Remixing might feel like a modern invention, but its roots go way back—like flapper dress and gramophone back.
The first remixers weren’t digital producers—they were jazz musicians. Improvising, riffing, bending melodies, and flipping arrangements on the fly. Every performance was a remix. The Charleston wasn’t just a dance—it was a reaction to how people made music their own in real time.
Fast forward to the birth of disco. DJs in New York started editing soul and funk tracks with razor blades and tape, looping the grooviest parts to keep the crowd moving. That evolved into remixing as we know it—longer versions, dub mixes, and eventually full-blown reinventions.
Then came hip-hop, house, jungle, and techno—each one built on the foundation of reworking what came before. Remixing became a form of rebellion and reverence. A way of saying: we see your history—and we’re dancing with it.
Today, I get to remix everything—from 1920s swing to 1980s synth-pop, from crooners to club hits. And every time I drop a beat under an old vocal, I’m not just producing—I’m participating in a century-long evolution of musical transformation.
The Charleston is now a bass drop. The jazz standard is now a DnB roller. The wartime ballad is now a darkwave anthem.
Remixing isn’t a trend. It’s a timeline. And I’m just the next hand on the turntable.