Thirty years in the booth and the questions go deeper than the music. This is a personal interview. Chris Liebing on family and doubt, on Depeche Mode and Blade Runner, on the Spinclub and Schranz, on a vegan awakening at a hotel breakfast and what Alan Watts taught him about letting go. Evolver is the new album. But this is the story behind the person who made it. Photographed by Anton Corbijn.
Before you were Chris Liebing, you were Christoph, the youngest in your family in Linden. You’ve spoken about growing up with a persistent sense of needing to meet expectations, of trying to please, of doubting whether you were enough. Looking back now, do you see that as something rooted strictly in family dynamics, or was it also shaped by the wider German mentality of that era, with its discipline and performance standards? And more importantly, do you feel that impulse to prove yourself ever migrated into your career, into the way you approached DJing? Or did music become the one space where that pressure dissolved?
Not shaped by German mentality. Rooted in family dynamics, for better or for worse. The love for music, the need to convince people that what I’d found was worth listening to, migrated directly into my approach to DJing. Even before I was a DJ, I’d tell people about music I’d discovered. There was always this need for harmony, this urge to give people a good time. That was one of the driving forces. Once I started DJing, it pushed me further — to really make the people on the dance floor trust me, so they’d have a good time.
In the beginning I felt the pressure to prove myself, and that never really ended. I still feel I have to prove I’m worthy of being in the booth, wherever that may be. But paradoxically, it’s also the space where all that pressure dissolves. The DJ booth is one of my most comfortable places. The one place where I have the confidence that I know what I’m doing, paired with the excitement of not knowing exactly what the outcome will be. Where I trust that the experience, knowledge and routine built over so many years will lead me and the people listening somewhere good. Coming of age, you find yourself at a crossroads, more metaphorical than real. University and tennis on one side, the explosion of techno and Frankfurt on the other. But it wasn’t an immediate choice. Both remained open at the same time. A little like Jared Leto in Mr. Nobody, when he realizes that until you choose, anything remains possible.
When did you really realize that one direction was taking over? And looking back, would you do it the same way again?
Honestly, I have no idea if I would do it exactly the same way again, because back then, I didn’t really know what I was doing. And I think that was a good thing. If having that knowledge had brought me where I am now, of course, I would do it again like this. But back then, it was different. I was basically living two parallel lives. Between 1990 and 1995, I played American football for a while, so I lived the life of a sports guy, on a football field or a tennis court on Sunday mornings at nine. At the same time, I was already going out, listening to music in clubs on Saturday nights until late. That worked out for a while, and nobody forced me to make a decision, especially since neither sports nor music were meant to be something I would do for the rest of my life. I wasn’t good enough in any of those sports to become a professional, and regarding DJing, there was no such thing as a profession yet, so the question didn’t even arise. I was rather thinking about when to give up both in order to have “a normal life”, as everybody around me kept asking, “when are you going to do something real?”
That’s why I eventually went to university after finishing school. I wouldn’t even say it was because of pressure, but simply because that’s how things were done. You pursued a career to find a job and make money. I remember a moment around 1995 when I had to be on a football field at nine in the morning on a Sunday, but I had played in a club until four. I was already playing techno back then and after only four hours of sleep, I was very tired and couldn’t really support the team. I think that was the moment I had to make a decision. At that time, university was the real pathway, but in my spare time I had to choose whether to continue football or keep DJing and being in nightlife. I remember that I consciously chose nightlife. Something similar had happened a few years earlier with tennis. I lost a tournament, came home, put my rackets in the corner and that was it. Even though sports were a lot of fun, I didn’t really see a future in them, so I decided to pursue music in my spare time. So looking back at it in that way, I think I would do the same again today.
The Spinclub closing night (‘95) is almost mythological, a 250-capacity room, nearly a thousand people outside, the street shut down. But the club itself closed because of what you’ve called a lack of business sense, too generous, too focused on the feeling and not the finances. Looking back, do you think that tension, between the pure pursuit of the perfect night and the structural reality of running a space, actually taught you something that no amount of successful club management ever could have? Or maybe Spinclub never really closed, it just kept changing shape?
That is actually a great way to put it. I think the initial idea of the Spinclub never changed, it simply changed shape. I broke out of an actual room and took the idea into the world with my DJing. I basically freed myself from the business side of things, from having to sell enough tickets or beers to pay everybody in the end. I always felt and still feel today, that the atmosphere and the vibe are way more important than the numbers in my bank account. Feeling good about what I do was always more important than the material wealth I could gather. When I had to close down the Spinclub, so many people were standing there saying, “Why do you have to close this? Look at it, everybody loves it.” And it was true, many people loved it, but it still didn’t make enough money to continue. If each weekend had been as busy as the closing night, maybe I would have ended up as a club owner for life.
But I was always honest with myself about the first and main reason to open a club. I wanted to build a place where I could DJ, where people could meet and dance to music, not necessarily a place to make money. My relationship with money was always a weird one, surely shaped by family dynamics. My father was into finances and real estate and went bankrupt when I was 18. My parents were driven by status and reputation, believing they could achieve it through money, which ultimately failed. I guess I learned early that I did not want to focus on money, but on my own happiness. Looking back, I really have to say that music and DJing saved me. I don’t want to be dramatic but it did put me on the right track. The Spinclub also taught me something that some DJs today might not know. I learned the hard way how difficult it is to run a club and how much effort it takes to promote a night. That experience made me humble, especially when I visit smaller clubs and meet the people who are running them. I have deep respect for what they do, especially when they succeed, because I was never able to do that myself.
Three years at the Omen alongside some of the architects of the sound you were building toward (Sven Väth, Jeff Mills, Frank Lorber, Toni Rios and later DJs such as The Advent, Surgeon and Regis), some of the most important names in techno passed through that booth. What is the one moment, lesson, or conversation from those years that has never left you? Did working and collaborating with people of that caliber make you feel like a man facing Olympus, or did it push you “to climb it”, imagining one day sitting next to them?
For some reason, I never saw that mountain in front of me, I always just saw myself and my music. Because my time was limited, I was never really able to listen much to other DJs. If I had a night off, I usually stayed home to pursue other things I was doing back then, or to sleep and get enough rest for the next tournament or event. Of course, the Omen played an absolutely major role in my DJ career. I have always said it was my DJ school, but in a way, DJ university would be a better term. It was one of the most elite “universities” you could imagine. It was beneficial in so many ways. You would meet amazing artists from all over the world, but since the scene was still very young in ’95, nobody really knew what they were doing. Traveling internationally as a DJ was still very rare — just a few people, Laurent Garnier, Sven Väth, Carl Cox and loads of Detroit DJs. For us, the second-generation DJs, that was not the case yet.
For me, it was incredible to gain the trust of the club managers and to be able to suggest new talent. I remember talking to them about Swedish techno and they started booking various artists from Sweden. Since I was always a big fan of The Advent, I made sure to do the warm-up every time they were booked. The Omen had strong connections with other clubs, like Tresor in Berlin or clubs in London. As a resident DJ, you could sometimes play in London or elsewhere. One time I was playing in London and The Advent was playing right after me. That was the first time I met Cisco and Colin. I stayed long enough to speak to them and I was absolutely amazed and very nervous. Definitely, in a way, I felt like I was facing Olympus when we hung out, because I was so inexperienced. Yet at the same time, it felt very welcoming. Cisco and Colin invited me to their studio the next day in Kensington, which became a key moment for me. I visited their studio, extremely nervous again, and couldn’t believe I was sitting in the place where all those records I loved were made.
It showed me that if you truly believe in something and pursue it with every cell of your body, nothing can stop you from getting there. And if you don’t get exactly where you planned, you might end up somewhere even better. I also learned that if you want something, you need to work for it and ask for it. It’s a mix of both. I was facing Olympus and I was ready to climb it too. It was never about sitting next to the artists I admired; it was about finding my own place within the scene. I was searching for my own spot, a place where I could contribute my idea of music, which was maybe a little different from others. I didn’t spend much time listening to others or following their footsteps, so I stayed uninfluenced. That, I think, helped me stand out. Of course, I was inspired by other artists, but I would always do my own thing. When it came to music, I always had a huge confidence that I knew what I was doing. I knew what I liked and what I didn’t, which was the opposite of most other aspects of my life. That’s how I found my own niche — by doing what felt right. And above all, I was lucky enough to play in places where people had open ears to listen.
In 1996 you began your collaboration with Evosonic, a satellite radio station dedicated to electronic music known for its deeper approach, and so you had a space where you were more than a DJ, also a storyteller and a selector. But a club set is a conversation with a room full of people while radio is a monologue into silence: no crowd, no dancefloor, no energy to read. How important was this for you and did those hours alone in a booth actually change how you thought about the internal logic of a set?
Wow, these are really interesting questions! My main goal has always been sharing the music I was enthusiastic about with other people. When I found good music, already at the age of 11, 12, or 13, I wanted to tell people, “Hey, listen to this track, check this one out, this is great. You have got to listen to this music, it’s going to give you a great time.” That was one of the driving forces that got me into DJing, and it still drives me today. I just want to show people my idea of music and that they can have a good time with it.
When the opportunity appeared to do this via radio, my reaction was, “Wow, doing this I can reach even more people.” There was also a community aspect to those shows. Back then, we had a fax machine, and we would tell listeners to fax us from wherever they were tuning in. For younger readers, between 1996 and 1999, the internet was still very basic, no streaming, mostly local radio stations with a 100-kilometre radius. Evosonic was a satellite radio station, meaning it could be heard all over Europe. It was mind-blowing to get a fax from Spain, for example Mallorca: “Hey, I’m listening to you here. This is a great show.” To be able to reach so far and share my music over the airwaves was incredible. I also really enjoyed the talking part, telling a little backstory of a track, the producers, the label, where the music came from. The moment I started doing radio shows, I fell in love with it and it continues to this day. That is why I started my CLR Podcast series back in the day and why I’m still doing it.
I always loved being able to reach as many people as possible with the music I liked. It also influenced the way I DJed. Sometimes I would play something on the radio that I wouldn’t necessarily play in a club set, but hearing people enjoy it on air gave me courage. I started asking myself, “Why shouldn’t I also play this on the dance floor?” That pushed me to step outside formulas, to become even more the DJ I wanted to be — braver, willing to play and integrate music I might not have dared to in a club.
Your record label CLR, since its launch in ‘99, has quietly changed its meaning three times: “Chris Liebing Records”, “Create Learn Realize”, and now “Create Learn Repeat”. Most people know the ego story behind the first change. What about the shift from Realize to Repeat? Realize is about bringing something into the world for the first time. Repeat suggests you’ve already completed that cycle once, understood it, and you are now choosing to go again on a path you already mastered. Is that where you feel you are at? And what do you know at the start of this cycle that you wish you’d known at the start of the first one?
The name Chris Liebing Records was born out of pure necessity. I actually started the label Fine Audio Recordings in 1996, but due to a legal dispute concerning the name rights, I lost it in 1999. I then changed my distributor, and while my first release was ready, I wasn’t able to use the old label name anymore, so I had to quickly come up with a new one. When it comes to naming things, especially under pressure, my creativity isn’t always at its best, so I thought I would just call it the way I am called myself. I soon realized that this focused too much on me as a person, which is why I finally gave the abbreviation CLR a new meaning: Create Learn Realize. You create, and while you create, you learn more about how you create, and then you realize something out of that creation.
Later, I took a five-year-long break from releasing music on the label and focused on producing my albums for Mute Records. When I restarted the label after this break, I changed the abbreviation again to Create Learn Repeat, with “repeat” meaning that I had done a lot of realization and simply wanted to continue the process. Just like you say, I completed the cycle not just once, but multiple times and I kind of understood where it took me. The realization was already there, but now I just want to repeatedly do it and focus on the respective fine-tuning. Fine-tuning I had learned over the years — not constantly trying to find new ways, but once I found certain ways that worked for me, mastering them to perfection. Now I want to become better and better at it, which was also a driving force behind my newest album. I didn’t want to reinvent the wheel, I just wanted to make the techno I create in the best possible form I’m capable of at this moment.
I think the only thing I really wish I had known at the start of the first cycle was that you can always continue and there is no end if you are truly passionate about something. You will always find a way to continue, even if things are not going according to plan. Just to keep going is success. There is no failure, only the failure of when you stop trying. Maybe knowing this back then would have given me more patience and helped me worry less.
In 2009 you launched the CLR Podcast and for six years, every Monday without exception, you were the host: the curator, the editor, the person framing other people’s music for the world. Then in 2015, after 315 episodes (featuring names like Marcel Fengler, Adiel, Dustin Zahn, Ben Klock, Marcel Dettmann, etc.) you made a very deliberate decision to stop and replace it with AM/FM: just your own sets, your own voice, nothing else. That shift from hosting others to only presenting yourself is a significant one. What made you ready for that and was there something about those six years of deep listening to other people’s music that actually changed how you heard your own?
When I started the podcast, it felt like a continuation of the radio shows I had done over the years. It was a time when the internet was at a point where you could actually share music. Back then, there was kind of a legal grey zone that made it possible to run the podcast the way we did. We were publishing music we didn’t really have the rights to, but since we didn’t sell or monetize anything and only gave the music exposure, I think we never had any issues.
I have one mention: I was the host and the curator, but I wasn’t really the editor. The editor is a man called Benny Merkelbach, and he still edits all those podcasts today. I have to give a shout-out to him, because for almost 20 years, he has dealt with the voiceovers I record in all kinds of locations, to then place them on the sets of a variety of artists, including myself, on a weekly basis. In that sense, Benny knows more about me than anyone else, because once I have a microphone, I just start talking, and I always trust him to take the best parts for the voiceover. I wouldn’t have been able to do all that work on the podcasts on my own and I am very grateful to have had this amazing man and friend taking the final decisions about how my presentations are edited.
The reason I stopped the CLR Podcast and turned it into AM/FM wasn’t that I was tired of doing the show, but 2015 was a year of change for me. I suddenly wanted to produce a different type of music — more similar to the music I grew up with, especially from Mute Records. Music that was less club-oriented, more listening-oriented, more musical and less technical. With Ralf Hildenbeutel, one of the original electronic music producers from Frankfurt, I found a partner who had been pivotal in shaping the sound of Eye Q and Harthouse, and had produced Sven Väth’s first albums. He is also an incredible classically trained musician, and I knew that the music I wanted to make demanded more musical ability than I had for producing techno. I asked Ralf to help me work on an album of that kind and not only did he agree, but the album Burn Slow (2018) and the follow-up Another Day (2021) both got released on Mute Records. Working with Ralf, who had produced the early techno records that inspired me, and releasing on Mute, the label that had shaped my musical taste throughout the 80s and 90s with bands like Depeche Mode, Nick Cave, Erasure, Yazoo, was really coming full circle.
Focusing on this type of music made me realize that CLR had reached a stage where I didn’t know where I wanted to go, which direction to take, or what artists to sign. I didn’t feel inspired. I felt more inspired by my other ideas, so I made a hard stop on CLR. At the same time, I wanted to focus my energies on producing the albums for Mute Records. Balancing studio work, touring, fatherhood of two young daughters and running a label and podcast was impossible. So between 2015 and 2020, I took a step back from CLR. AM/FM was a good compromise: I could still play a role in the techno world while exploring a different production path. I’m still very proud of those albums, even if they didn’t advance my DJ career. Taking five years off from releasing proper techno music, only DJing, may not have been clever career-wise, but music in my life has always been about passion, not strategy. I wanted to do what made me happy. Looking back, that break made me appreciate the techno I am doing now even more. I understand the sound better and feel more excited about techno than ever before.
As I said, I was never too influenced by other people’s music. Everyone is subconsciously influenced, of course, but I never consciously tried to replicate anyone. Releasing other people’s music or my own via podcast didn’t matter to me — the goal was always to get good techno out into the world. Doing AM/FM instead of the CLR Podcast was just about minimizing work. Curating a podcast, inviting guests, meeting deadlines, and forcing other DJs to meet deadlines is a lot of work, and AM/FM allowed me to focus more on my DJ sets and my own music.
You’ve said ‘I am not a fan of anything, I have never really been a fan of anything, but there is one thing that was and still is the soundtrack of my life, and that is Depeche Mode.’ So when Martin Gore recorded an exclusive set for your CLR Podcast in December 2011, a strange inversion happened: the person whose music had followed your entire life stepped inside something you built yourself. And then it happened again, twice, when Gore asked you to remix ‘Going Backwards’ in 2017 and ‘Ghosts Again’ with Luke Slater in 2023. Each time, the music that belonged to your private world handed itself to you to reshape. What does it actually feel like to put your hands inside the soundtrack of your own life, and did it change your relationship with that music, did it make it somehow more yours?
I guess what I always meant when I said that is that I have been very fond of a lot of things, but I would never have lost my identity over something else or somebody else. When it came to Depeche Mode, there was something in their music that grabbed me from very early on. Depeche Mode and Mute Records have such a huge shared history, and everything else released on that label since the late 70s also fascinated me. Another band I would mention is The Cure and to a slightly lesser extent, New Order, Joy Division and The Smiths. But if I had to pick just two bands, it would be Depeche Mode and The Cure.
I still remember very well when Martin Gore sent me his set for my podcast. It’s still online and if you go back and listen to my introduction, you’ll hear how nervous I was, trying to explain to listeners how much this moment meant to me. That was the first time things felt like they came full circle. A person who had shaped my musical taste for so long suddenly appearing on my podcast and adding to my journey was unheard of. It repeated itself in 2018, seven years later, when I released my first album on Mute Records — the label that had shaped my understanding of music. Receiving recognition from such a label or from an artist who had played such an important role in my life made me realize that all the work I had put into sharing music and making people happy had not been in vain. It was a huge confirmation that the path I had chosen and the decisions I had made were finally being rewarded. Being noticed by these legendary artists showed me that I had been able to develop my skills in a way that could seriously contribute to a culture I cared about. It proved to me that I had a purpose in what I was doing and that I could make a difference.
This was confirmed again when Depeche Mode asked me to rework their music, and later when Martin Gore asked me to remix a track for his MG Project in 2021. It didn’t make it “my music,” but it showed me that I was on the right path: understanding another artist’s work and being able to contribute something meaningful to it because I knew where it came from. I once heard someone say, “You can only continue to develop something in a meaningful way if you know where it came from and understand its origins.” Receiving positive feedback from the originators is, of course, the highest form of confirmation.
Most people who go vegan make a conscious decision: ethics first, then behavior change. Your story went the other way: standing at a hotel breakfast, you looked at the eggs and the cheese and realized your body had already decided before your mind caught up. And then something remarkable followed, that personal shift quietly moved through your entire CLR circle, with artists like Tommy Four Seven carrying it further through the whole roster. Looking back, do you think your body knew something your mind wasn’t ready to hear yet? And how did it affect the way you experience music and especially life on tour?
Actually, Tommy Four Seven was vegan before I was. My body turned vegan about 16 years ago, and yes, as you correctly say, my body understood this before my mind was able to process it. But I think I was always somewhat able to listen to what it was telling me. We are all brainwashed in a way by industries that want to sell us their products, and if anything negative is connected to their product, they go to great lengths to keep us from seeing or hearing it. This is especially true regarding animal rights, environmental issues and your own health. Food affects not only your body but also other living beings and, in a way, the whole world.
Becoming vegan is not the easiest thing. It becomes easier once you make the decision, but when you start opening your eyes to the suffering in the world, you see it everywhere, and it hurts. You notice things that others don’t yet see because of the cognitive dissonance everyone carries. Standing at a breakfast buffet, I see bacon and immediately think of the horrors of a slaughterhouse with little pigs inside. Most people don’t see that at all, because the meat and dairy industries are extremely effective at keeping it hidden. Once you see it, there is no way back. That is part of the horror of being vegan — you become acutely aware of suffering in the world. That, however, would be a whole other interview, and I could say much more about it. But this here is about music. You asked how it affected the way I experience music, and I wouldn’t say it changed my experience directly. I think it’s more likely that the way I experience music contributed to my decision to become vegan. I see and feel how things are connected. I have always felt that music is a spiritual force that brings people together. It shares a common love and unity, where hate and suffering have no space. Seeing music in this way naturally led me toward a vegan lifestyle, so it was more the other way around.
Has that pattern of instincts arriving before your conscious reasoning ever shown up in other parts of your life, your music, your decisions as an artist? And do you think that’s actually how the most honest changes happen, not when you choose them, but when you suddenly realize you already made them?
Honestly, I strongly believe that we have already made decisions long before we voice them. Our nervous system, our body, and our spirit often already know the way to go. The mind is always late, following along and sometimes, in the worst-case scenarios, it even overrides those early decisions. This can create quite a conflict within people and personalities. I see the thinking mind as a very valuable tool, but also as a potentially destructive element if it is not well mastered. I am far from mastering mine, but one thing I know it could never override is how I morally feel and how I see life. That applies to my music as well. I was never able to play tracks I didn’t like just to please other people. That is simply not in my nature. I could never do it and I am very happy about this.
Schranz was never meant to be a genre, you’ve said yourself it was just a word you used at a record store to describe something more distorted and dark that you were looking for. And yet it became a movement, a scene and eventually something you watched drift so far from the original idea that you’ve described it as being hijacked. What does it actually feel like to casually invent a word in a record shop and then spend the next thirty years being its reluctant godfather? If you could go back in time to that record store, would you have used a different word, or no word at all?
You almost answered the question in your own question. I like the expression “reluctant godfather” of this term. Yes, I have always said that if I had known this would become more popular, or that it would actually turn into a genre in itself, I would have thought of a much nicer word, or at least one that made more sense and also put more effort into keeping people educated about it. There was never any plan to label something for commercial or strategic reasons. It just happened, as so many things in my life have, without a greater plan. I sometimes have to smile at how this became so big and how it somehow never leaves us. In recent years, a lot of young people have probably heard the term Schranz and formed their own ideas of what it is.
By now, I am happy to let go of trying to be the gatekeeper and simply smile when I hear it, whatever it may mean to them, knowing that everybody has their own thoughts about it. It is very funny that mentioning an imaginative word at a radio station in Cologne on a Friday night around 1996 or 1997 has, 30 years later, spread that same word more widely than ever before.
Berghain has become a monument, and monuments, by definition, don’t move. The cultural gravity of techno has clearly shifted, new cities are building their own narratives, their own communities, their own reasons to dance. Where are you feeling the most alive energy right now, the places that remind you of what Frankfurt and Berlin felt like before anyone was watching? Does real culture only happen when nobody is looking for it yet?
I think that’s one of the greatest things about techno: it’s still there and it’s not tied to specific places. You can feel it anywhere. That energy isn’t random; it’s something deep inside us and techno unlocks it. It unlocks the desire to connect, to be with others, to move together to the same rhythm, to share a smile while locked into one wavelength. Techno lets you switch off your thinking mind and just enjoy yourself moving to music. And yes, it definitely still exists today—I’d even say more than ever. You can find it in the most unexpected places. Last October, for example, I played in Dallas and it was incredible. I found myself thinking, “Dallas? Who would have thought this?” The same energy was there when I played in the Tunnel Club in Pereira, Colombia—just as intense as in Berlin at Tresor back in the day, or in mid-2000s Brooklyn. It’s everywhere, because it taps into a primal instinct. A simple beat that people want to experience, anywhere in the world. Techno isn’t bound to a place or a culture—it transcends everything, hovering above. That’s the beauty of it. I even find it more and more here, in my home in the mountains. Thirty years ago, electronic music in the mountains would have been unthinkable, yet now there are mountaintop techno parties, jungle raves, gatherings in all kinds of natural spaces. And of course, there are the cathedrals of techno—Berghain being one of them, among many others in major cities around the globe.
Evolver, out March 27, is your first full solo techno album. What makes it remarkable is the journey behind it. You spent years making introspective electronica albums for Mute, music that was vulnerable, cinematic, and far from the dancefloor. Then something arrived organically, in an LA apartment on Brooks Ave, and you followed it back to techno. Collaborations came naturally too, from existing relationships and shared studio moments with Luke Slater, Speedy J, Charlotte de Witte, and Terence Fixmer. Even Anton Corbijn, the eye behind the camera for Depeche Mode and Joy Division, stepped in for the photography. And after everything those years contained, who is the Chris Liebing that made this record?
Who am I? That’s a good question. I guess I am a sum of all these experiences and journeys and it’s incredible to see how things can come together so beautifully without any planning. Everything mapped out perfectly once I followed my passion—nothing else, not fame or money, just the joy of creating. When I started the album, I had no idea how it would sound, or who would appear on it. Every track developed naturally, with its own story. So the Chris Liebing behind this record is the sum of all the Chris Liebings who’ve been listening to music since age 11 or 12. But he’s also the Chris Liebing who revisited his ’90s roots to craft a certain sound and vibe for the dancefloor, using the more sophisticated tools and advanced technology available today. Production techniques and sound design have evolved so much over the past 30 years, and that’s what still drives me. Even though everything in techno has been heard before, it hasn’t always been explored in this level of detail and refinement—and that’s what pushed me to make this record.
Working with Anton Corbijn on the photography was another mind-blowing moment. He’s shaped visual culture across pop, rock and alternative music for decades, art-directed Depeche Mode tours and directed iconic videos. To collaborate with someone who has influenced my visual perception for so many years felt like yet another full-circle moment. Honestly, I could just sit and smile at the sky, grateful for this musical journey and everything I’ve been able to experience along the way.
One of the foundations of the album is “Roy Batty”, inspired by an artificial intelligence that becomes sentient and longs for life, like the character played by Rutger Hauer in “Blade Runner”. This vision goes to the heart of the sci-fi themes that have always animated techno (as Jeff Mills pointed out on Instagram: “This is Techno”). How much can AI become an emotional collaborator in music, and how much remains a mirror of human sensitivity? And “these moments” that we are experiencing today, “will they be lost in time” or will they remain to remind us that they happened?
I mean ultimately, at some point, nobody is going to remember my name ever again. Each one of us, at some point in the history of mankind, will be completely forgotten. And that is a fact that everybody should always keep in mind when things go wrong or when things go too right and you are too proud of yourself. Does it ultimately matter in the long run? What it matters for is the experience itself, because that will never get lost. The experience will never get lost in consciousness. The people who manifest the experience, the circumstances that make that experience possible, all these things will get lost and will be forgotten. But the experience itself will last. I honestly believe that nothing ever gets lost in this universe and I think we are here in order to create those experiences and to live them. I am a strong believer in the assumption that the purpose of life simply is to experience life. That is the only purpose. There’s no aim, there’s no goal, it is just about experiences and the joy or the suffering of having them, as we are talking about good and bad experiences. They shape us going forward, but the moments themselves, as Rutger Hauer said in the movie, will be lost in time. A funny side fact, Anton Corbijn told me that Rutger Hauer was actually part of his extended family in Holland. He knew him and told me about him, which was again another crazy, mind-blowing moment for me. And yes, techno is sci-fi, I totally agree with Jeff Mills on that. I think it is sci-fi and it is also deeply historic because banging a drum and dancing to it is something that we have connected to as humans since our ears were developed to a point where we were able to recognise patterns in music. It has always been and will also always be the case. It is ancient, archetypal, and it is at the same time science fiction.
And when it comes to artificial intelligence and it becoming sentient, I think it is a very big and existential question and that’s why movies like Blade Runner and others that deal with this kind of topic exist. When does an artificial being become sentient? What is the point where we can talk about a living being and why? I think these are very fundamental questions that a DJ like me is not capable of answering. When it comes to making music, this album I did is 100% human-made. It is actually printed on the vinyl record sleeve because I did not want to include any AI help in making this record. Going forward, I do believe it will be a tool that will be used more and more and I am not saying that I will not use it. I might also use it, but I would use it only to a certain extent, to help me be even more creative and to help me find ways that I wouldn’t have thought about myself. Ultimately, I believe in Arthur C. Clarke’s work, from which I also took samples for the track “Higher Things”, saying that humans are stepping-stones to higher things. We are in the middle of an evolution and maybe machines will be sentient machines and will be the next step of evolution since our biological evolution can’t keep up with the pace of development.
All the music on this album basically emerges from the moment itself. There was never a strict plan, because I realised early on that even the smallest thing can change the way you create. If you don’t allow those little influences to affect your process, you stick too rigidly to a plan. For example, you might be working on a track and get bored. You check your emails and there’s an ad for a new plug-in. You download it and start experimenting. That’s not random. There’s a reason that email reached you—you probably subscribed to a newsletter at some point. There’s a reason you were bored at that exact moment in production. In the past, I might have ignored it and just thought, “great plug-in, now back to the track.” Nowadays, I embrace these “distractions” and see them as potential guides. Maybe that plug-in appeared to change the direction of the track, or to spark a new idea.
Things are connected in ways our thinking mind often can’t see. You could call it randomness, but really it’s about letting go and following whatever lead presents itself, seeing where it takes you. I believe this is the most exciting part of creation. You may have a rough idea of where you want to go, but the path is discovered in the act itself. This spontaneity is completely rooted in the moment and is essential to the creative process. Technology plays a huge role here, but only if you know how to use it. You can’t let the workflow be interrupted by trying to navigate a sub-menu on a synthesiser or a plug-in. You need to know your tools inside out, so the technology becomes an extension of your instinct rather than a barrier. The better you know your instrument, the more freely the flow can dictate where it leads. In this sense, spontaneity, randomness, and emotion are all amplified—and even guided—by both the technology you use and your mastery of it.
Can only conclude with a quote from your favorite philosopher Alan Watts: “Detachment means having no regrets about the past nor fears about the future, letting life flow without interfering with its movements, without holding back what is pleasant or accelerating what is unpleasant. So we dance with time, in perfect agreement with his mutant music”. Is yesterday’s Christoph at peace with today’s Chris? And for the people who are still in that process, still carrying that voice of self-doubt that you know well, what have you actually found that works?
On my album Burn Slow, which also features several Alan Watts quotes, there’s a track called “No Regrets.” The concept comes from something I’ve learned over time: everything that’s happened in my life—good or bad, right or wrong—has been important. Even mistakes brought me to where I am now, offering insights that helped me avoid even bigger errors down the line. You could say a past mistake shaped my life, or you could see it as a small misstep that prevented a far greater one. That perspective makes regrets pointless. Regret keeps you stuck in the past. You can’t change past decisions or actions, but you can learn from them. Wasting energy on wishing things had gone differently doesn’t help you now, in the present moment, and it certainly doesn’t shape the future. Letting go isn’t about ignoring lessons—it’s about not letting the past dictate your present or hold you back.
One story that illustrates this perfectly is the tale of a pole in a village. A man stands gripping it tightly, knuckles white, yelling for help: “Somebody free me from this pole!” The villagers laugh, but the man cannot let go. That pole is like the regrets, desires, failed relationships, missed opportunities, or even past successes we cling to. Holding on too long keeps us stuck. And the truth is, nobody can free us from it but ourselves. A wise friend once told me, “Trying to let go is the same as holding on.” Whenever I feel trapped in a thought loop or stuck in expectations, I imagine myself in that village, releasing the pole. It’s a simple yet liberating practice.
Finally, I want to thank you for these thoughtful questions. They go far beyond a standard interview and make the conversation meaningful. I hope my answers resonate and offer some insight. And thank you to everyone following my music—I hope you’re having a great day.
Credits:
Artist: Chris Liebing / @chris_liebing
Photography: Anton Corbijn / @antoncorbijn4real
Editor: Anca Macavei / @ancamacavei
Interview: Gianmaria Garofalo / @gianmaria.garofalo
I’m Here, But Not Entirely Yours / Niccolò de Napoli