Shlømo Unfiltered: One Sharp Techno Mind That Isn’t Playing By The Rules
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For Shlømo, techno and its obsession with subgenres isn’t evolution—it’s ego. In this EDMNOMAD exclusive interview, he sees the scene divided by self-important labels like “TikTok techno” and “Neorave,” a trend that fragments rather than fuels the culture. “We’re one big community, and that vibe is what really matters,” he said, brushing off hyper-categorization as the symptom of a generation convinced they’ve discovered something new. “I was playing trance in 2020, groovy techno in 2018, deep techno in 2017—nothing is really new,” he added.
When Beatport introduced the “Neorave” tag to resolve arguments about hard techno’s identity, it only reinforced his point. “In that same box, you had my tracks and also artists like Marlon Hoffstadt who sound completely different,” he explained. For Shlømo, history repeats, and the attempt to gatekeep without knowledge feels both ironic and exhausting. “If you’re going to gatekeep, at least know what you’re talking about.”
Presence Over Performance, and Why HEADSHOT Had to Happen
Shlømo isn’t allergic to social media, but he doesn’t worship it either. “It’s not a fake rule, it’s more like this unspoken expectation,” he said. That expectation? Post or perish. With branding shifting from label to artist, the burden of exposure now rests on the individual. “Exposure versus authenticity… it’s a trade-off,” he admitted. Getting noticed takes more than music. “Are you posting content? Do you have a following? What’s your engagement, your virality?” he posed. Even onstage, presence has replaced mystery. “Now it’s the opposite of the Berghain era. If you don’t bring energy, people don’t connect the same way.” He estimates that music makes up only 20% of what defines an artist today. The rest? Strategy, presence, affiliation. “It’s just a tough shift to adjust to sometimes.”
His answer to the scene’s overly polished surface came through HEADSHOT, a podcast he created with Urban Le Pharaon. “In techno, the vibe has often been too polished—not fake, but reserved,” Shlømo shared. Inspired by raw hip-hop podcasts, HEADSHOT exists not to flatter but to shake things up. “It’s not an interview or performance—just honest dialogue.” He’s already received messages from artists who thanked him for finally saying what everyone thinks. “It meant something to them to hear someone finally speak openly,” he shared. Even when HEADSHOT draws heat—like when fans criticized the inclusion of influencers—he doesn’t flinch. “They’re part of the scene whether people like it or not.” Shlømo reiterates, “techno is for everyone.” For him, the goal remains: create space for the things that never get said, and let people speak without fear or filter.
Stage Personas, Authenticity, and the Underground No One Wants to Admit
Charisma has become the new currency, but that doesn’t mean everyone’s faking it. “You’re presenting a version of yourself,” Shlømo explained. “In real life, I’m pretty shy.” While he respects artists who jump on tables or grab the mic, he knows his lane. “My friend Nico Moreno told me to jump with him, and I just said, ‘F*ck off!’” he laughed. The difference, for him, lies between adapting and pretending. “If it’s true to your identity, then it’s fine.” But he doesn’t support borrowing from EDM showmanship just to chase hype. “People now want to see your energy, not just hear it. Staying grounded in who you are—that’s the key.”
Then there’s the persistent myth of the underground—a concept he calls out bluntly. “If you think you’re underground—do it for free. Don’t post, don’t promote, just show up.” Too many artists, he says, want to be seen as pure while chasing commercial success. “You can’t have both. At some point, you have to respect it as a job.” Shlømo, the techno rebel, speaks from experience. Before going full-time in music, he worked as Head of PR for Paris Saint-Germain. “When I made the choice to fully commit, I had to treat it like a career.” Passion, for him, wasn’t diminished by money—it was respected through commitment. “It’s like building your own company. You don’t want to stay small forever.”
Techno Aside, There’s Things HEADSHOT Can’t Always Air
Even in a space as open as HEADSHOT, there are truths that don’t always reach the audience. “What people see is around 40 minutes of the final episode, but in reality, we record for two, sometimes two and a half hours. A lot gets cut.” Some cuts are more than just editing choices. “One of the most difficult moments we’ve had was when a guest started naming people in the industry, accusing them of sexual abuse. It was intense,” he said. Though the conversation was raw and vulnerable, France’s strict defamation laws made airing it risky. “People are considered innocent until proven guilty. So legally, it put us in a complicated position.”
He felt the weight of that moment deeply. “The guest clearly felt safe enough to open up on our platform, and I respect that deeply. That kind of trust means everything. But we had to navigate this tricky line between giving space for honest conversation and protecting ourselves legally.” For Shlømo, that balance is part of the responsibility he’s taken on. “You’re not just having a chat. You’re holding space for people’s truths. And sometimes those truths are heavy. It’s not easy, but it matters.”
Techno Tracks Shlømo Almost Didn’t Release—and the Bangers That Hit Unexpectedly
Even with years in the game, Shlømo still gets surprised by what connects both in and out of techno. One of his biggest tracks, “Born to be Slytherin,” nearly didn’t come out. “I honestly thought it was way too cheesy. Like, I almost didn’t release it because I was embarrassed by how over the top it felt.” But when he and Viper Diva played it live, the crowd reaction said otherwise. “You could see the entire crowd lift their phones with the lights on. It was pitch dark and suddenly just this sea of phone lights. I looked around like, ‘Okay… we need to release this.’” They pressed vinyl with modest expectations—and sold 3,000 copies in under two hours. “For vinyl, that’s massive.”
Another surprise came from “Welcome Back Devil,” a track made in just 30 minutes. “VTSS and I were talking, and she said, ‘I need a track for my Boiler Room set tonight.’ I made it super fast and sent it over. Later she messaged me like, ‘Yo, this is a banger.’” The lesson? “Sometimes the simple stuff connects instantly. You spend ages on a technical track and nothing happens. And then something fast just clicks.” He sees artists like Southstar or Funk Tribu as masters of this. “They’re just built for creating hooks that live in your head.”
Shlømo: Techno, Manga, Sobriety, and the B2B Fantasy That’s Not What You’d Expect
For someone so embedded in techno and the underground, Shlømo is far from what you’d expect. “Well, first, I’ve been sober for 15 years now. A lot of people know that already though… Hmm what else…” He glanced around his studio and smirked. “I’m a massive manga fan, a sneakerhead, and I love watches. See that? That’s an original piece.” Even his label names are nods to anime. “Taapion is named after a character from Dragon Ball. He only shows up once in the series, but I loved the name. And my second label, SAIKE, is also a Dragon Ball reference. There’s a character called Saike Demon. No one really knows that, but yeah… full-on Dragon Ball geek.”
Finally, if he could play a no-rules back-to-back set with anyone? “Aphex Twin 100%… 1 million percent! Or even Boards of Canada.” He may not be jumping on tables anytime soon, but in an industry full of noise, Shlømo is still one of the rare few making clear signals.
While many artists are chasing relevancy, he is carving permanence. He’s not just producing tracks—Shlømo is producing context, pushing techno to remember its roots without becoming trapped by them. The irony is that for someone who avoids the spotlight, everything he touches shines with conviction. His honesty is never performative. It’s the kind that rattles the status quo while inviting dialogue. HEADSHOT, his labels, even his most unexpected influences—they all orbit the same idea: integrity without compromise. In an era of speed and spectacle, he’s building slow-burning legacies. Not to be noticed—but to be remembered. And whether he’s speaking truth on a podcast, debating subgenres, or naming a label after an obscure anime character, one thing is clear. Shlømo is never playing the game. He’s unbound by the rules.
