Antwerp-based artist Emily Jeanne has spent the past several years carving out a singular space in electronic music’s grey areas, those liminal zones between techno and dub, the mechanical and the organic, the dancefloor and pure exploration. Her commitment to craft over convention has become her calling card, allowing experimentation to bleed into her club performances while maintaining a razor-sharp eye on quality control. The more she experimented and developed her workflow, the closer she got to finding her own voice—one that coalesces in unique but cohesive sets as a DJ and delivers productions that balance broken beats with direct dance floor propulsion, atmospheric expanses with rhythmic precision.

It’s with the 2025 launch of her own label quỳnh that this evolution has fully crystallized. Named after a night-blooming flower known for its ephemeral beauty, the label carries deep personal significance. Her Vietnamese mother once described witnessing one bloom with such mesmerized wonder that it reminded the artist of how she feels about music—a fleeting moment, but an internal experience that lingers, impossible to fully articulate. This intangibility is what makes music meaningful to her, the realization that “now is the most precious.” Her two quỳnh releases—Call Of The Sea and Past Through Desire—showcase this newfound freedom: psychedelically unbridled, rhythmically fractured, lushly layered. Organic percussion meshes with industrial textures; tribal elements collide with off-kilter sound design through a prismatic lens.

For this Truancy Volume mix, Emily sought to capture the feelings of weightlessness and detachment. Spanning roughly 90 minutes, its an unraveling landscape coming into focus with sharp intensity—like dawn breaking over a desert, organic textures meeting mechanistic bass in procession, steadily building in hypnotic intensity. Opening with A Strange Wedding’s “The Null Zone,” it establishes otherworldly terrain, awash with offset sci-fi glitches and ground-rumbling percussion before arriving at its most melodic, cathartic moment with Lara Sarkissian’s “BTWN Earth n Sky (aya Grounded dub)”—a spacious, water-like passage that settles into sun-drenched dub resonance. Moving through Headhunter, Ido Plumes, Edward Richards, and giesse, she navigates tempo and density with precision, never lingering too long—the give and take of saturation and structure, like working a painter’s palette over years until layered colors completely transform the surface. By the closing minutes, the mix has descended into subterranean realms, hallucinogenic at times, before dissolving into calm release. Transformative transitions alter the landscape as effortlessly as falling snow; moments of sharp clarity pierce through clouds of haze. It’s a soundtrack of self-reflection, for losing all sense of time, for when the floor becomes a space of personal revelation.

Drawing from her residencies at Ghent’s Funke Club and Brussels’ Kiosk Radio, Emily has developed an approach rooted in genuine love rather than crowd-pleasing, seeking what she describes as “unexpected turns, rather than risks.” The Vietnamese references throughout her work—the label name, track titles like “Đồ Sơn At Night”—represent an attempt to make sense of disconnect from a culture that’s shaped her, but one she never had the chance to connect with fully. In the following interview, we discuss her production workflow from modular synthesis to granular processing, the art installations in Antwerp that make her contemplate bodily existence, and how different cities shaped her identity—Vietnam teaching her the privilege of making music, Berlin a lesson in isolation and passion, and the persistent search for individuality and self-expression in electronic music.

Hi, Emily Jeanne! Thank you for creating this mesmerizing mix for TRUANTS! How are you, and what have you been up to lately? “I’ve now surrendered to the undeniable fact we’re coming into winter. [In November], I went to CDMX for the first time, I totally fell in love with the city and it’s been hard to accept the reality of shorter days and colder temperatures. At least it’s a good time to cosy up in the studio.”

The name quỳnh refers to a night-blooming flower known for its ephemeral beauty—blooming only in darkness before fading by dawn. What drew you to this particular metaphor when conceptualizing your label, and how does that sense of fleeting nocturnal beauty reflect the musical direction you’re exploring? “It was for sure the way my mum talked about seeing one of those bloom. She was totally mesmerised by encountering the flower, it had clearly left an impression on her. It came close to how I feel when I talk or think about music. Words can’t describe it—you just had to be there to see it, or, like in my case with music—you just have to listen to it. An experience that lingers on. Another similarity that intrigued me, is its impermanence, since it wilts by dawn. It accentuates our temporary existence. Music itself something intangible but it has a duration and our experience is heavily influenced by our environment. That’s what makes music special to me, the realisation that ‘now is the most precious’.

“Aside from its hypnotising beauty, it’s also a natural non-conformist, not blooming often. Existing very much on its on terms. I undoubtedly related to that.”

The artwork for your quỳnh releases—created by Julia Häller—has a vivid, almost mixed-media quality with striking accent colors against organic, surreal forms. How involved are you in the visual direction of the label, and how does the artwork relate to the music you’re releasing? “I like it when people tell me they see something in the shapes of the artwork. It’s meant to be left for interpretation; I want people to relate to it in their own way. It’s the same as with music. The music will have a totally different meaning for the listener than for me.

“The balance between organic & abstract and the contrast in colours are important to me as well, it’s a reflection of the way I approach making music, blending organic percussion with odd sound design. Julia uses pictures as a starting point, she once asked if she could use some pictures that I posted in a story. The results were really nice, I knew then that I wanted her to do the artwork for quỳnh.

“The parallel with music is so noticeable, it’s like using a field recording and reshaping it with software into a rhythmic or melodic element.”

Looking back over the evolution from your first EP Public By Default through the PM+ EPs to the quỳnh project, there’s a noticeable shift—moving away from more direct club constructions toward something more psychedelic, rhythmically fractured, and atmospherically dense. How do you understand your trajectory as a producer, and what catalyzed this evolution in your creative approach? “The first music I made was mainly me experimenting with the basics. Those releases might have been quite straightforward & stripped down deep techno, but I also had these two tracks that lean more into what I do now—“Still Upright” & “Hàn Ly.”

“But then all of a sudden I was labelled a techno dj/producer and I felt nudged into that direction. Most likely because it seemed convenient for some labels that they found a female token artist to make it look like they’re inclusive.

“Obviously I love techno music, but whenever I sat in the studio working on some loop, it didn’t feel like the music was truly reflecting the sonic world that was residing in me. It felt like I was constrained by a formula, by the limitations of having to be techno (whatever that means) and I couldn’t find myself in that. Slowly I let go of trying to serve someone’s expectations of me or my music.

“Perhaps it was my self-esteem as well, I didn’t have the confidence to realise my ideas. The more I experimented & developed my workflow, the closer I got to finding my own voice. When I started working with Peder for his PM+ label it was very refreshing as there wasn’t any expectation about what it should or shouldn’t be. It gave me the opportunity to explore more weird off-kilter patterns and sound design.”

In a previous interview, you mentioned that when friends asked what you’d play at Meakusma 2022 in a non-club context, it dawned on you that people had already tagged you as “a techno DJ”—despite your palette being much broader. How do you navigate maintaining a cohesive artistic identity while resisting being confined to a single genre? “It’s hard for me to explain, I just know when a track resonates with me. There’s certain elements I look for. Does it make me want to dance? Or nod along enthusiastically? Do I like all the percussive elements? Am I blown away by the sound design?

“When I play, it comes from a place of genuine love for the music, not because I simply want to please a crowd. I wouldn’t want anyone who’d come to see me play to have any expectations of me. If there’s not much room for experimenting then most of the fun is lost for me, I want open-minded dancers and curious music-lovers who are excited about the fact I’m not always 100% predictable. If I had confine myself to a single genre, I’d rather not play. Exploring is so essential to my growth as an artist. To add to that, I don’t even really believe in genres to describe an artist. A genre doesn’t guarantee quality. There’s plenty of amazing music within every genre; and also a load of absolute crap. It’s more about hearing someone’s personality through their track selection regardless of genre.

“The music I play will always depend on my own mood and the energy I feel in the room. It’s important to me to be in the crowd before I play to observe the people and to feel which energy is going around. Oftentimes I will build around that energy and have my own storyline develop throughout the set, but occasionally I will shift the mood from the beginning. Only if it feels appropriate though. It’s more about creating a counterbalancing reset.”

With track titles like “Đồ Sơn At Night” pointing to specific Vietnamese places and the label name carrying cultural significance, how do these references function in your work, and has the way you engage with your heritage shifted over time? “Music has played a significant role in my self-discovery; it isolated me from my environment. In a good way, nothing I love more than being totally consumed by music. However, it was confusing, too. When you disconnect from the world around you, you’re left with yourself. I kept wondering why I felt no particular desire to fit in.

“It made me wonder about my Vietnamese heritage, in particular the influence it had on my feeling of identity. My mother grew up in post-war Vietnam before moving to Belgium as a refugee. She raised 3 children on her own in a country she didn’t know. That’s tough, but you don’t realise that as a child. She had to survive, and I was craving normality, safety. This was again another reason for me to find refuge in music, it was the only way for me to regulate my emotions.

“The relationship I have with music is deeply entangled with my upbringing, my desire for belonging to an imagined world. My mother never wanted to return to Vietnam, my brothers & I don’t speak Vietnamese. The chances of me ever connecting to the culture that’s a big part of me were very slim. The references in my music are therefore so present. It’s an attempt to make sense of the disconnect.”

What drew you to modular synthesis initially, and as your sound has evolved toward quỳnh’s more psychedelic, texturally complex territory, what aspects of your process have become most essential? “At first, I couldn’t connect with software, I needed the physical touch of knobs and sliders. Then there was my reluctance to use presets on synths because I didn’t feel that the sounds I was making were truly mine. That has made me gravitate towards modular synthesis.

“My first synth was a Moog Mother32, semi-modular, no presets. The stages a soundwave had to go through intrigued me and I thought it’d be more fun to build my own rack, so I sold the Moog and got a bunch of modules. Looking back at it, I realise that I was most likely making excuses because I was scared of failure, and it was also just very overwhelming.

“It took me a while to accept that during those initial stages of learning to produce, you’ll be placed outside of your comfort zone. There’s no way of avoiding that.

“Now I’m happy to embrace anything, be it software or hardware. My modular system is still my main sound source. Generally I’ll start there and record sequences, chop up in Ableton and process further. There’s a lot of trial and error with effect racks, Max For Live devices, plugins, re-recording and arranging from there. I love reducing the sound down to its transient to re-use as percussion or to use granular processing on it for more atmospheric elements. It gives me a sense of cohesion.”

Your quỳnh releases balance organic, almost tribal percussion with more industrial, synthetic textures. Is this duality something you’re consciously exploring, or does it emerge more intuitively from your process? “It’s about experimenting until a path becomes clear, so it’s definitely intuitive. The need for balance comes spontaneously throughout my workflow. Similar as with my music selection, I like subtle contrasts. It’s only natural when I draw inspiration from many styles of music, that elements of each filter down into my productions. It’s about balancing these elements into something cohesive that still sounds personal.”

You’ve spoken about the importance of physical movement—swimming, yoga, dancing—as a way to process nervousness and stay grounded. How do you reconcile that need for bodily engagement with the necessarily solitary nature of intensive studio work? “I have a carpeted room next to my studio with a dj setup. Whenever I need to step back and have some distance from the studio I just go there to put a record on and lay down on the floor to decompress. It usually doesn’t take long before I roll out my yoga mat to reset my mind and my body. There’s also a ton of art books and novels to skim through whenever I need a different type of input. It’s comforting to have these rooms next to each other to move in between, it stops me from getting frustrated with myself whenever I can’t focus.”

Your trajectory has taken you through Vietnam, Ghent, Paris, Berlin, and now Antwerp—each with distinct musical ecosystems and cultural contexts. What specific lessons, memories, or musical influences from each place continue to inform how you work today? “Vietnam showed me how incredibly lucky I am to be living this life and that I cannot take it for granted what a privilege it is to make music. My soundtrack for driving was Drexciya’s Digital Tsunami. This rush of speeding over bridges that were connecting Saigon’s districts felt electrifying yet also heavily nostalgic. It’s a feeling I still chase while making music or prepping playlists. Like entering an unknown territory that somehow feels very familiar.

“Berlin taught me how to deal with isolation, with music as a solace and retreat. It also highlighted the importance of hard work & devotion, being driven by an unstoppable passion for the craft. Having a partner who’s immersed himself in music is very inspiring but also fuelled my need for individuality. It was the beginning of the search for my sonic identity.

“When a city or scene that was once built on resisting the norm, slowly starts to embrace conformity, then it’s time to walk away.”

Your residencies at Funke and Kiosk Radio serve seemingly different functions—one focused on intimate club curation with complete creative freedom, the other offering space for more experimental, genre-agnostic radio programming. How does each platform allow you to explore different facets of your creative practice? “At this point I wouldn’t say they’re serving different functions. They’ve essentially merged together. About 3 years ago I became a Kiosk Radio resident, to play music I wouldn’t usually play in a club. Gradually the line between what I considered ‘Kiosk Radio material’ & ‘club material’ started blurring. Especially since Kiosk Radio also throws parties which they invited me to play as well. I just had one of the best nights with them (and Meakusma) for their club tour touchdown at Open Ground. That night, a lot of people asked me what I was going to play, and that made me so happy, the fact they couldn’t guess what I’d play but they were still so excited anyway. I honestly didn’t know myself, I said I had 3 different directions I wanted to go, depending on how the vibe on the floor was before I had to start.

“The goal is to share music that will move not only the body, but the mind as well. I don’t feel any pressure to make a crowd go off but I do feel the compulsion to bring an interesting flow of music that will carry you away. The people that come see me play at Funke are very receptive to a playful unfolding. Both places allow me the creative freedom to develop my personal sound & voice, I couldn’t ask for anything better.”

You’ve played everything from straight techno to ambient to drum & bass across different contexts. How essential is risk-taking to your artistic practice, and where do you feel most comfortable pushing boundaries? “I’d say I take unexpected turns, rather than risks. In my opinion there is little to no room for growth by staying in your comfort zone and being restricted by self-imposed limitations because it doesn’t fit a certain image. Dynamics are so important. Be it in context of arrangement for a track or dj-set. Music has always been about my self-understanding and finding meaning. I’d be holding myself back if I don’t seek any further and don’t push any boundaries. That would surely lead to a feeling of unfulfillment.”

If you were taking a fellow artist around Antwerp for a weekend—showing them your current home through your eyes—where would you bring them? “First stop would be Späti, coffee is my fuel (even though I am taking a break from it right now—feels criminal) and they love dogs over there.

“Within walking distance there’s Warrecords & Wally’s Groove World. Both shops have a decent selection of second hand records.

“Quick lunch at Fong Mei, I love their dim sum and cheung fun. If you want good Vietnamese food the only option is to go visit my mum in Ghent.

“There’s some artworks on permanent display that I’d want to show. First one is in Middelheim, it’s an open air museum located in a park. My favourite is Diamond Shaped Room with Yellow Light by Bruce Nauman, it doesn’t look very special but the acoustics in there are so cool. The shape of the concrete construction gives this weird reverb to any sound produced in there. So best to take a recorder. Next stop is Axel Vervoordt Gallery. Walking into an old storage room for grain, we’ll find ourselves standing under a huge red dome. At the Edge of the World by Anish Kapoor is made to let you perceive infinity. Another one of my favourites is James Turrell’s Red Shift. A dark chapel with Turrell’s signature immersive light which defies your senses. It challenges your perception. These 3 in particular make me contemplate my bodily existence, how my mind can disconnect and take off into the void. It’s a feeling beyond description, similar to the impact of music.

“One of my favourite restaurants is Café Commercial. The food is impeccable and I love the interior, it’s set in a 1950s bar. Then, drinks at Paloma, it’s really cosy in there and most times you’ll hear 80s music playing.

“09h30_05h30 (‘De Zaak’) is a small multipurpose space run by a group of artists/friends. They have a variety of different events, from dance performances to book discussions, club nights, theyy host dinners and organise yoga sessions. It sounds cliché, but it’s great place to talk to like-minded people and share ideas. For a small city like Antwerp that isn’t a major scene hub, it’s important to have a focal point like this.”

Your Truancy Volume mix comes like a tide—enveloping, hypnotic, with mechanical elements dissolving into organic textures and cavernous dub. It has this quality of losing track of time, disorienting at moments, like time itself has been stretched. Were you imagining a particular landscape or environment while constructing it, and what were you hoping listeners would experience? “For this mix I wanted to capture weightlessness and detachment. Most of the tracks are on the bass heavy side, meant to embody inner steadiness. The lush and hazy layers are an invitation for letting go, with pulsating, hypnotic elements as guidance. I looked for a certain harmonious flow in tension-building and release throughout my selection, that would reflect a soothing physical and mental liberation.”

What’s on the horizon as we move into 2026? New music, creative goals, or experiences you’re looking forward to? “There’s new music in the making, remixes planned and looking to bring other artists on quỳnh besides myself.”

Emily Jeanne: Bandcamp, Instagram, RA, Soundcloud

Press photos by Jorre Janssen