Fragments of the Self

Interview with Francois X.

In a time where identity is often packaged, flattened, and made palatable for algorithmic feeds, François X resists easy definition. Born between Corsica and Benin, shaped by sounds that stretch from the vinyl stacks of Fania Records to the raw pulse of Parisian club nights, his music is neither fusion nor collage. It’s something more elemental, a process of remembering, returning, resisting.

Your family and cultural background is extremely diverse: a mother from Corsica and a father from Benin. How do these roots—sometimes geographically and symbolically distant—coexist within your personal identity and your music? Have you ever felt the pressure to choose a single “identity” to present to the world—as an artist or as a man—or, on the contrary, do you feel that your strength and style stem precisely from this ongoing dialogue between different heritages?

I was born between two cultural worlds that seem, on the surface, very distant: Corsica and Benin, but that both come from the South, and both taught me to look at the world through a different lens. This dual perspective, European and African, has shaped how I see, how I feel, and how I create.

It’s not always been easy to carry both. There’s never been an explicit pressure to “choose” one side, but the world, implicitly, often pushes you to simplify yourself. To make your identity more legible. To be either this or that. But I never fit into that binary. I’ve always been in-between. And instead of hiding it, I’ve learned to work with it. To make it my raw material.

As I’ve grown, something has shifted. My African heritage, my Beninese roots, have taken more space inside me. I don’t mean in a symbolic way. I mean viscerally. Sonically. Spiritually. It’s not a choice. It’s a return. And in that return, I’ve found new forms of truth and creative urgency.

That’s also where a strange paradox appears. Techno is a music built from Black expression, particularly African-American expression. And yet, being a light-skinned mixed-race artist in the European techno scene, I often feel like I’m standing slightly outside of that narrative. Not because I don’t belong. But because the scene, whether it realizes it or not, has often erased the very roots it claims.

So I exist in a kind of suspended space. At once connected and disconnected. And that tension has become my terrain. My studio is where I process it. I don’t try to resolve the contradiction, I let it vibrate. I make music that is groovy but cerebral, sensual but analytical. Because that’s who I am: multiple, layered, constantly negotiating with myself.

This hybridity isn’t a brand or a concept, it’s my life. And through music, I try to turn it into a form of language. One that doesn’t simplify identity, but expands it.

You’ve mentioned that your first connection to music came thanks to your parents. What memories do you have of that early musical exposure, and how did those influences—from salsa to African music, to UB40—shape your artistic sensitivity?

Music has always been deeply present in my family. It wasn’t something abstract or separate, it was part of life, part of every gathering, every ritual.

On my father’s side, every family celebration—weddings, baptisms—was a full sensory experience. In Benin, salsa has a massive cultural impact. It’s the unofficial soundtrack of daily life there. Alongside it, traditional Beninese rhythms, especially from the Orchestre Poly-Rythmo de Cotonou, shaped the musical environment I grew up in.

And my father had a collection of vinyls that left a strong mark on me: records from Fania Records, albums by Johnny Pacheco, Hector Lavoe, Los Van Van… These records weren’t just background music; they were physical, emotional landmarks. They framed the atmosphere of our lives. It wasn’t something I learned intellectually. It entered me through the body, through dancing, through the vibrant energy of family celebrations. It was physical, it was communal, it was emotional.

On top of that, my parents had a deep love for soul and funk. Al Green, James Brown… those records played constantly. My mother, especially, was obsessed with James Brown. There’s a family story where she almost got crushed in the front row at one of his concerts. That tells you the emotional intensity of how music was lived in our home.

There were other influences too. My mother loved UB40, Genesis, Bernard Lavilliers—a strange but fascinating mix of reggae-pop, British rock, and rebellious French songwriting. That European layer added something else: a kind of melancholy, a taste for storytelling, a tension between rhythms and emotions.

All of this blended inside me, without hierarchy. The soul, the salsa, the funk, the reggae, the French chanson, the West African griots—it was all part of the same emotional landscape. It became a second skin, a kind of memory written into my body.

Even today, when I produce techno, when I build tracks designed for powerful dancefloors, I’m not thinking about BPMs or drops. I’m thinking about emotional release. About storytelling. About making people feel the body, but also the memory inside the body.

Music, for me, is never just technical. It’s a way of connecting what you live, what you’ve inherited, what you long for, and what you’ve lost.

Between the late ’90s and early 2000s, club culture was booming, and you’ve repeatedly cited the impact that fashion aesthetics—from Helmut Lang to magazines like Max, FHM, i-D, Dazed, and brands like Jil Sander—had on your approach to clubbing. How has this fusion of visual imagery and sound universe influenced your artistic path? Is there a specific aesthetic that you try to reflect through your music as well?

In Paris at the end of the ’90s and early 2000s, there was a whole scene centered around a neighborhood called Étienne Marcel. It wasn’t just a shopping district; it was a real cultural microcosm.

You had boutiques like Final Home, Maharishi, Kabuki, Yohji Yamamoto. Two spaces were crucial for us: The Shop, right in Étienne Marcel, and Colette, on rue Saint-Honoré.

But what made it really special wasn’t just the brands, it was the people. The kids who worked there, the ones who hung out there, the ones who dreamed there. We were a tribe.

During the day, we would zone around the shops, exchanging flyers, mixtapes, and ideas. And when night came, we would leave together, as a pack, 30 or 40 deep, heading for the clubs—Les Bains Douches, TGV parties, Le Queen, Fashion Week parties…

The boutiques, the streets, the dancefloors—it was all part of the same continuum. It was a ritual, a way of life. And it’s important to understand: at that time, being into fashion wasn’t cool in the mainstream sense. It wasn’t about Instagram or hype. It was niche, passionate, tribal. We wore Helmut Lang because we loved the cut. We wore APC because we understood the material. We wore Raf Simons because we could decode it, even when nobody else could.

The whole aesthetic of “clubbing wear” emerged naturally: technical fabrics, sleeveless tops, structured silhouettes, Helmut Lang jeans, APC denim, Stan Smith sneakers, Dior Homme under Hedi Slimane, the first cult pieces from Raf Simons. It wasn’t about looking good for others. It was about creating a total identity—sound, body, image, attitude. The way you moved through the night was just as important as the beat. And that mindset shaped how I approach music even today. When I compose, I think in textures, in silhouettes. I think about how a track fits against the body, how it breathes in a space. I want my tracks to cut, to fall, to breathe—just like a perfect jacket becomes part of your posture and your aura. Even though the scene has changed, that DNA remains. My music is tailored: sharp lines, hidden sensuality, controlled tension. But always with room for the accident—the crease, the sweat, the stumble that makes it alive. Sound and image have always been fused for me. Not because of ego, but because music, for me, has always been about living inside the story you create.

Your connection to African American dance culture and legendary DJs like Ron Hardy, Larry Levan, and Tee Scott is evident. You’ve cited Detroit and Chicago as epicenters of the movement that inspired you. What do you think is the common thread that links them—especially the Rotary Mixer—and how has this element influenced your technical and creative approach to DJing? What do these two cities represent for you, and how have they shaped your musical vision?

My connection to Black American dance culture runs very deep. It’s not just musical, it’s almost spiritual. At first, it came to me like a kind of scripture, then it became an obsession, and eventually it became my own personal language. I was surrounded early on by artists and mentors in Paris who passed down that culture almost religiously. We weren’t just listening to tracks, we were absorbing histories, mythologies. The names—Ron Hardy, Larry Levan, Tee Scott, Frankie Knuckles, Mike Dunn, Mike Dearborn, Underground Resistance, Carl Craig—they weren’t just artists. They were mythmakers, architects of an emotional world. And it wasn’t just Detroit and Chicago. New York was essential too. The creation of the clubs shaped everything: Larry Levan at the Paradise Garage in New York, Ron Hardy at the Music Box in Chicago, Frankie Knuckles at The Warehouse in Chicago. Each of these places wasn’t just a club, it was a church, a laboratory, a revolution. They created spaces where music, body, and spirit fused into something much bigger than entertainment. It was survival. It was art.

This whole history didn’t just inspire me, it consumed me. I spent nights lost on forums, reading every post, digging through archives. Sites like DeepHousePage.com became my libraries. I devoured every story, every anecdote, every photograph of that era. It wasn’t nostalgia, it was a visceral need to understand the roots of what moved me so deeply. What fascinates me still is how these three cities each embodied a different vibration. New York was the glamour and heartbreak of nightlife. Chicago was the grit, the sweat, the raw invention. Detroit was the consciousness, the futurism, the architecture of hope. Each of these cities feels alive inside me. They’re not just references, they’re parts of my bloodstream. Today, they have become almost a fantasy for me. Not naïve nostalgia, but the dream of a time where music, community, and bodies spoke a sacred language.

On a technical level, the rotary mixer played a crucial role in my evolution. Even though I no longer mix on rotary today, the philosophy it taught me remains fundamental. It left deep traces in how I mix. My mixing is all about depth, sensuality, organic flows. Sometimes it can be brutal, but never vulgar. I let the music speak. I let the tracks marry each other. I don’t force things, I listen. I accompany the transitions rather than cutting them harshly. My style of blending, breathing with the tracks, sculpting emotions in continuity—all of that comes from there.

When I DJ, I don’t think about beat-matching as a technicality. I think about creating invisible rivers between states of feeling. About opening channels where people can lose themselves and find themselves again. That approach, that respect, comes directly from New York, Chicago, and Detroit. They taught me that music isn’t just sound. It’s a place where the body and the dream meet.

Collaboration seems to be a key part of your artistic journey. I’m thinking, for example, of the EP We Move as One (2016) with Antigone. How do you approach this creative challenge, and what musical philosophy guides your search for a harmonious synthesis between different sound worlds? What did this experience leave you with?

Collaboration has always been something meaningful to me. Even though I collaborate less today than I did in the past, I see it as something sacred. It’s never just about making music together. It’s about opening a dialogue between two emotional worlds and creating a third entity, something that neither could create alone, something larger, deeper, heavier with meaning. When two different sensibilities meet honestly, without masks, something new is born—a kind of emotional architecture, a structure that belongs to both but also transcends both. That’s how I approached We Move as One with Antigone. At the time, Antigone was one of the most promising new talents of the Paris techno scene. We shared a common hunger for sound, a desire to push our limits, and an intuitive musical connection. We Move as Onewasn’t just a project, it became a moment for the underground scene in Paris. It felt like a statement, a sign that something was shifting in the city.

The experience left a strong imprint on me. It reminded me that music isn’t just a solitary act—it can be an act of fusion. It taught me that true collaboration isn’t about compromise. It’s about generosity, about trusting the process, about letting the other artist’s universe infect your own and vice versa. I’m someone who is very sensitive to people. When someone touches me—through their music, their energy, their fragility—that connection stays with me, even if life moves on, even if projects end. The emotional imprint remains. It lives in the tracks, but also in the silences between them.

You’ve mentioned David Bowie as a recurring figure in your conversations with Juliette. What does he represent to you, both artistically and personally? If you were to create your own alter ego—just like Ziggy Stardust was for Bowie—who or what would it be? What kind of music would they make? How would they dress?

David Bowie is an artist I often discuss with my agent Juliette. He represents, for me, the idea of total artistic freedom, the ability to evolve, to change, to challenge expectations without ever losing coherence. What inspires me about Bowie is the way he never allowed himself to be limited by a single identity. He understood that being an artist means moving forward, constantly questioning yourself, reinventing your language without betraying your essence. That idea of mutation, of refusing stagnation, is something I try to apply in my own path, in my own way. If I had to imagine an alter ego, like he did with Ziggy Stardust, I think it would be a singer. Someone who could use words and emotions more directly. Someone whose music would be somewhere between rap and R&B, carrying strong emotions but without falling into clichés. A voice that would talk about truth, vulnerability, and resilience. It wouldn’t be about provocation or performance. It would be about being able to say things clearly and honestly, even when it makes people uncomfortable. Because fragility can disturb people, but it’s part of what makes us human. That’s how I see the role of an alter ego today: not as a costume, but as another way to express different facets of the same story. A way to approach things more intimately, through the voice, through presence, through emotion.

Dement3d was born in 2011 as a party, hosting artists such as Planetary Assault Systems, Moritz Von Oswald, and Marcel Dettmann—the latter of whom you’ve mentioned as a professional guide who helped you find balance between creativity and business. The foundation of the label with the same name two years later happened quite naturally, starting from a group of friends and a shared love for music. How important is the human and relational aspect to you in an artistic project? And how do you preserve that spontaneity over time?

Dement3d was a beautiful story. People might not realize it today, but back then, it was a real pivotal moment for the renewal of techno in France. Those nights we organized at Social Club converted a lot of people, and in a way, it became almost a precursor to what Concrete later represented in Parisian techno culture. I say this very freely, but I believe that the Dement3d nights played a major role in shaping what the Paris techno scene is today. We injected a new energy into Paris, even if it only lasted for a short period, it left a real mark. Marcel Dettmann was also a very important figure for me, not just because of who he was, but because of his vision, his approach to music, and his way of balancing artistic integrity with structure. For me, what really matters in any artistic project is the human connection, the relationships it creates. It’s very personal, but I’m deeply moved when an artist’s story touches me, when their density as a person resonates beyond just their sound. I believe in sharing slices of life through music. Real, lived experiences, not just aesthetics. I think of myself both as a storyteller and as a passionate spectator. I’m a cinephile, deeply in love with the stories of life, the small, sometimes invisible narratives that people carry with them. I believe the life of a human being holds infinite beauty. Even though from the outside I may appear cold, I’m very sensitive to human nature. When I make music, or when I participate in projects with other artists or through my labels, it’s the stories of others that touch me first. They stay with me. I believe that’s timeless. I think the day I stop being moved by life, by human nature, by these stories, I might not really be alive anymore. Because as a human being, even if sometimes I’m tough with the world around me, my connection to it is deep and permanent. When a person touches me, their music touches me even more. I’m even more curious about their story than about their sound. And when I connect to that story, the music becomes amplified, more powerful, more true.

The visual aesthetic of Dement3d, curated by Matthieu Cannavo, has helped shape its identity. How important is the visual component to you in a musical project? And how much room do you leave for improvisation and naturalness when building a scene?

The visual aesthetic has always been essential for me. It’s not just something you add at the end to make a project look good. For me, the visual component is a natural extension of the music itself. It amplifies the emotional impact. It builds another layer of the story you’re trying to tell. I’m very grateful to Matthieu Cannavo for helping us shape the visual identity of Dement3d during that period. His work made the label more than just a musical project, it became a full experience, where sound and image supported each other. When I work on a project, I pay a lot of attention to the visual side because I believe it’s a window into the soul of the music. It has to be strong, emotional, coherent. It has to tell you something about the project even before you hear a single note.

But at the same time, I also believe in leaving room for improvisation and for natural accidents. Sometimes, the most powerful moments come from what wasn’t planned—what breaks the frame. You have to know when to guide the vision, but also when to let the project breathe on its own, without over-controlling it. That balance between a strong visual identity and the freedom to let things happen naturally is something I try to maintain in everything I do. It’s a question of instinct and respect for the life of the project itself.

Tennis is not just a hobby for you, but a real passion. Playing tennis 3–4 times a week requires commitment, consistency, and determination. You even dream of becoming a professional tennis player. How has this sport shaped you as an artist as well? Do you think there are affinities between sports discipline and musical creativity? What values do you bring from the court to the DJ booth—and vice versa?

Tennis was my first passion—and also my greatest disappointment. It’s not just a hobby for me. It’s something that truly makes my blood boil, in a good way. I could easily play seven days a week. It’s pure passion. It’s what makes me feel alive. But at the same time, it represents a deep frustration. I had real natural ability, real talent. But like the saying goes, talent without work is nothing. That’s the symbolic story of my life: I had all the tools, but I never worked hard enough when I was young. So I never found out how far I could have gone. I never completed that path.

Ironically, it’s through that failure that I learned the value of effort. Tennis taught me—in a very harsh way—the importance of pushing yourself, of transcending your laziness. Before that, I was the ultimate slacker. Today, people see me as someone serious—someone who doesn’t drink, who doesn’t do drugs, who works hard. But that discipline was born out of failure, not out of nature.

Tennis also taught me how to experience extreme sensations. Sometimes, when you play, there are moments so intense that you almost feel your body lifting off the ground. Moments where everything aligns: mind, body, emotion. When you win a difficult point, when you survive a tough match—it’s like touching something sacred. A phenomenon you rarely encounter in daily life.

That’s the parallel I draw with music.
When you build a set, when you catch the perfect track at the perfect moment, when you see the energy shift in the crowd—it’s the same sensation. The same fusion of tension, instinct, and transcendence.

And in terms of stress management, tennis gave me real tools. Today, even when I play festivals in front of 20,000 people, I don’t feel crushed by it. Of course, I feel the pressure, the adrenaline—but I know how to manage it. I know how to stay calm inside. Because I’ve learned, match after match, to breathe through stress instead of letting it break me. In a way, tennis taught me how to survive—not just on the court, but on stage.

XX LAB (2021) seems to represent not just a music label, but a true artistic statement. Those who enter the world of XX LAB are invited to experience a full sensory and conceptual journey. The material and conceptual approach to the “objects” created around XX LAB is fascinating—and, in some ways, unexpected in a musical context. Was there a specific object—real or symbolic—that marked a turning point for you, or a moment when you realized your vision truly went beyond sound?

XX LAB was created during COVID, and honestly, it happened almost unconsciously. It wasn’t a calculated decision to start a traditional label. It was more the need to have my own platform—an extension of my identity as an artist, a continuation of my story. I’ve always had a lot of ideas constantly moving in my head, and as I said earlier, I’m a storyteller by nature. I needed a space where I could tell my own stories freely. XX LAB became the perfect combination for that.

At some point, I realized that it wasn’t just about releasing music—it was about tracing a deeper path. That moment came during the release of Digital Fever. The main release was a classic vinyl EP, but alongside it, I created a limited edition artifact called the Access Disc. With the help of two friends based in China, we produced this special piece: a square transparent dubplate, around 7 or 10 inches, placed inside a clear acrylic box, accompanied by a fictional manifesto.

The Access Disc wasn’t just a version of the regular EP. It was a reinterpretation—a sort of soundtrack rework of the project. Each track was introduced first by a female corporate voice, the kind you would hear in the lobby of a dystopian mega-corporation. Then I would take over, presenting each track myself, speaking in a more philosophical and poetic tone, before letting the edited piece of music play for about two minutes.

The inspiration came directly from the Voight-Kampff interviews in Blade Runner. That’s when I realized we were doing something beyond just music—we were materializing fragments of a fictional world into physical objects. These were not just records; they were artifacts. Relics from a parallel dimension.

That’s the idea behind XX LAB: slowly building a world made of objects, music, and stories that all connect together. In five or six years, I hope it will look like a small collection of living artifacts, telling the story of a whole imaginary system. Right now, my life as a DJ sometimes takes most of my time, but the vision for XX LAB is still very alive. And we are getting ready to create new stories again.

The title CEO (2023) presents a fascinating tension between the Western cowboy imagery and the executive role. The cowboy figure evokes independence, rebellion, solitary romanticism. The CEO, on the other hand, evokes power, vision, and strategy. How did you arrive at this unique fusion? What do the cowboy and the CEO represent for you, respectively? How do these two sides coexist within you, both as an artist and as a human being?

When I created CEO, it came at a moment in my life when I realized something deep inside myself. I don’t know if it was modesty or a form of conscious solitude, but I needed moments of being alone. Moments where I could seek a form of understanding—of myself, of the world I live in, of the people around me. Sometimes, that need becomes very intense. It’s not constant, but when it comes, it’s overwhelming. It’s like the cowboy who needs to stop in towns, in villages, in remote places—not to stay, but to share his message and then move on. There’s a kind of mystical quest behind it. It’s a solitude that’s active, not passive. A search for meaning through isolation.

At the same time, there’s another side of me that needs something else. Maybe not a thirst for power, but the need—like a CEO—to be listened to. To share a vision. To organize, to lead projects. I like having the global vision of things. I like managing ideas and people. It’s something natural for me. For me, the cowboy represents the horizon, the infinite. The acceptance of who you are—away from social constructs, away from the need for approval. It’s a deep listening to your own emotions, your own doubts, your own flaws. And it’s about rising through your own truth.

The CEO, on the other hand, is also solitude—but solitude through responsibility. It’s the weight of decisions that impact others. It’s pragmatism, the organization, the need to frame things. It’s the opposite of romanticism. It’s the world of structure and control. As a human and as an artist, I live between these two forces. And if I’m honest, I think it comes directly from my education. My mother was very poetic, completely dreamlike—almost immature sometimes in her way of seeing the world. My father was much more sensitive—maybe too sensitive—but he hid it behind a strong pragmatism and a form of coldness. He was extremely reserved about emotions.

I think that today, as an artist, I channel my extreme sensitivity by framing it through a form of pragmatism. This balance, this duality between emotion and structure, is what defines me. That’s François X.

You also have a love for films, particularly Japanese and French classics from the ’60s and ’70s. How do these films—with their aesthetic and storytelling—reflect in your musical creativity? What do you try to translate into sound through them? Is there one film you consider particularly formative?

I mentioned it in a previous interview, but thinking about it more now, I realize my influences are even broader. I’m extremely influenced by what I would call realistic science fiction, and by dystopian films in general. I’m a big admirer of Philip K. Dick. But when it comes to cinema from the ’60s and ’70s, what inspires me most is the freedom of tone that those films had—and sometimes a form of satire that still resonates with me.

I’ve been a huge fan of Bertrand Blier, with films like Buffet Froid. These are movies completely out of time—films that brought a form of surrealism inside a very subversive realism. What intrigues me in this kind of work is the way the narrative can feel almost comedic on the surface while hiding something profoundly dark and heavy underneath. In my work, I also need to access that kind of emotional layering—the feeling that something humorous can coexist with something deeply somber.

On the science fiction side, there’s a film that has been a strong influence on me: Prometheus, part of the Alien saga. Even though it’s relatively recent, it left a strong impression on me. Partly because of its photography—the way the colors are almost desaturated—and partly because of the music, which gives the entire story an almost extreme, uncompromising atmosphere. There’s a sense of vertigo in how the film explores the idea of humanity searching for its creators, trying to understand why it exists. Throughout the film, you see landscapes that are almost earthly but feel extraterrestrial—and that ambiguity creates a kind of sacred tension. That religious, vertiginous feeling is something I try to find in my own music. I want to create that sense of standing at the edge of something immense, where you could fall at any moment. A feeling of emptiness, of vastness. That’s the feeling I get from certain films, and that’s exactly what I try to translate into sound.

The Straight Edge Society EP (2025) consists of four very different tracks, each seemingly representing a specific emotion or mental state. Got Me Overnight opens with instant energy and broken vocals, while Unpolarised explores a hypnotic minimalism. Certified DNA has an almost cinematic edge, with atmospheric pads and structured beats. Raw Motion, on the other hand, is a visceral homage to Chicago house. Were there any particular moments of difficulty or revelation during the creative process that shaped the final direction of the project? Which track challenged you the most—and why?

Straight Edge Society came together in a very natural and fluid way. The project’s theme was really about illustrating my way of living—not by abstinence, not by ideology, but simply by being who I am. Living in a kind of “raw motion” state has made me experience life with extreme emotional intensity—sometimes very hard moments, but without ever trying to escape from them. I don’t claim that it made me a better person, but that’s how I lived, and that’s what I wanted to express. Each track feels like a kind of logbook—a record of these unfiltered experiences.

At some point during the creative process, there was a real flow—something sensitive and natural that carried me. Ideas came very quickly, almost like a burst. There wasn’t one track that challenged me more than the others. The real challenge was to stay sharp enough to catch the right moments, to put them into form as quickly and faithfully as possible, without diluting them. I think that’s where the real strength of the record lies: in the ability to capture the raw emotion in its purest form—without overworking it, without overthinking it. Just letting it live.

We live in a time where electronic music is increasingly listened to in intimate settings or through headphones. With Straight Edge Society, you seem to propose a more “conscious” dimension of the dance floor experience—almost like a collective ritual. Do you still see the dance floor as your main destination? Were you trying to create some sort of alternate space—a “lucid” sonic community in contrast to the overstimulated dynamics of the contemporary world?

For me, electronic music has never had a fixed or permanent destination tied to the dancefloor. It can exist in many places. But the dancefloor carries a very strong emotional character because it’s where spirits connect, where people form a community, where bodies communicate without words.

Emotionally, we need to feel our bodies. That’s essential. I often say the dancefloor is a human laboratory. When I make music, and especially when I made Straight Edge Society, I felt the need to reconnect the mind with the body. I always imagine a kind of perfect space, almost fictional, where a community exchanges frequencies, energies, kindness, human fluidity. Today, when I compose, there is something very important I need to integrate: the living. The feeling of being alive. We must feel our bodies move, suffer, live, communicate through that deep language that we often forget in today’s overstimulated world. Even though I love technology and fully participate in it, I believe we have to bring back the living into the equation. When I create, I need consciousness. I need a cerebral approach. But I don’t intellectualize the music, I cerebralize it. Which means I still want the music to be experienced physically, not just understood mentally.

We must stay analogical. We must put the living first.

Today, clubbing is inevitably tied to social media and technology. How do you relate to this new reality? Do you ever feel nostalgic for the “analog” days, or have you truly embraced the change as part of the game? How important do you think it is for an artist to understand and embrace the cultural codes of new generations, even when they feel distant from your own experience?

It’s funny because your question connects perfectly to something I was saying earlier about analogy. Of course clubbing today is deeply linked to social media and technology, and that’s normal. We have to live with our time. We have to accept new tools, not blindly, but consciously, being aware of their potential risks, but also of their power. The truth is, these tools exist mainly to amplify what we already are. Even if people sometimes get lost in conspiracies or fears, at the end of the day, technology offers artists the chance to extend their voice, not to betray it. Personally, I have no regrets or nostalgia for the so-called analog days. It was much harder back then to communicate your project widely, to reach people on a bigger scale. Today, we have powerful tools. If you are creative and courageous, you can share your message directly with your audience. I think it’s crucial for an artist to understand that. These tools are not the art, they are just ways to carry it, to make it travel. Sometimes there is a kind of modesty or even fear when it comes to exposing yourself, but for me, communicating your project is simply about transmitting your emotions. Sharing what moves you. And there’s nothing more beautiful than seeing your emotions resonate with other human beings. Through social media, we can extend our message. We can create a path toward our emotions, toward connection. So yes, we must embrace it. Carefully, yes. But fully.

What are your next steps? Can you give us a sneak peek into any upcoming projects?

Right now, I’m focusing on the release of my new EP, a two-part techno project that will unfold throughout 2025. It’s a very personal work, deeply connected to my identity, my roots, and my own evolution as an artist. It’s not just about music, it’s about bringing body, soul, and storytelling together into sound. It’s a raw, emotional, and groovy project, and I’m excited to finally share it.

Beyond that, the festival season is about to start, and I’ll be performing across different stages, reconnecting with dancefloors and audiences. Touring is an important part of my life, it’s where the music meets real people, real energy.

I’m also working behind the scenes on new narratives for XX LAB. New releases, new physical objects, new stories to tell. The idea is to keep expanding the universe of the label, to create not just music, but a complete ecosystem where sound, design, and imagination meet.

There’s a lot to come. The most important thing is to keep moving forward, keep creating, and keep building spaces where emotions can live, breathe, and evolve.

You have mentioned previously that the garments you create feel like armor to you. Do you feel particularly vulnerable in other types of garments? Or do you feel like the garments transform you into a persona?

Yes, it’s true. I do feel vulnerable when I’m not dressing myself. I know what works for my proportions, and styling has always been my way of compensating for my natural shyness. It became a tool to help me feel confident and secure in my body. Over time, I’ve learned that not all garments speak to me the same way. I’ve modeled for other brands in the past, and when the fit or cut didn’t suit my shape, I didn’t feel like myself. That’s when I realised I’m not a blank-canvas kind of model, and that’s okay. It took time for me to accept this, but I am at a place where I can now say no if I don’t want to wear something. Some people feel their most confident in loose-fitting, athletic pieces, but for me, that’s actually when I feel most exposed. I prefer structure with a touch of play. I like pieces that hold me, define me, and help me step into the version of myself I want to embody. My garments really do act as armor, and without them, I sometimes feel like I’m missing a layer of protection.

What’s on the horizon for you? Do you have an ultimate goal you want to achieve for yourself or your brand?

I’ve achieved so many of the goals I set for myself, and after over a decade of nonstop dedication to my work, I’m finally in a place where I want to slow down and really smell the roses. Right now, I’m focusing on healing my inner child, making space to play, and being more present with the people I love. My goals these days are less about chasing and more about sustaining and nurturing the parts of my life and creativity that bring me real joy. For my brand, that means continuing to collaborate with creatives who inspire and motivate me. One of those people is Mary Witch, a designer I’ve been working with closely these recent years. She is so good at what she does, it motivates me to try new things. I’ve been looking for a collaborator like her for so long. Despite the language barrier, we have a deep understanding of each other’s visions, and I’m excited to keep creating beautiful things together. I also dream of finally completing my showroom and photo studio. The plan is to open my space to the community, host events, and bring creatives together. At the heart of it all, I just want to keep pouring my affection and passion into everything I do and continue bringing joy and light to others through my work.

Fragments of the Self / Francois x

Credits:

Artist: Francois X / @francois_x
Interview: Gianmaria Garofalo / @gianmaria.garofalo
Editor: Anca Macavei / @ancamacavei
Photographer: Manuel Obadia-Wills / @manuelobadiawills
Stylist: Joy Sinanian / @joysinanian

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