Excitement builds at VU HQ for one of our favourite annual pilgramages of the year, to Stowaway Festival (31^st July – 2^nd August) on the site of the Blackpit Brewery in Northamptonshire, and when we get there we will be heading directly to the Listen Here area of the site. Nestled in a woodland glade, it’s a place where VU selectors Aidy West, Noahmono, M-Cutz and Joe Moan have had some of their best moments behind the decks. Not just because of the crowd, but because you hear your records like you’ve never heard them before. Its special.

Between a sprinkling of heavyweight ‘headliners’ (this year including the likes of Coco Maria, Francois K, Move D), choice underground selectors (Harry Charles, Lawrence Daffurn, Micky Hack, Mike Shawe) and the Listen Here crew themselves, it is always a carefully curated line up, putting musical depth before peak time festival anthems. As Damian Gee says, "I've always thought for a long time when I've put line ups together, I've put people on in the way that I've put records on". It's an approach that prioritises flow and coherence over names and hype.

While the Stowaway sessions might be central to the calendar, Listen Here keep music lovers on their toes with periodic Jazz Kissa sessions, deep listening dedications (Miles Davis recently got celebrated), art / sound experiences and the occasional ‘pop up’ party / stage at other festivals.

It’s a labour of love, music and finding the right spaces to communicate the musical message…

Fusing a deep heritage in UK’s dance music culture alongside the desire to deliver a new level in audio experience for music lovers, and the uninitiated, Damian Gee and the Listen Here collective have created their own philosophy of what a dancefloor experience can, and should be: delivering the best possible sound without the orthodox ‘vintage constraints’ of audiophile culture.

Alex from VU sat down with Damian to hear about his roots in the scene, how the inspiration for Listen Here came about, and how he and the team have created what VU firmly believe to be one of the best sound system experiences in the world.

VU: Where did all this begin for you?

Damian Gee: It goes right back to my family connections. My cousin Tony went to school with people like Tony Colston-Hayter, Steve Coward and the group who would go on to build Sunrise and the wider rave scene. They weren't just around it — they were genuinely helping to invent it.

I was lucky enough to grow up around those people, so getting involved almost happened naturally.

My first work experience was helping out at acid house events in South London when I was only fourteen or fifteen. This was around 1989 or 1990. Adamski was DJing, the acid house movement was in full swing, and I was far too young to really understand what I was walking into. I’d just be helping on the door with a bumbag stuffed full of cash!

I'd go back to school on Monday knowing I'd spent the weekend somewhere completely different from everyone else, but I couldn't exactly tell anyone about it. It was this secret world full of music, lights, drugs and an atmosphere unlike anything I'd ever experienced.

It felt genuinely psychedelic.

VU: At that age, were you aware of the criminal side of the scene that people often talk about now?

DG: Not at first. As time went on, though, you started hearing the stories. Different criminal groups became involved because there was money to be made. People started bringing weapons to events. I remember hearing about shotguns being pulled on the door.

The atmosphere changed incredibly quickly. What began as the Summer of Love became something much darker in a remarkably short space of time.

VU: How did you get involved in the Sanctuary (legendary warehouse venue in Milton Keynes)?

DG: The first Dreamscape at the Sanctuary was the first event I went to because I genuinely wanted to be there rather than because I was working. It was beautiful, there was still that sense of unity and optimism.

But, within a few months everything had shifted. I was never really into hardcore rave music anyway—I was always more into house, disco and soulful dance music—but for a brief period that rave scene became my world.

By the time the next events came around, it already felt like the Wild West. People were getting mugged, violence was creeping in, and that original atmosphere had started disappearing.

I caught the very end of that utopian period before everything became harder.

VU: By the time I started going to Dreamscape in 1994 it already felt like a different era.

DG: It really was. By then we were running production at the Sanctuary properly. My cousin had taken over a lot of the production management, and a huge part of our job was simply keeping the venue operating. We were constantly dealing with licensing issues, environmental health officers and attempts to shut the place down. Behind the scenes it was a continual battle.

At the same time we were working very closely with Dreamscape, Murray's team and people like Vanessa. We were still relatively young ourselves, but we were becoming the production managers responsible for many of those big events.

Eventually that work expanded onto festivals like Dance Valley and other major productions.

VU: Looking back, you weren't just putting on events—you were inventing new ways of doing them.

DG: That's exactly what was happening, although at the time we didn't really think of it that way. We were designing moving stages, experimenting with truss systems and building effects that simply didn't exist in dance music.

Today every festival has automated moving rigs controlled by computers. Back then we were literally pressing buttons and hoping nothing broke.

A lot of those ideas came from my cousin working on larger tours, for example U2’s Zoo TV tour at Wembley, then adapting them for raves.

There was no internet. No social media. You couldn't even take cameras into most events. If someone discovered a good idea, you remembered it and built your own version the following weekend.

That's how innovation spread.

VU: Milton Keynes seems to have produced an incredible number of people who shaped dance music.

DG: It really did. People don't always realise how connected everything was.

There was Eddie Richards, one of the UK's true pioneers of house music. International DJs from Chicago and Detroit would literally stay at his house when they came over to play in Britain. As a teenager I'd walk into his living room and there'd be these legendary American DJs just sitting there having breakfast.

To me that all seemed completely normal.

There were record shops like World Beats (run by Picci), agencies, promoters and DJs all feeding into each other. Criminal Minds came out of that scene. Dave Prackly organised one of the first legal raves after being inspired by Sunrise, and that in turn inspired Murray to create Dreamscape.

It was one long chain of ideas being passed from one person to the next.

VU: Looking back now, Milton Keynes isn't really known for that history.

DG: That's what's strange. Today people often see Milton Keynes as a cultural blank slate, but when I was growing up it felt like anything was possible because I was surrounded by people making things happen.

As I got older those same people started asking for my opinion on productions and designs. Being around them taught me something important: you didn't have to live in London or Manchester to build something significant. You could create something world-class from Milton Keynes if you had the right people around you.

VU: One thing that fascinates me is how interconnected it all was. Dreamscape, Helter Skelter, Sanctuary... looking back now, it feels like everyone knew everyone.

DG: They really did. It all goes back to the same people. Even the production side was a tight-knit group. Steve Coward, the production managers—we all worked together. It wasn't this huge corporate operation with loads of clipboard holders running around. It was a relatively small team who knew exactly what they were doing. Everyone had their role and just got on with it.

That was one of the things that made it special. You weren't surrounded by bureaucracy; you were surrounded by people who genuinely understood sound, lighting, staging and how to create an atmosphere.

VU: Dreamscape was really at the centre of that movement.

DG: It was. Dreamscape helped invent the blueprint. Then Slamming Vinyl came along and became a huge force in their own right. We worked with them on events at Alexandra Palace and other venues.

People don't realise how much experimentation was going on. We were trying things that weren't really possible at the time. I remember doing an ISDN link on a Dreamscape New Year's Eve in the mid-'90s. It probably didn't work perfectly, but we were trying to push technology years before it became normal.

That was typical of people like my cousin Tony. He was always trying to move things forward. The promoters weren't just in it to make money—they genuinely loved what they were building. They happened to be good entrepreneurs as well.

VU: As a raver, I never really saw much of the darker side.

DG: We saw more of it because we worked behind the scenes.

There were brilliant promoters, genuine enthusiasts, but there were also gangsters around. That was just part of the landscape. I had friends who'd been shot at. There were venues with bullet holes in the roof. It sounds unbelievable now, but that was reality in parts of the scene.

When Jungle really exploded, some nights became a lot tougher. Different crowds came together, and sometimes there was real tension.

I remember getting a pay rise after one night because a group from Moss Side had threatened to shoot everyone on the door. I was only a kid. You just dealt with whatever happened because nobody really knew how to handle situations like that.

VU: One night at the Sanctuary that really sticks with me was when Goldie performed Timeless.

DG: I remember that night. It wasn't actually that busy, surprisingly, but it was special.

The funny thing is, behind the scenes I nearly ended up in a fist fight with Goldie’s tour manager because of the volume levels. They were panicking about licences and noise restrictions, and I was basically saying, "This is what the show needs."

By the end of the night they actually apologised because they'd realised it had worked.

VU: Was it challenging working at the Sanctuary?

DG: In a lot of ways, yes. The reality is that the venue itself wasn't glamorous. It was rough. A lot of the gigs weren't particularly exciting, and plenty of the clientele could be hard work.

People look back now with rose-tinted glasses, but when you worked there every weekend it wasn't always magical. Whenever we had the chance, though, we'd try to put on something we were genuinely proud of. We'd bring in acts like The Warriors or push for better productions, even if those events sometimes lost money.

Even Tony Rosenberg—the stereotypical '90s club owner—loved having nights where we could all stand back afterwards and think, That was something special.

VU: I guess it wasn't easy filling a venue like that either.

DG: Not at all. Promoters would arrive absolutely convinced they were going to pack the place because they'd had huge success in London. Then they'd have twelve people turn up.

The promoters who succeeded worked unbelievably hard. They'd be outside other raves at seven in the morning handing out flyers from the back of sports cars. They lived it.

People like Murray and Dave built loyal crowds because they understood that. Their events always felt slightly different. Even when it was hardcore, it somehow felt more musical, more welcoming.

VU: Listening to you talk about it, it sounds like a film.

DG: I've genuinely thought about writing it as a screenplay. Around 1995 everything seemed to happen at once. Britpop was exploding. Oasis, Blur... Underworld released Born Slippy. Jungle was incredible. Alex Reece, Goldie, all that music.

At the same time there were illegal mansion parties, five hundred people turning up at these unbelievable old houses every weekend.

Then there was pirate radio. We were involved with Frequency FM. We had this huge shared house, DJs coming and going, people sleeping on sofas, music playing constantly, and for months life just became this whirlwind of parties, events and travelling around the country.

I was twenty years old, driving a BMW 320i, everyone else seemed to be in RS Turbos, everyone had just got mobile phones, promoters were making fortunes, drugs were everywhere, and every week felt like another drama.

Honestly, it writes itself.

VU: Do you think that world still exists?

DG: Probably, but you'd have to be inside that network to see it. I don't think we'd particularly want to be part of it now, but what happened during that period genuinely shaped modern dance music culture.

People forget that the way festivals and raves are laid out today came directly from those years. Things we now take for granted—DJ booths as the centrepiece, massive sound systems facing huge crowds, staging layouts—often started because somebody reversed a truck into an aircraft hangar and thought, "That'll do."

Before that, DJs were tucked away in corners or balconies. They weren't the focal point. The rave scene accidentally invented a language for dance events that the whole world now uses.

That's the legacy. It wasn't just a party. It changed how live electronic music is presented everywhere.

Back in the early '90s, the DJ would often be tucked away under the stage. At festivals and big shows, they weren't the focal point. If you could see them at all, it was by chance. There wasn't this idea of, "Get the DJ front and centre." It just wasn't how things worked.

VU: It's almost gone too far the other way now. Everyone's got their phones out, watching the DJ instead of just being in the room and dancing. That's what made those parties special, wasn't it? Music was the great leveller. You could be dancing next to anyone—a billionaire or someone with nothing—and it didn't matter. You were all there for the same reason.

DG: I think that period was actually quite brief. Maybe ten years—from the late '80s through to the late '90s. Then everything shifted. There was more cocaine culture, people standing around in bars talking instead of dancing, trendy venues, designer denim.

When I worked at Ministry, I was involved in a major refurbishment. The club went from being pretty rough to much more polished. That reflected what people wanted. They didn't necessarily want to dance in an industrial warehouse anymore. The music changed, the drugs changed, and club culture changed with it.

People wanted comfortable spaces, decent toilets, places to sit and talk. Fashion changed too—people dressed up again. Club culture both reflects wider culture and shapes it at the same time.

I remember the jungle scene being one of the first places I noticed that shift. People started turning up to raves wearing Versace and expensive designer clothes.

VU: Moschino vibes...

DG: Exactly. They were wearing outfits that cost a fortune. You could tell they weren't planning on rolling around on the dancefloor all night anymore. Things were changing.

VU: So there's obviously a huge gap between those early days and Listen Here. When did the seeds of that begin? Was it something that had been developing for years?

DG: I'd been putting on parties for a long time in Milton Keynes and always wanted to DJ. I got opportunities to play before I was probably ready—mostly because I knew people—but that was just how things worked back then.

I was always around the scene. Milton Keynes has always been very DIY because we never really had the venues that somewhere like Northampton had. We had to make our own spaces. We'd find empty buildings, tidy them up and turn them into venues.

Later I was working bars and promoting events. Eventually I thought, "I don't just want to be around DJs—I actually want to do this."

So I started putting on my own events. I realised I didn't want to spend my life begging promoters for gigs. I'd grown up around people who really knew what they were doing. I'd worked at Ministry of Sound, travelled with some incredible DJs and seen how the best people operated.

I wasn't the greatest DJ technically, but I knew music, and I understood the rhythm of how a club works. I'd spent years inside nightclubs watching them function.

VU: And you wanted to share what you loved.

DG: Honestly? I probably just wanted to impress girls as well (laughs). You want to be that guy. You want to stand out. That's part of it.

Working in the music industry also seemed a lot more interesting than ending up in a normal job. I worked for free whenever I had to, just to get involved. I loved music and I loved dancing, but I never thought of myself as the most knowledgeable person in the room. I'm slightly dyslexic, so I could never remember track names. That's not ideal when you're trying to find records in the '90s.

I also wasn't naturally one of those DJs who could beatmatch perfectly from day one. But I realised I had another skill: I understood spaces. I could walk into a venue and immediately picture how it should work.

So I started creating events around that.

We did Garden Parties in Milton Keynes, Loft Parties in actual lofts—everything was very literal. We even talked about Warehouse Parties, although we never actually did one.

One venue I found was the old Milton Keynes bus station—a beautiful listed building with this huge covered outdoor space. It had an enormous roof, so you could fit around a thousand people underneath it. If it rained, you stayed dry. If it was sunny, it stayed cool.

We managed to put on about half a dozen Sunday parties there.

VU: That's the one opposite the train station?

DG: That's right. We used the side opposite the skateboard area.

Those parties were incredible. They grew from about 150 people to nearly 1,000 in five events. Everyone said Milton Keynes would never support something like that. I knew they were wrong.

Back in the day there were weekends when 10,000 people were out raving across Milton Keynes between the Sanctuary, the Winter Gardens and other venues. I knew the audience existed.

Unfortunately, the venue eventually lost its licence, and around that time I ended up touring the world with Miley Cyrus for over a year.

Around then I also started discovering listening spaces. A designer friend in London introduced me to David Mancuso's Loft parties through people like Cosmo Murphy. I'd heard about that whole scene because of people I'd worked with at Ministry of Sound who were obsessed with that history.

I absolutely loved the philosophy behind it, but I also remember thinking, "This sounds great... but I actually know sound systems that sound even better."

I'd worked around Funktion One systems and some incredible professional audio engineers, so I started thinking: why copy everything exactly? Why not take the philosophy but improve the technology?

That really became the foundation of Listen Here.

The goal wasn't to recreate the past—it was to create the best possible listening experience using whatever technology actually worked.

I wasn't a technical engineer. I didn't know every specification, but I knew what sounded good.

Over the years I'd worked with great sound engineers, and I'd often walk into a room and say, "Something doesn't sound right." Sometimes they'd check everything, make adjustments, then come back and admit, "You were right."

That gave me confidence.

So Listen Here became about combining the best parts of hi-fi, studio equipment and professional club audio—without being restricted by nostalgia.

We use vinyl because we love the format, and because buying records supports artists. But Listen Here isn't really about vinyl. It's about music first.

The technology just serves that goal.

VU: How did Listen Here become a reality?

DG: Listen Here really grew out of wanting to make something that reflected my own vision. I've spent years touring, working in production, laser operation, sound, video – all sorts of technical roles. At one point I'd stepped away from production management because I wanted less responsibility and more time to think. Touring gave me that freedom, but after a while I realised I'd reached a bit of a dead end creatively.

I knew I wanted to build something of my own. The original idea was actually very simple: a listening café, somewhere between a record shop, a jazz kissa, a bar and a social space. Somewhere people could come and experience music properly. That idea eventually evolved into Listen Here.

Then the pandemic arrived, and everything changed. People's expectations changed, the way they socialise changed, and it forced us to rethink what Listen Here could become.

VU: Did your experience working on large-scale productions influence what Listen Here has become?

DG: Absolutely. When you spend years working alongside people producing shows for artists like Calvin Harris or Beyoncé, you see what's possible. None of it is mysterious anymore. The limitation isn't imagination—it's budget.

That experience made me realise we could bring some of that creative thinking into much smaller spaces. It isn't about copying arena productions; it's about taking the same attention to detail and applying it to intimate environments where music is the focus.

VU: What makes Listen Here different from a typical club night?

DG: I've lost interest in conventional events. You know the format: DJ at one end, speakers either side, flashing lights, everyone facing the stage. Whether it's a pub, a club or an arena, it's fundamentally the same experience. I still love club culture, but I don't want to recreate it exactly as it was.

A lot of events today are built around nostalgia. They're trying to recreate famous moments from the past, whether that's The Loft or another legendary club. Those places deserve their place in history, but I'm more interested in asking what comes next.

If Larry Levan or Frankie Knuckles had today's technology, would they still have worked exactly the same way? Probably not. They'd have embraced new tools while keeping the same spirit.

That's what interests me.

VU: Is that where The Space Between came from?

DG: Exactly. The Space Between wasn't about putting on another club night. It was about creating an experience where sound, visuals and the room itself all became part of the performance.

The name comes from the idea that the important moments aren't always the obvious ones. Miles Davis talked about the notes you don't play. Debussy spoke about the space between the notes. That's something I've always found fascinating.

We built the evening slowly. Instead of jumping straight into dance music, we started with ambient music and jazz, gradually increasing the intensity over more than two hours before eventually reaching drum & bass.

From a DJ's point of view it was one of the hardest things I've ever done because you're asking people to trust the journey instead of chasing instant gratification.

The amazing thing was they did.

The audience ranged from people in their late teens through to people in their eighties, and they all understood what we were trying to do.

VU: Visuals seem just as important as the music…

DG: Very much so. I've worked closely with laser designer Andrew Turner for years, and one of our shared ambitions has always been to create events where the visuals aren't decoration—they're another instrument.

At one of our gallery events Andrew produced some of the most incredible laser programming I've ever seen, despite having almost no budget. We both came away proud, but also feeling like we'd only scratched the surface of what we wanted to achieve.

The ambition is always bigger than the resources.

VU: Listen Here has become a fixture at Stowaway Festival. How different is that to a ‘tailored space’?

DG: Festivals let us introduce people to the Listen Here philosophy who might not normally come to one of our own events. When we curate a stage, we're not trying to fit neatly into expectations. We bring our own approach, whether that's how the music develops across the day, how the sound system is presented or how the audience experiences the space.

Sometimes organisers expect something more straightforward or more obviously dancefloor-driven, but we've always believed in trusting our instincts and presenting what Listen Here is about.

It's less about playing obvious crowd-pleasers and more about creating a journey.

VU: What role does the team play?

DG: Listen Here started from one person's vision, but it's become something much bigger because of the people around it.

Dave (Millard, Full Fat Audio) has been a huge part of that. We share a lot of the same philosophy about music and sound, even if we approach things differently. Those differences actually make the project stronger.

Jo wasn't a DJ at all, and she wasn't even really a record collector. She'd bought a few records to play at mine and gradually started getting into it, but what she already had was really well-curated Spotify playlists. She'd spent years creating taste through that. Discover Weekly was incredible back then, and she'd really trained the algorithm around what she liked.

Before we met, she was the person in her friendship group with the best taste in music, but she felt like she'd run out of places to go. She'd become really sensitive to poor sound quality, so I jokingly wrote her a prescription like a doctor: "Go to The Loft." She went, and it completely changed her perspective.

I encouraged her to have a go at DJing because she'd already developed such a good ear. I think everyone who's genuinely into music and dancing secretly dreams of playing records. These days, honestly, I think she plays some of the best sets. She's an incredible selector because she's completely honest with what she buys. She doesn't collect filler; every record has a reason for being there.

On top of that, she comes from a high-end corporate events background, so she's unbelievably organised. She's become a real secret weapon. When it comes to running Listen Here or the festival, she handles all the logistics while I can focus on the creative side.

We've built a really strong team now. We've brought Andrew Turner in on the visual side, we've got people helping with artists and DJs, and production isn't really the challenge anymore. The difficult part is finding the motivation sometimes. It's very easy to get worn down and think, "I can't be bothered." But every time I decide I'm not going to do something, that's when all the ideas suddenly come flooding back.

Everyone involved brings their own expertise, but they all understand the bigger vision.

VU: Tell us a bit about the technical aspects of the system, how it came together and more around the philosophy of that, which you alluded to earlier.

DG: I’d worked with Dave over the years and already owned one of his amplifiers. They're Class D amplifiers, incredibly efficient, beautifully designed.

Once we started playing records together he kind of fell back in love with vinyl again. Suddenly there was this little group of people—Dave, Ryan from Master Sounds, people at TPI and others—who all had different expertise but shared the same curiosity.

Nobody was saying, "This is the correct way."

Everyone was saying, "Let's see what happens if we try this."

That's a much healthier place creatively.

We're never going to turn up every year with exactly the same sound system because that's not really the point. Some elements will stay because they work, but there'll always be something we're experimenting with. New processing, different amplifiers, different speaker configurations, whatever it might be.

People spend years chasing "the perfect mixer" or "the perfect cartridge", but those things only exist in context. A mixer might be incredible for one DJ and completely wrong for another.

It's the same reason Pioneer became so dominant—they weren't necessarily making the most audiophile product, they made something intuitive. Like Apple did with computers. The usability became part of the sound because DJs could actually express themselves.

People think of us as a vinyl brand, but we're not really. Vinyl was simply the starting point because that's how the first events happened. The thing that's important isn't the format, it's the music.

Vinyl just happens to represent a commitment. When you buy a record you're supporting the artist directly. You've made a conscious decision to live with that music. You also carry thirty kilos of records around with you... so your back pays for it too.

We've spent years digging into phono stages, power supplies, cartridges... and also trying to separate genuine improvements from audiophile nonsense. Some things genuinely make a difference. Some don't. Last year the biggest change was our phono stages.

Previously we were using very good commercial units, but I had bespoke phono stages built by James at West Audio specifically for what we do. The important thing is that we're DJs, not sitting in a listening room at home.

Most hi-fi cartridges output a much lower signal than club cartridges, and DJ cartridges tend to have much higher gain because they're designed to resist feedback in loud environments. We wanted something in between. So we designed the gain structure around how we actually play records rather than how somebody imagined records should be played. That turned out to be a huge improvement.

VU: So what's the chain from record to speaker?

DG: It starts with modified Technics turntables. They're rebuilt, the motors are quieter, the power supplies have been refined—basically we've eliminated as much mechanical noise as we can. They've also got Rega tonearms fitted. They're simple, robust and practical. You could fit something more exotic, but we're still running a DJ booth. People need to be able to use them confidently.

For cartridges we use Audio-Technica AT-XP7s. They're kind of a nice middle ground—more hi-fi than traditional DJ cartridges, but durable enough to survive a festival weekend.

Then everything goes into the bespoke West Audio phono stages. From there we run into an Isonoe mixer, their mixers are phenomenal. Mr Scruff uses them. Theo Parrish uses them. Gilles Peterson uses them. They sound incredible.

I've never actually had a chance to play on one.

VU: Aidy really rates the sound and feel of it.

DG: They take a little getting used to, but once you understand them they're fantastic. The internal phono stages are already excellent, but for our cartridges the external phono stages just take things another level.

After the mixer we move into more studio-grade equipment. We use Rupert Neve processing—not to colour everything massively, but to give us subtle control over the signal before it reaches front of house. From there it goes into the festival system.

VU: So you're effectively combining hi-fi, studio equipment and club audio.

DG: Exactly. That's probably the best description of what Listen Here has become. We've borrowed ideas from all three worlds.

Hi-fi cares about detail.

Studio gear cares about accuracy and control.

Club systems care about energy and scale.

We're trying to bring those together rather than choosing one philosophy.

VU: You’ve been using Funktion One?

DG: Yeah, the newer Evo series. When they're set up properly they're astonishing and paired with Dave Millard's FFA amplifiers and processing it's a phenomenal combination.

Years ago I probably would've said Class AB amplification was the dream. Now modern Class D has become so good that it's difficult to ignore.

It's lighter, more efficient, and companies like FFA are constantly pushing that technology forward.

VU: One thing that interested was seeing a front-of-house engineer, almost treating the DJ booth like a live act.

DG: That was something I'd wanted to do for ages. Every band has a front-of-house engineer, why shouldn't a DJ?

Different DJs play differently. Different records are mastered differently. Different times of day need different energy.

Having someone managing the overall sound means the audience gets the best possible experience while the DJ can simply concentrate on playing music.

That's probably one of the biggest changes we've made.

But, for us the technical side exists purely to disappear. If people walk away talking about the music rather than the equipment, we've done our job.

VU: What's the long-term goal?

DG: I want to rethink how we experience music. Not just for people in their twenties, but for people in their forties, fifties, seventies—anyone who still wants meaningful musical experiences.

I'm interested in changing the room itself. Changing how people move through a space. Using sound and light to make a room feel bigger, smaller or more intimate. Removing the idea that everyone has to stand facing a DJ.

Ultimately it's about creating experiences where people stop simply watching music and start feeling completely immersed in it.

VU: Has Listen Here has evolved alongside Stowaway over the last few years?

DG: It definitely has. The festival itself is an evolving and brilliant thing, and I must shout out Duncan Wheeler (Diego Soundsystem) as he is a real visionary.

Originally, Listen Here was tucked away in a clearing in the woods, almost hidden from the rest of the festival. We built it with next to no budget, and there was something really special about people simply stumbling across it. It almost didn't matter if lots of people never found it. Now the festival has grown right up to where it is today as a whole, and for a lot of people Listen Here has become an integral part of the whole weekend.

VU: For VU it certainly is, they’ve spoken about it with reverence since the inception. I went for the firs time with my family last year, my wife isn't an audiophile or a DJ, but by the end of the weekend she said Listen Here was her favourite part of the festival. She loved the atmosphere as much as the music.

DG: That was lovely to hear this year because so many people already understood what it was. We weren't having to explain ourselves anymore. People would simply say, "Yeah, that's where we go."

I think we've also helped raise expectations. The sound quality became a benchmark, and it's encouraged the rest of the festival to think more carefully about those details. That's really what we're trying to do—bring quality to the whole experience.

For me it's never been about booking the biggest names. I love to have well-known artists play, but only if they genuinely understand what we're trying to create. That matters far more than their profile.

VU: So what actually defines Listen Here? Is it the sound system, the music, or something else entirely?

DG: It's really a philosophy. It's about understanding how music fits a space. Listen Here could happen in a woodland clearing, or it could happen in a warehouse with techno playing all night, provided it feels right for that environment.

I've always programmed events the same way I'd build a DJ set. It's about dynamics rather than hierarchy. I don't want the biggest name playing because they're the biggest name—I want people playing exactly where they should be within the journey of the day.

Midday is just as important as midnight.

In some ways, you can have an even bigger impact during the day because people aren't expecting to have an emotional experience at lunchtime. We've had people standing there in tears because something simply connected with them. That's an incredible thing to witness.

Ultimately, that's what we're trying to achieve. It's not about showing off speakers or collecting expensive equipment, even though I love all of that stuff as much as anyone. It's about creating the purest possible listening experience and allowing music to do what it naturally does.

The whole idea behind Listen Here came from feeling that we'd lost our relationship with recorded music. We've become used to Bluetooth speakers and convenience. They do the job, but they only give you a very thin version of what's actually there.

When people finally hear music reproduced properly, it's almost like a veil has been lifted. They suddenly realise what they've been missing all along.

That's the experience we're interested in creating—not by making a big fuss about technology, but by quietly surrounding people with something that feels immersive and emotionally powerful.

I also think people are becoming much more receptive to that now. Whether it's meditation, mindfulness or simply slowing down, there's a growing appreciation for experiences that encourage people to be fully present. Listen Here naturally sits alongside that way of thinking.

VU: Where would you like to take Listen Here moving forward?

DG: I probably haven't looked hard enough because we've spent years trying to make unsuitable spaces work. Growing up around Milton Keynes, we were always squeezing square pegs into round holes—turning village halls into clubs and making the best of whatever we had.

What I'd really love to do is create completely immersive events where sound, visuals and the environment all become one experience. I'd love to work with visual artists, experiment with speaker placement and really rethink how music can be presented.

VU: We’ve often thought about the museum space here in Northampton. It's an old warehouse type room/space with projection surfaces on all four walls, and it's got a huge amount of history behind it. It feels like somewhere that could really suit that kind of project.

DG: That's exactly how these things happen. Someone discovers an interesting space and suddenly a new possibility opens up. Longer term, I'd also love to create more regular community events. That's something we've really lost where we are.

VU: We've talked ourselves about eventually creating a listening space in Northampton—a record shop, café and community venue all rolled into one.

DG: I think those ideas naturally belong together now. Years ago you went to a garden centre to buy plants; now you go for lunch and happen to buy a plant while you're there. Record shops and cafés have evolved in exactly the same way.

Recently I visited another venue that people had recommended. It looked impressive, but it just didn't quite connect with me. Everything felt very polished, but something was missing.

For me, the sound is often the forgotten element. Venues spend money on almost everything except the listening experience. DJs are expected to spend years building their collections, then perform on poor equipment with very little thought given to the environment they're playing in.

That lack of care affects everyone, even if people don't consciously realise it.

VU: People end up shouting over the music instead of feeling immersed in it.

DG: Exactly. Sometimes the best bars don't even need DJs—they simply have an incredible jukebox and someone with great taste programming it. It's all about creating an atmosphere where everything works together.

For me, that's what has been devalued over the years. DJing became something disposable rather than something carefully considered. That's why I keep asking myself: if everything else is the same, what's the point? How do we create something that's genuinely better—not because it's expensive or exclusive, but because every detail has been thought through?

It's a difficult time to be pursuing those ideas. Financially it's probably harder than it's ever been, and it's easy to become cynical. But, experience also tells me that when people genuinely believe in something, they'll come. We were told our garden parties would never work, yet they did.

Sometimes you never quite understand why something catches people's imagination.

It just does.

 

Damian would like to send thanks out to all the friends, crew, selectors and music lovers who have supported Listen Here since its inception. 

You can experience Listen Here yourself at Stowaway Festival 31 July – 2 Aug, visit https://www.stowawayfestival.co.uk/ for more details.

Keep check on Listen Here at https://listenhere.co.uk/ or on their Instagram https://www.instagram.com/listenhereevents/