For more than two decades, Matias Aguayo has mastered the art of existing between worlds. From Cologne’s minimal techno scene to the vocal-driven chaos of his label Cómeme, his career has resisted categorization. A musical nomad, Aguayo eventually found creative grounding in the layered rhythms of Mexico City.
On May 29, 2026, Aguayo returns with Anenoa via Platoon — an album that feels more like an invitation than a finished statement. Across the record, stripped-back vocals, collaborative experimentation, and playful energy transform the dance floor into a space of imagination rather than dystopia.
Q&A with Aguayo
In this conversation, Aguayo discusses “groundlessness,” language politics in electronic music, collective creativity, and why joy may be the most radical artistic gesture today.
“Anenoa” and the Space Between Machine & Human
You’ve spent over two decades navigating the spaces between Cologne’s minimal techno heritage and the vibrant, rhythmic anarchy of Cómeme. How does Anenoa represent a reconciliation of those two worlds — the precision of the machine and the unpredictability of the human voice?
There’s an aspect of minimalism — even brutalism — that has always stayed with me. Not as something purist, but something raw. A directness that leaves space. The human voice communicates that openness and makes it more accessible, especially in performance.
For Anenoa, collaboration was essential. I wanted a surrounding where things happen collectively and in real time, creating more depth — something I’ve pursued since the days of Closer Musik. I worked with many incredible artists: Etienne Jaumet helped shape several sounds, Rafael Cohen contributed arrangements and instrumentation, and Ales Lázaro played percussion across most of the album.
Other collaborators include Javiera Mena, Girl Ultra, Daudi Matsiko, Camille Mandoki, and Matt Karmil, who mixed the album.
Against the “Seriousness” of Techno
You’ve consistently pushed against the “seriousness” of the techno-industrial complex. In the current climate, where club music often leans into harder, faster, and darker aesthetics, why was it important for you to lean into “vibrant imagination” and “joyful absurdity”?
I could never take “serious” music too seriously. Often, seriousness feels like a façade that avoids vulnerability and emotional risk. It’s much easier to dress entirely in black — like many architects or techno audiences today — than to work with a rich color palette like David Hockney. Darkness can hide mistakes. Joy can’t.
Creating a happy song with depth is harder than creating darkness without humor or sensuality. Today’s obsession with “hard, fast, dark” music reminds me of men driving oversized cars to hide insecurity. I don’t believe real innovation is happening within intimidating club aesthetics anymore. Green lasers, dystopian visuals, industrial typography — they no longer resist dystopia. They reinforce it.
I’m inspired by filmmaker Lucrecia Martel and her idea that artists are responsible for imagining better futures. Dystopias became real because we imagined them first. Maybe hopeful futures can too.
The Cinematic World of “Anenoa”
Looking back at the era of Closer Musik, your music has always had a cinematic quality. When you were conceptualizing the world of Anenoa, what was the visual or narrative “script” you had in your head for the album?
I never begin with a fixed concept to execute. There’s no strict script. But I do think albums function like films — each one existing in its own setting, with different characters and moods. During the process, I slowly discover what the album already is. It’s almost as if Anenoa existed before me, and I had to uncover it.
Visual collaboration became important. I worked with legendary Argentine designer Alejandro Ros, whose artwork for artists like Juana Molina and Babasónicos shaped Latin American music culture. We also worked with director Lorea Arcelus on several videos. For one project, we collaborated with the creators of the beloved Chilean puppet series 31 Minutos, who even built a puppet version of me.
Mexico City and the Elasticity of Time
Living in Mexico has clearly colored the palette of this record. Beyond the rhythms, how has the physical environment — the light, the architecture, the communal noise of the city — altered your internal sense of tempo?
Mexico City feels endless — parallel movements, changing rhythms, different sonic realities from neighborhood to neighborhood. I immersed myself deeply in that environment. Tempo has become less about BPM and more about perception. Time now feels elastic — compressed and stretched at once.
Recently, someone described one of my tracks as having “too many BPM,” and I realized how distant I’ve become from that way of understanding music. Here, I feel more creative freedom.
Singing in Spanish and Cultural Perspective
A significant portion of this album is sung in Spanish, connecting it deeply to a specific cultural lineage. Do you see the use of language on this record as a political act of reclaiming space in a historically Anglocentric or Eurocentric electronic market?
It wasn’t a conscious political decision. I’ve lived in Mexico for nearly seven years and speak Spanish daily. The language simply came naturally into the music. After the pandemic, reconnecting with audiences in Europe felt slow and difficult. In Latin America and the U.S., things recovered much faster. I never felt forgotten there.
That naturally shifted my perspective toward Latin America as a creative center rather than Europe. Electronic music discourse is still very Eurocentric in Europe. But scenes are diverging. At a “Nueva Red de Bailadores” party in Mexico City, you’re unlikely to hear music that would appear at a Dutch festival.
At the same time, Spanish-language music is everywhere now. Like English before it, people connect emotionally even without understanding every lyric.
Nomadism, Migration, and “Groundlessness”
You’ve lived in various countries in Europe and Latin America and now in Mexico. How does the “nomadic” nature of your career influence the way you approach the concept of “home” within your music?
My background made it natural to search for belonging beyond geography. Experiences shaped by migration, dictatorship, exile, and displacement can estrange us from our surroundings, but they also create new forms of connection. That fluidity became central to my music. One reason I fell in love with techno was because it created a language where origins didn’t matter.
I’m inspired by philosopher Vilém Flusser and his idea of “Bodenlosigkeit” — groundlessness. What initially feels unstable can become liberating and deeply creative. At a time of rising fascism and neo-colonial thinking, artists need to defend ideas of migration, fluidity, and the “in-between.”
Participation Over Passive Listening
You’ve described your latest work as an invitation to “participation” rather than just listening. In an era of passive streaming and algorithmic discovery, how do you practically design music to break that wall and force physical or emotional engagement?
I intentionally kept the sounds very pure. There are very few effects, especially spatial ones. The voices feel naked and immediate, almost crawling out of the speakers. The room itself becomes the space — whether it’s a kitchen, living room, square, or club.
Dance music must leave space for the dancer. Without the dancer, the music is incomplete. Too much contemporary “dance music” turns audiences into passive consumers instead of participants.
Much of Anenoa developed through direct interaction with audiences at “Nueva Red de Bailadores” events in Mexico City — free public parties organized around principles like “without harassment,” “without alcohol,” and “without competitiveness.”
Working on director Olivier Fredj’s theatre triptych at the Théâtre du Châtelet, including projects inside a prison near Paris, also deeply shaped the album’s compositions.
Protecting the Beginner’s Mind
Anenoa arrives on May 29, 2026. After 20 years in the industry, how do you protect your “beginner’s mind” and ensure that you are still discovering new possibilities within the 4/4 grid — or outside of it?
The excitement of the process always shows in the result. One way to stay fresh is by constantly exposing yourself to unfamiliar situations or creative limitations. Sometimes that means changing technical setups entirely. I also believe in resisting norms — not through nostalgia, but through experimentation. Creative processes feel like games to me. Endless games.
If I consciously sit down and say, “I’m going to make an album,” I immediately freeze. The interesting things only happen when I reconnect with the original joy of making music — completely detached from the idea of release or career.
Independent Labels and the Illusion of Freedom
You’ve worked with legendary institutions like Kompakt and built your own influential label. How has your understanding of the “record label” as a creative engine changed in this new era of independent, artist-driven distribution?
I’m not convinced this era offers real independence. What’s marketed as “artist-driven freedom” often means isolation — relying on giant distribution monopolies, opaque algorithms, and billionaire-owned platforms that actively weaken collective culture. At their best, labels weren’t just businesses. They were artistic communities. Successful artists could help emerging ones, and a shared identity created genuine belonging.
Today, independent culture often feels like a neighborhood store being replaced by Starbucks. Corporate algorithms make viral breakthroughs increasingly difficult for independent artists. Artists from non-privileged backgrounds face even greater obstacles than before.
I believe new collective structures are urgently needed — communities that ask how to remain sustainable, supportive, experimental, and culturally meaningful.
What Remains After the Music Ends
If this album is a “living practice,” as you’ve suggested, what is the one thing you hope a listener carries with them — physically or mentally — long after the final track has finished playing?
Finishing the album is only half the process. Now it has to live its own life. I hope it becomes companionship for some people, inspiration for others, and opens listeners toward new experiences.
I’m planning performances with local musicians and dancers across different cities — temporary spaces of joy, playfulness, and community. That, for me, is how the album continues breathing.
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