songs “A Little Piece of Heaven” by Avenged Sevenfold and “Holy Wars… The Punishment Due” by Megadeth which both have multiple interpretations. All of these songs and albums have one thing in common: the audience being part of the artists’ fictional or narrated world.

Concept albums are having a dramatic resurgence – Lily Allen’s West End Girl being one of the most striking recent examples. Written and recorded in only ten days, the album narrates the collapse of her marriage. What makes this album more interesting is how Allen chose to perform it. She didn’t want to do it as a standard pop tour – but as a full theatrical production. On her 2026 tour, she appeared alone on stage, singing the album front‑to‑back with shifting sets and costume changes that turned each song into a new chapter or scene. The show invited her audience directly into the world of her breakup.  A divorce sparked by a reaction to accepting a theatre role, later documented through an album performed as a theatrical production in its own right – genuinely can’t get more meta than that!

Lily Allen, West End Girl – Credit: Henry Redcliffe

Drum and bass has plenty of concept albums and conceptually thinking artists. Sub Focus’s newest release Contact has been described as “a modern conceptual DnB album”¹. Goldie’s album Timeless is frequently referred to as a culturally significant concept album. Noisia created dark worlds in albums like Outer Edges that pushed musical boundaries. Camo & Krooked shaped storytelling experiences in neurofunk to new experiential levels. Wormhole by Ed Rush and Optical is widely considered the first neurofunk album, let alone its first conceptually written one. Travel the Galaxy was their next big conceptual project, which solidified their narrative and thematic style in music production. Alix Perez curated 1985 with the intent to shape bass experiences and sounds that feel cinematic and deeply exploratory.

Now we women are taking the stage. Nia Archives is gracing us with the beautiful narrative linked behind the songs of her newest release Emotional Junglist. Piri’s solo debut Girl in Stem was written, produced, mixed and mastered entirely by her. Throughout the album, she shares the story of her breakup with Tommy, exploring a variety of themes ranging from grief to independence to public dissection of their relationship. We’re seeing even more female artists exploring more conceptual music releases – from tongue-in-cheek vocalists like venbee and Brodie to the unique sounds of female artists like Catching Cairo, Shirley Temper and Sweetpea and gyrofield. More prominent artists like Koven and Kyrist are properly getting their flowers for the conceptual projects they’ve been releasing for years. Becky Hill has also been releasing music that explores a different musical style to her usual sound. It’s an exciting time for the genre.

And when I look back, it makes perfect sense why this moment and resurgence has resonated so deeply with me. I’ve always been drawn to worlds, not just songs. From the political universes of Green Day and System of a Down, to the storytelling of Foster the People, my instinct has always been to search for meaning, narrative and unique voices. Concept albums didn’t just shape my music taste – they shaped the way that I understand art. They shaped my DJing process and how I curate storytelling mixes. They shaped me.

It feels like the tide is turning back towards the kind of music I’ve always gravitated towards: albums designed with intent, stories with messages and weight, accompanied by visuals with purpose. Concept albums aren’t just making a comeback. They’re reminding us that music really can still be a journey. And for me – that whole journey started with a woman wearing a fish tank.

For more from Zaba, follow @DJZabaTheFrog

Footnotes:

¹: The Return of the Album: Long-Form Storytelling in Drum & Bass | Drum and Bass UK 

The post The Fish Tank That Made Me Fall in Love with Music first appeared on Fleckies - Discover the best local events in town.

April grew up in a happy, music-filled household in Milton Keynes, a place she points out has more than 130 roundabouts despite her being “insanely car sick”. Her two older brothers helped shape an early taste that jumped between genres. Tom would blast techno in the shower before going to Oceana – which a young April assumed was a country he disappeared to every weekend – while Harrison introduced her to rock, taking her to bands like Cleopatrik and Milkteeth and inspiring her to learn drums and guitar.

Her dad had been a DJ and loved old-school UKG and Jungle, while her mum had grown up on pop-punk. Then there were Ministry of Sound CDs and, admittedly, Ed Sheeran’s + on repeat. Rather than pulling April towards one particular sound, that mixture taught her to find something she loved in all of them.

“I think being surrounded by four different styles of music made me appreciate and find a love of something in each of them,” she says.

Dance music eventually won out. April had wanted to learn to DJ for years, watching people behind the decks at events and festivals but continually putting off doing it herself. She admits procrastination is something she struggles with, and looking back, thinks there was probably some fear of failing underneath it too.

Then she watched Girls Don’t Sync’s MIXMAG set.

“When I tell you I had never felt so inspired,” she says. April was watching it at pre-drinks and, while everyone else was ready to leave, she kept stalling because she wanted to see more. “Seeing a group of four women behind the decks playing speed garage edits and tracks was actually insane to me.”

Within a week, she had bought DDJ-400s and started learning.

Joining USB, her university DJ society in Bournemouth, gave her a community to learn alongside and kept that momentum going. “Surrounding yourself with other DJs or people into dance music is the best thing you can do when learning to DJ,” she says. “There is just constant support and inspiration. People really do need people.”

April eventually found her home in Speed Garage and Hard House, gravitating towards euphoric sounds, vocals, melodies and the occasional instantly recognisable edit alongside more underground selections. “I want people to feel emotional on the dancefloor – in a good way – and feel the urge to dance.”

But being part of that university scene also made her notice who wasn’t getting the same opportunities.

Trying to establish herself locally, April kept seeing the same names appearing across line-ups. She understood why people built events around themselves and their friends, but from the outside, she couldn’t see a route in. She was also frustrated by the lack of women, queer and BIPOC artists being represented.

“I wanted to create something that generated opportunity for everyone, not just your mates,” she says.

Initially, that something was going to be an events collective called Highly Legal. April wanted guest mixes to help showcase the first event, but she didn’t have a radio studio or expensive filming set-up. What she did have was that bright red Corsa she had just bought with her student loan.

So she messaged her friend Charley – YESCHAZ – and asked if he fancied DJing in it.

When filming day arrived, April almost backed out. “My procrastination kicked in and, to be honest, I just wanted to cancel it,” she remembers. Charley effectively told her it was now or never, so she grabbed her laptop, decks and phone and they went for it.

The result was chaotic. Her phone repeatedly fell into the footwell. The decks and laptop slid around the car. Charley, at well over six foot, barely fitted alongside the equipment.

They had a brilliant time.

“At the end of it I just thought, this is what I want to do.”

Highly Legal disappeared, the Instagram handle became Carpool Spinnas and April started convincing more DJ friends to climb into her car.

She expected the first episodes to reach USB society and perhaps her mum and dad. Instead, messages started arriving almost immediately. DJs wanted to get involved, conversations were forming around the videos and within months she was filming with names including Scruz and Tommy Villiers.

There’s something refreshing about the fact that April doesn’t pretend those beginnings were polished. “Looking back now at the first ten episodes, the quality is so bad,” she laughs. “I had no experience in cameras, filming, editing or interviewing – the only thing I knew how to do was drive.”

That willingness to start before everything was perfect is probably part of why Carpool Spinnas works.

The format itself is deliberately low-pressure. A DJ might be blasting a favourite tune while April waits at traffic lights, then suddenly find themselves being asked whether they would rather hold their breath forever or never have to blink. Mixing mistakes are laughed off and blamed on heavy braking. Conversations are unscripted, and April admits she regularly becomes so engrossed that she misses green lights.

But behind the humour is something more considered.

“With Spinnas, it’s more about who you are as a DJ, how you got to where you are or your goals as an artist,” she explains.

That has created room for conversations about sobriety and the pressure around drugs and alcohol in nightlife, representation of marginalised communities and the challenges facing grassroots venues and independent promoters. The car might be an unconventional place to have them, but perhaps that informality is exactly why people open up.

“Amongst the humour and lightheartedness of Spinnas, there are those important and deep conversations,” April says. “I think that is so important to make the scene a better and safer place for artists, promoters and ravers.”

Running it independently comes with its own challenges. April doesn’t make money from the format, and with only enough capacity to film around four artists each month, demand has grown beyond what she can realistically accommodate. She tries to keep opportunities fair, particularly because the original reason for creating the platform still matters.

“It’s something I do out of a love of dance music and the scene,” she says. “I have made so many friends through it.”

Carpool Spinnas has since worked with Ministry of Sound and Atlantic Records, but April is refreshingly uninterested in measuring its future purely by increasingly famous passengers. An emerging underground DJ excites her just as much as an artist backed by a major label.

“I always want Spinnas to stay true to its roots of providing opportunity for underrepresented communities and artists who are just starting out.”

There are collaborations she wants to explore, merch she would love to make properly rather than rush, and Carpool Spinnas live events beginning to appear around the UK. But whatever shape it grows into, keeping that sense of openness seems non-negotiable.

It makes her final advice particularly fitting. This whole thing exists because April had an idea, nearly cancelled the first attempt and did it anyway.

“Take the leap and create it, even if it’s hard and scary,” she says. “The fear of what it could have been when you’re looking back will be far worse than the fear of starting something.”

Carpool Spinnas could easily have remained an idea for an event promo that never happened. Instead, April put some decks in a Corsa, balanced a phone somewhere vaguely useful and started. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t supposed to become this. Maybe that’s exactly the point.

“You have had that idea for a reason,” she says. “Bring it into the world… PLEASE!”

Follow April: https://www.instagram.com/rillamp3

For all CARPOOL SPINNAS links: https://linktr.ee/carpoolspinnas

The post April Baillie: Taking the Scene for a Spin first appeared on Fleckies - Discover the best local events in town.

The Kettering-born house and tech house brand has officially hit £10,427.03 raised in just over two years, a pretty special milestone for something that started simply because founder and DJ Reece Speechley wanted to create more for the local scene.

Dance Till Dawn launched in 2022 and has since grown through events across Kettering and the surrounding area, with a big focus on local DJs, accessible parties and making use of the spaces already sitting on their doorstep.

Its first charity fundraising came in August 2024, when a Dance Till Dawn event was used to raise money for Cransley Hospice following the death of Reece’s close friend Elliott Ward, who had received support from the charity.

What started as a way of using an existing Dance Till Dawn party to give something back ended up becoming part of the wider brand ethos.

“I don’t think I ever imagined when we did that first charity event that a couple of years later Dance Till Dawn would have raised more than £10,000,” Reece says.

“The best thing is that it hasn’t come from one huge event or one big donation. It’s come from people turning up, having a dance, supporting local DJs and venues and putting a few quid towards something that matters.”

And it’s that combination that makes the milestone particularly Fleckies.

At a time when towns across the UK have lost so many of their traditional nightlife spaces, Dance Till Dawn has taken a slightly different approach. Instead of waiting for another club to appear, the team has worked with existing pubs and bars to create temporary homes for dance music.

The Beeswing, the former Aura, Vintage Vault and The Wayfarers have all hosted events, giving DJs somewhere to play and local audiences somewhere to dance without automatically having to head for a bigger city.

Chelsea Marshall joined Reece behind Dance Till Dawn later in 2024, with the pair continuing to build the brand around that idea of creating something mutually beneficial for the local scene.

“We’ve lost so many of the places where people used to go out locally, but we haven’t lost the DJs, the music or the people who want to experience it,” Chelsea explains.

“When an event works, the DJs get a platform, people get a great day or night out on their doorstep, the venue gets a new audience and a strong day behind the bar, and we can raise money for an important local cause at the same time. We want it to be an ecosystem where everybody gets something from it.”

Local businesses have got behind a number of the events too, particularly at The Beeswing, where sponsorship has helped Dance Till Dawn push those fundraising totals even further.

More than anything, though, £10,000 is a pretty brilliant demonstration of what can grow around grassroots music.

It’s DJs giving their time. Venues opening their doors. Local businesses getting involved. People turning up and choosing to support something happening in their own town.

The music comes first, but community has always been one of the most important things built around it.

Dance Till Dawn returns to The Beeswing in Kettering on Saturday 31 October, with music running from 12pm into the night. Entry is £3 on the door, with profits once again going to Cransley Hospice, before an afterparty later that evening.

Ten grand raised. Plenty of local DJs supported. Plenty of dancefloors filled.

Not bad for a few parties in Kettering.

Follow: @dancetilldawnuk

All Links: https://linktr.ee/dancetilldawnuk

The post Dance Till Dawn Passes £10k Raised Through Grassroots Music first appeared on Fleckies - Discover the best local events in town.

Because Luke Nevett and Nevmore are, apparently, very different people.

“Luke Nevett is a hermit,” he tells me. “He goes to his 9-5 job, goes home, watches movies and TV and rinse repeat.” Nevmore, on the other hand, was born in Kingsthorpe in 2017 when Luke was given the nickname by his university sports team. Where Luke describes Wellingborough as “hell on earth”, Nevmore sees Northampton as “a playground” – something to explore, exaggerate and turn into material.

That relationship between reality and character has become central to the way he creates.

Photos by @coldnotwet

Music was already everywhere before Nevmore existed. Growing up, Luke heard a real mix at home – boom bap, soul, R&B and alternative music, alongside the sounds he discovered for himself later. Hip-hop first properly connected through his siblings’ bedrooms, where artists like Nas, Jay-Z, MF DOOM and Kanye would play alongside Dizzee Rascal, Wiley and Kano.

“The bars and the production were something I always dug,” he says. Hearing UK artists in particular made the idea of making rap himself feel slightly closer.

He started writing properly in sixth form in 2015, initially as little more than a way to kill time. He would take instrumentals from songs he already loved and write his own versions over them, slowly learning how words could sit against rhythm. Before long, he was trying the bars out wherever he could – sixth-form common rooms, university buses and, occasionally, at pre-drinks.

“I will not lie, I did it at pres to try and impress the girls,” he laughs. “It obviously did not work at all.”

At that point, he imagined maybe releasing one song someday. He didn’t expect it to become anything bigger.

Then lockdown happened.

With nowhere to go, Luke gave himself a reason to keep writing, and the project that eventually became Mindsets began to take shape. What had once been a party trick slowly became something he wanted to treat more seriously.

But even now, he resists describing Nevmore as having one neat sound.

“I wouldn’t say I found my own sound really,” he says. His influences span rap, film, comedy and whatever happens to capture his attention at the time. Tyler, The Creator and the early OFWGKTA era have had a particular impact on the humour in his work, alongside Earl Sweatshirt and the more introspective side of hip-hop.

That combination explains a lot about Nevmore. The writing can be reflective, but it rarely takes itself too seriously for long. Drinking crops up frequently. So does failing spectacularly with women. There is an awareness that his life doesn’t resemble the exaggerated version of success sometimes presented in rap, and rather than pretending otherwise, he makes that part of the joke.

“Nevmore loves a drink,” he says. “He likes talking about how much he likes to drink and failing to talk to the ladies.”

Underneath the comedy, though, there’s a more private person who doesn’t always find vulnerability easy. When I ask how much of Luke makes its way into the music, Nevmore answers in character.

“Luke doesn’t like sharing personal stuff with anyone. His own parents don’t even know that he makes music through me.”

That tension between hiding and revealing feels important. Nevmore gives Luke somewhere to exaggerate parts of himself, say things differently and build a world around experiences he might otherwise keep quiet.

His 2022 mixtape Wellingborough Road took that world and rooted it directly in place. The title connects Wellingborough and Northampton through one of the town’s most recognisable stretches – Welly Road, known to generations for nights out and pub crawls.

“I was trying to give the listener a view of the street through my eyes,” he says, “and show how the street shaped me.”

Northampton has done far more than provide material. It’s also where Nevmore found the community that helped turn writing into something sustainable. He credits meeting Leo in 2020 as one of the biggest turning points in his journey.

“If I never met Leo, I don’t think I’d be doing this interview or anything musically right now.”

Through him came connections with Hxrmz, Riice, Napps, Har-Q and Leon at LAYITDOWN, placing Nevmore inside a wider local scene that he speaks about with genuine appreciation. “There’s a little something for everybody in NN,” he says. “Rap, alternative, folk, pop. It’s a very diverse scene.”

Those relationships have stretched beyond music too. His creative partnership with Azim began in perhaps the least dramatic way possible – “I just gave him a DM” – but has become integral to the visual identity around Nevmore.

“He is a bloody genius,” he says.

Azim, alongside PHOTOMAFIA, helped shape the visual world around the TOYA project in 2025. Nevmore is heavily involved in those ideas himself, pulling from his obsession with films to make videos that add another layer to the music. Good Morrow, for example, incorporates protests and a hostage situation into the visual narrative.

“The films add more to the story,” he explains. “They give the listener a clearer visual of who Nev really is.”

That world-building takes work. Like most independent artists, Nevmore is effectively operating as musician, marketer, creative director and content department all at once.

“It’s a pain in the bloody arse,” he says plainly. “But it has to be done.”

His strategy, strangely enough, sometimes involves disappearing. Nevmore vanishes for a while, Luke goes back into ordinary life, and whatever happens during that period eventually becomes new material. When he returns, the visuals shift, the marketing changes and another version of the character emerges.

There have already been plenty of moments that have made the effort feel worthwhile. Supporting artists including Dirty Dike, KiLLOWEN, Farma G and Verb T carried particular weight after growing up listening to that world, while collaborating with Black Josh through BLAH Records on CANTONA felt similarly surreal.

Nevmore & Leo shot by @shots.by.cas

But the moments that matter most are smaller.

“Seeing someone recite your bars back to you literally means the world,” he says.

There’s something very Fleckies about that. However impressive a support slot or collaboration might look on paper, sometimes one person knowing every word tells you more.

Right now, Nevmore is experimenting again. His latest track, 8 to a 10, leans into niche pop-culture references spanning Sinners, Wayne Rooney and Clipse, while the wider sound is becoming more mellow. He’s keeping future collaborations deliberately quiet, and even hints that Neville Moore might not be the last character to step out from the shadows.

Success, if he could design it entirely on his own terms, sounds suitably Nevmore.

A steady income. Academy shows. Eventually an O2 retirement gig surrounded by friends and family, finishing with SWIM SWIM while everyone sinks a pint. And, naturally, an annual pub crawl with the fans to see who can actually handle it.

For anyone starting out in Northampton, though, his advice becomes much more practical. Go to LAYITDOWN. Meet people. Learn from other artists. Put yourself in rooms where someone might give you the first chance.

That perhaps sums up Nevmore better than the character would ever admit. Beneath the jokes, pubs, film references and exaggerated alter egos is an artist whose career has been built through curiosity, community and actually showing up.

Luke might prefer staying home watching films.

Luckily, Nevmore keeps finding reasons to come back out.

Listen and follow Nevmore:

For socials, music and everything else, head to:
https://linktr.ee/nvemore

The post Nevmore: Life, Lyrics and a Whole Lot of Character first appeared on Fleckies - Discover the best local events in town.

I first met Bally through our mutual friend Nico about a year ago, and aside from him being genuinely one of the nicest people you could meet, he also opened another door for me musically. Through him, I properly started paying attention to the ways South Asian sounds were being blended with electronic music – not as a gimmick or trend, but as something deeply personal. Hearing Bally talk about Realist, his latest EP on Daal & Bass Records, makes that even clearer. These sounds haven’t been added onto his identity later. They’ve been there from the beginning.

Bally grew up in Coventry with Jungle and Drum & Bass already part of the fabric of home. A major influence was his cousin, The Specialist, a Jungle and Drum & Bass DJ who would mix those sounds with bhangra on pirate radio.

“Hearing those two worlds being brought together before it was something you saw everywhere really stayed with me,” Bally says.

That cross-pollination sat alongside UK garage, old-school hip hop and artists spanning Panjabi MC, Shy FX, General Levy, Roni Size, MJ Cole, Nas, Wu-Tang and Bally Sagoo. But one of the most important musical influences came even earlier through his late grandad, who took him to learn tabla from a young age.

“At the time I probably didn’t fully appreciate it,” he reflects. “But it taught me rhythm and gave me an understanding of music.”

Looking back now, it feels almost inevitable that percussion and the meeting point between different musical worlds would become such a defining part of what he creates.

University was where listening became participation. Bally moved to Nottingham and found himself immersed in a thriving rave scene spanning Jungle, UKG and dubstep. Suddenly, the music he had grown up around was being experienced in packed rooms with hundreds of people responding to it together.

“Everyone was connecting to music on the same level,” he says. “There was so much appreciation for the music and the artists. It helped me find a community that loved the underground scene.”

It was there that he bought his first decks and began properly experimenting. His student house became an almost constant soundtrack of practice sessions and loud music, much to the probable delight of his flatmates. When he later returned to Coventry, things started becoming more serious. He upgraded his equipment, practised relentlessly and began looking for opportunities to play publicly.

Joe Todd and Phil Evans from Anything Goes and Cov DnB were among the first people to give him that chance.

“Someone has to give you that first opportunity,” Bally says. “You need people willing to take a chance on you while you’re still developing.”

Those early bookings mattered. They built confidence, but they also reinforced something that comes up repeatedly throughout Bally’s story – music rarely happens alone. There are always people opening doors, sharing platforms and pushing you forward.

Leicester later became another important chapter. Although Coventry will always be his roots, working in Leicester eventually connected him with Nico and Doppler Radio, where Bally was offered his own show.

“Having a platform or radio show is very important,” he says. “It helps you grow as an artist and allows you to reach more audiences.”

That relationship eventually became something even bigger. Nico was also building Daal & Bass, a platform dedicated to celebrating South Asian culture through music, and when the record label began taking shape, Bally’s music felt like a natural fit.

Realist EP Artwork by @sunnyformats for Daal & Bass

The result is Realist – a project that brings together the sounds that have followed him throughout his life.

Bally describes his music as rooted mainly in Jungle and Drum & Bass, but with UK garage, Punjabi sounds and the rhythmic influences of his upbringing moving naturally through it. Importantly, he isn’t sitting in the studio consciously deciding where to place something that sounds South Asian.

“It’s more instinctive than that,” he says. “All of those influences are already part of me.”

That distinction feels important.

There is so much conversation now around cultural fusion in electronic music, but Bally’s approach is less about combining two separate worlds and more about refusing to pretend they were ever separate in the first place.

“I realised I didn’t need to choose between Jungle, Drum & Bass, UKG, bhangra or my South Asian heritage,” he explains. “All of those things could exist together.”

That realisation became a turning point in his production. Like most producers, Bally spent plenty of time questioning whether tracks were good enough, comparing himself with others and worrying about whether his music fitted neatly into a particular scene. Eventually, trusting the influences already inside him became the thing that unlocked his sound.

“Once I started embracing that rather than worrying about whether it fitted into a particular genre, the music started to feel much more natural.”

Realist represents that shift.

The EP explores Jungle and Drum & Bass through a distinctly Bally-M lens, drawing together his upbringing, his culture, years spent around rave music and that early understanding of rhythm formed at the tabla.

“For me, Realist is about being honest about who I am musically,” he says. “I’m not trying to make something that fits neatly into one category.”

That doesn’t mean every future Bally-M release will sound exactly the same either. Jungle and Drum & Bass might be central here, but UK garage or something completely different could take the lead next time. What matters is that the music feels true to him.

Releasing Realist through Daal & Bass adds another layer to the story because the EP also marked the label’s first release. What began as a connection through Doppler Radio eventually became a shared milestone.

“It feels like things coming full circle,” Bally says. “I’m proud that Realist gets to be the record that starts this next chapter for Daal & Bass.”

There’s a lot of gratitude in the way Bally talks about getting here. Alongside Nico and the Daal & Bass team, he credits Joe Todd and Phil Evans for those early opportunities, Jasmine Thakar at BBC Asian Network for giving him space through guest mixes, Manara for consistently supporting his music, Project West London for providing another platform, and Bill – Double B – for keeping him focused behind the scenes.

And then there’s family.

“You’ve been there through the highs, the lows, the late nights and everything in between,” he says. “This EP is just as much for you as it is for me.”

Double B & Bally-M

That appreciation says a lot about the way Bally approaches the wider scene too. Grassroots music, for him, is built through people taking chances on each other. Promoters booking artists before they’re established. DJs playing each other’s tracks. Radio hosts offering airtime. Friends telling you to keep going.

“There’s still a long way to go,” he says, “but I’m grateful for everyone who’s helped Bally-M get to this point.”

And he very much sees this as a beginning.

There’s more music to make, more experimentation between Jungle, Drum & Bass, UKG and South Asian sounds, and more dancefloors he wants to reach. But perhaps the most important thing Realist has given him is confidence in the fact that difference doesn’t need to be ironed out.

His advice to anyone sitting at home making music that draws from different parts of their culture or identity is simple.

“Don’t worry about fitting into a box. Your influences are your story.”

He wants the EP to encourage other producers to experiment too – to pick up a laptop, try something, collaborate, take risks and make their own opportunities rather than waiting for permission.

“The thing that makes you different could be exactly what makes people connect with your music.”

That feels like the perfect place to leave it.

Because Bally-M’s story isn’t really about fusing cultures at all. It’s about recognising they were already intertwined – and finally trusting that the sound created between them was worth sharing.

Listen and follow Bally-M:

Stream Realist EP and explore more: https://hypeddit.com/ballym/realistep

For socials head to: https://www.instagram.com/djballym/

The post Bally-M: Trusting the Sounds That Made Him first appeared on Fleckies - Discover the best local events in town.

Freya grew up in Bedworth, near Coventry, and describes herself as a child who was always a little bit different. “I was super weird,” she laughs. “Such a weird kid. I have always been a character.” She would invent characters, act out soap operas in the playground and stage entire musicals with anyone willing to join in. She was naturally expressive, but that confidence didn’t always make life easier. Being ginger, neurodivergent without knowing it at the time, and generally standing out meant she was bullied heavily and often struggled to find where she belonged.

“I didn’t have that many friends,” she says. “I struggled to feel like I fit in anywhere, then music came along and I found that was a really good way of being able to word how I was feeling or what I was going through. Music helped me find my place and fit in the world.”

Her childhood soundtrack was broad and gloriously pop-heavy. Her parents constantly played 80s music, while CDs filled car journeys and artists like Lady Gaga, Jessie J, Wham!, The Fugees and Cheryl Cole became early obsessions. Freya had always sung, regardless of whether anyone wanted her to. She filmed herself performing in her bedroom, auditioned for Britain’s Got Talent at around ten and remained completely convinced that somehow, one day, singing would become her life.

The moment that belief became something more serious came through being a fan herself. Boy bands like One Direction, The Vamps and 5 Seconds of Summer opened another doorway into music, eventually pulling her towards emo, pop-punk and indie too. She still remembers standing at the front of a Vamps show in Glasgow during a slower song, turning around and seeing a room full of phone lights.

“I was like, yes, I need to do this,” she remembers. “I needed to do it rather than it being a fun hobby.”

That was the point where music shifted from something she loved into something she needed to pursue.

At 15, Freya started learning guitar, gave it up, then returned to it at 17 and taught herself instead. Around the same time, life had become increasingly difficult. School was hard, home life was complicated and she was dealing with severe depression. Songwriting became less about wanting to make music and more about needing somewhere to put what she was feeling.

“I’m a person that feels a lot of things,” she says. “That’s really when I started writing songs as a way of dealing with the quite severe depression I was dealing with.”

The songs became therapy. A way to create the feeling of being understood, even if the understanding was coming from something she had written herself.

The first song that made her think there might genuinely be something there was a fast, almost rap-pop track about feeling disconnected from the people around her – not wanting to drink, take drugs or have sex, and wondering why she didn’t seem to fit in. She laughs looking back at how young it sounds now, but at the time it mattered. She posted it online, her internet friends encouraged her, and she kept going.

That sense of emotional honesty still sits at the centre of her music now. Freya’s sound pulls from countless corners of her life – Paramore and Panic! At The Disco from her emo years, pop songwriting from artists like Lady Gaga and Sara Bareilles, years spent obsessed with indie music, and more recent influences like Phoebe Bridgers, dodie and The 1975. Somehow, all of it folds together into something distinctly hers.

“I really like when a song makes you feel something,” she explains. “My music first and foremost is always incredibly personal and draws on real experiences.”

She rarely writes about things she hasn’t lived herself. Whether she’s struggling with her mental health, thinking too much about the climate crisis or trying to understand something happening around her, writing helps her organise a mind that can otherwise become overwhelming.

“Songwriting is basically my main way of dealing with anything that happens in my life,” she says. “It helps me sift through all those thoughts and put them into something meaningful.”

Photo credit: @BobbiStudio

What once helped her feel understood now allows her to create that same feeling for somebody else. Some of her most meaningful moments have come when listeners tell her exactly that.

“People have come up to me and said, this explains exactly how I feel and no one’s ever explained it like this,” she says. “That’s the main thing I get out of music – creating stuff for other people to feel seen and to be like, look, here’s a space for all of us and you’re not alone.”

Her debut album Girlhood captures one particular version of her life with almost diary-like precision. Written largely between the ages of 19 and 23, it explores the strange reality of becoming an adult and realising you still have absolutely no idea what you’re doing. It also examines womanhood and the everyday misogyny that quietly becomes part of growing up.

“It really captures that period of my life where I was in my early twenties and dealing with the fact that I was growing up and life wasn’t anything like what I thought it was going to be,” she says. “I still didn’t know what the hell I was doing with my life.”

The record was created at home on a tiny budget, long before Freya imagined music becoming as serious as it has now. Listening back, there are things she would inevitably change, but that is almost why she loves it.

“It captures that period of my life so perfectly,” she says. “It’s like the little sister that you look back on and think, it’s still going to be OK, I promise.”

That journey has been shaped enormously by grassroots music. After growing up somewhere with very little visible local scene, Freya first learned how to gig properly while studying in Leicester. Moving to Northampton later became another major turning point.

“The Northampton music scene is incredible compared to other places I’ve lived,” she says. “People want to go to gigs and want to support local music. The talent is incredible.”

Small venues and promoters gave her somewhere to experiment, build a band and become more confident as a performer. “Those smaller venues and promoters are the main reason that I am where I am today,” she says. It’s why she remains so passionate about returning that support, continuing to headline grassroots venues and helping other emerging musicians where she can. She’s even begun bringing female musicians in Northampton together to share advice and encouragement.

Live performance is where that connection becomes tangible. Freya talks about being on stage with genuine joy, particularly when she can break down the barrier between artist and audience. During Hopelessly Weak, she often asks everyone to sit on the floor while she sits on the edge of the stage, singing directly to them. When crowds sing Enlighten Me back at her, she says the feeling is almost impossible to describe.

“The audience always comes first,” she says. “I know how important that connection and those interactions are because I grew up as a fangirl and being a member of that audience.”

But behind those moments is the reality of being independent. Freya has learned first-hand just how many jobs exist around the actual music. While releasing her Learning How To Live EP, she was simultaneously planning content, music videos and promotion while working a full-time job in London. At one point the pressure became so overwhelming that she ended up lying on the kitchen floor under a blanket, eating a plain wrap and crying.

It’s funny in hindsight, but painfully relatable too.

“You get these moments where you become so stressed and overwhelmed and think that you can’t do it,” she says. “One of the biggest things I’ve learned is ask for help and lean on friends.”

Creative friends stepping into shoots, people helping with videos, or simply having someone to spend an evening with and talk about anything except music have become essential.

Photo credit: @BobbiStudio

Freya today feels a long way from the teenager who doubted whether anyone would want to hear her songs. She’s married, has built a life around her, understands herself far better and now writes with an entire band in mind rather than just an acoustic guitar. There’s still experimentation ahead too. She already has an EP and another album written, with one project moving back towards her roots and another leaning further into pop.

There’s no rush to force either into the world before they’re ready.

That feels fitting for someone whose whole journey has been about gradually finding herself rather than suddenly arriving.

When I ask what she would tell another young songwriter sitting in their bedroom, terrified to share what they’ve made, she doesn’t overcomplicate it.

“Just do it,” she says. “I had so much doubt and so much anxiety. I was terrified to go on stage and terrified to play my songs to anyone. It took me a really long time to believe in myself.”

Then comes the part that really lands.

“The worst thing you can do is be incredible and be stuck in your bedroom, because then no one gets to experience how amazing you are or connect with your songs the way that you want them to. Life’s too short to not believe in yourself.”

Listening to Freya tell her story, I kept coming back to that younger version of her who couldn’t quite find where she belonged. In the end, she didn’t find a space waiting for her. She built one through music – and now, every time somebody hears themselves in one of her songs, she makes that space a little bigger for them too.

Listen and follow Freya Rose:

Stream the Learning How To Live EP and explore more on Spotify:

For socials, tickets and everything else, head to: https://linktr.ee/freyarose

The post Freya Rose: Finding a Place Through the Noise first appeared on Fleckies - Discover the best local events in town.

Your phone barely works. You’ve lost track of what day it is. You’re dancing next to someone whose name you’ll probably never know, in a venue you didn’t know existed half an hour ago, watching an artist you hadn’t planned to see. For those few days, nothing beyond the city really seems to matter.

I’ve been to Boomtown four times now – 2018, 2019, 2022 and 2026 – and somehow, this year might have been my favourite yet.

Maybe part of that was experiencing it with people who had never been before.

There’s something particularly special about taking a first-time Boomtown citizen through those gates. You know what’s coming, but they don’t. Watching my friends try to take in Old Town, wander through Copperwood Hights, discover tiny doorways leading to even tinier venues and slowly realise that this isn’t really a festival in the traditional sense made the whole thing feel new again.

Because explaining Boomtown to someone who hasn’t been is almost impossible.

You can show them videos of the stages. You can tell them about the actors, the storyline, the sets and the production. You can explain that there are entire streets to explore and rooms you can walk straight past without ever knowing what is happening behind the door.

But until you’re standing in the middle of it, you don’t really get it.

It is ridiculous in the best possible way. Disneyland for adults who live and breathe music and art.

And while the enormous stages are undeniably spectacular, I’ve realised that the older I get – and particularly since starting Fleckies – the more interested I am in everything happening around them.

My favourite venue of the entire weekend wasn’t one of the huge stages. It was The Pomegranate Parlour.

Small, intimate, slightly chaotic and absolutely vibey.

Over the weekend we caught Emma Ash there plus, DmTree, Illexxandra and DJ Shakey Makey’s Mighty Morphin Power Combo and, completely by accident, a secret Ahadadream B2B MESSIE set.

That last one summed Boomtown up for me.

I’d actually decided I was done for a bit. Saturday had gone slightly off-piste, I was tired and heading back to camp alone for a reset before Andy C. On the way, I thought I’d quickly stick my head into Pomegranate Parlour as I was walking past.

Suddenly I’m catching the end of Emma Ash before she handed over to Ahadadream and MESSIE play B2B in this tiny room.

No enormous production. No carefully planned itinerary. Just an unbelievable set, a packed little venue and that feeling of having stumbled across something super special.

Those moments are the reason I love Boomtown.

For all the huge names on the poster, the city still gives an extraordinary platform to smaller artists, DJs, collectives, performers and independent crews. Its street venues are scattered throughout the districts, each with their own identity and programming, and you could quite easily spend the entire weekend ignoring the main stages altogether.

For a platform like Fleckies, built around championing grassroots talent and encouraging people to step outside the algorithm and discover something new, that feels important.

I came home with names I hadn’t known before I arrived. I also watched people from closer to home have brilliant moments of their own – including Northamptonshire’s Madame Electrifie at Helix, while Council of Bens had Bad Apple Bar at capacity when I tried to get in on Saturday.

I couldn’t even see their set properly – and I was genuinely delighted about it. A grassroots collective packing out a Boomtown venue is exactly the sort of thing I want to see.

And then there was The Fool’s Leap, which brought something completely different again. We caught Alphalfa there on Saturday and Panda & The Moniums on Sunday – a reminder that discovery at Boomtown doesn’t just mean finding a new DJ. You can wander from electronic music into live bands, brass, funk, disco, punk, folk or something you can’t quite put a genre on at all. That’s the beauty of it – you never really know what you’re going to stumble into next.

It’s also why I’ve found some of the post-festival conversation about there “not being enough drum and bass” slightly strange.

I saw loads of drum and bass.

Shy FX. Deekline. Skantia. Kyrist B2B Waeys. Andy C., A.M.C., to name but a few, with PLENTY more happening around the city.

What perhaps changed was where some of it was happening.

The biggest stages were noticeably more varied this year, but personally, I loved that. Boomtown has never just been a drum and bass festival. Across my four visits I’ve heard an absurd spectrum of music, and that unpredictability is part of its identity.

This year alone I went from Dutty Moonshine Big Band to Shy FX, Eats Everything B2B TSHA to Ahadadream, Eliza Rose playing disco to Malavita, drum and bass in Anara Forest to Scissor Sisters, SHERELLE and eventually Skrillex bringing out Chase & Status.

Trying to reduce that to one genre feels like missing the point.

Boomtown itself has been pretty explicit about wanting to broaden things back out. Ahead of 2026, co-founder Luke Mitchell described a conscious move towards keeping the festival musically diverse and unpredictable.

Good.

There are enough algorithms constantly feeding us more of what we already know we like. One of the greatest things a festival can do is put something in front of you that you would never have searched for yourself.

But there is another side to Boomtown in 2026 that is harder to ignore.

The festival isn’t the wholly independent operation it once was.

In 2022, following an incredibly difficult post-pandemic period and spiralling production costs, 45% of the business was sold to Live Nation, Gaiety and SJM, with Boomtown’s original owners retaining a 55% majority.

Four years later, I think you can feel some of that commercial presence.

There were activations from the likes of Red Bull, San Miguel and Jägermeister around the city this year in a way I don’t remember from my earlier visits.

And I’m conflicted about it.

Fleckies will always champion independent music and culture, so naturally I’m wary of watching something so distinctive become increasingly intertwined with huge corporations.

At the same time, spend five minutes standing in Boomtown and look around.

Really look.

Someone has built this.

The stages, the sound systems, the lighting, the sets, the streets, the actors, the infrastructure, the security, the crews, the toilets, the campsites, the artists – an entire temporary city appearing in a field for a few days and disappearing again.

That does not come cheap.

Boomtown itself said rising production costs were one of the reasons it sought outside investment in the first place, which I fully understand. And if commercial partnerships help keep something of this scale alive while hundreds of smaller artists and independent collectives continue getting access to its stages, the conversation becomes more complicated than simply saying “big brand bad”.

The question for me is what happens next.

How far can those relationships go before they start changing the character of the city?

Because Boomtown’s value isn’t just the lineup. It’s its weirdness. Its independence of thought. The feeling that you’ve stepped into a world built by artists, performers, set designers, musicians and people with extraordinarily incredible imaginations.

I’d hate to see that slowly sanitised.

I felt something similar around sustainability this year. Boomtown still talks about sustainability as part of its ethos, but personally I noticed less of the prominent “leave no trace” and good citizen messaging around the site than I remember from previous years.

To be fair, the site itself felt remarkably well respected considering the number of people living in it for five days. But that messaging was always part of the culture of being a Boomtown citizen, and I’d love to see it pushed loudly again.

There are parts of the old Boomtown I was thrilled to see returning, too.

Seeing Lion’s Den back in action felt monumental. After the more condensed post-pandemic Boomtown I experienced in 2022, having the festival stretching out again gave the city a sense of scale I’d missed.

Now I’m wondering how far they’ll take it. Could Temple Valley ever return? Could we one day see something resembling Sector 6 again? Maybe I’m just being nostalgic.

Because ultimately, the Boomtown I experienced this weekend still had the thing that matters most.

Connection.

Everywhere.

You make friends dancing. You make friends walking between stages. You make friends in the queue for the loo. You lose your group and somehow acquire another one. Thousands of people are temporarily removed from normal life and given permission to play.

And we don’t get enough of that.

There is something incredibly human about dancing alongside strangers, sharing music and having conversations with people you probably never would have met anywhere else. In a world where so much of our interaction now happens through screens, spending four days physically surrounded by people feels almost radical.

The terrible phone signal helps.

You don’t particularly want to be looking at your phone anyway – apart from occasionally filming an outrageous drop that absolutely has to make the group chat later.

Of course there were sets I missed. There are now countless videos appearing on TikTok that have made me think, how the hell did I miss that?

But that’s the eternal Boomtown problem. There simply isn’t enough time.

You could meticulously plan every hour and still miss something incredible happening through a doorway twenty metres away.

Maybe that’s why my favourite moment was the one I hadn’t planned at all.

Next year I want to do even more of that. Fewer frantic journeys across the city trying to tick names off a schedule. More tiny venues. More unknown DJs. More wandering towards whatever sounds good.

Because after four Boomtowns, I think that’s where its real magic still lives.

Not necessarily in front of the biggest stage (although it is definitely there too).

Sometimes it’s behind a tiny doorway, or through a washing machine (IYKYK).

For all my questions about where Boomtown goes next, I left on Monday genuinely emotional.

Physically exhausted, absolutely. The Thursday trek to Skylark in 32-degree heat nearly finished me before we’d even started – although having a real bed and a shower waiting for us meant we couldn’t exactly complain (fully recommend!).

But emotionally?

My cup was full.

Boomtown still manages to create something that very few festivals can. You walk through the gates and completely leave normal life behind. For a few days, you become a slightly different version of yourself – one that dances more, talks to strangers, follows weird noises down alleyways and doesn’t particularly care what time it is.

Then Monday arrives and suddenly you’re expected to return to reality.

I’m already ready to go back.

See you in the city in 2027.

The post Boomtown: Grassroots, Growing Pains and Getting Lost in the City first appeared on Fleckies - Discover the best local events in town.

He first reached out to me through social media, and after spending an evening exploring his work, it was obvious this wasn’t simply someone making music videos. Every project felt intentional. Every visual carried purpose. As someone who spends so much time speaking to musicians, it felt only right to shine a light on one of the creatives helping bring their stories to life. Music videos are often treated as an afterthought, but the right visual can completely transform how a song is experienced. People like Azim remind us why they deserve to be celebrated in their own right.

Born and raised in The Mounts, Northampton, Azim describes himself as a British-Bangladeshi film director with one clear ambition – “to be among the greats, represent my community, and use my work to help others.”

His childhood was a collision of cultures. Gangsta rap poured through one speaker, Bollywood soundtracks through another, while afternoons disappeared into wrestling games with rock music blasting in the background. Saturdays weren’t spent in film school or surrounded by industry connections. Instead, they were spent experimenting with an old laptop webcam, making YouTube videos simply because creating felt natural.

“I wasn’t surrounded by creatives,” he tells me. “A lot of people didn’t believe it was a realistic career.”

That never seemed to matter.

While others saw filmmaking as an impossible dream, Azim simply kept making things.

His early teenage years were far from easy. Feeling misunderstood at school, facing bullying and often feeling like he didn’t quite belong, filmmaking became both an escape and a place where he could exist without explanation.

“I’d speed walk home from school, eat, then make videos from 4pm until 11pm every day,” he says. “I felt more understood by strangers online than by people around me.”

Reading that, it’s hard not to see how those experiences continue to shape the work he creates today. Storytelling wasn’t just a hobby. It became a way of processing the world around him.

Music naturally became part of that journey.

Having grown up playing with different creative outlets, Azim found something uniquely freeing in combining film with independent music. Unlike commercial projects that often arrive with rigid expectations, working alongside artists allowed him to push ideas into far more experimental territory.

“I can express my own visual perspective while the artist shares their musical vision.”

That relationship starts long before a camera is switched on. Rather than arriving with a fixed concept, he begins with conversation.

“I always ask what a song means to them, why they made it and what their mental state was,” he explains. “People love to be listened to.”

It’s a simple approach, but one that feels increasingly rare. For Azim, building trust isn’t about directing someone – it’s about understanding them first.

That understanding is perhaps why his work refuses to settle for the obvious.

He believes the strongest music videos are the ones that challenge expectations rather than repeat them. Instead of leaning into familiar visual clichés, he’s more interested in creating something people haven’t seen before.

“I once made a hip-hop video inspired by 1930s German Expressionism,” he laughs. “Experimentation moves the culture forward.”

That willingness to experiment has already led to significant recognition, including his recent selection for the BFI NETWORK Immersive Storytelling Lab 2026 – an achievement he describes as feeling like “a stamp of approval.”

For many, recognition from an organisation like the BFI would simply be another career milestone. For Azim, it represents something much bigger.

“I’ve never forsaken my identity for success,” he says. “I want to show people you can thrive without money or ‘nepo’ connections.”

That message runs through almost everything he talks about.

Film, he believes, often feels like a “pay-to-win” industry, creating barriers for working-class creatives who simply don’t have the same access as others. But he also believes something far more valuable can’t be bought.

“You can’t buy hunger or life experience.”

Growing up in Northampton, navigating different cultures and often feeling like he belonged to neither entirely, shaped not only his identity but the stories he now wants to tell.

“I felt too Eastern for the West and too Western for the East.”

Rather than trying to fit neatly into either world, he embraced both, developing a voice that’s unapologetically his own.

Even away from filmmaking, that perspective continues to evolve.

He’s become far more conscious of protecting his own wellbeing after years of sacrificing sleep and pushing himself relentlessly. These days, quiet walks, spending time with friends and stepping away from work have become just as valuable as time behind a camera.

“They’re not creative activities,” he says, “but those life experiences feed into my work.”

His connection to grassroots music has taught him lessons beyond filmmaking too.

Working alongside independent musicians showed him the importance of visibility and building your own identity alongside your craft. While artists often become the face of their own projects, directors can easily disappear into the background.

“They taught me to build my own star power.”

Technology has helped level the playing field too. Looking back, he laughs at starting with little more than an iPhone 6s because it was all he could afford. Today, he believes accessibility has never been greater.

“If you have a smartphone, you already have a better start than I did.”

Perhaps the most powerful moment in his journey, though, came through a project that almost never happened.

His short film Pieces of an Adolescent explored the trauma of his own life between 2013 and 2019. Made by a two-person team for less than £100, it arrived during a period where he’d begun questioning everything.

“I thought this path was a fluke,” he admits. Instead, the project became something far more profound. “It saved my life.”

It’s difficult to read those words without understanding why storytelling means so much to him. Film isn’t simply what Azim does. It’s how he’s made sense of his own experiences, and now hopes to help others make sense of theirs.

Looking ahead, there’s plenty on the horizon. A country music video shot on 16mm film is releasing this summer, alongside a surreal Hubba Bubba commercial blending the worlds of Guy Ritchie and Quentin Tarantino. Conversations with major production companies are gathering pace, and after recently being named one of shots.net‘s top unsigned directing talents, the future feels full of possibility.

Yet success, for Azim, isn’t measured purely by bigger productions or bigger budgets.

“I want to help my friends find work and make a positive contribution to society.”

That sentence perhaps sums him up better than anything else.

The music industry often shines its brightest spotlight on the people standing in front of the camera, but conversations like this are a reminder that there are equally passionate creatives standing behind it. The people shaping how songs are remembered, giving artists another language to tell their stories through and quietly pushing culture forward frame by frame.

For young creatives wondering whether they need expensive equipment or the right connections before they begin, Azim’s advice is refreshingly uncomplicated.

“If you have a smartphone, you’ve already got more than I started with. Just start.”

Sometimes that’s all a great story has ever needed.

Check Azim’s work: https://azimmiah.com/

Follow here: https://www.instagram.com/azimmiah_/

The post Azim Miah: Framing Stories That Refuse to Be Ignored first appeared on Fleckies - Discover the best local events in town.

I first came across her through a post on Instagram. Frustrated by the familiar claim that promoters “couldn’t find” enough female DJs, she spent a single evening compiling a list of more than 300 women behind the decks. It was simple, direct and impossible to ignore. The post travelled far beyond her own audience, not because it shouted the loudest, but because it quietly dismantled one of the scene’s favourite excuses.

Naturally, I wanted to know more about the person behind it.

The more I looked into Alice – better known as Zaba – the more I realised that post wasn’t an isolated moment. Whether she’s DJing, running events, advocating for grassroots venues through Croakheads or championing other artists, everything she does is rooted in the same belief: music is at its best when more people are invited in. After chatting over email, it became clear that advocacy isn’t something she’s added to her career – it’s simply woven into who she is.

Music found Zaba long before DJing did. Growing up in a military family meant constantly moving from place to place, but one thing remained reassuringly consistent – there was always music. Long car journeys were spent glued to an MP3 player, Saturday mornings meant trips to HMV, and choosing CDs purely because the artwork caught her eye became a ritual that introduced her to genres she may never have discovered otherwise.

At home, music surrounded her. Her dad played guitar in a band and filled the car with classic rock, punk and metal, while trips to concerts and festivals became part of family life. Her mum, nan and cousin all nurtured that same creative spirit in different ways, making music feel less like a hobby and more like something woven into everyday life.

“It was kind of inevitable that music would become an enormous part of my life,” she says.

By the age of eight she was playing clarinet in orchestras, jazz bands and marching bands, taking singing lessons and learning guitar. Looking back, those early experiences unknowingly laid the foundations for DJing. Rhythm, timing and musical instinct were already second nature by the time she stepped behind a pair of decks.

“I have an instinctive pull towards music that I really can’t explain,” she tells me. “I found myself organising playlists by vibes, atmosphere and label sound. DJing was just the natural next step.”

That curiosity still defines the way she approaches music today. While many artists become known for one specific lane, Zaba has never understood the pressure to stay inside one box.

“I like too many genres,” she laughs. “Isn’t it better to explore a wider range and push yourself to discover new music?”

If she had to describe her sets, she’d call them “warm, fun, nostalgic energy, with a creative and personal twist” – a reflection of someone who values emotional connection over sticking rigidly to expectations.

Like many people working in grassroots music, though, the biggest lessons haven’t come from learning how to DJ. They’ve come from learning how to navigate people.

Looking back, she describes herself as a naive promoter who naturally assumed everyone shared the same intentions she did. Over time she realised that wasn’t always the case.

“I’ve learned you don’t need to explain yourself to everyone,” she says. “Trust your instincts, pay attention to how people make you feel and step back from spaces where your support isn’t met with the same warmth in return.”

That honesty feels refreshing. So much of the music industry celebrates relentless giving, but Zaba speaks just as openly about the importance of protecting your own wellbeing.

“I’ve realised that championing others is great, but not at the cost of abandoning my own needs, values or wellbeing.”

That balance runs through everything she does.

The post introducing hundreds of female DJs wasn’t about creating division. It was about removing barriers. Having repeatedly heard promoters claim they simply couldn’t find women to book, she decided to prove otherwise.

“I wanted to show that this just isn’t true,” she explains. “Finding 300 female DJs in one evening made that pretty clear.”

It’s a conversation that naturally expands into representation, accessibility and creating spaces where more people genuinely feel welcome. For Zaba, inclusivity isn’t achieved through one diverse lineup – it’s built through listening, questioning and constantly asking who still isn’t in the room.

That same mindset is what fuels Croakheads, where she works as Head of Operations. The collective exists to champion independent venues, promoters, artists and local communities while raising awareness around the UK’s ongoing grassroots venue crisis.

“We’re losing more than buildings,” she says. “We’re losing entire ecosystems.”

It’s a perspective that resonates deeply with Fleckies. Grassroots venues aren’t simply somewhere to perform – they’re where artists find confidence, audiences discover something unexpected and lifelong friendships begin. Speaking to venue owners has only reinforced how fragile those foundations have become, but she’s equally inspired by the resilience of the people still fighting to keep them alive.

“I’ve seen so much resilience,” she says. “People are still showing up and still building something incredible together.”

Ask her what a healthy music community looks like and the answer feels beautifully simple.

“A place where people genuinely look out for each other. Where everyone feels seen and valued. Where people stand up for spaces and for each other.”

Looking ahead, Zaba shows no signs of slowing down. Croakheads is expanding its resident and ambassador teams, with more fundraising planned for Music Venue Trust alongside a new newsletter and the possibility of launching a podcast celebrating people making a difference across grassroots music. Alongside that, she’s continuing to DJ while quietly working on her own productions.

“I don’t want to sound like everyone else,” she says. “I don’t want to rush my art.”

That patience feels symbolic of everything she’s spoken about. Whether she’s creating music, supporting artists or challenging the industry, very little is driven by speed. It’s driven by purpose.

If there’s one thing I took away from this conversation, it’s that Zaba isn’t trying to become the loudest voice in dance music. She’s trying to make sure more voices get heard. In a culture that can sometimes reward ego over empathy, that’s quietly radical.

Her final piece of advice feels fitting.

“If you’re going to be outspoken, be prepared to face criticism. Don’t give up. Use your voice. Be brave.”

The industry needs more people willing to do exactly that.

Listen and follow Zaba:

Click here for all things Zaba

Click here for all things Croakheads

The post Zaba: Building the Scene She Wants to Dance In first appeared on Fleckies - Discover the best local events in town.

Speaking to BEKIMACHINE, it’s clear she’s the latter.

We first crossed paths at Music Barn Festival earlier this year, where she brought her signature blend of melodic and driving techno to the Fleckies Stable Stage. I’d heard great things before we met, but what struck me most wasn’t just the set – it was how genuinely warm and down-to-earth she was behind the scenes. After chatting over email, that first impression only became stronger. Behind the bold name and high-energy music is someone who’s spent years quietly refining her craft, embracing change and following wherever creativity takes her.

Music has never really been something she discovered. It was simply always there.

Growing up, she threw herself into it from an early age, learning the flute before attending performing arts school and later studying Music Technology throughout school, sixth form and university. Alongside that came bands, performances and countless opportunities to experiment. She fronted a local rock band as a teenager before joining ska-punk outfit Just Say Nay as a flautist and backing vocalist, experiences that gave her confidence on stage long before electronic music entered the picture.

Looking back, those years built the foundations for everything that followed.

She was equally inspired by the music she immersed herself in. Paramore, VersaEmerge, Kesha and Kate Nash formed part of the soundtrack to her younger years before artists like Grimes, HANA, Purity Ring and Lights completely captured her imagination.

“I’ve always been massively into female-fronted bands and artists,” she explains. “They’ve really shaped my music over the years.”

Although many people now know her as a DJ, production actually came first.

BEKIMACHINE began life as a synth-pop project, performing original songs live using Ableton, vocals, flute and live effects. More than simply releasing tracks, she created an entire concept around the project – a cyborg alter ego complete with commissioned artwork, connected visuals and story-led releases.

“I’ve always had a creative brain,” she says. “Writing songs collaboratively in bands was so fun, but I wanted to try the process solo.”

Like many artists, lockdown became an unexpected turning point. While streaming on Twitch from her bedroom, she taught herself to DJ and gradually found herself pulled towards a different corner of electronic music. Melodic house evolved into driving techno, which eventually opened the door to hard techno and trance.

Rather than feeling like a dramatic reinvention, it sounds more like a natural progression.

“As I’ve grown as an artist, my music has become more of a reflection of who I am now.”

That willingness to evolve feels central to BEKIMACHINE’s creative identity. She isn’t interested in staying inside one lane simply because it’s familiar. Instead, she follows whatever genuinely excites her, building sets that she describes as “melodic, fun, energising and vibey.”

“You’ll always have a good time,” she laughs. That same mindset extends beyond the DJ booth.

Alongside producing and performing, she founded Cloud9, a techno event created to bring more electronic music to the West Midlands. Running an independent event is rarely glamorous. There’s endless organising, constant promotion and no guarantee people will walk through the door.

“The biggest challenge is getting a good turnout,” she admits. “There’s so much involved and often no financial gain.”

But almost immediately, she follows that with what matters far more.

“The reward is creating that space in the local scene.”

That sentence says a lot.

Throughout our conversation, she continually returns to community rather than personal success. Whether she’s talking about grassroots venues, local promoters or the friendships she’s built through music, there’s an obvious appreciation for the people who make scenes possible.

She’s also a proud resident for Altered Events, describing founder Paris Camille as both an incredible DJ and now a close friend. It’s another reminder that behind every successful grassroots brand are people choosing to champion one another rather than compete.

That sense of community feels especially important at a time when independent venues continue to disappear across the UK.

“It’s so sad to see,” she says. “There’s nothing like having a dance surrounded by friends and enjoying amazing music. That’s why grassroots events are so important – they keep the scene alive.”

When the conversation turns to being a woman working across DJing, production and event management, her answer is refreshingly honest.

Rather than focusing on external barriers, she talks about the pressure she places on herself.

“I feel like I’m not doing enough,” she says. “I’ve been trying to learn to give myself grace.”

Balancing music alongside a full-time job means accepting that there are only so many hours in the day. It’s a feeling many creatives will recognise. The desire to keep pushing can easily outweigh the need to pause and acknowledge how far you’ve already come.

And there have been plenty of moments worth celebrating.

Playing TwitchCon Amsterdam, winning Modul8’s DJ competition and closing for Helen Frey, hearing her music played on BBC Radio 1 Dance – they’re all milestones that remind her the hard work is paying off.

“It’s easy to forget to sit back and be proud of yourself.”

Right now, she’s building on that momentum.

Her latest release, Perspective Is Everything, created alongside Transistor Rhythms, has just arrived complete with a music video, while an EP is already taking shape for release later this year or early 2027. There are collaborations quietly developing in the background too, alongside hopes of bringing Cloud9 back after a short hiatus.

Nothing feels rushed. Everything feels intentional.

Looking ahead, it doesn’t sound like BEKIMACHINE is chasing trends or overnight success. She’s simply continuing to build something that feels authentic to her, one release, one set and one opportunity at a time.

Her advice to anyone wanting to follow a similar path captures that perfectly.

“Don’t give yourself excuses not to start. Just start.”

It’s simple, but perhaps that’s the point.

Conversations like this continuously make me think about just how many artists like BEKIMACHINE exist across the country – quietly putting in the hours, learning new skills, creating opportunities for others and keeping grassroots electronic music alive without expecting recognition in return.

Those are exactly the kinds of people Fleckies was built to celebrate.

And if her work so far is anything to go by, it feels like BEKIMACHINE is only just getting started.

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The post BEKIMACHINE: Building Her Own Frequency first appeared on Fleckies - Discover the best local events in town.