Deborah de Luca - Interview

DEBORAH DE LUCA
*Equality at 140 BPM

written + interview ALBAN E. SMAJLI

Born in Scampia and wired for motion, Deborah de Luca takes the booth as a surveyor might seize a blueprint, her compass a strobe that scans the crowd.

She draws tempo across faces like lines of elevation, setting three instinctive tracks as a base layer, a quiet study before construction begins. From there she lifts the room piece by piece, each transition a new frame rising into place, until the set breathes as a structure of rhythm and light. Lately the final touch often glimmers with a Gigi D’Agostino refrain — a silver filament stretched through a contemporary shell, binding past and present in one luminous design.

Silence holds a private garden key for Deborah. Life surrounds her with music in studios, in clubs, in cars, so she seeks stillness and lets it refill the body. Between the first record and the last drop new selves appear and dissolve, across long marathons of four to seven hours, a full cycle of morning energy, afternoon charge, evening glow. One word: equality, a law for dance floors where categories melt and a single pulse writes a passport for everyone.

dress VERSACE
shoes LE SILLA

“In a techno club, it doesn’t matter if you’re white, Black, gray, yellow, Christian, Jewish, atheist—inside, we’re all of the same religion: techno.”

Deborah de Luca speaks with Alban E. Smajli
for LE MILE .Digital

Her faith moves through cosmic grammar. God equals the universe, a field of energy, color, and music that answers when addressed with intention. She runs her label since 2013, appetite vivid for sound, image, cinema, miles. Tastes shift like seasons of the tongue, sometimes heavy and hard, sometimes featherlight and melodic, especially in the final hour when the sun inside her sets leans toward amber. Craft sits on both shoulders during those passages, melody braiding with steel, her signature: hard pop, techno fluent.
Small rooms feed her with a certain charge, afters where the ceiling breathes and the floor talks back, like that morning in Florence when the dial locked into hard art techno and a new facet snapped into view. The ugliest sound in her memory came from plastic whistles pecking at the kick, a fashion that squealed and left a sour ring. Spin her catalog from end to start and a path appears, a gradual climb shaped by taste and by the sound of her city, a line that rises in small steps and keeps rising.

When the lights rise and the room exhales, a ritual follows. Fifteen minutes of fierce self audit, choices weighed and corners checked, then a homing current toward bed, toward two dogs, toward the sunset that washes the house in gold and resets the chest. Flights create a sealed capsule where the pilot drives and the grid fades into distance, films flicker, thoughts wander, and nerves surrender. She wants the work to live on, a structure that other hands can lift and carry, music that glows with memory and future. Deborah de Luca composes momentum and mercy in the same breath, a builder who treats crowds like cities and nights like blueprints, and across seven hour marathons or one hour transmissions the mission stays constant, read the room, raise the structure, leave them with a song that follows them home. For a long, long while. Always.

top VOFT KNIT
skirt RICK OWENS

Alban E. Smajli
Your sets feel like architecture. What’s the last thing that shattered your sense of control?

Deborah de Luca
I take “architecture” as a compliment, but honestly, there’s not much pre-built. The first three tracks I already know, because I need time to read the room and understand who’s in front of me. Those first 15 minutes are my time to analyze. From there, I build what comes next. Maybe that’s architecture, but it happens live, piece by piece. Only when I play a DJ set that’s streamed online, like for the Street Parade or my live shows from the Vele di Scampia or at Maradona Stadium those are the only sets I prepare at home. They’re not random but carefully studied since they’ll have media exposure. I decide on the tracks beforehand, or even create some pieces specifically for the occasion, but I never fix their order.

You grew up in Scampia. Now you tour the world pulsing through Funktion-Ones. Is there still a part of you that hears silence and gets suspicious?

Actually, I love silence, I don’t become suspicious. When I get in the car, I turn the music off; if a driver is with me, I turn it off; if I’m at a restaurant, I like silence. Because I live constantly with music—when I make it, when I listen to others, when I work in clubs, or when I hear someone play before or after me. So I need silence, I look for it, it regenerates me.

How many versions of you exist between the opening track and the last drop at 4:37 a.m.?

The first track is always mine, the last one is usually not, especially lately, when I like closing with a Gigi D’Agostino piece from the early 2000s. So no, I’m not the same from the first to the last track. I take a journey, especially if I play long sets of 4, 5, even 7 hours. I’m not the same person from the first to the last record. Sometimes I come back, then I drift away—it’s the same in life. You wake up one way in the morning, by afternoon you have different energy, and in the evening it changes again.

Do you believe in God? Or just in bass?

I believe, but not in the God most people think of—not that man with long hair and blue eyes, born in Jerusalem, who should have been darker-skinned anyway. I don’t believe in that. I believe in the universe. For me, God is the universe. When you ask for something, you ask the universe. The energy comes from the universe, you attract it. To me, that’s the same thing—God is the universe. But it has no human figure; it’s everything around us: energy, colors, music. That, for me, is God.

top VOFT KNIT
skirt ISZA
lip ring ASK & EMBLA

You run your own label. Do you still feel hunger, or is it something deeper now? Obsession maybe, or ritual?

I’ve managed my label alone since 2013. I’m always hungry, and that will never pass—whether for music, colors, friendships, films, travel. Hunger will never leave me. Sometimes I just change tastes—sometimes I want sweet, sometimes salty. In music, sometimes heavier, harder; other times softer, like in the last hour of long sets. But yes, the hunger never fades.

Do you miss the chaos of small clubs? The kind where the smoke machine breaks and the floor sweats back at you?

I miss the energy of small clubs a lot. Sometimes, when after a festival I play a little after-party in a small place, I’m really happy, because you’re closer to people. It also gives me a different idea of music, I play differently. For example, last time in Florence, in a club after a festival, I was much harder than usual—very art-techno. I discovered a new side of myself there.

What’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard on stage?

When the sound system isn’t as it should be and the monitor speaker starts crackling, it’s terrible — it breaks the magic.

If someone played your full discography backwards, what message would emerge?

You’d hear the journey. Where I started slowly, climbing step by step—not mountains, just hills. I evolved with my own taste, with people’s taste, with the sounds around me, with the influences of my city. You’d hear that it’s been a steady path upward—not of highs and lows, but always slowly rising.

Techno doesn’t need words, but if it did—what would yours be? Just one.

Equality. In a techno club, it doesn’t matter if you’re white, Black, gray, yellow, Christian, Jewish, atheist—nobody cares. Inside, we’re all of the same religion: techno. And that’s something very beautiful.

What keeps you OFFLINE when your whole life runs on voltage and signal? Or is OFFLINE just a myth sold to the unplugged?

My home, my dogs, the sunset at home. Also when I fly. Yesterday I had a 14-hour flight and could have connected, but I didn’t. On planes, I let the pilot drive, I rest, I disconnect completely. When I’m not flying, it’s still my dogs and my home that keep me offline.

You’ve built something—music, myth, a kind of feminine rage wrapped in steel. Do you ever worry it’ll outgrow you?

No, I don’t think it can become bigger than me. Music is understandable for everyone, and even if it grows, it remains something elementary. I never feared it could outgrow me.

When the lights come up and the bodies thin out, when it’s just sweat on the floor and silence in the booth, where does your mind go? Who do you become when the music stops?

Honestly, I’m very tough on myself. The first 15 minutes after a set I spend thinking I haven’t done my very best—that I should have played another track, that something was too easy, too commercial, or too hard. Even when everyone says it was great, I criticize myself. Then I can’t wait to get into bed, and to go home to my dogs.

“For me, God is the universe. Energy, colors, music—that, for me, is God.”

Deborah de Luca speaks with Alban E. Smajli
for LE MILE .Digital

top YVY LEATHER
panties MAISON CLOSE

photographer NICHOLAS FOLS
styling + production ANCA MACAVEI
styling assistants JYOTHSANA SELVAM + LESLIE GUERRA
assistant on set MELISSA RUSSO

talent
DEBORAH DE LUCA

Anxhela - Interview

ANXHELA Plays
*The Room Follows

written + interview ALBAN E. SMAJLI

Anxhela moves with steady momentum. Her sessions open when the day allows for it, tracks surface with the kind of weight that feels tied to place and time, and each one holds its shape without needing to explain how it formed.

She releases music in a way that suggests she’s already past the part where it needs to be explained — each piece arrives formed, quiet, intact, without scaffolding or commentary, and then lives where it lands. The tone across her output remains steady, and the surrounding space—both physical and digital—feels maintained with the same attention, creating a rhythm where every release holds its own position, shaped by a sense of timing that reflects the internal pace of her process, with no visible urgency or external structure, and everything aligned with a working method that keeps expression at the centre and lets the material speak without interference.

The same applies to how she dresses. There’s alignment without overthinking, detail without decoration. Each look feels connected to the environment she enters, whether that’s a small club, an outdoor stage, or a studio session in progress, and the alignment between sound, space, and image settles without commentary. Nothing leans toward performance and everything in view appears selected with quiet precision, creating an overall impression that builds naturally as part of the experience she’s creating, rather than functioning as a separate layer around it.

total look JUUN.J

Kosovo sits in recent memory — the kind of night that works in layers, with a familiar crowd positioned close to the stage, a set that held its shape across its full length, and a kind of energy that remained steady from beginning to end. Family watched. Energy held. Nothing overstated. Just the kind of connection that registers in the body and stays there for a while. Right now the work is happening in parts. Studio sessions, fragments, outlines, days where something clicks and the rest falls into place. The process stays active, shaped by the environment and the rhythm of her own attention, with new material appearing as part of that motion, guided by feeling and sustained by structure.

Playing live remains essential. The volume in the room, the faces, the architecture of the room and the way bodies move inside it. Each set builds on instinct, adjusted in real time, shaped by the way the crowd responds without language. She approaches the set as a whole structure, one that forms through presence and holds together through instinct, with every element placed deliberately and nothing overstated. The direction stays inward, the delivery stays exact, and the result maintains a kind of clarity that travels well beyond the night itself. That balance works. It’s already working.

total look DIESEL
jewellery ARCHIVED PROTOTYPES

jewellery ARCHIVED PROTOTYPES

Alban E. Smajli
Please, define your sound without limitations. What does it evoke, where does it live, and who does it belong to?

Anxhela
Yes,my sound is an emotional journey and it reflects what I feel, what I imagine, and what I want others to experience. I stay true to what moves me, but I also think of the listener because I’ve been on that side too, waiting to be transported by music.
Every track I play or create carries a piece of my mood, joy, sadness, energy, nostalgia. It’s a mix of instinct, emotion, and connection. My sound lives between my inner world and the dancefloor, and it belongs to anyone willing to feel something real.

Fashion and music—does one dictate the other for you, or do they move in tandem as part of the same vision?

For me, fashion and music move in harmony, they’re both expressions of the same inner world. Just like sound, what I wear reflects how I feel, what I want to say, and the atmosphere I want to create.
Sometimes a look can amplify the energy of a set, or help tell the same story the music is telling. I don’t see them as separate, they evolve together and complete each other as part of my artistic identity.

Albums seem like a relic, streaming is a battlefield. Where do you stand in this war for attention?

Streaming is important, it’s where people discover you, connect with your music, and follow your journey. But I don’t create just to grab attention. I create to express something real and to connect with the listener. Whether it’s one track or ten, the emotion behind it is what matters most to me. I released singles so far, because I like focusing on each track as its own story. Every release is a moment, a feeling, something I want to share without waiting for a full project.

At the same time, I really admire the idea of building something bigger, like an EP or album. I haven’t done that yet, but it’s definitely something I think about for the future. I don’t follow a fixed strategy or release constantly, I create when it feels right. But at the same time, I know how important it is to stay visible, especially today. So I try to find a balance: I want to stay true to my sound, but also be smart about how and when I share my work. I’m learning to combine both sides: the passion and the planning, without losing myself in the process.

total look JUUN.J Archive

“Every track I play or create carries a piece of my mood, joy, sadness, energy, nostalgia. It’s a mix of instinct, emotion, and connection.”

Anxhela speaks with Alban E. Smajli
for LE MILE Digital SS25

Are clubs sacred spaces, or are we witnessing the birth of something new?

I think clubs will always have a special place. There’s a certain and real energy you can feel there,but at the same time everything is evolving. Music evolves, and we see new collectives, new concepts and new ways to connect. I think we’re already in the middle of this change.
I love playing in clubs, but I’m also excited to explore other spaces and see how electronic music keeps evolving.

Festivals—have they lost their cultural significance, or are they evolving into something new in the live music experience?

I don’t think festivals have lost their meaning,I think they’re just changing, like everything else in music.
Today, festivals bring people together in a big way. It’s not just about the music anymore, it’s about the full experience, the community, the energy, the visuals, the feeling of being part of something. I think they’re evolving into something new, and that’s not a bad thing. As long as the music stays at the center, festivals can still be powerful and emotional moments, just in a different way than before.

Your music is a world of its own—what stories echo through it, and what emotions form its foundation?

My music is built on emotions. Every time I create or play, it depends on how I feel.
Sometimes I’m happy, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes sad, I try to express that through sound. I don’t follow one story, but I want the listener to feel something to connect with the mood. For me, music is a way to speak without words. It’s like sharing a part of myself, and at the same time imagining what the people on the dancefloor might need in that moment. I don’t follow one fixed story, it’s more like a journey through feelings.

If you could construct the perfect performance from the ground up—what does it look like, sound like, feel like?

My perfect performance would be in a special place, maybe outdoors, in nature, or somewhere unexpected. I’d want the music to be emotional, and full of energy. A sound that makes people feel something and takes them on a journey.

The lights, the space, the people, everything would come together. But the most important thing is the connection. I’d want everyone to feel free and present, just enjoying the moment with the music.

Kosovo—Europe’s youngest pulse. How did this performance come to life, and what was it like to play in a place so charged with energy and change? What’s next for you? A whisper, a roar, a new world?

Playing in Kosovo was a really emotional experience for me. I’m Albanian, and having my family there, people I love made it even more special.The energy was powerful, I could feel the crowd connecting with every sound, and I felt so free to express myself. It wasn’t just a performance, it felt like home.

What’s next?

I think it’s a mix of all three: a whisper, a roar, and maybe even a new world. I’m in a phase where I’m discovering myself more through music, step by step. I don’t always know where it’s going, but that’s the beauty of it. I just follow the emotion, stay true to what I feel, and let the sound lead the way. Whatever comes next, I hope it surprises even me.

dress HADERLUMP ATELIER
shoes DR. MARTENS
jewellery ARCHIVED PROTOTYPES

talent ANXHELA
photographer PASCAL SCHONLAU
production + styling BASAK SAYGIN
makeup & hair GIOVANNI ZUMMO
production assistant ANETA TARASEVICIUTE