On the eve of his return to Brazil for another stint at Time Warp, we present an inspiring conversation about life and career with Sven Väth.

Sven Väth's journey began in the 1980s, driven by a musical awakening experienced in Frankfurt's clubs and the freedom found in Ibiza. From his earliest steps as an ambitious dancer at Dorian Gray, his personality was shaped by an incessant curiosity and the desire to assert his individuality through electronic music. For Väth, the dance floor has always been a stage — a space not just to play, but to explore himself, to communicate, and to connect with the audience through movement. This early phase helped form the foundation of an artist who saw the DJ not as mere entertainment, but as someone capable of recontextualizing the sounds of the past to shape the future.

By founding the legendary club OMEN in 1988, Väth helped define a new cultural movement, transforming the DJ's role into a curator of musical journeys capable of leading audiences to intense, often spiritual, experiences. The evolution of his career is marked by constant metamorphoses, a central theme in his trajectory and symbolized by the Cocoon brand, which evokes the idea of transformation from beginning to end. Despite a permanent willingness to change — be it in musical style or image — he maintains an almost sacred fidelity to vinyl, which he considers his superpower and proof of his lasting commitment to the craft of DJing. This balance between visionary innovation and respect for his roots has allowed him to build an empire that spans, in his history, record labels, clubs, and global events, remaining relevant for over four decades.

Observing his personality through the eyes of his peers, Sven is often described as a charismatic, generous, and deeply loyal figure. Friends and colleagues like Carl Cox and Richie Hawtin highlight his intense passion and his ability to captivate audiences, treating everyone as part of the Cocoon family. Unsurprisingly, he became affectionately known as Papa Sven within the scene, seen as a mentor who supports young talent and who, despite his rockstar status, remains accessible and grounded. His contagious energy and commitment to being consistently intense in his performances reveal an artist who lives music with his whole body, turning every set into a sonic adventure.

Sven Väth's legacy transcends techno. He is one of the pillars that helped structure a global industry and consolidate DJing as a legitimate form of artistic expression. His cultural contribution was officially recognized with the Goethe Medal, received in 2015, honoring services to culture in Frankfurt and the development of electronic music worldwide. Without his vision and tenacity, electronic culture would hardly be what it is today, especially for how he integrated art, architecture, and music into complete sensory experiences. Even at 60, Sven reaffirms that his journey continues, driven by the same passion as in the beginning, keeping alive the belief that the truth lies on the dance floor.

This weekend, he returns to Brazil for two performances at Time Warp, first on Saturday night and then, following the tradition of previous years, he commands the final hours of the afterparty on Sunday. It's no secret that we are long-time fans. Sven has already collaborated with us on a milestone in our history, curating Alaplay number 600. Now, it's even more special as we dive deep into a conversation about life and career that illustrates issue 002 of our Cover Feature. Check out the full interview below:

ALATAJ — Hello, Sven, how are you? Thank you so much for speaking with us! Over decades, you've become a figure who has crossed different generations of electronic music without relying on nostalgia. At what point in your life did you realize that your role in the scene was no longer just about playing, but also about being part of — and helping sustain — a certain idea of culture?

SVEN VÄTH — I think this realization didn't come as a single moment. It grew little by little, almost organically. In the early days, when I started playing in places like Dorian Gray or, later, at OMEN in Frankfurt, it was pure instinct, pure passion. We didn't have a model; we were building something without exactly knowing what it would become.

But at some point along the way, especially in the early 90s, I started to feel that this was no longer just about music. It was about creating a space where people could feel free, where they could express themselves without judgment. That's when I understood that being a DJ is not just a performance, it's a responsibility.

Culture is fragile. It needs people who care about it, who protect it from becoming empty or purely commercial. From that point on, I never saw myself again as just someone who plays records. I became part of a larger picture — a kind of guardian of a spirit.

— There's an important difference between simply staying in the scene and remaining truly relevant within it. In your view, what allows an artist to keep moving without turning into just a historical reference?

Relevance has nothing to do with visibility. It has everything to do with curiosity. The moment you think you've understood everything, you've already lost. I still listen like a beginner. I still search. I still question. And I still take risks in my sets — sometimes even uncomfortable risks.

Furthermore, you need to stay honest with yourself. Not with trends, not with expectations. If you start repeating yourself just because something worked before, you gradually turn into your own museum. To move forward, you need to be willing to lose control sometimes. That's where evolution happens.

— Your trajectory has always been deeply connected to the idea of a journey, not just musically, but also physically, emotionally, and even spiritually. Today, after so many cycles, what still genuinely moves you to step into a booth in so many different places around the world?

It's still the same magic — but today I understand it differently. What moves me is that invisible connection between people. That moment when the room breathes as one, when time dissolves, when you forget everything that exists outside. I call this trance — not as a genre, but as a state of being.

And every place has its own energy. Whether it's a small, intimate club or a big festival, I go there to feel something real. I have no interest in repeating a formula. I'm interested in discovering what can happen at that exact moment, with those exact people. That's why I still travel. Because every night is a new story.

— You lived through periods when electronic music was deeply marginal, then followed its global expansion, and now witness an era of digital overexposure. In which of these moments do you think the scene had the most difficulty evolving genuinely?

Every phase had its challenges. But I believe the most critical moment is now. When something becomes visible everywhere, it risks losing depth. Today, everything is immediate, everything is documented, everything is judged in seconds. This creates pressure to simplify, to deliver quick impact. But real culture takes time. It needs patience. It needs spaces where things can develop without constant exposure. So today, the challenge is protecting depth in a world that rewards the superficial.

— In recent years, you've developed a very intense and special relationship with Time Warp in São Paulo. What comes to mind when that trip approaches? What has stood out most to you about the recent experiences here?

São Paulo has something raw, something very real. Every time I return, I feel a deep hunger for music — not superficially, but in a very emotional, almost existential way. The audience doesn't just come to party. They come to feel.

Time Warp there is not just an event. It's a release of energy. The intensity, the duration, the openness of the people — it all reminds me of earlier times, but with a new generation. And over the last few years, something even deeper has developed through the after-hours. Those very special, almost intimate extensions of the night, in truly exceptional places, where I play sets of 8, sometimes 10 or even 12 hours.

In those moments, everything changes. The dynamic changes. It becomes less about performance and more about a shared journey. There's a different kind of trust, a deeper connection between me and the audience. That's where something very pure happens. Almost like a wordless dialogue. For me, that's where the essence of what we do becomes most visible — or maybe most invisible.

— In a scene where many artists are under pressure to maintain constant digital presence, perform an image, and communicate without interruption, do you believe there is still space for a posture 100% focused on the music within electronic music?

Yes — but it takes courage. Silence has become rare. Mystery has become rare. But both are essential. You don't have to explain everything. You don't have to show everything. The music can speak for itself — if you allow it.

Of course, the industry pressures for visibility. But I believe there is still space for artists who choose depth over noise. Maybe it's not the easiest path, but it's the one that lasts.

— Curation has always been a fundamental part of your identity, whether in the booth, on labels, or in creating environments. Today, when so much is mediated by algorithms, what still defines strong curation for you?

Curation is about telling stories. An algorithm can give you efficiency, but it can't give you intuition. It doesn't feel the floor. It doesn't notice when something unexpected needs to happen.

Strong curation is about contrast, tension, timing. It's about knowing when to hold back and when to push forward. And most importantly, it's about having a point of view. Without that, everything becomes interchangeable.

— Your generation helped build a very physical, almost ritualistic relationship with the dance floor. How do you see the clubber experience today?

The ritual is still there — but sometimes it's hidden. There are nights when the phones disappear, when people truly surrender, when the floor becomes a collective experience again. And there are nights when everything seems more like observation than participation. But I don't want to be nostalgic. Each generation needs to find its own way to connect.

My role is to create the conditions for that connection to happen. If the energy is right, the ritual returns automatically.

— You've always been an artist capable of moving between hedonism, sophistication, and cultural depth without seeming contradictory. Is this combination still possible today, or has the scene become more rigid in the ways it judges artists?

It is still possible — but it requires authenticity. Hedonism without depth becomes empty. Depth without joy becomes heavy. The beauty is in the balance. I never believed in rigid categories. Music, life, emotions — everything is fluid. If you are true to yourself, these elements can coexist naturally. The problem starts when you try to fit into expectations, instead of following your own rhythm.

— Many newer DJs today enter fairly professionalized careers but with very little real maturation time. What kind of learning can only the road, mistakes, and time give an artist? What truly differentiates a good DJ from the rest?

Time teaches you patience. It teaches you to read a floor, to recover from a mistake, to build a journey instead of just delivering moments. You don't learn this on social media. You don't learn it in short sets or pre-recorded performances.

A good DJ understands music. A great DJ understands people. And that only comes with experience — with nights that didn't work, with risks that failed, with moments when you had to find your way back.

— Frankfurt, Ibiza, Berlin, São Paulo, and so many other geographies have passed through your life intensely. Today, do you still feel that certain places deeply shape an artist's music and mindset, or has this relationship become more diluted in a globalized scene?

Places still matter — perhaps more than ever. Globalization creates access, but it can also create uniformity. The danger is that everything starts to sound the same. But when you spend real time in a place, when you connect with its culture, its rhythm, its people — that leaves marks on you. Frankfurt gave me structure. Ibiza gave me freedom. São Paulo gives me intensity. These influences stay with you. They shape your identity.

— To finish, a classic Alataj question: what does music represent in your life?

Music is everything. It's my language, my way of understanding the world, my way of connecting with others. It has the power to heal, unite, transform. And I still deeply believe in that. In a world that often seems divided, music remains one of the last places where people can come together without barriers. And as long as I'm behind the decks, I will give everything I have to protect that space.