Words: Hannah Pezzack | Photography by Dana Lixenberg | In partnership with Dekmantel Few figures loom as large in the history of electronic music as Juan Atkins. Founder of Metroplex Records and the force behind pioneering projects including Cybotron (with Rik Davis, amongst others) and Model 500, he is widely regarded as the godfather of techno. He literally gave the genre its name, adopting the term in the 1980s to describe his funky, future-facing fusion of man and machine. Far from the kickdrum-heavy variants we might be used to in Western Europe – the repetitive doof, doof, doof – the Detroit brand is elastic and intricately melodic, full of gleaming, gliding synths and squelching basslines. At times, it becomes almost orchestral, as is the case with Infiniti – the 1990s project Atkins refers to as “pure techno” – with rippling rhythms, pattering bleeps and bloops, and a near-cinematic sense of scale. It’s music that feels less tethered to the dancefloor than suspended somewhere above it, conjuring an intergalactic atmosphere echoed in track titles such as “Martians At Work”.It was this vision — and, in particular, a fascination with science fiction — that I wanted to hone in on when we sat down at De Balie in Amsterdam as part of the Dekmantel conference. Juan Atkins was in town for two performances during the festival: a DJ set on the RADAR stage in the Amsterdamse Bos, streamed live, and a show at Melkweg under the Infiniti alias, marking 30 years since the release of the album The Infiniti Collection on Tresor. Arriving at the venue dressed entirely in black – hood pulled up, dark sunglasses, and patent boots – Atkins cuts a striking figure. There has always been a consciously space-age finesse to his look, not least in the geometric, oversized shades that have become something of a signature. But this futurism runs deeper than aesthetics: it speaks to a philosophy that has underpinned techno since its inception, rooted in an enduring fascination with technology and the possibilities of worlds not yet realised.Juan Atkins was born in Detroit, Michigan, a city whose identity is itself bound up with mechanisation. Detroit had been synonymous with innovation, the headquarters of America’s “Big Three” carmakers: General Motors, Ford and Chrysler. Vast factories dominated the urban landscape and employed huge swathes of the population. But by the 1950s and ’60s, cracks were beginning to appear. Automation was transforming the factory floor, and manufacturers had begun shifting production overseas, leading to widespread domestic job losses.  The effects were felt especially acutely by Black working-class communities, who had never shared equally in the wealth generated by the industrial boom. Decades of racial segregation and discriminatory housing practices had restricted where Black citizens could live, while tensions over inequality and aggressive policing culminated in the 12th Street uprising of 1967, one of the deadliest episodes of civil unrest in US history. In its aftermath, many white residents left for the suburbs, leaving behind an increasingly impoverished, majority Black inner city. By the 1970s, however, that demographic transformation was reshaping political and cultural institutions, as Black Detroiters claimed spaces from which they had historically been excluded. Among them was WGPR – Where God’s Presence Radiates – Michigan’s first Black-owned FM radio station. Indeed, when I ask what he remembers of this period – his childhood in the 1960s and ’70s – Atkins turns not to the upheavals that defined the era, but to its soundtrack. As a teenager, he became an obsessive listener to WGPR and, in particular, the broadcasts of one enigmatic DJ: The Electrifying Mojo.Mojo was unlike anything else on the airwaves at the time. Speaking over spaceship sound effects, his freeform broadcasts traced a line between funk, jazz, soul, R&B and the icy, angular synths of European groups like Kraftwerk. A seismic figure, he is described by DeForrest Brown Jr. in the 2022 book Assembling a Black Counterculture as “an innovator in the Black community and radio broadcasting, beaming in sounds from distant lands that expanded the imaginations of anyone his signals reached.” “We would listen to him religiously,” says Atkins. “Without Mojo, none of this [Detroit techno] would exist.” Although the term “Afrofuturism” would not be coined until the 1990s, its impulses reverberated through Mojo’s eclectic selections. Nowhere more so than in the mythology of George Clinton’s Parliament-Funkadelic, where the heavy, bouncing bass of Bootsy Collins accompanied Clinton’s spiralling narratives, and outer space became a realm of possibility: somewhere the constraints of earthly existence could be gleefully scrambled.Listening to early Cybotron records — propelled to prominence by Mojo himself, who put their debut 1981 single “Alleys of Your Mind” into heavy rotation — it’s impossible to ignore the funk inheritance. “[Our sound] came from the ghetto, and I think that that’s the difference in what the world terms techno worldwide,” Atkins states. “You can hear it in Detroit music. It's just, you know, a little bit more groovy, a little bit more funky.” In Cybotron’s rubber-band basslines, that lineage is audible; in their spoken-word lyrics, they evoke “laser beams” that “cloud your dreams”, cosmic cars and techno cities—and, later, under Atkins’ Model 500 alias, UFOs hovering overhead.This cosmic lexicon was also rooted in Atkins’ interest in theory and literature. At De Balie, we touch on one of his favourite novels – “one of the first sci-fi books I ever got into” – Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End. Published in 1953, it imagines aliens arriving on Earth not as conquerors but as benevolent custodians, bringing an end to war, racism, and animal cruelty, and ushering humanity into an age of computerised abundance. While in high school, as part of a class called Future Studies, Atkins was exposed to the American futurist Alvin Toffler, author of Future Shock and The Third Wave. In these books, technological advancement is depicted as a seismic force capable of radically reorganising society. Toffler’s influence was profound: the term “techno” and the name of Atkins’ label, Metroplex, were drawn from his vocabulary.Against the backdrop of 1980s Detroit, such hopeful visions of the future carried a particular charge. There is a potent scene in Universal Techno, a 1996 documentary produced for the French-German broadcaster ARTE, in which Atkins reflects on his hometown’s transformation. It was, he says, “the first North American city to experience the technological revolution”: a place where robots were making human workers obsolete. As he speaks, the camera pans past dilapidated houses and abandoned buildings – the urban scars left in the wake of that shift.Yet the music that emerged from these conditions did not simply reproduce their bleakness. Drawing on the anticipatory imagery of writers like Clarke and Toffler, Atkins’ work seemed instead to dream beyond what DeForrest Brown Jr. calls the “structural failings of a post-industrial collapse”, towards something not yet realised; a better world to come. “I’ve always been a fan of the future. It was kinda rough in Detroit, so thinking about the future became a great escape […] I am an optimist. My way of looking at it was that a person working in the factory may have lost their job, but maybe then they should learn something about technology.”If Detroit had been at the forefront of the technological age, by the 1990s the upheavals of the post-industrial era were being felt across parts of Europe too. Berlin, in particular, seemed to exist, as Atkins puts it, “in symbiosis with Detroit”. The circumstances were very different, but the two cities shared a similarly fractured landscape: full of empty warehouses, and young people building a new culture amid the remnants of the old. In Michigan, those spaces were the legacy of deindustrialisation and population loss; in Berlin, they had been opened up by the fall of the Wall and reunification. Techno found a natural home in both, and the connection soon became tangible, with people, ideas and equipment moving back and forth across the Atlantic. “Mark Ernestus, Thomas [Feldman] and Moritz von Oswald would come to Detroit and buy up synths from the pawn shops,” Atkins remembers. “They’d take them back to Germany and retrofit them with MIDI.”For all the grand lineages and global legacies of Detroit techno, however, perhaps the most touching story is also the most intimate. When I ask Atkins about his family, he fondly recalls his grandmother, Lily – “God rest her soul” – and playing her Hammond B-3, a 1950s electronic organ whose distinctive sound became a fixture of jazz, gospel, and R&B. Long before he ever laid hands on a sequencer or drum machine, the Hammond was Atkins’ first electronic instrument. It was Lily, too, who took him a step further, buying him his first synthesizer: a Korg MS-10.Although techno might have sounded like a rupture with everything that preceded it – synthetic, machine-made, and seemingly without precedent – these early encounters suggest something closer to a continuum; an extension of Black musical traditions, encouraged along the way by a grandmother with an instinct for where her grandson’s curiosity might lead. More than four decades later, that curiosity shows little sign of abating. When I ask Atkins whether he has any plans to retire or slow down, his answer returns us, fittingly, to the outer-space imagery with which we began: “I’m going to be making music ’til I leave this planet, and then maybe for some time afterwards too.”Patta Magazine Volume 7 is available now at Patta chapter stores in Amsterdam, London and Lagos.

Words: Christopher DanforthOn August 5, TiaCorine released the video for "HOOPTY," from Strictly 4 the Scythe, the debut album from Denzel Curry-led hip-hop collective The Scythe. The following afternoon, I catch up with her over the phone while she's driving to a nail appointment."What does a typical day look like for you right now?" I ask."I pick up my daughter, go to the gym," she says. Beyond music, staying connected with the community she's built has become part of her daily routine. "I'll talk to my Discord. Tuesdays, Fridays, and Sundays are my stream days."One aspect that is surely evident to anyone discovering Corine - she brings together a mix of influences that isn't really represented by her musical peers: North Carolina rap, Indigenous spirituality, anime, Japanese fashion, internet culture, and Southern hip-hop all coexist inside her work. That instinct is evident on "HOOPTY," where even alongside artists like Denzel Curry and Smino, her creative presence is very much there.The group’s first album is centered around Southern hip-hop, with stylistic references spanning from Memphis to Miami. Despite each member of The Scythe bringing a distinct identity to the table, Tia describes the group's chemistry by saying, "It's weird because we can criticize each other without anyone getting emotional. Denzel and I have yelled and screamed at each other before. We've literally wrestled before, but it's out of love, though. So it's kind of like a wolf pack. Wolves bite each other, but it's all love."Many of the relationships within the group - officially consisting of Denzel Curry, FERG (previously known as A$AP Ferg), Bktherula, Key Nyata, and TiaCorine -  had existed for years before The Scythe came together. "I think everybody had preexisting relationships and then it just all melted together," she says, noting that she had known collaborator Bktherula since she was 16 years old.According to Corine, Denzel Curry was the person who turned those individual friendships into a bigger idea. "Denzel definitely brought us together. He brought everybody together and made it clear that we all stand on our own, but let's make a supergroup. We're more powerful together."For the group’s "HOOPTY" video, Corine’s mother styled her black ensemble.When I was little, she taught me how to sew. When I got a little bit more money and stuff, I decided to retire her so that she could sew and spend her time doing whatever she loved to do. Now I just give her little projects because she wants to expand her sewing skills.""My mom, she was just always very open. She always allowed me to try anything that I ever wanted. She always left it up to me to choose what I wanted to do. I feel like that's why it's hard to put me in a box. She put me in ballet. And then a week later I'm like, 'Oh, I want to try baseball.' And so she allowed me to try anything that I ever wanted."That openness extended beyond creativity. It also shaped a distinctly spiritual worldview that Corine expresses. "As a kid, I would get déjà vu a lot. And I would talk to my mom about it. She would just say, 'That's just a part of us.'""I'm not really from North Carolina... I'm from outer space somewhere."It's a line that makes me laugh at first, but it also captures something about how she sees herself. North Carolina is part of her story, yet she also seems to resist definitions in all forms. Born to a Shoshone indigenous mother and a Japanese-African father, she sees herself as the product of many different influences."There are so many different parts of me, and that's how I know that I don't want to simplify myself." Reinvention, she says, isn't about abandoning who you are - it's about finding new ways to express the same core identity. "I don't like to stay on something for too long. Because I'm forever changing. It's important to reinvent yourself. I change, but I remain who I am."When she's looking for a metaphor, she reaches for an unlikely source, but one that clearly shows her love of Japanese anime and culture. "I relate to Kirby a lot because Kirby can eat anything. He might eat a chef, but he's still Kirby."But standing apart like that can have its drawbacks. "Sometimes I think it hurts me because it's so unique that it's unfamiliar. So it's like a blessing and a curse. I do pride myself in the fact that my stuff is unique and I always wanted to stay that way." Corine feels that in some cases, she needs to win people over with an attitude that some, including Corine herself, might describe as “freaky.” In addition to her hit track “Freaky T,” Corine recently brought “Freaky” Hot Dogs topped with chilli, nacho cheese, and onions to a recent event in her birthplace of Winston-Salem, North Carolina. “Freaky is fun. It's fun. It's flirty. It's experimental. A lot of people think women are supposed to be submissive, so I think it's kind of like the woman taking the power back.” "I love hot dogs. After the club, I'm getting a hot dog, bro."Whether you catch her serving hot dogs in Winston-Salem or talking to her on her Discord, Corine seems just as interested in building a community as she is in making music. The Discord server itself came directly from her fans."My fans would say, 'Hey, you need to get a Discord.' And I was like, 'Okay.' So I listened to them, and I got a Discord. Then I would tease projects, or I ask them a question like, 'Hey, what y'all think about this song?'""I'll have times where we can get on a video chat. Everybody will roll up, and we'll talk early in the morning, and I'll just tell them about my life, what I have going on."That sense of community even carried her through heartbreak, so I just picked up the game to distract myself. And all my friends squad up on Fortnite. Once I got better, I started adding fans to my Xbox, and they just would start playing with me."Maybe Corine really is from outer space; I guess in a cosmic sense, we’re all made from stardust, but that’s a digression. What defines Corine is not where she’s from. She is from North Carolina, from Japan, from the internet, from hip-hop, from anime, from everywhere and nowhere all at once. More importantly, she's able to move between those spaces without losing herself. Not only does that creative freedom help define her music - it's what makes her feel like she's from the world.Get familiar! Patta Magazine Volume 7 available now at Patta Amsterdam and Patta London. 

“I just played City Splash [festival],” he says eagerly, reflecting on his performance 24 hours ago. “It’s about 30,000 people there. I played the small stage, but you feel that collective energy, it’s crazy.” After inheriting the prolific London-based sound system Jah Youth from his late father, Allan Rolle, the 44-year-old is eager to preserve its legacy. Dedicated to roots reggae since its 1975 debut, the sound system has been entertaining intergenerational West Indians and Brits for over 50 years. “My father was a very inspirational person in and around the community,” Lion states. Using his compensation for an injury whilst serving as West Ham United’s U21’s league goalkeeper, Allan Rolle inspired Lion throughout his childhood, his ear for music expanding because of his father's pivot. “He even opened a record store in Upton Park,” Lion shares. “Because I looked so much like my father, musicians would stop me asking about it, my father, and the music in there.” Being of Dominican and Vincentian descent, Tau Lion was nourished by the strong, post-Windrush generation of West Indians who sought communal connection, collaboration, and celebration, Rolle’s ventures becoming integral to this collective yearning. “Both the record store and sound system became community hubs; it really gave my upbringing some excitement.” Jah Youth wasn’t just a success nationally, carrying on a legacy of sound systems in the country since 1955, but it made inroads into the wider Black diaspora, Lion gaining first-hand experience on tour, as the sound system made its way to various countries in Africa. “Suddenly, in 1990, we got to tour with the full sound system, we went to Kenya, Tanzania, and Zimbabwe,” Lion explains. Joined by the prolific band Misty in Roots, in Zimbabwe, Jah Youth supported a segment of their East African tour, aligning with the political message of Pan-Africanism. Here, Tau Lion was exposed to a bird's-eye view of politics and music's inherent overlap. “At that time, Misty In Roots were eager to extend their message out there, because apartheid was still an active situation.” With songs such as “Ghetto In The City” and their advocacy of the 1976  Rock Against Racism movement, Misty In Roots weren’t shy in using music as a vehicle for social change. “It was inspiring to see something like that up close and personal,” Lion notes. Grateful for the experience, he says the tour served as an important catalyst for his inter-communal efforts as an adult. After moving to Sierra Leone in 1991, Lion and his family were forced to return to London when civil war broke out. “I remember thrusting all we had into the back of the car one morning,” he recalls. “I couldn’t go back for some of the things.” Making it back to the UK safely, he would finish his final year of primary school before spending his secondary school years and college life, toying with the idea of returning to Africa. “I finally told my dad about it, but he wanted me to finish my education first.” Towards his late adolescence, however, he’d get the call, again via his father’s record store, to explore a new medium. “A jeweller, Gully used to shop at my dad’s store,” Lion explains. “When I was 19, he asked for my help. His jewelry brand was called Gullcano, so I jumped at the chance to dive into something new.” Focused on luxury chains and bracelets made in styles such as Cuban links, Tau Lion dived into the experience wholeheartedly, eager to gain a first-hand skillset.Quickly getting on with Gully, Lion would spend his free time assembling the jewellery. Formalising his knowledge academically, he later enrolled in college and university to study the art form, still working with Gullcano in the background. “I actually dropped out of university before final year, as I wanted the knowledge, not a formal academic paper,” he laughs. Eventually finding his way back to Africa, Lion purchased a house in Tanzania, with his father's backing and support, attempting to build a jewellery imprint of his own, dubbed Made In Africa. Expanding into beaded jewellery with local assemblers, Inter noticed a gap in knowledge on the ground. “There are transferable skills that I wanted to give people, helping them to expand,” Lion shares. Now, he goes back each September to run workshops, maintaining ties with his Tanzanian community. Tau Lion is bringing his expertise to Patta for a brand new jewellery collaboration set to showcase his years of work and practice to a new cohort of cultural enthusiasts. “My designs are inspired by ancient architecture and geometric design,” he begins, deep in thought. “For example, one of my links is inspired by stars, the other, planets, and the third, interconnected universes.” Deciding to focus on sets for both men and women, the bracelets crafted can be paired as a necklace. For Lion, the concept for the collection is tailored to the community, allowing for braces to be worn as individual pieces or assembled for multiple family members or friends. “Three [individual] bracelets will be able to assemble a standard male-sized chain, and two will be big enough for a woman,” Lion explains. Using the analogy of a father, he expresses that a necklace could become an heirloom for his child as they grow up. “It’s about keepsakes and legacy.” Made from sterling silver, Lion wanted an ethical, widely accessible material for the inaugural release, but also one that’s ideal for being worn in event spaces. Lion notes that some people believe sterling silver helps ground the body in high bass environments. “That’s where the connection between the sound systems and my focus now on jewellery collide too,” he continues.Mindful not just of this collection, but also what lies ahead, Tau Lion’s mission across sound and design is simple. For him, cultural preservation is key. “I’m just excited to carry on the legacy my father carried so strongly,” he says. “And creating and preserving my own at the same time.”Patta Magazine Volume 7 available soon