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So why is it called No Boys Allowed if a guy started it? Mourin anticipates this confusion, well aware of the reality that people will have feedback and opinions about his work. He wants nothing more than to be receptive and make a difference. Miami is chock-full of macho ideals, making a party like NBA contextually significant to the culture of this city. I find it important that within a historical time like this, when we can participate in dialogues about male toxicity and respecting women’s humanity and boundaries, that a young person’s response (let alone a guy’s response) was to create literal space centered around women. This should be happening everywhere. To my amazement, Mourin shared that in nearly two years of throwing NBA, there has not been a single instance of harassment or rule violation in the event’s space. I say amazement because this truly shows how the culture that Mourin and his team have created is self-aware and self-healing—a nightlife anomaly. 

“We try to make No Boys Allowed feel like a homegirl to you. We want that energy to be part of the experience. You want to party with other women, you want someone to look up and say, ‘That’s a person I feel comfortable with.’ There is a whole entire identity to it.”

With an avid love for pop culture kitsch, Mourin creates thematic party visuals and interactive experiences, like Barbie and Bratz themed night with a giant Barbie box photo opp and Halloween’s “Get a Clue” theme—just a couple of ‘90s favorites. As the event grows, his wish is to expand opportunities through community activation, partnering with brands who can invest in various creative workshops and event production, that all live under the No Boys Allowed umbrella. 

Under the warmth of this Miami night, we head out to the venue, a spot named Aftermarket, to meet Kassy, Alex, Gio and Richard while Kamari is playing his opening set, around 11pm. Up a flight of stairs is this elaborate lounge with a den-like area where you could see a row of seats and a faux library giving the place a speakeasy vibe. Unlike typical crowd settings, where the first to arrive are shy, women in the room are already dancing amongst each other. Kamari plays 2000s hip-hop/R&B throwbacks, sending the crowd into excitement when their favorite song comes on. I couldn’t help but say the words to “Flashing Lights” when my favorite line came on, midst conversation.

People trickle into the lounge, in groups of homegirls, some with their boyfriends, others with best friends, all ready to show out. Miami girls really know how to style club wear—many adorned in sexy, fun ‘fits, suitable for sticky weather. What really made an impression, was the lack of flashiness, as the energy was fueled by people dancing and not reliant on atmospheric club devices. There was no smoke and mirrors to this, simply bodies in movement. Mourin heated things up by playing an anticipated selection of his own Jersey Club edits—a Destiny’s Child Bachata flip (screaming internally). I can’t forget the bounce that had people twerking all over the stage, and Miami classics that the crowd scream-sang in unison to, closing off the night. The lights go on and everyone applauds another successful NBA, thanking the DJs and hosts, before dispersing.

Women need more opportunity to create, engage, and express themselves comfortably without fear of repercussion. We should call the shots, play the sets, move our bodies, and build trust in spaces such as this. With hope for the future, this slice of Miami nightlife makes the possibility of change within male-dominated arenas, a palpable reality. 

"I’m on my way to iHop right now."

"The homies wanted pancakes."

One bar into this phone call and we are already lost inside a Deem Spencer lyric. A good writer, a more seasoned writer, or just any writer at all, would have been able to use Deem’s admission of a 9pm trip to the International House of Pancakes to situate our protagonist within the larger state of rap in 2019. I am not a writer by any definition of the word, so I do nothing besides drop the ball and appreciate a mission of stoned excellence while slipping further down the Deem Spencer slope.

"I saw you open for Nasty Nigel at the Knockdown Center in Queens. How many shows had you done at that point?"

I will take this opportunity to note that I had absolutely no idea who Deem Spencer was when I first witnessed him bob and weave his way around a microphone wire in 2016. I was minding my own business in the back of a performance art space, supporting a friend, when a pencil sketch of a rapper with a wide toothed grin made the most of twenty-five minutes and millennial attention spans.

"I started throwing my own shows in March 2016. I had done one show each month up until that point. So it was probably my fifth show."

The person standing on stage is more J.J. than Jay-Z.  He looks like he stole the mic. It was my feeling at the time that he had better start doing something good with it before an adult took it back. Speakers crack. A decaying arrangement of strings and keys begin to Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon themselves across a pile of kick drums. Before someone who files their taxes on time could cut the sound, the kid who otherwise looks like he should be duct taped to the corner seat of an F train starts rapping:

*“If I cared about some money I’d be in college wasting it."*

Smirks from the audience. "Fuck yeahs!" from first semester dropouts and degree holders alike. The great white flash of a knowing smirk, sneaks out from underneath the edge of a bucket hat. He is not nervous. He is rapping south, directly at his own shoelaces. Looking up every single time a lyric stabs someone squarely in their fragile sense of self.

*"Ya’ll niggas told me I’m a king / Then you told me I’m a slave / Then you told me Imma win / Then you told me I’m afraid."* 

To say that I was utterly unprepared to be verbally assaulted by a high schooler would be an understatement. There are very few breaths being taken between bars or within the audience. Lyrics are spilling and bouncing like jelly beans across the cement floor and no one can turn off the faucet. The once responsible adult is in rapture and has taken a seat.

Miami, home to Art Basel, Lower East Coast, and Stray Rats, is full of cultural highlights and creativity that has yet to garner national attention the way South Beach does. Downtown is practically the party capital of the East and West Coasts, with at least one event happening every single night of the week. Picturesque palms line the streets of a city that doesn’t seem to get much sleep with all it has to offer. A layer of humidity fills the night air and won’t dissipate upon entering the dewy glow of a bar party downtown. Gio Mourin is no stranger to this atmosphere. As a Miami native having grown up in the scene, sneaking into venues at 17, his everyday version of the 305 unearths an aspiring underground experience he is proud to share with any new comer.

Known as Latenite, Mourin has been DJing since the age of 20, starting off in the typical bar setting as part of a regular Sunday party. For someone with such an extensive music taste and knowledge, routinely playing the same Top 40 music that everyone wanted to hear, quickly became unfulfilling.

“My history and roots with Miami are in dance music. We have Miami bass music, we had an era of Miami juke. It’s all high energy. For me, that’s what I predicted myself getting into as DJing going forward. Once I started noticing I was compromising what I wanted to do, to please a crowd, I started having ideas.”

No Boys Allowed (NBA) is true to its name. No man is granted entry, unless a woman invites him into the space and walks with him into the event. It is the one guaranteed night you can say, “No you can’t come with me tonight, I’m going with friends.” A literal “no boys allowed” rule and no tolerance for harassment is enforced to ensure women attending can shine, without having to worry about a guy approaching mid-dance for an ounce of attention on the dancefloor. NBA is Mourin’s direct response to toxic masculinity in the mainstream Miami party scene. During his debut DJ stint, he took note of the aggressive nature of bar cultures where women would never dance and instead stand in all corners of a room while groups of men occupied the dancefloor. Mourin wishes to remain behind the scenes (and the decks), while watching the energy of this monthly party flourish, as part of his goal to provide a space for women to feel safe in nightlife. With the resources available to him, party operations are led by his team of talented friends: Kamari (resident DJ), Richard (photographer/design), Alex (management and party hostess), and Kassy (social media manager).

On any given weekend in the Bay, there’s always something to attend, whether it be a group show, a concert, a DJ night or a Mission District bar crawl. CLUB CHAI has become an Oakland staple, hosting consistent parties, events and workshops for a community that otherwise remains unnoticed by local funding and mainstream support. That’s the beauty of organizing within (a community). Canoğulları and Sarkissian, work with local artists and friends alike when producing events, from sourcing local design for promotional materials to hosting radio shows via Oakland’s very own Lower Grand Station in the heart of downtown. No two CLUB CHAI parties are alike, ranging from raves under freeway underpasses to large warehouse parties in West Oakland.

You’re almost guaranteed to run into familiar faces at any CLUB CHAI event or DJ set no matter where it might take place. As time progresses, the network grows, friends inviting friends, inviting other friends—we’re mere degrees of separation apart. I remember seeing CLUB CHAI for my first time ever, after connecting with 8ULENTINA on Twitter and being invited to their upcoming Boiler Room. Not only was this my first CLUB CHAI experience, it would go down as the very first Boiler Room to ever take place in Oakland. Hosted by East Oakland native, DJ Fela Kutchii, in the upstairs dancehall of a local bar, devoted fans danced next to DJ booths peaking crowd interaction. Various plants and palms lined the stage as a soft pink and purple light cast its luminescence on every partygoers’ movement. From that moment on, I was part of a space that acknowledged my queer identity—a safe haven for expression, and a place to dance unlike I could ever do at a bar or club.

Three years strong, CLUB CHAI recently celebrated their anniversary at Public Works, a venue aimed towards electronic music and what remains of San Francisco’s fading underground music scene. Fading due to the rampant nature of a new tech culture. A highly anticipated lineup included both local and out-of-town acts and members of the CLUB CHAI family, featuring: SHYBOI, Quest?onmarc, Thoom, 8ULETINA and Davia Spain, FOOZOOL, Qing Qi, Oakland’s B-Side Brujas, Fela Kutchii, and Trav13za. Legendary DJ Venus X and creator of NYC’s very own GHE20G0TH1K, headlined the night, and has been a long time friend and supporter of CLUB CHAI.

“Being able to book this lineup is so monumental for us because we have never been able to bring out this many artists. On a sound level, it’s so many people we respect so much. It tells the CLUB CHAI story, in the sense that this is the wide range of sounds that we support, it’s not limited to just one type of sound and it changes,” says Canoğulları.

As the pursuit for technological advancement encroaches upon cities like Oakland, San Francisco, Brooklyn, New York City, and Los Angeles to name a few, it is important now more than ever for our underground scenes to acknowledge and ground each other. CLUB CHAI’s three year anniversary was a celebration of the time, care, and hard work that goes into existing and pursuing our visions for the future. They’ve planted the seeds of sustainability and individualism, so we can grow and take things into our own hands.

“I’m so proud and in awe of how something like this has grown and has spoken to so many people. It’s something that years ago I would have felt very alone in, or didn’t feel like so many people could relate. Each time we’ve had a party, it’s brought so many new faces, and I think that means we’re doing something right, you know,” concludes Sarkissian.

*"I’m the hearty harper, the Pied Piper of the party starter / Shorty, I could turn the water to a flame / I’m a martyr marker, the art of ark / I’m a water walker / I could lead the unholy on a wave."*

Nothing has changed in his demeanor or delivery but he is now showing off. There is a pocket, and he is within it. Everyone standing in the crowd has silently agreed to lay down and take turns volunteering as the doormat upon which Deem Spencer will wipe his feet before stepping into our living room.

*"We are not friends / I do not love you / We are locked in / I will not dive in when the shop struggle / I will not play save a hoe / The greatest soap does nothing for a popped bubble."*

The song ends and we, the entire audience, have joined Deem Spencer’s PR team. It has taken approximately two minutes to become a disciple. I will spend the next day emailing and texting friends in places of various altitudes—the firmest of co-signs, the strongest of suggestions. Crowdsourcing support for a cult leader who can’t legally buy a drink, has never been approached with more certainty. Kool-Aid served. Kool-Aid consumed. We have been fruit punched in the solar plexus.

Deem Spencer walks off stage. Disappears into a cloud of daps and sincere nods. I lose him in the crowd. He is unrecognizable without a microphone.

Four years later, everything and nothing has changed. Deem still presents himself as the least likely hero. Deadpan, blank stare, slow to smile, even slower to speak. For a man who articulates for a living he has a shocking capacity for silence. At this moment he stands at the precipice of some version of greatness. Spencer has been profiled, co-signed, Pitchforked, and Faded in ways that other rising artists would auction off appendages to duplicate. His initial offering *sunflower* (2016) is fifteen brilliant minutes of back row, high school observations from your friend who could have gone Ivy League if he had done his homework. His 2017 follow up EP, *we think we alone*, is a twenty-two minute low frequency sound bath that handles deep loss with glowing hopefulness. Both projects are jaw-dropping appetizers. We await the main course.

Deem has spent the better part of the past six months in his childhood bedroom going through a breakup. 

"Small. Two big windows. With a view, you feel me?" 

A view of what? "The neighbors house." 

Waking up between 5 and 6am, he proceeds to write, record, and mix by himself nearly every morning. He finishes his upcoming project, *Pretty Face*, at the same time as the relationship.

"I feel like my story is for me to tell. It fascinates me to be able to talk about it. I realized listening back to the tape I just finished, it’s really just me talking about my relationship. It’s as simple as that. Just me talking about it and making fun of it."

Emotions are no laughing matter. That makes things difficult because Deem Spencer has jokes. "I used to make music with no intent, so I was just like rapping my ass off but not talking about anything and when I started actually talking about myself, it came out in these very personal but reckless raps."

Watching Deem tap dance on the razor’s edge between heartlessness and sincerity on *Pretty Face* is not a lighthearted endeavor. The album is a free fall into heartbreak. The production twinkles and shines but only underscores the fact that no one else is in the amusement park. 

It’s nearly impossible to make out what Deem is singing on the opening track "Really, I" but the pain is palpable. His voice gives out on him, dropping on and off the track, broken laughs haunt the background before an ominous beat drops and Deem’s now crystal clear voice rips across ear drums: *"I asked the girl’s guy why we all can’t love her."*  Before you have time to think of an answer, the production has short circuited, strummed chords from some kind of digital harp float behind a short, smirking lullaby about cocaine. Conversations are happening with parents and you are standing in the corner of Deem’s bedroom, watching him process his emotions in real time. Rain is on the windows. Nine minutes into the album and the familiar chime of a FaceTime call rips you out of this alternative reality, forces you to check your phone to determine your place in this universe and suddenly it’s all very clear that you, or Deem, or both of you need to pick up the call.

"It sort of became a go-to for me to just talk about myself and not care how I talk about (the breakup) or not care how I reference the people around me. Just telling the stories." 

That storytelling has reached new peaks on *Pretty Face*. Deem’s break up and the inevitable emotional fall out that trails behind it, are territories that rap doesn’t often explore. Growing up listening to Kid Cudi and Kanye supersize their emotions into massive, cinematic Broadway plays surely had an influence but Deem’s approach to songwriting is not only arrestingly honest but shockingly original within the genre. I ask what he listened to while recording, songs that may have helped him process his emotions. "Get money music," he answers. Everyone copes differently. If you were raised in the South Side of Jamaica Queens when Curtis Jackson ran rap you might feel the same way.

"I’ve known the words to ‘Many Men’ since I was seven years old. My mom had the album." The cracks in Deem’s wool knit armor reveal a Teflon vest of confidence underneath. "50 Cent really just influenced how I move around here and that reflects in my music. 50, at least for the kids I grew up with, influenced the way we move. 50 is like the soundtrack for..." Deem’s voice goes quiet with admiration. "It was really like some superhero shit." The confidence with which Spencer practices his craft defies many aspects of his character. The youngest brother carrying the wisdom of the eldest. Engaged but utterly unimpressed, Deem is running a one man race.

"I see myself dropping whatever projects I feel like making, at my own pace, for as long as I live and that’s all I want to do." If the fact that Deem’s vocals are often mixed to a level one could generously describe as "out of reception" wasn’t enough of a hint, Deem is making this music for himself.

"I want to be better than everyone but that’s not the point. I want people to feel good while they’re listening and be able to relate. But I want something to listen to that relates specifically to me. That’s really the point."

But what about the pressure point? There are passionate statements of artistic intent and then there are cold realities. If the artist serves only themselves, where does that leave the listener? Rappers have always been transparent in their service to their fanbase. We fully expect albums to be interrupted by two to three sparkly gifts specially wrapped for radio. But there are no compromises on *Pretty Face*. Deem Spencer made the album *he* needed to hear and nothing else. The decisions he makes alone in his bedroom will dictate the arc of his career. The game is fickle and the spotlight moves quickly. How much does he pay attention?

"It’s whatever. It feels the same as all the other tapes ‘cause like all the other tapes I made it on my own time for myself pretty much. I know the only difference is a lot more people are going to hear it this time because, I don’t know, it all came together in the last few years."

There has to be more. He’s too aware not to realize what’s at stake. Scoring the soundtrack to your own story is a worthy endeavor, but Deem Spencer has a few thousand people waiting to borrow his headphones. Hans Zimmer doesn’t compose for himself. Is there space for Deem Spencer to continue practicing an alchemy entirely his own? At what point will he grow out of the bedroom that afforded him this freedom?

"Is it failing if you did it exactly the way you wanted to do? I don’t know. You can fail by choosing the wrong methods, I guess. But as far as what I really want to do personally, which is put out great work..." Deem pauses.

Silence.

For the first time in the conversation I can hear his brain collecting itself. How many sacrifices are acceptable? How many compromises are unavoidable? How important is it to reach the finish line if someone else drew it?

"I guess I’m not really comfortable at failing, even if I did it exactly how I wanted to do it."

The multitudes contained inside that short burst of indecision is what greatness sounds like. Scores of artists before Deem Spencer and legions of those to come after will tiptoe through the very same minefield. Their genius rests within the decisions they make. The slight of hand they employ to push the wheel in both directions when they arrive at impossible forks.

"I’ve recently become more open. I’m learning how certain things work. I’m learning the best ways to make sure that everybody can hear my work versus just being a loose cannon and throwing everything online. I feel like I’ve grown to appreciate working with others more in the last year, so in a way I’ve grown out of doing everything my own way. So, it lowers the percentage of failure. If I can express my goal with my collaborators and include multiple insights in my decisions..." Deem’s voice trails off again.

Silence.

He is listening to the implications of what he’s saying. The compromises he could be speaking into existence.

"It’s crazy how my answer changed."

There’s nothing crazy about it. The answers and the contradictions that form Deem Spencer are the foundation of his magnetic draw. A truly transparent struggle. If you’ve been there before then it’s impossible to look away. Well over an hour into the conversation, we begin to pack it up, having long since passed the point of gathering what was needed. It’s difficult to end a work in progress. I am in no particular rush but I am still searching for a way to climb out of this Deem Spencer lyric. A writer would find a way to make sense of this sixty minute run on sentence but I have only succeeded in lodging myself further in this wonderland of abbreviated genius. I pause. Attempt to let the beat respirate in my best Deem Spencer impression. And I ask him what’s left to say. It’s your world if you want it, Deem.

"This is my best tape. That’s all I want to say."

Silence.

The music will say the rest.

Multimedia archival work is essential to the existence of contemporary diasporic connection through art and creation. If we do not support and give shine to the members in our communities creating work in this exact moment, what are generations after us going to have to look back on? So much non-Western, non-white history is left unknown and untold because of social inequity and silencing.

CLUB CHAI exists as a curatorial platform centering queer and trans artists, DJs, and producers as well as a multitude of diasporic narratives. Founded by multidisciplinary producers, DJs and visual artists, Esra Canoğulları and Lara Sarkissian, this party was always intended for expansion into various art mediums that would embrace their ideas. Both founders, Canoğullari of Turkish descent and Sarkissian of Armenian descent, expressed the importance for them to make room for cultural conversations extending beyond their own roots.

“For some people it’s hard to understand what, exactly we are. ‘Are you a label? Are you a party?’ We can be all of that. We kept it this way so we could expand into different spaces within the world, including film and music, just to show people that this kind of thing is still connected to all these different mediums. Like a story that extends beyond a party, CLUB CHAI reflects not only our practices as interdisciplinary artists, but the practices of everyone we already work with,” explains founder, Lara Sarkissian.

In conversation with Canoğulları and Sarkissian, we discussed the constant feeling of needing to commodify our own cultures, creating some sense of digestibility for the masses. This is a present issue with the way people consume the bodies of work non-white artists create, without understanding a culture beyond a popularized reference point. Their platform has created the opportunity for travel and connection with global music output, situated in contexts far different than what the US has to offer. Curations by Canoğulları and Sarkissian, are layered with homage to queer and trans DJs, whose performances took place before egoism and Internet recognition were normalized. Contemporary “DJ culture” centers the DJs fandom and visibility, and not necessarily the sonic story being told. It is apparent how important navigating this reality is for the founders of CLUB CHAI. They are creating an environment in which people feel included in the soundscape and not separated from a person behind the gear.

“I think DJing is inherently about an archive and always has been. That’s why a lot of interdisciplinary artists gravitate toward that medium. It’s something that you can tell stories with and talk about with time, using the past, the present, and thinking about the future; to create these really transcendent moments that aren’t just about you. It’s about having this dialogue with the crowd, to create what you want the future to sound and feel like—what you’re excited about,” Canoğulları continues.

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No Boys Allowed

THE HOODWITCH—       
A MODERN MYSTIC       

*Writer: Deb Lee       
Photographer: Nathanial Gray*

“Bri entered the studio already halfway through a sentence, “Is it cool if I take my shoes off? I hate wearing shoes.”   
She had come prepared. She had in tow a large purse and a red suitcase, which she began unpacking immediately. It was full of scarves, candles, a crystal ball, a tarot deck, makeup, several outfit changes.

“This is not your first rodeo!” I said.

This was, however, my first rodeo. I was a little apprehensive about talking to Bri, a practicing witch who has carved out a niche little corner of the internet under the name The Hoodwitch. My points of reference on witchcraft are pretty much Sabrina and the most boring Game of Thrones subplot. I wasn’t sure I’d have much to bring to the table. 

But in this political climate, spending an hour learning about ancient, women-led practices of connecting with one another and the universe through literal magic sounds like a breath of fresh fucking air. So I said, “Yes, I’d love to talk to The Hoodwitch.””

To read the full article, [grab Issue 03 here](https://cultclassicmag.com/issue/issue-03-nocturnal).

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The Hoodwitch

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DEKA—       
PROVOCANTYUTE

*Photography: Agustin Hernandez*       
Models: Deka Abdullahi & Corbin       
Hair & Makeup: Frankie Kukich       

“Deka works at a sushi restaurant. She wants me to know that and tells me she wants to come off as vulnerable as possible.

Deka sits on the edge of her roommate’s bed, clutching an oversized stuffed koala she has lovingly named Burp Chanel West Coast Rodriguez. She’s still situating herself, surrounded by pillows and looking for the perfect mix. Deka has finally created the optimal space to share some of the things it would’ve taken me a while to learn about her otherwise. She delivers the first few statements about herself in just above a whisper.

“My name is Deka, I am a first generation Somali-American fashion designer creating one-off custom pieces under the name Provocant Yute.”

The mix playing in the background switches from bombastic to relaxed, each track backing up Deka’s narration of life lessons; her affinity for Sega Bodega and not taking herself too seriously. 

Coming from a strict Muslim household she describes growing up feeling alienated by American culture. Despite being a very curious kid, her rigid upbringing allowed her very little opportunity to experiment with anything. What influences her now is just the freedom to create.”

To read the full article, [grab Issue 03 here](https://cultclassicmag.com/issue/issue-03-nocturnal).

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BSK—       
UNA FANTASÍA DE BODA MEXICANA

Wardrobe Stylist + Model: Nayeli de Alba       
Wardrobe Styling Assistant: Daniela Altamira       
Hair: Mariana PaMa       
Coordinator: Jamie Axe       
Model: Georgina Treviño       
Model: Viktor Martinez       
Model: Morena Valdés       
Model: Tosh Tanamachi       
Model: Dorian Ulises López Macías       
Location: ARCHIVO Diseño Y Arquitectura       
Artwork and Installation: Fernando Laposse from Exhibition,       
*Transmutaciones*

“I am not a poet but I have very inspiring friends

People often miss the cracks

That expression of intense feeling

Symbolic of a not planned disaster

That represents the real scene of the city

Our own narration

Our path to absurdity

Provoking to find our way

Absorbing the messages of all the misfits that walked before us and let their beautiful
execution take its natural course

I am surrounded by unconventional standards of reality and dinner conversations

By the ones that have no rules but high expectations and dreams

The forgotten ones

The ones that don’t sleep but bring color to the streets and curiosity to our existence

The ones that make you rethink life and your lovers

Putting canvas in our skin and bringing music to our ears

Finding their way into the cracks for our passage

A family where you are accepted with your raw vision and eager to discover new ways

For all my talented friends that make me free

I give you my eternal dream

SOLRAC”

To read the full article, [grab Issue 03 here](https://cultclassicmag.com/issue/issue-03-nocturnal).

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Bárbara Sánchez-Kane

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The enigmatic period between dusk and dawn creates a moment of metamorphosis: swapping business casual for the fantastical, escaping the confines of a cubicle for the sanctuary of the discotheque, performing that nightly ritual to start the cycle all over again. This issue of Cult Classic illuminates those who come alive in the night; the hidden, the inexplicable and those who are tirelessly honing their craft while everyone else has called it a day.

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ISSUE 03: NOCTURNAL

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COVER 01: SÁNCHEZ KANE

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COVER 02: THE HOODWITCH

COVER 03: DEEM SPENCER

In a world that’s constantly searching for the new, we still find solace in the preservation of tradition, the origin story and the pioneers who made “today” possible. This issue highlights those staying true to themselves. Updating without gentrifying. Sampling without appropriating. Paying homage to their roots while writing the next chapter in the legacy of their genre.

In a world that’s constantly searching for the new, we still find solace in the preservation of tradition, the origin story and the pioneers who made “today” possible. This issue highlights those staying true to themselves. Updating without gentrifying. Sampling without appropriating. Paying homage to their roots while writing the next chapter in the legacy of their genre.

ISSUE 02: PRESERVATION

COVER 01: TORO Y MOI

COVER 02: UZUMAKI CEPEDA

COVER 03: CASPER WRIGHT

This issue is dedicated to those not bound by labels. On a never ending journey. Molded by the DNA of their city. Musicians doing it for the love, not the interview. Makers rejecting uniformity and pushing individuality. Artists shining a light on the unseen. All connected by an attitude that transcends culture, location and social status.

This issue is dedicated to those not bound by labels. On a never ending journey. Molded by the DNA of their city. Musicians doing it for the love, not the interview. Makers rejecting uniformity and pushing individuality. Artists shining a light on the unseen. All connected by an attitude that transcends culture, location and social status.

ISSUE 01: TRANSCENDENCE

COVER 01: LOS ANGELES

COVER 02: CHICAGO

COVER 03: NEW YORK

__ISSUE 03__ ~~1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15,~~

BARBARASANCHEZKANE

17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37,

WHODAT

Whodat

WAJEED

Waajeed

BEIJE

Beije

BLACKNOISE

Black Noi$e

Tristan Hackney

BLOODYOSIRIS

Bloody Osiris

DEEM

ELVIS

Elvis

65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81,

DEKA

83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97,

THEHOODWITCH

99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111,

CLUBCHAI

FOREIGNER

foreigner

NOBOYSALLOWED

NoBoysAllowed

113, 114, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131,