Blume graces the Untitled 909 mix series with a playful session that toys with the idea of slowing down whilst staying in motion, an always shifting state of being, with a psychedelic thread running throughout.
Blume is an artist whose creative journey spans continents, emotions, and a diverse range of musical influences. Born in Buenos Aires and now based in Berlin, Blume’s path into electronic music is deeply rooted in personal experiences that shape both her DJ sets and the ethos behind her record store, Format Wars.
Constantly inspired by the world around her, whether it’s the transience of Berlin, the vibrant chaos of Buenos Aires, or the quiet, reflective moments in her studio, watching autumn winds stir the streets,Blume’s connection to music runs deep, starting with the folklore of Argentina, the haunting live presence of Underworld, and a fateful introduction to Aphex Twin that forever shifted how she listens to and engages with sound. These moments have contributed to her story-like approach to music curation, where every set feels like an emotional, almost cinematic experience.
Currently winding down a busy year, Blume is shifting gears—scaling back on DJing to focus on her own musical production. As she prepares to dive into sound design in 2025, Blume remains an artist who is always evolving—whether behind the decks, running her label, or simply embracing the quiet moments that inspire her next step.
In the accompanying interview, we chat to Blume about her life changing introductions to electronic music, how her dad brought music to life for her when she was growing up, her journey founding the digital record store Format Wars and the experience of bringing it to a physical space, how living in South America and Europe has influenced her work and more.
Hey Flo! How are you doing? What have you been up to lately?
Hey! I’m good, thanks. Autumn’s always been my favourite —there’s something about the rain and restless winds, the way everything seems to pause and let go. It feels like the world is quietly resetting itself. My studio window frames it all perfectly, and on days when the drizzle turns into gusts, it’s almost hypnotic. Watching it unfold while I work feels like being part of something bigger.
This year has been intense —DJing, managing Format Wars, running my Noods radio show, designing, taking care of four pets, and making (mostly unsuccessful) attempts to be more social. There were times when burnout hit hard, but it also nudged me toward unexpected paths. Now that things are winding down, I’m taking a moment to breathe and let everything settle. I’m tired, but it’s the kind of exhaustion that feels meaningful —like something new is quietly falling into place.
Let’s start from the very beginning, what was your first introduction to music in general, and then more specifically electronic music?
Music was always there, humming in the background of my childhood. My dad brought it to life. He knows so many lyrics by heart —Argentinian tango & folklore, songs steeped in history. On long road trips south, he’d sing for hours, pausing to explain the stories behind the songs. I didn’t always understand, but it planted something.
For years, I was drawn to lyrics —their directness and emotional weight. Over time, though, I realised instruments could tell stories too, in a way that felt more expansive and open to interpretation. Most of what I listen to now is instrumental, but I still enjoy the occasional vocal tune, especially female alternative pop.
Electronic music came later. At first, I thought of it as just “dance music,” but the more I listened, the more it opened up. It wasn’t just about moving; it became about listening differently. Clubs stopped being places to simply go out —they became spaces to lose myself and, oddly enough, grow.
I’ll never forget seeing Underworld live for the first time. It was almost surreal —Hyde singing and moving like every sound changed the shape of the room, his voice cutting through in this way that felt almost otherworldly. That was the moment I thought, this is it —this is what I want.
And then there was that car ride when I was 18 years old —a getaway to the beach on a weekend, nothing out of the ordinary, until someone turned to me and said, “Have you heard of Aphex Twin?” A CD started playing, and suddenly, it was like the whole atmosphere shifted. I think I’ve been living in that car ever since, caught in an endless ever-shifting loop.
Who was the first artist or band that you were a fan of?
Patricio Rey y sus Redonditos de Ricota, an Argentinian “rock” band. I was 14, working weekends to earn enough money for CDs, jeans and occasional hangouts with friends. I heard their name from a cousin —it sounded strange, even funny, in English: Patricio Rey and his Ricotta Roundies. Who’s Patricio Rey? No one knows. And ricotta is… cheese. It made no sense, but I was intrigued.
There was a small music shop in my neighbourhood, so I went and asked the owner if he had anything by them. He handed me a ripped disc —not even original— and charged me everything I’d made that weekend. Back home, I put it on my terrible little player, and the sound was dreadful, but something about it hit me. For a year, it was all I listened to. Nothing else.
I spent months working extra weekends just to buy the rest of their albums. I don’t listen to them anymore, but every now and then, one of their songs will play, and I still get goosebumps. They’re legendary back home —still the band. There’s nothing quite like what they created.
Was there a formative moment growing up, whether that’s seeing your favourite band live or an incredible DJ set, that led you to this path?
There were so many moments, it’s hard to pick just one. The Underworld and Aphex Twin experiences I mentioned earlier were transformative in their own way, but the underground scene in Buenos Aires was just as crucial —maybe even more so.
I wasn’t into electronic music until I was about 18. Before that, it was all jazz and bands. Then one night, for a friend’s birthday, we tried to get into a big glossy club (I’d never been to a club before in my life), but thankfully, it was too packed to let us in. Someone mentioned a “shithole” a few blocks away, so we decided to check it out.
What I saw when I walked in changed everything. There was a guy in a booth, playing techno, and the crowd wasn’t watching —they were just scattered, dancing, lost in their own worlds. No stage, no spotlight. I’d never seen anything like it. Instead of feeling out of place, I was completely hooked. The music was deep, and I felt this overwhelming joy. It was like stumbling onto something I didn’t even know I needed.
From that night on, I was out almost every weekend, exploring underground clubs. One place, Cocoliche, became like a second home. DJs like Carla Tintore, Jonas Kopp, Bad Boy Orange, Bruno Pronsato, Violett, and Udolph were the ones who showed me what this music could be. They also introduced me to the queer scene —especially the trans scene— which was a revelation. I was mesmerised by it all. It was bold, unapologetic, and so full of energy. I wouldn’t be playing today if it weren’t for those nights and those people.
How does your environment inform your work?
Berlin feels like a city caught in constant flux —nothing stays the same for long. That transience seeps into everything. The city’s history, its creativity, the weight of what’s happening globally —it’s impossible not to feel it. Even the seasons here shape how I work —the heavy winters, the fleeting summers. The light changes everything.
The world beyond Berlin influences me, too. The violence and inequalities that play out on a global scale, the way the natural world is being dismantled —it’s a lot to hold. Sometimes my work becomes a way to process it, or at least make space for it, even if it’s not obvious.
How has living in both South America and Europe influenced you both as an artist and a person?
Buenos Aires gave me my foundation —it’s a city that thrives on intensity, chaos, and moments of unexpected beauty. The streets, the people, even the noise —it’s all part of this raw, unfiltered rhythm that stays with you. It’s not always easy, but it teaches you how to navigate unpredictability, to go with the flow rather than fight against it. That sense of urgency shaped how I see the world and what I value in creativity.
Amsterdam was a complete shift. Everything felt calmer, more deliberate, and the nature there —it’s not wild, but it has this untamed quality that comes through in its order. The landscapes and waterways feel carefully curated, but there’s also this openness that I hadn’t experienced before. It made me think about balance —how structure and spontaneity can exist together, both in life and in sound.
Berlin is something else entirely. It’s a city in constant motion, always changing. People come and go, spaces evolve, and nothing feels permanent. That instability has been both freeing and frustrating. It forces you to adapt, to embrace impermanence, and to approach creativity with a kind of fluidity that’s sometimes uncomfortable but always interesting.
Migration ties all of these places together, but it hasn’t been smooth. Moving from city to city isn’t just about packing up and starting fresh —it’s about leaving behind everything familiar and facing the uncertainty of what’s ahead. It’s been challenging, incredibly lonely at times, but it’s taught me how to exist in transition, how to find stability in movement. That lesson shapes everything I do.
Where do you look for sources of inspiration outside of music?
So many things.
Cinema and TV are endless wells for ideas —not always in obvious ways. I’m drawn to contrasts, so I can enjoy the absurd honesty of trashy reality shows just as much as a Jim Jarmusch film. On the surface, they couldn’t be more different, but there’s something deeply human in both. Gossip, awkward silences, unfiltered moments —they all tap into truths about connection, conflict, or just the strangeness of existing. At the same time, I love bittersweet, quiet stories —direct cinema documentaries where life unfolds without interference. My favourite is Grey Gardens. There’s something about the Beales —their eccentricity, resilience, and the way they created their own world out of their decay. They’re a perfect reminder of how beauty and tragedy always seem to live side by side.
Philosophy is another constant, though it’s more of an undercurrent. Existentialism, in particular, lingers in the back of my mind —thoughts about meaning, time, and navigating the unknown. It’s not about finding answers but learning to live with the questions.
And then, of course, there’s nature, especially the animal world. I have three cats and a dog who remind me daily of how life just unfolds —pure, simple, and unfiltered. Whether they’re quietly observing, being chaotic, or resting, there’s a presence to them that feels grounding. Their energy, even in the smallest moments, becomes an anchor in the middle of everything else.
What has been your most recent musical discovery that you’re obsessed with?
Lately, I’ve been completely pulled into Omen Wapta, the label run by Woody92, and his Neon Cleptu mix series on LYL Radio. There’s this energy in what he curates that’s hard to pin down —it’s fast, but not necessarily in tempo, more like a sense of constant motion. It’s urgent but also strangely calming, inviting you to sit with it while it keeps evolving. The textures feel like they’re echoing through time —grounding you one moment, throwing you off the next. And then, sometimes, you can just dance non-stop —it has that side, too. Since stumbling into that world, I’ve been rethinking so much —how I DJ, how I curate records, and even how I plan events. I’ve probably annoyed a few people by talking about it so much, but I can’t help it —it’s that good.
I’ve also been obsessing over older experimental jazz, diving into artists like Jon Hassell, O Yuki Conjugate, Dictaphone, Don Cherry, Harold Budd, Nils Petter Molvaer, Moritz von Oswald and Bohren & der Club of Gore. Their music feels timeless, unbound by categories but deeply human. It’s intricate yet leaves room for silence, for thought. Listening to them feels like being pulled into another space entirely —expansive, introspective, and hard to put into words. It lingers long after it ends, like a quiet nudge to look at sound differently.
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You founded the online record store, Format Wars, in 2019. What led you to launching this platform? What draws you to this particular form of curation?
It all started in 2018, when I began taking DJ lessons with vinyl at Zwart Goud, a record store in Amsterdam. I’d always been into digging —it’s probably what led me to DJing—but learning to mix with records opened up a whole new connection to the format. Each lesson meant picking up new vinyl to practice with, and soon I was exploring stores and online platforms constantly. By 2020, my collection had grown so much that I had duplicates. Selling them on Discogs turned out to be surprisingly meaningful —not just for the connection with other collectors, but for what it represented: keeping the ecosystem of physical music alive.
That’s how Format Wars came into being. It started with a love for records, but it’s about so much more than that. Buying physical formats means supporting the artists who create the music, the labels who take risks to release it, and the distributors who make it available. It keeps scenes alive, gives pressing plants reasons to keep operating —hopefully more sustainably— and ensures that artists and labels can continue creating. It’s a chain of connections that feels essential to preserve.
The name Format Wars came from Regular Show, a cartoon I’ve always loved. There’s a trilogy of episodes where obsolete formats like Betamax and Reel-to-Reel fight against the arrival of the DVD. It felt like a perfect reflection of what it’s like to sell physical music today —funny, a little absurd, but also strangely relevant.
Now, nearly six years in, Format Wars has grown into something more collaborative. I’m fortunate to be working with a team of like-minded individuals, and together, we’re figuring out what’s next. Whether it’s opening a physical space, strengthening our online presence, or continuing to organise events, the possibilities feel exciting, even as they come with challenges. Rising costs, logistical hurdles, and environmental concerns make sustaining physical music more difficult than ever, but the focus remains clear: supporting the artists, labels, and systems that keep this world alive. It’s not always the easiest path, but it’s one that feels worth every step.
What has the experience been like bringing Format Wars outside of digital spaces and into the club?
Bringing Format Wars into physical spaces has been a real learning curve, but one I’ve come to enjoy. Building lineups, shaping ideas around them, and pairing that with curated selections of records and tapes has been so rewarding. There’s something special about watching people flip through crates and stumble upon something they just heard during a set —it feels like everything clicks.
None of the events I’ve organised have been strictly club-oriented. They’ve leaned more toward ambient raves and listening sessions, but that connection between sound and space feels just as important. What I didn’t expect, though, was how much of myself I’d need to put out there. I’m used to being in the background —designing from home, playing solo in a booth, or packing records at my studio. Organising events forced me to confront my social anxiety head-on.
The first few times were rough —I leaned on some pretty unhealthy habits just to get through the stress. By last year, I hit a breaking point. I was completely burned out, but then something shifted. I realised it didn’t have to be perfect or polished, and I didn’t need to act like someone I wasn’t. Being shy or reserved was fine. Once I let go of that pressure, it became easier —and actually enjoyable.
One event at Arkaoda last December stayed with me. It was the first time I felt fully present, not overthinking every detail or trying to force myself into something I’m not. That feeling stuck, and now bringing Format Wars into physical spaces feels less like a hurdle and more like a natural part of what I do. Maybe one day there will be a permanent space where these worlds can combine more often, but for now, I’m just figuring it out as I go.
Does your work as a designer also influence you in how you approach curation both for Format Wars and your DJ sets?
Design has been a central part of my life —it’s what I studied and, for years, it was everything I did. Over time, its role has evolved, but it still influences how I approach things, no doubt. The way I think about curation—with its focus on balance and contrasts —feels like an extension of that, though it happens more instinctively now.
That said, my relationship with design is complicated. It’s made me hyper-focused and overly structured at times —sometimes to a fault. I catch myself obsessing over details that don’t always need that level of attention, and over the years, the constant cycles of feedback, deadlines, and the pressure to deliver have taken a toll. It’s hard to separate that from how it’s affected my mental health, which has definitely had its ups and downs. There’s a weight to always being “on,” and it’s something I’ve had to confront.
Letting go of that rigidity is a work in progress, but I’m taking steps —slowly, but with intention. So yes, design influences almost everything I do, even when I’m not consciously leaning on it. It’s just always there.
You’ve also contributed a mix for the 909 series. What’s the concept behind it?
I’ve been a fan of the 909 series for a while —it’s where I discovered some artists I still follow today, like Ophélie and EMA. When I was asked to contribute, I wanted to make something that felt personal but also playful. It’s the last recording I’ll do this year, so it felt like a nice way to round things out.
The inspiration came from an opening set I played at Globus this November. I’ve played there before but always as a closer, which is such a different energy. Closings ease the night into its final moments; openings are about building something from scratch, creating a space for people to step into. For this set, I wanted to explore that progression —from something introspective and still to something alive and kinetic.
I stepped away from my usual fast-paced tracks, the 150–170 bpm and half-time staples I tend to rely on in clubs, and leaned into slower tempos —things I normally only play at listening bars or in my radio show, The Otherness. It was a challenge to find the right balance: restrained but not static, unpredictable but cohesive, something people could dance to without being too obvious. That tension —between motion and stillness, structure and freedom— is something I keep coming back to. I doubt I’ll ever “solve” it, but that’s part of the eagerness.
The mix reflects that idea. It starts with a sense of suspension and gradually unfolds into something textured, dynamic, and surreal. There’s a thread of psychedelia that runs through it, along with jazz-like elements that feel vintage yet somehow unfamiliar. It’s about slowing down while staying in motion —always shifting.
When was the last time you were on the dance floor?
The last time I really danced was earlier this year during a DJ set by Rob Brown from Autechre. He played the most bizarre mix —a heady blend of hip-hop, acid techno, slithering electro, manic breakcore, and even some metal. It didn’t feel calculated or like he was trying to prove a point; it was just tracks he clearly loved, and somehow it all made sense. Each one had this odd, slightly unsettling quality, like standing on the edge of a dream about to slip into a nightmare. It was disorienting but addictive —you couldn’t step away because you had to know what came next.
I couldn’t stop moving and grinning the whole time. I was too happy, which doesn’t happen often —I wouldn’t say “carefree” is a word people associate with me. But that night, it didn’t matter. No overthinking, no self-consciousness, just chaos and joy. Dancing to IDM does that for me —it’s unpredictable, never boring, and you can look as silly as you want. I love that. It’s one of the few spaces where I let myself be messy, something I rarely allow when I’m designing, running things, or even DJing. Those always feel more precise, almost surgical. But with sets like that —non-structured, unpredictable— it’s about letting go, and it’s perfect.
What are you most excited about right now?
Easy— going back to Buenos Aires for five weeks. I’ll spend the holidays with family and friends, and honestly, I can’t wait. I miss them, and I miss the city —its chaos, intensity, and even the noise. It’s part of the reset I’ve been craving, but it’s also about the little things, like hunting down the best empanadas.
What’s on your vision board at the moment?
Honestly, I’m scaling back. Every year, I take on too many projects and end up spreading myself too thin. This time, I want to keep it simple —some work to pay the bills, keeping Format Wars alive, and stepping back from DJing to focus on something I’ve wanted to do for years: making music.
I’ll still play, but only for gigs that really resonate with me, maybe once a month, and I’ll continue as a resident at Noods. But it feels like the right time to shift gears and give more space to something that’s been waiting in the background.
I’ve been experimenting a lot with sound design on my own, but I’ve never fully committed to it. Recently, though, I’ve felt this persistent sense that now’s the time to dive in. Starting mid-January, when I’m back in Berlin, that’ll be the focus. I have no idea where it’ll lead, but I’m okay with not knowing.
Photo credit: Delfina Carmona