Gezender’s career started at an early age, back in the early 2000s, promoting electronic music parties in Florianópolis (Brazil). Later, he got into music production and DJing, which he’s been doing for the past ten years. And in a full circle moment, he founded Sangra Muta, his own party, which aims to promote LGBTQ+ artists and create safe spaces for queer audiences in Brazil. What a run! But it doesn’t stop there: last December, Gezender did a b2b set with his sis (and roommate!) Cherloianne for the Boiler Room x Ballantine’s True Music Studios.
Growing up in Brazil, music is everywhere. “We’re a very music-driven country, and our history is extensive,” he says in this interview. But even more so, his family instilled in him a love for different genres and the appreciation for music-making. “My father was a record collector and even DJed in the ‘80s,” he shares. So it was only a matter of time before he dived into music professionally: first, promoting parties as a teenager and young adult, and later, becoming an artist himself.
Now, a fully realised creative with a clear vision and path, and having experienced the industry behind the scenes for two decades, he has the confidence to avoid places where he doesn’t want to be. “Detaching myself from the music industry and its formalities, lobbies, and parasites is very difficult, but the internal psychological process allowed me to be free and continue believing that artwork on its own, even if network connections might not be enough to make a living from music,” he confesses. In today’s interview, we sit down with Gezender to discuss mental health, Stanley Kubrik as a raver, and the globalisation of funk.
Hi, Gezender, it’s a pleasure to have you here. First of all, how are you feeling today, and where are you responding from?
I’m good, thank you. I’m speaking from São Paulo.
You’ve been in the music industry for over ten years. But how did your love for music begin, and what was the path like until you became a DJ and producer?
As an artist, it’s been ten years, but as a party and event producer, it's been almost twenty years – yes, I started very young, and I don’t regret anything (laughs). Music was always important in my parents’ universe. I grew up surrounded by music; my father was a record collector and even DJed in the ‘80s. I can be cliché and say that ‘music saved me’ because that’s exactly how it was during my adolescence and adulthood. More than just an art form, music, for me, is a process of healing and sublimation.
In the early 2000s, when I was a teenager, I was really into minimal house (yes, laughs), and I couldn't find that sound at the parties I went to. Eventually, the party scene went through various phases and, at one point, became massive. After ten years of promoting events, I felt the need to go beyond that and start creating and playing music. It was a very smooth and natural process.
In the early 2000s, when I was a teenager, I was really into minimal house (yes, laughs), and I couldn't find that sound at the parties I went to. Eventually, the party scene went through various phases and, at one point, became massive. After ten years of promoting events, I felt the need to go beyond that and start creating and playing music. It was a very smooth and natural process.
The Boiler Room sets changed the lives of many DJs, catapulting them to fame. You played your first one in 2019. Did you go into this experience with any expectations? Or did you feel any pressure, knowing thousands of people would be watching?
Not exactly. I think the experience gave me confidence, and I was relaxed, ready to do what I know and love.
You did a second set in December of 2024 for Boiler Room x Ballantine’s True Music Studios. How was this experience similar to and different from your debut?
In the first one, I was pretty anxious and insecure, but I managed to play my tracks, didn’t make any mixing mistakes, and felt I delivered what I wanted. I have great memories of that 2019 moment. For the last Boiler Room, I was much calmer and knew exactly what I wanted to do in a b2b with Cherolainne, a dear friend with whom I share an apartment. It was a joy to be there again, bringing a sound that was very different from the first. In the end, I think that Boiler Room helped bring me back to life and reignited my passion to keep going in the music industry.
One of the main differences was that this time, you played a b2b with Cherolainne, as you just mentioned. You two seemed like the queer and fashion version of the twins from The Shining — imposing and fabulous with your all-black looks and bleached blonde hair. How was it sharing this moment with her?
HAHAHAHAHAHA sorry for the caps, but I loved the reference, and I think Kubrick would’ve been a raver if he had been born in the ‘90s or 2000s. Cher and I live together, and being in a b2b with her gave me even more confidence and freedom to explore a different sound than what I usually play. After that night, my hair completely fell out from all the bleaching, and we're no longer Olsen twins, but my partner is an inspiration to me, pushing me to step out of my comfort zone of playing the same style of electronic music for years.
How do you prepare for a b2b set compared to a solo performance? Did you have long conversations with Cherolainne about how you wanted to conduct the set, or was it more improvised, based on each other’s vibe?
It was much quicker and easier than a solo set. We picked out songs we both liked and started cutting the ones we didn’t like from what the other person had researched. There were even a few disagreements because I love the ‘90s and ‘00s tracks, while Cherolainne prefers current releases. In the end, those differences turned into an amazing blend of distinct explorations that fit together perfectly.
I liiived for the opening performance with Márcia Pantera and Natasha Princess doing what’s now called ‘hairography,’ but which has a long tradition in Brazil’s queer culture as ‘bate cabelo.’ They were two legends on stage! Could you tell us a bit more about how you convinced them to perform and what message you wanted to convey to the audience with this invitation?
Yes, we owe so much to Márcia, and she’s revered when she performs at Sangra Muta, my party. Both she and Natasha are resident performers, so we’d already worked with them a few times. Still, every time they perform, I get emotional. On the day of the Boiler Room, I couldn’t help shedding a few tears watching them dance. I think that feeling was one of pride and resistance, bringing all of us together in a performance that expressed our passion. As soon as they took the stage, it affirmed the presence of an LGBTQIAP+ body in the spotlight, and even within a queer bubble, it can enchant everyone through performance and music.
The LGBTQ+ community in Brazil is strong and vibrant, but at the same time, violence against trans people and the number of femicides are alarmingly high. As a queer person, what’s your day-to-day like in terms of acceptance/respect from others and the fear of facing violence?
In a very Christian country with a large conservative portion, unfortunately, it’s natural that violence and harassment happen, and they seem proportional to the size and strength of the community. I’ve witnessed sad stories within our group. This mostly happens to the travesti, transgender, and non-binary communities, where their very bodies become political statements and, as a result, are exposed to violence.
I’ve suffered from aggression and carry some trauma from being who I am, especially during my teenage years at school and with my family. Nowadays, I have a decent relationship with the outside world (the world beyond the queer community or our homes) due to a self-confidence I’ve slowly built, but it’s exhausting to always have to resist. We just want to exist.
I’ve suffered from aggression and carry some trauma from being who I am, especially during my teenage years at school and with my family. Nowadays, I have a decent relationship with the outside world (the world beyond the queer community or our homes) due to a self-confidence I’ve slowly built, but it’s exhausting to always have to resist. We just want to exist.
Following this line, you founded Sangra Muta, a series of events and parties that celebrate queer culture, music, and people. How did this project come about, and how has it evolved over the years?
I’m from an island in the south of Brazil, Florianópolis. There, I promoted parties since the 2000s. These parties were strictly queer, but at that time, little was said about it, so this political and questioning attitude came about naturally. Sangra Muta came about naturally, as a continuation of what I was already doing.
I remember when we started, there was no other LGBTQIAP+ electronic music party in the country, just stories we’d heard about pioneering parties from the ‘90s scene. It was a party where only queer people performed, and other promoters and DJs from outside the community thought I was radical and extreme. Today, I’m proud to say that the party is a pioneer and a reference for the Brazilian queer community.
I remember when we started, there was no other LGBTQIAP+ electronic music party in the country, just stories we’d heard about pioneering parties from the ‘90s scene. It was a party where only queer people performed, and other promoters and DJs from outside the community thought I was radical and extreme. Today, I’m proud to say that the party is a pioneer and a reference for the Brazilian queer community.
In your recent Boiler Room set, you mixed various genres, staying true to your musical identity. Is there a specific way you create the ‘Gezender sound’? How do you stay authentic while adapting to new trends or the natural evolution of your own musical taste?
I think it’s the result of very deep and extensive research into electronic music. I’ve been a nerd since the dial-up internet days (via phone) in 2001 when I was still young and researching each artist, style, history, labels, and recording studios in detail. Today, music research is much easier and more accessible, but sometimes I notice it limits DJs of the new generation to Bandcamp releases, with no connection to the past. It’s not nostalgia; I also love the new, but to understand what we hear today in a more accessible and natural way, you need to be curious about the scene’s precursors. So, in summary, I think the foundation for staying current while being true to your style is passion and a deep curiosity to research.
“More than just an art form, music, for me, is a process of healing and sublimation.”
Carioca funk is everywhere now. As a Brazilian DJ, how are you experiencing this phenomenon? And what’s your opinion on non-Brazilian (and also Brazilian) artists who adopt this genre and popularise it globally?
What a controversial question (laughs). I experience it when I go out at night, see friends play, and social media is flooded with funk (not just carioca, but paulista and from all over the country). We’re a very music-driven country, and our history is extensive. I think funk is a contemporary continuation of samba and the styles born in the favelas. It’s carnival, passion, and liberation with explicit lyrics that resonate with the realities of our country.
Since funk comes from the favela, where most of the people are Black and still suffer from the legacy of slavery, it’s important to approach it with care and sensitivity, so the music, which tells the story of the Black and favela communities in Brazil, isn’t reduced to just a style, without understanding the social and political context behind it.
As for DJs incorporating funk into their sets, I think it’s a natural process in our connected world — funk is incredible and danceable. The issue arises from the lack of research into its origins and the lack of acknowledgement of funk’s roots in the Black community. Funk is not just a music style; it’s much more than I could even categorise.
Since funk comes from the favela, where most of the people are Black and still suffer from the legacy of slavery, it’s important to approach it with care and sensitivity, so the music, which tells the story of the Black and favela communities in Brazil, isn’t reduced to just a style, without understanding the social and political context behind it.
As for DJs incorporating funk into their sets, I think it’s a natural process in our connected world — funk is incredible and danceable. The issue arises from the lack of research into its origins and the lack of acknowledgement of funk’s roots in the Black community. Funk is not just a music style; it’s much more than I could even categorise.
You’ve played at numerous clubs, festivals, and parties. Is there an infallible track that you know will always light up the dancefloor?
Muuuuch! In fact, I could play an entire set just with them, and I did that at Panorama Bar the first time I played there, and the floor went wild. It took a long time for that to happen, but I’m not interested in being stuck in a set routine and doing that every time I play. I want to expand my repertoire of reliable tracks until I can play a twelve-hour set (laughs). As for a specific song, I swear it’s hard to say, it really depends on the crowd and the atmosphere.
Now, something more personal. In an Instagram post, you mentioned that you had given up after “ten years rowing against the tide” and that, from now on, you would let your career “follow its own course and prove my talent in every gig, instead of forcing smiles for people I didn’t like.” How did you know you had reached this point of no return, and how have you been dealing with this decision since then?
It’s amazing how, at least for me, art is so connected with your emotional and mental state. I came to this conclusion after doing psychoanalysis. Detaching myself from the music industry and its formalities, lobbies, and parasites is very difficult, but the internal psychological process allowed me to be free and continue believing that artwork on its own, even if network connections might not be enough to make a living from music. Dealing with this has been liberating, and I think it shows in my performances. The biggest lesson I’ve learned is the realisation that being a DJ is all about the music, not about contacts or the places you play.
“I think Kubrick would’ve been a raver if he had been born in the ‘90s or 2000s.”
Mental health is an important topic that has only recently begun to be discussed openly. After having these conversations with yourself and taking steps to take care of your own, what would you recommend to other artists facing the same challenges?
I think there are two paths when it comes to the desire to be an artist. The first is the natural, intuitive curiosity for research and a love for music. If you’re like that, know that talent isn’t enough to stand out, so don’t rely on your career as your only source of income. However, it's easy to say you’re an artist.
The second path is about a love for exposure, hype, and the desire to feel desired. If that’s you, then chase the contacts and promoters, but it’s sad to conclude that you’re not truly an artist — just someone dazzled by the glamour of the industry, even with the reality of social media.
The second path is about a love for exposure, hype, and the desire to feel desired. If that’s you, then chase the contacts and promoters, but it’s sad to conclude that you’re not truly an artist — just someone dazzled by the glamour of the industry, even with the reality of social media.
You ended 2024 with a bang — the Boiler Room x Ballantine’s session. Now that we’re just starting 2025, what are your plans for the next few months? Any goals or projects in progress that we should know about?
The year started amazing, with my party, Sangra Muta, bringing Hör to Brazil in March. It’s incredible to think that after all these years, the two platforms I admire the most are now part of my career and party. I plan to return to music production, which I had put on hold during the pandemic, and it was tough to deal with that. 2025 is already shaping up to be a special year for me, even before it’s over.
