Each year during Listen Festival we hand over the keys of a club to a few curators. If you're picturing a symbolic moment with an oversized cardboard key, we’ll have to disappoint you. But make no mistake—we mean it when we say carte blanche. One of the experts curating a night this year is Moroccan-Brussels artist ojoo. On Saturday, 8th of November, they take over C11, the second room of C12. They are programming their favorite musicians in the likes of Demdike Stare and Mama Matrix & Hans Arsen for an evening that promises experimentation, emotion, and groove. Whether you're soaking it in from the sidelines or dancing front and center, the music won't leave you untouched.

A few months ahead of the festival, we met up with ojoo at Brasserie Atlas in Anderlecht. The old brewery feels like their second home—a creative safe haven tucked deep in the Brussels borough, where time seems to stand still. It’s here that ojoo found connection with a community and where they give back to the city in return. It’s the home of LYL Radio Brussels, but also where the sound system is stored—the one they helped build with the Psst collective. After a chat in the sun-drenched courtyard, we were given a tour of the temporary occupation project, a space that will inevitably make way for new development in a few years. A conversation about a fat iPod, moving to Europe and the need to protest.

Hello Ojoo, thank you for having us. Could you tell us about your connection to Brasserie Atlas?

We’ve got a studio in the making here, and I’ve been quite involved with the community around the space. There are so many artists here I’m constantly learning from—it’s a real exchange of knowledge, skills, ideas… everything, really.

I also help take care of the outdoor area, including the garden—we even had a mushroom ‘wall’ out there that we grew alongside Zwarm.be for a uni project. A place like this just sparks so many ideas. From turning all the rooftops green to making music, doing sound recordings… The acoustics in the basements and the tower are wild, like beautiful reverbs and natural echo chambers. It’s a constant source of inspiration.

It’s quite unique to find this much open space in the heart of the city, isn’t it?

Yeah, absolutely. There’s a big community involved in this space and we try to make sense of it all as much as we can, from workshops with the kids from the neighbourhood, art and craft brocantes, outdoor sound system parties, to Eid prayers in the courtyard. 

Where are you from in Morocco?

I’m from Meknes. I’m planning to go back soon to visit my family, but it’s a bit stressful because of my visa situation. My current permit expires on the 31st of October, and without a permanent contract, I might not be allowed to re-enter Belgium. That’s why I feel the need to travel now, before things get more complicated.

There’s always this uncertainty—navigating different systems, trying to figure out which path to follow, and knowing each comes with its own set of risks and confusion. It's a constant balancing act between different worlds.

Where do your musical roots lie?

My relationship with music has always been deeply personal—it's been like that since I was about nine. My brother and I shared the same desktop and iTunes, but he didn’t want me listening to his music. He was into whatever everyone around us was into at the time. That kind of pushed me to go out and find my own sound. It was the first time we had internet at home, and I just dove in—forums, Rate Your Music, Discogs, LimeWire, Megaupload, Pirate Bay… I was pirating everything I could get my hands on, just building my own library from scratch.

My dad is really into small electronics and DIY tech—super hands-on but in this very old-school way. Someone had given him an old iPod, one of those fat 256GB ones, and he passed it on to me. He was like, “You’ll make use of this.” And I did—I started mass-downloading music just to listen to as much as I could.

That’s also how I learned English. I used to download all the lyrics, with French translations, just to understand what the songs were really about.

Was music something passed down in your family?

Definitely. My aunts had tons of tapes, and my grandma still uses her tape deck—music has always been part of the atmosphere around me.

I was exposed to a lot of traditional music growing up. No one in my family is a professional musician, but we’ve always had instruments around—derbukas, bendirs, small drums and percussions, stuff to play with. So whenever the whole family gathers, someone inevitably brings out the instruments. There’s dancing, music, even full-on twerking battles—but only when the men are out of the house.

I remember when my mom went to Europe for the first time—she came back with a bunch of CDs for me. A lot of reggae, which she loved. It was pretty much the only genre she listened to apart from traditional music. She also used to drop me off at this friend’s place because she knew I was really into music. He had these old-school tape decks and this incredible library. 

What else helped shape your path in music and culture?

When I was 13, I had an unspoken deal with the artistic director of the French Institute in Meknes. I’d take photos at their events in exchange for access to the cultural programming they were doing. 

Later, I moved to Rabat for my studies. That’s when things really opened up. I started meeting more people and going to proper parties. There were two parallel scenes at the time: the psytrance community—which was more working-class, activist, and accessible, and where I felt very at home—and then this more upscale, club-oriented techno scene. Eventually, there was a bit of crossover—people from both sides bonding over Muslimgauze, Burial, footwork, stuff like that.

I was also connecting with people older than me and from abroad through webzines and different online spaces. I got involved in a webzine myself, and that gave us access to these Moroccan electronic music festivals—events that were mostly targeting tourists and had ticket prices way beyond our reach otherwise. 

When did you start DJing?

I started DJing when I was living in Rabat. We were working with this festival and one of the bookers needed a place to stay, so he ended up crashing at ours. He saw Imane’s gear laying around and us playing weird music from the living room and was suprised. He ended up booking us for the next edition of the festival. As soon as that was announced, other offers started coming in, mostly in Morocco. It just kind of snowballed.

The French Institute in Meknes—where I used to take pictures when I was younger—also reached out. The guy there called me up like, “Do you want to come DJ?” And I was like, “Hey, remember me?” So I got to play in my hometown, for this amazing mix of people—breakdancers, kids, grandmas... It was meant to be a two-hour set, but they didn’t want me to stop. I ended up playing for like four hours straight. 

Then I moved to Casablanca for work, and that’s when I started getting into radio. At first, I was just invited for one-off shows—on stations like Rinse and LYL. But then Noods reached out and offered me a regular slot, which really took me by surprise. That was right before COVID hit. Radio became a lifeline during that time. It helped me stay connected to music when everything else felt like it was falling apart. The scene in Morocco was already quite fragile, and with the pandemic, it became even more vulnerable. Having that space to dig, listen, and share music gave me a sense of continuity when the rest of the world was on pause.

What made you decide to come to Europe?

I always knew I wanted to leave. I never really felt like I belonged—because of a male dominated scene, exploitation, but also my gender identity. Growing up in a rough neighborhood, in a family without much privilege, it was really tough to navigate life while trying to pursue something creative, in an environment where only clout matters.

There were so many layers to it—human rights, safety, identity—it all pushed me to look elsewhere. I don’t even know where I found the strength, but somehow, I managed. I came straight to Brussels on a student visa and enrolled in cultural management studies.

Was music part of your decision to move to Brussels?

Definitely, as it’s something that has always been an integral part of my life. But not in this exact way. I had no idea that I’ll be doing this right now. It felt like the music scene here opened up to me almost instantly. I was already in touch with Driss Bennis, another Moroccan artist living in Brussels, and he invited me to run we had a shared residency called SCAM PLANET with him on Kiosk Radio, a residency programme that he already had on Rinse France. Playing at the radio a couple of times led to an invitation to play the Kiosk stage at Horst Festival. Brussels welcomed me with open arms, and honestly, it’s been a joy ever since. Later on, I connected with the collective Psst. I joined them for several projects, and together we started building a sound system.

Was it hard to build a sound system?

It’s definitely a challenge—and it’s not finished. It’s always a work in progress. But it’s such a rewarding process, because it changes how you understand sound entirely.

You start thinking in terms of frequencies, but also about the physicality of sound—how it interacts with space, how you tune and calibrate for different environments. It’s about so much more than just plugging things in. You begin to see sound not just as something you hear, but as something you shape and respond to physically. It’s endlessly fascinating.

We make it available for our community—just last week it was used at an Afro Ball during Pride. And honestly, every time we turn it on, there’s this moment… someone grabs the mic, or you play a track, and suddenly the bass comes through the subs so clearly. Then the vocals emerge—right from the center—it feels like this entity is speaking to you. It’s like this big wooden cyborg structure is delivering a message. That’s why it matters so much that we built it ourselves. It’s not just a sound system—it’s something for the community.

Building it also pulled me into woodworking. The process was so fascinating that I got my own drill, tools… now I’m soldering cables, touching things I always wanted to but never had the chance to before. Back in school, I wanted to study electronics, but my mom said it was only for boys, so I ended up in economics—which I hated. But even then, I was always opening up laptops, swapping RAMs, fixing my phone. That’s definitely something I got from my dad—he’s a photographer, and he’s also super obsessed with tech, always fixing things for himself, his friends, his family, anyone around him. So in a way, building the system brought me full circle.

I read a post where you said it’s hard to promote yourself without also mentioning the need to protest and support others. Can you explain why?

My whole relationship with music is incredibly personal. It always depends on how I’m feeling inside. Music isn’t just sound—it’s frequencies that move throughout your body. When it’s loud enough, it can put you in a meditative state. It becomes a full-body experience.

So when I’m DJing for a crowd, I can’t reduce it to just entertainment if that’s not where I’m at emotionally. I’ve broken down in tears on stage before, while playing something really personal. And in that moment, it’s not a performance—it’s me sharing something raw with everyone there. I can’t detach myself and just play to please a crowd unless it feels genuine. I love to create joyful moments, too—but it has to come naturally. I find joy in darkness anyways… (laughs).

Back in November 2023, when everything started unfolding in Gaza, I was in Europe—just witnessing the contrast in how people reacted. The confusion, the pressure, the stares… I felt hyper-visible in a way that I never experiencend before.

At that time, I started bringing back some old selections of darker, more politically engaged music—tracks from Palestinian artists, others from this project called Indigenous Resistance that I’ve been rinsing since I ever started DJing, that’s calling out genocides, but mainly the one in West Papua. Music that speaks about colonialism that’s still happening today. A lot of that energy lives in dub and reggae for instance—you can feel and clearly hear the message in it. It’s not even hard to find if you're really listening.

Of course, I also love playing cheerful, healing sets—to just feel whole with the community. That’s important, too. But touring can be tough. You show up at festivals, not knowing who your audience is, and it’s hard to find that space to be real. I’ve never been driven by clout or bookings. I don’t play just to please 5,000 people in hopes they’ll follow me after. That’s not why I do this. For me, music is a way to feel, to connect, to speak truth.

We are looking forward to your curation at this year’s Listen Festival, ojoo. Thanks for the chat.