Rooted in Brussels and shaped by its raw performer energy, RELO4D crafts techno that hits both the body and the chest. Emotionally charged, precise, and built for momentum. As the mind behind ORIGINS & OBSCURA brands, he curates nights that feel less like parties and more like shared rituals: immersive, intentional, and driven by community. He builds worlds where catharsis, community and meticulous curation collide.
Time to step inside his universe.
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Career & Artistic Identity
Looking back, was there a precise moment when you felt RELO4D transform from an alias into something inevitable, call it a turning point on stage or in the studio that reshaped your trajectory?
Yeah. It wasn’t a big headline moment. It was when the first tracks started getting picked up by small labels. Not “industry” labels, not massive reach… but real people I didn’t know, in other cities, deciding my sound was worth putting their name on. That hit me hard because it made it tangible: the music had left my laptop, left my room, and started living on its own.
The music had left my laptop, left my room, and started living on its own.
And around the same time, I played those first small venues. The kind of venues where you arrive, and nobody knows you, nobody owes you attention, and you can’t hide behind a reputation. You’re in front of strangers, and you feel exposed. I remember that tension in my chest before playing: either this works, or it doesn’t, and it’s all on the music.
But then something happened that I’ll never forget: people started reacting to the atmosphere, not just the drop. Like they were stepping into the world I was building. That’s when it flipped for me. RELO4D stopped being “me trying something”. It became: this is real, this is a direction, and I’m not going back, I can only improve!
Your sound feels directional yet never static. Which unexpected feedback or failure has had the strongest impact on how you evolved as an artist?
Early on, the biggest wake-up call came from feedback I didn’t expect because it wasn’t about my taste or my “style”; it was about translation.
Someone I trust told me after hearing a few demos: “You’ve got great ideas, but the energy doesn’t land the way you think it does. The track promises impact… then it flattens, it’s missing variations, and intrigues…“
At first, I took it personally. But they were right. I was producing with headphones, brain — too many details, too square and framework approach, too much movement in the midrange, not enough purpose in the low end and arrangement. The grooves were there, but they weren’t inevitable. I was building interesting loops, not building pressure or tension.
Then I had a moment in a live context that really exposed it: I tested some new track ID’s in a small venue, in front of 650 people. In my studio, it felt massive, emotional, “cinematic”… but live, it became muddy and strangely small. The kick didn’t breathe, the bass fought the synths, and the tension I thought I was creating just didn’t translate. It was painful because it wasn’t a performance mistake but it was the production.
That failure changed how I work:
- I stopped treating arrangement like decoration and started treating it like control of energy. What enters, what leaves, what you deny the listener to build desire.
- I became obsessed with space: fewer layers, cleaner roles, and letting the low end carry the authority.
- And it completely shaped my live set mindset: I now build material that’s meant to be played, not just listened to. Parts that can expand, strip back, and breathe depending on the room.
So yeah, that feedback and that live performance challenge taught me something simple but brutal: a track isn’t finished when it sounds good in the studio — it’s finished when it survives the room.
When creating new material, how do you balance instinct, pure emotional impulse, with intentionality? Are there phases where one must override the other?
Yeah, definitely. For me, it’s two completely different phases, and they can’t happen at the same time.
At the start, it’s instinct only. I’m chasing a feeling before I even know what genre box it fits in. It’s usually one sound, a texture, a vocal fragment, a bass movement, that hits something in me. If I start thinking too early (“Is this club-ready?”, “Is this my sound?”), I kill it. So the first sessions are messy on purpose: I move fast, use templates, record ideas, and I don’t judge. That’s where the emotion lives.
Then there’s a moment — usually after a break, the next day — where I switch into intentionality. That’s when I ask: what is this track actually trying to do to a room? Where is the tension? Where is the payoff? What’s the one main message? And then I get ruthless. I delete things I love if they don’t serve the energy. I simplify, I tighten the low end, I make space. That part is less romantic, but it’s what makes the track translate outside my head.
And yes, sometimes one has to override the other:
- If I’m stuck, it’s almost always because intentionality is creeping in too early. Then I force myself back into instinct: no rules, no mixing, just creation.
- But if I have a beautiful loop that goes nowhere, instinct isn’t enough. Intentionality has to take over and turn it into a journey.
The way I see it: instinct gives the track a pulse. Intentionality gives it a spine. Without instinct, it’s cold, without intention, it’s unfinished.
Brussels, Influences & Studio Process
Brussels is a sonic and cultural mosaic. Which textures, rhythms or nocturnal impressions from the city find their way into your productions, consciously or unconsciously?
I think Brussels creates more distractions, opportunities to experiment, and at the end of the day, troubles to stick to the plan!
Because the city has this strong underground, non-mainstream club culture, you’re constantly surrounded by nights where the rules feel optional. It’s not about “performing correctly” or delivering the expected peak-time formula — it’s more like a lab, or a safe zone to be a bit raw. And honestly, that’s super tempting in the best way: it pushes you to slip into different modes of performance.
Sometimes that means going more savage, more physical — letting the set get rougher, dirtier, more relentless because that’s the most honest way to communicate what you’re feeling. And sometimes it means the opposite: experimenting with tension, silence, broken rhythms, weird transitions… taking risks that might not work in a more mainstream setting, but can work here because people come for the experience, not the checklist.
For me, it has become a real language. Like, the set isn’t just “tracks I like”, it’s a way to say things I wouldn’t say with words: frustration, release, euphoria, pressure, intimacy — all of that. Brussels crowds can read that. They’re not just waiting for bangers; they’re open to you building something unpredictable.
So yeah, that underground culture definitely shapes my dramaturgy: I treat a set like a space where I can experiment and communicate in real time — sometimes elegant, sometimes feral — but always honest.
Is there a specific artist or label that shaped your understanding of ‘strength in simplicity,’ and how does that influence your approach to arrangement today?
I’ve always been drawn to artists and labels where you can feel the confidence in how little they need. That “one hook, one groove, no waste” mentality. It taught me that simplicity isn’t minima, it’s intentional.
Today it really affects my arrangements: I’m less interested in adding constant new elements and more into control of energy. I’ll build around one strong idea and let it evolve through tension, space, and subtle changes — filter movement, a tiny rhythmic shift, a detail that appears once and disappears. If the core is strong, the track doesn’t need to talk all the time. It just needs to pull.
When people ask what I gravitate around, it’s basically this “hypnotic but club-driven” family. Like emotional storytelling, but still built to move bodies.
I built my curiosity thanks to the warriors from Hungry Music / NTO (and that whole circle), who taught me that you can hit deep with very few elements — a strong motif, a clean groove, and emotion sitting right in the center. That crew (Joachim Pastor, Joris Delacroix…) really shaped my taste for clarity + intensity
Afterlife / Tale Of Us is the other big reference point for me — the way they build tension like a film, the pacing, the sense of “entering a world,” not just playing tracks. That mindset affects how I think about DJ storytelling and atmosphere, even though I’m far from being rock solid in terms of vision/execution like these guys have managed to achieve over the past 10 years.
Jonas Saalbach (and his universe around Radikon) is that emotional, uplifting depth music that’s not flashy, but really sincere and beautifully constructed. Radikon, founded by Saalbach + Guzy with close friends, gives that “tight community” feeling I relate to.
On a more driving, punchy side, Boris Brejcha is a reference for groove discipline and efficiency — that clean, confident propulsion where every element earns its place.
And then Apashe is a special one for me because he’s Brussels-born — and he proves you can go full cinematic and still make it hit hard. That orchestral / “movie villain theme” energy is inspiring, not because I make the same style, but because it’s pure expression: bold, dramatic, uncompromising
In your studio, which piece of gear, plug-in, or ritual is essential for locking into your creative flow — and why that one in particular?
Honestly, the biggest “gear” for me is a simple ritual: I start every session by getting something moving fast, launch templates depending on the mood and what crosses my mind— even if it’s rough. Kick + bass or a texture loop in the first 10 minutes. If I don’t do that, I can fall into tweaking sounds forever, and wake up 5 hours later with zero results :).
Tool-wise, Ableton is my home, and anything that lets me shape mood quickly is essential — a good reverb/delay to create space, and a saturator to give things weight. But the real key is: I try to stay in “creation mode” long enough to capture the emotion before I become the guy who’s EQ’ing hi-hats for an hour. Flow for me is speed + instinct first, detail later.
I’m about to proceed to the 5th revamp of my home studio in a few days, I’ll include much more physical items, racks, synths and groove boxes, I want to experiment in priority this “nerd” pleasure to rapidly improvise in a structured way to generate more ideas instead of clicking for hours with the mouse…
Your DJ sets often unfold with a strong narrative arc, almost cinematic in pacing. What non-musical influences — film, architecture, philosophy — shape the dramaturgy of your sets?
A big part of my pacing comes from minimal, tech-driven architecture — I’m obsessed with clean lines, engineered spaces, and that feeling of precision where every element exists for a reason. That mindset translates directly into my sets: I like building with a few strong materials, letting small changes do big work, creating tension through structure rather than chaos.
I’m also drawn to mystery — the idea that there are laws ruling the universe that we feel more than we can explain. Like patterns, cycles, energy… things that connect us, whether we’re aware of it or not. When I DJ, I’m not just trying to entertain — I’m trying to tap into that invisible thread in the room, the part that lives beyond words and even beyond what we can fully understand in this 3D plane.
And that’s where the “cinematic” arc comes from: it’s a form of human experimentation in real time. You push, you hold, you release. You test how far you can stretch a moment. And when it clicks, it feels like the room becomes one system — people syncing to the same pulse — and you can almost generate positive energy together. That’s the magic I’m chasing in every show, and trying to translate into my music!
Origins & OBSCURA— Community & Curation
Origins and OBSCURA concepts feel less like an event series and more like a carefully curated world. What core emotion do you aim to evoke with every edition, regardless of lineup or venue?
The core emotion is connection through release.
No matter the lineup or the venue, I want to build progressively for every ORIGINS & OBSCURA edition to feel like a space where people can drop the mask, play a role and experiment — where the pressure of the week, the noise, the ego, all of it dissolves for a few hours. Not in a “happy party” way, more in a cathartic way: you arrive with your own weight, and you leave lighter, aligned, plugged back into yourself and into the room.
That’s why I call it a curated world. The goal isn’t just good music — it’s that feeling that something invisible is happening between strangers: a shared pulse, a shared ritual. When it works, it’s like the crowd becomes one organism, and the emotion becomes bigger than any individual artist or track. That’s ORIGINS/OBSCURA for me. And alongside that, it’s also about balance: giving space to artists who’ve shaped the scene for a decade or more — true references, leaders in their lane — while also creating a real platform for emerging talent. I love putting fresh names in the right context, where they can genuinely surprise people and build a connection with the crowd.
As a curator, where do you draw the line between what ‘works on the dancefloor’ and what is artistically or conceptually meaningful for the project?
For me, it’s not just about what “works on the dancefloor” in isolation — it’s about what works inside the world of ORIGINS. The concept starts way before the lineup: the venue, the atmosphere, the feeling of the room. I’m always looking for spaces that have a soul, places that already carry something — rawness, intimacy, tension, history — and that naturally support the artistic direction of the night. If the venue doesn’t match the story, even the best music can feel disconnected.
So the line is this: if a track (or an artist, or even a format) only works because it’s predictable and effective, but it doesn’t fit the emotion and identity of the edition, I’ll pass. I’d rather take something more daring that belongs to the theme and becomes memorable.
When everything aligns — venue, sound, lights, pacing — the dancefloor response becomes deeper. People aren’t just reacting to drops, they’re stepping into an experience. That’s the balance I’m chasing: impact without compromise, and a night that feels meaningful from the first minute to the last.
How does organising ORIGINS and OBSCURA influence your own artistic decisions? Do the two worlds feed each other, or do they sometimes collide?
They definitely feed each other. But yeah, sometimes they collide too.
ORIGINS influences my artistic decisions because it keeps me in constant contact with the real room. When you’re organising, you’re not thinking in theory — you’re thinking in energy, pacing, crowd psychology, sound systems, what a space can handle, what it needs. That shapes how I produce and how I build my sets: I write music that’s meant to be played, with space to breathe, evolve, and hit properly on a system.
It also pushes me to stay curious. Booking artists, discovering new names, hearing different approaches up close — It forces me not to get lazy or fall into one safe formula. It’s like a permanent research lab — and honestly, that fits the way I live: I’d rather keep moving, run things by trial and error, learn fast, adjust, and move on. But it can collide because ORIGINS and OBSCURA events also demand time, focus, logistics — and sometimes the organiser’s brain tries to invade the artist’s brain. You start thinking about constraints, budgets, schedules… and that’s the opposite of creativity. So I’ve had to learn to protect studio time and switch modes: when I’m RELO4D creating, I can’t be the guy answering emails in the back of my head.
In the end, I see them as two sides of the same thing: ORIGINS is the world I build for others, and RELO4D is the world I build from inside. When I manage the balance, they make each other stronger.
Future Vision & Personal Evolution
Looking at today’s club culture — from community-building to techno’s shifting aesthetics — what evolution do you see in Brussels that isn’t being talked about enough?
What I see in Brussels, and it’s not talked about enough, is this quiet shift toward intentionality. People aren’t only chasing big lineups anymore. A lot of dancers are looking for nights with a clear identity: a room that feels safe, a crowd that feels like it belongs there, a sound system that’s respected, and a consistent artistic direction. The “community” part is becoming less of a buzzword and more of a real filter: who is this night for, and what energy does it protect?
At the same time, aesthetically, Brussels is moving away from strict techno “uniforms.” It’s becoming more hybrid and emotional again — not necessarily softer, but more open: hypnotic, groovy, trance-leaning moments, even cinematic textures… all inside the same night. And because the city has such a strong underground culture, there’s less fear of experimenting. You can take risks here, and people will follow if it’s authentic.
The last thing I notice is a kind of back-to-the-room mentality: smaller venues with soul, better curation, less content-for-social-media, more focus on what happens in the dark. That evolution is subtle, but it’s powerful — and it’s very Brussels.
What creative challenge do you want to set for yourself in the coming months, even if it pushes you outside your comfort zone?
I want to push myself into a more vulnerable, high-risk zone creatively — less “perfect club tool,” more personal statement, move one step further into hybridising my live performances, giving room to improvisation in a relatively structured context.
Concretely, I want to build material that works on a big system but still feels emotional and exposed: fewer layers, stronger motifs, more space, and tension that comes from arrangement rather than constant energy. And I want to translate that into a live-set direction where I’m not just mixing tracks, but shaping moments in real time — stretching parts, breaking patterns, letting the room breathe, taking decisions on instinct.
It’s outside my comfort zone because it means accepting imperfection and unpredictability. But that’s exactly the point: I want the next months to feel like experimentation again — trial, error, learn, move forward — and come out with a sound that feels even more mine.
One creative challenge that’s honestly been haunting me is reconciling my two faces — because I need both.
On one side, I’m obsessed with the melodic/hypnotic side: the kind of show where time disappears, where you elevate the soul, where it feels almost spiritual — like you’re connecting to something bigger than the room, something divine.
But at the same time, my first real musical education came from metal and rock — guitars, heavy drums, raw intensity. And that part of me still needs moments of total let it go and an explosion of non-verbal emotions. No polish, no control, just fast, heavy beats where you let the animal out, and the crowd can completely lose it too.
So, my challenge for the coming months is to stop choosing between them and build a way for both to exist without feeling like I’m splitting myself. Either by creating two distinct performance formats, or by crafting a narrative that allows a set to move between trance-like elevation and full-on release — like a ritual that has both the sacred and the savage.
Because when I’m honest, that’s exactly what I want to give people: moments to connect with something higher… and moments to burn everything down and be free.
Which new spaces — physical, sonic or emotional — do you want to explore with RELO4D that your audience hasn’t encountered from you yet?
I want to explore spaces where the format breaks a bit. Spaces where it doesn’t feel like “a DJ set” in the classic sense, but more like an experiment that’s happening live with the crowd.
For example, I’d love to play with time as a material: starting a night way lower than people expect, letting things breathe, stretching transitions until you can’t tell where one track ends and the next begins. Create a gladiator-alike universe, offering artists to face each other and create or compete, offering this vibing experience to the public! Almost like one long piece of music that slowly mutates. Sometimes even cutting the opposite way — sudden interruptions, wrong turns, moments of near-silence — just to reset the room and make people listen again instead of consuming.
I also want to push more into hybrid performance: taking stems, loops, textures from my own productions and manipulating them on the fly, so the set becomes something unique to that night. Not “press play on unreleased,” but actually shaping the architecture of the sound in real time — building, stripping, breaking, rebuilding. And then there’s the spatial side of it: using the room as part of the instrument. Playing with positioning, immersion, visuals as tension rather than decoration — creating the feeling that you’ve stepped into a system with its own rules. Something minimal but very intentional, where the smallest change feels huge.
Basically, I want the audience to encounter a RELO4D in its space that’s less predictable and more alive — where the risk is part of the emotion, and where we’re discovering the journey together, not just following a plan.
If ORIGINS could leave only one lasting imprint on the Brussels scene five years from now, what would you want it to be?
If ORIGINS leaves one imprint on Brussels in five years, I’d want it to be this: proof that you can build a night with a strong soul and a clear artistic direction — and still make it truly work — to build a strong Ethos and leave something memorable, the way places like Who’s Who’s Land, Mad Club, Libertine Supersport, Fight Klub and others whom left permanent traces in the memories of the lucky generation who lived their glory years.
Not just another party, but a reference for how to curate: choosing venues that mean something, protecting the vibe, treating sound and light like part of the storytelling, and putting the crowd experience above hype. A place where people trust the journey, not just the headliner.
And I’d want ORIGINS to be remembered for bridging generations — giving proper space to artists who’ve shaped the scene for years, while also offering emerging talent a real platform to surprise and connect. If that becomes normal in Brussels because ORIGINS helped set that standard, that would be the best legacy.
Finally: what still-unborn idea — a concept, collaboration or sonic experiment — keeps circling in your mind these days?
There’s one “still-unborn” idea that keeps coming back, and it’s more like a conceptual obsession than a single track.
I want to create a project that feels like a bridge between the sacred and the savage — a full experience where the night starts almost like a ceremony: slow, hypnotic, minimal, like you’re entering a space with its own laws. And then, little by little, it mutates into something raw and physical — faster, heavier, almost violent in energy — until it becomes pure “lâcher-prise”. Not chaos for the sake of it, but a controlled descent where the release feels earned. This is what we are exploring and experimenting with the OBSCURA concept.
The sonic experiment would be to build it from a limited palette — almost architectural: a few textures, one or two motifs, a “pulse” that evolves — and then introduce “alien” elements from my other roots: distorted drums, metallic percussion, guitar-like noise, things that feel like they shouldn’t belong… until they do. Like the universe bending its own rules.
And I keep imagining a collaboration around it too — not necessarily another DJ, but someone from outside the usual circuit: a visual artist, a lighting designer, even a contemporary dancer or a spoken-word voice. Something that makes it feel like a live ritual, not a normal show.
It’s still unborn because it’s ambitious and a bit scary — it would expose everything I am at once. But that’s why it keeps circling: it feels like the next real step, not just another release or another night.
Thank you.
