Toribio
“Toribio’s got something for your soul—and your ass” read the first line of promotional copy for Social Studies’ return from yet another pandemic-related break on April 1, 2022. About three-quarters into the party, Cesar Toribio played the hell out of Louie Vega and Josh Milan’s dub of Loleatta Holloway’s (unreleased) “Can’t Let You Go,” a standard for him. I relaxed. Yes, there’s that soul.
I imagine that feeling comes over many who enjoy a set from Toribio. But we really needed it. Just two parties into Social Studies’ 2021 season, the new wave of Omicron and an unfortunately timed snowstorm had put our winter events on hold. While clubs had been open, for us, club culture and club community hadn’t fully returned to our nostalgic ideal, not in a deserted Downtown Boston, at least. Toribio’s soul-feeding sound warmly put us at ease and his ass-shaking selections made us sweat on that unusually frigid April night. We wished some more partygoers had rallied that evening, because while Toribio has some great mixes, a fun one here, to feel all of Toribio’s soul, you really need to catch him live.
I was reminded of that a few months later in July on a trip to New York when it felt like Toribio was everywhere. His BDA (Bring Dat Ass) party was the first in a very long time (literal years, I suppose) where I felt moved by a DJ. The command Toribio has over the decks when he’s in his house, often times and this time the basement of Black Flamingo, can appear divine. He’s a star. I felt music, some tracks I know quite well, different and more deeply than ever before—Toribio is a musician and the mixer is one of his instruments. I also felt part of something; Toribio’s perception of what the crowd wants is interactive. While he has very intentional moments he moves through in his sets, he builds on those moments according to the energy exchange between him and the guests.
BDA was satisfying because it was so energetic, so sonically big. But more profoundly, it was satisfying because Toribio plays in a style that defined New York for so long, but which isn't particularly en vogue among a newer generation of DJs. Not to discredit New York’s current scene—it’s vibrant as ever, and it’s really fun. But because Toribio came to house music through its funky side, through the music of luminaries like Theo Parrish and Masters at Work, his brand of house is highly musical, and soulful. His playing of different genres doesn’t force the word “g*nre-bending.” Instead, Toribio tells a story—both musical and thematic—throughout the night using whatever tracks that deliver at every page turn. That’s New York too—a relic of a time when mixed music communities shared the floor to hear anything that made them dance.
Exhilarated from that scene, I went into this interview a couple days later. When he’s not warmly hosting a BDA party—dressed to the nines with loafers polished—and he’s just hanging off the clock (in Crocs he wished I hadn’t seen), Toribio remains a star. With his personal storytelling, just like his DJing, Toribio made me feel good, at ease, and privileged—privileged to learn from each golden nugget. Our conversation was more than double the length of this published version. We had booked Toribio for Social Studies for his DJing, but the shearling-trimmed leather hat he wore that night is far from his only, so here we talked about Toribio's place as grand maestro of his musical Monday-through-Sunday world. The Berklee grad and accomplished percussionist is leader of his rotating collective of musicians, Conclave, whose brilliant self-titled 2021 LP is, if you can’t tell, a favorite of mine. Conclave is a reminder of the powerful omnipresence of Afro and Latino sounds and instruments; a captivating hour of lively jazz, spirited house, and moving, sometimes heart-thumping, soul layers effortlessly with Toribio’s easy, sweeping tenor, and courses to an electrically charged conclusion. The single “All That I Need,” as remixed by Photay, even soundtracked the closing of the Spring 2023 Hermès Menswear runway show in Paris in June.
Meanwhile, the studio also calls Toribio for his dance productions. In 2022 alone, he contributed to Soul Clap’s World Transformation Force: Transformed and Remixed and remixed Javonntte’s “Bebop Swing” for his Mr. Machine EP. His beautiful Brown Cocoa Skin EP came out on the new label Reel Feel Records and includes a DJ Spinna remix of the title track. He shared the BDA sound on “My Neck,” a Khia-sampling party track on Toucan Sounds’ Playground Compilation (Vol. 3). And in July, he debuted his very own new BDA label with the first release, a single “Sell Ya Crews.” He followed it in December with “Glory in the Midst of Confusion” (previously heard on Coloring Lessons Volume n°1). Read about how Toribio manages all the ways he’s on top of New York.
Interview, Editing & Photography - Sacha Madadian Collage - AlfredoSo Cesar, which of your monikers are we going by today? You feeling Toribio, Big Sex, Papi, Papi Grande, or just Cesar?
I’m feeling Big Sex right now because the sun is out. And it’s a Big Sex summer, I don’t know if you saw that [laughs].
I was in the studio with Craig and Brandon (musclecars). I don’t know how we came up with that but—I just think that’s funny, the concept of using Big Sex—not Big Sexy, but just Big Sex. Jay-Z has that track “Encore,” and at the end they’re like “Hova, Hova, Hova,” and we were like “Big Sex, Big Sex, Big Sex.” So we started doing that for a month and then it kinda stuck.
It definitely felt like a Big Sex summer to me—how are you doing? You played for us in April and then you were immediately off! A trip to Miami to play at Dante’s Hi-Fi, which is a rite of passage for vinyl DJs now. Multiple appearances in Philly. Movement weekend parties in Detroit. The Glen Falls House weekender you play with Love Injection and musclecars. Plus, your ever-frequent appearances in the city as both DJ and musician, now with your outdoor parties in the mix. That feels busy to me. How does it feel for you?
You saying all this, I’m like, Damn, that’s right.
It feels good. I’ve been super busy and lucky. At the moment I’m just focusing on what’s happening this week coming up, so I haven’t even had a chance to reflect on that. But it’s been good.
To start, you had a great profile with your origin story run in Love Injection’s Fanzine, which I highly recommend folks read. You were born in Tampa, your parents are from Dominican Republic, you were introduced to and practiced music initially through the church. You’re a seasoned percussionist, and you went to Boston to attend Berklee for Music Business but you also learned to DJ there. Can you indulge us for a minute by bringing it back to Boston? From what I understand, you weren’t going to clubs much.
No, because I got into it [DJing] during college, and you know how hard Boston is for college students if you’re underage. But I did go to Rise.
No longer there. RIP.
That was cool. I probably went like twice. Is Bijou still there?
Yeah, it’s still there.
I never went there. But that kind of thing—I wouldn’t have wanted to go to anyway. And then [I was] mostly on the live music tip.
I did go to—what’s it called—Jass? That was on a weekday at Phoenix Landing. And then the Middle East for electronic stuff.
Given your practice, you had the tools to be a pretty stellar DJ. But what inspired you? If you weren’t going out a lot, were you playing college parties?
I did play college parties and I loved it. It was an elective at Berklee, so I was already collecting records. But it was a lot of jazz, and it was a lot of hip-hop, and Erykah Badu, and Dilla shit. I was a big Dilla fan. And then like some Latin stuff. You know, kind of an extension of what I’m doing now. I learned at Berklee on turntables, but I couldn’t afford them right away. What I did have was a controller, but not even a DJ controller. It’s like an MPC, but it’s called MPD, and I had Traktor, and the cool thing about Traktor is you can map anything to anything, so I learned how to make two decks on these 16 squares. And then I had a radio show on the Berklee Internet Radio Network (BIRN).
Nice, is there an archive? [laughs]
There is an archive, but I got kicked out.
Oh, shit.
I got kicked out cuz I was being a dick—because they took it too serious.
And then I played random college parties. Some Northeastern parties, mainly Berklee parties. For everyone when they start, the goal is to get everyone to go Ohhhhhh, you know, so I was playing the shit anyone would be playing like Pharrell, Missy Elliott. . .
Finally, you moved to Brooklyn. How did you imagine you’d split your time among producing, composing, forming a band, and DJing? It’s a lot.
Well, they all happened at different times. I never stopped recording and making music. That’s always been a constant and there’s a lot of different types.
When I moved to Brooklyn, Conclave was a party first. Me and my best friend at the time, Alex, lived in this punk loft (at different times). We got here, and we liked the local labels like Lobster and Mister Saturday, Sequencias, L.I.E.S. (we really liked L.I.E.S.). We were like, We really want to play this stuff. We got here before Bossa [Nova Civic Club] opened and then shortly after we were like, We want to play there. But, you know, who the fuck are we?
So we had this space, and we’re like, let’s do these parties, because we both learned DJing—he went to Berklee with me, he’s a guitarist. He does music as Cienfuegos. He put out music on L.I.E.S. and a bunch of other things. He’s a super dope performer—it’s more like experimental, industrial.
I started working at Pacha, and I’m 20-something, and with my first few paychecks, I got a new guitar, a Spanish guitar, and I bought turntables. It was a set with the coffin. And we were like, alright, let’s throw parties.
But I never stopped making the music. I always kept making music with my friend Scott, who was the bassist in Conclave. And it came to the point years later where the music—a lot of the joints that are on the album—was so special that we were like, We should really do this. And by that time I’d stopped using Conclave as a party name. So I said that’s what I’m gonna call it. So then I started working on doing the live shit, the album came out, and now I’m juggling all this shit. It’s kind of hard.
Yeah, that’s what I’m wondering.
I didn’t want to do it how it is, it just is the way it is now. I wanted to first build one so, OK, the DJ thing, and have a few releases under that first, then do the live thing.
It worked out.
It worked out, but it’s a lot to manage a band. It’s a whole different side of your brain to actually sit down and produce and actually mix shit than [it is] to get new records and be like, How am I going to creatively do that?
“. . . Before I even started DJing, for like 12 years before that, I was sitting in a room playing with a click. There are so many lessons you learn in that. It’s like Buddhism—really thinking about what time is, learning only through practice what the tendencies are with these different rhythms. Like when you play these types of rhythms, it tends to go fast or it tends to go slower or it feels faster or slower—already I have that understanding, and I can tell when shit is not on time because I spent like 12 years in high school or middle school playing to a fucking click.”
Despite being on different sides of the brain, in what ways do these areas of music play into and inform each other?
That’s a good question because they all do, and the more I do each of them, the more I see how they can.
When I do the live thing, I’ve always done it with a loop station. So that kind of makes it similar to the kind of music that has loops in it like house.
Like for instance, what’s super cool is, at rehearsal we started playing one of the songs called “There’s Enough” on the album, and we elongated it, we brought solos out, and it started to meld and change into something else—then we started just organically playing and going into Saint Germain’s “Rose Rouge,” and it’s gonna be SICK! [When I DJ] I play the Atjazz version. It’s just all music coming together and coming out in the same way. They all inform each other.
DJing is creating a stream of songs all connected—that’s why the songs on Conclave are long—one is like three because it’s this medley kind of shit, you know?
And then, being someone who sings, when I play vocals, I want to bring them out as if I was singing them when I’m DJing. Also being a drummer—that’s what always informs me with how I pick and choose records.
Rhythmic mastery is so much of it—it’s a logical extension of percussion practice.
Yeah, and I always felt I had an advantage over most DJs because of that. Because before I even started DJing, for like 12 years before that, I was sitting in a room playing with a click. There are so many lessons you learn in that. It’s like Buddhism—really thinking about what time is, learning only through practice what the tendencies are with these different rhythms. Like when you play these types of rhythms, it tends to go fast or it tends to go slower or it feels faster or slower—already I have that understanding, and I can tell when shit is not on time because I spent like 12 years in high school or middle school playing to a fucking click.
“I really learned to DJ in New York, and seeing Danny Krivit and Joe Claussell. . . When I first saw them, that changed my DNA, seeing how you play a record. You’re playing a record, you’re not just playing a record. And you are making certain things pop out, making them more 3D. That’s why I try to do that. Whenever I play outside of the city, it’s such a great compliment when people are like. . . ‘You from New York? Oh, I knew it—that’s body and soul!’”
You know, there’s a school of thought that would say that DJing isn’t about “performance”—that underground parties are just about feeling the music, and not looking at the DJ. Do you feel like there’s a performance element to your DJ sets that comes naturally from being a performer otherwise? How might the way you interact with your audience at your parties be different from other DJs at other parties?
That’s a really great question and I’ve never been asked that, but it’s something that I’ve felt about myself before. Because I think it shouldn’t be primarily a performance, but inevitably it is. That’s just where we are now. And I don’t think it’s necessarily a good or bad thing, it just is, and you can do what you want with it. There are some people that overperform and underplay.
Yeah, and sometimes it’s a mask on poor playing.
Yeah, it’s a compensation. And there are some people who do the inverse, who just play the shit out and don’t perform. Let’s bring that back: It’s the same thing in jazz, where in Bebop, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gilepsie, they would— There’s a video of Louis Armstrong making fun of them. And, they’re so technically proficient. The whole style was not about dancing, it was about how much you play. And if you look at the way they’re performing, it’s boring because they’re stiff, and they just play the shit out of their horn, they blow your mind, and then back up. But you step back like 20 years before, and there’s this swing jazz and people are just [snapping], and when the trumpet section comes up, they dance. That’s the parallel with the DJing world now, I feel.
I personally don’t try to make an act so much. I perform otherwise so I’m comfortable being in front of people and having people look at me, and I love music, and I love expressing that. And I understand that when I’m playing, I feel a certain type of way—I’m conscious of that and the way I present that to people who are watching.
It’s clear that you have blends that you go to that you know are going to get a crowd going. But the way you use the mixer to coax a reaction from the crowd, with music they may have never heard before, is very well done, and I think that’s this kind of performance without putting on a show. It’s just— You want them to feel what you’re feeling. I’ve seen the coming together of your worlds in those moments.
Thank you so much. Yeah, in talking about how I use the mixer and isolate certain types of stuff—I learned the technical stuff of how to DJ in Boston, but I really learned to DJ in New York, and seeing Danny Krivit and Joe Claussell. They’re still some of my favorites, but at certain points in my life they were my very favorite, so I definitely have an influence from them. When I first saw them, that changed my DNA, seeing how you play a record. You’re playing a record, you’re not just playing a record. And you are making certain things pop out, making them more 3D. That’s why I try to do that. Whenever I play outside of the city, it’s such a great compliment when people are like, “You sound like New York.” When I played in Miami and when I played in Philly, they were like “You from New York? Oh, I knew it—that’s body and soul!” And I was like, “yeah, that’s what’s up.”
Back to the party: Your branding for your Bring Dat Ass party is pretty simple but iconic. The motto is memorable, “Bring Dat Ass and Your Feet Will Follow.” The flyers are accompanied by consistent illustrations, the now illustrious butt faces—
Shot out to Adrianne Nina, @justaddwateradri.
[From that] you know the mood of the party is going to be joyous. Having thrown Social Studies for so many years, we’d love to compare notes. Could you talk a little bit about what goes into your process of branding a party? Whether we like that word or not, it’s important. How, in a city where there are 15 things going on that could be cool any night Wednesday through Sunday, do you create a party that will bring people in no matter what else is going on?
Yeah, I mean, I’m still fine-tuning, and I don’t know if you feel this way—I still learn new things. I had Conclave as a party, and I had other parties, but I kept using the phrase “Bring dat ass,” and I was like, Oh! I love how playful it is. I want to find a good balance of how playful it is. I don’t want you to dismiss it and think this is just booty shit—because it can be spiritual and it can be real, and I want the space for that.
There are different elements that make a party. At the end of the day, you want the right people and the right room. I was talking to Rich Medina about that—it’s not elitist shit. It’s like, if you’re gonna do a salsa party, you want people that dance to salsa in the salsa room. So the kind of people I want—how do you attract these kinds of people? With a memorable name, with a memorable logo. The logo is a rip-off of Café Bustelo, which is very Latin American—it’s like the Café Bustelo lady but she has a hat and she’s winking. So certain people who are in between—Latin and American—that’s something I try to evoke and bring to these people. Also the guests I try to bring are people I think understand this kind of ethos—they can be playful. Everyone I bring on is a serious DJ, but I don’t like the kind of DJs who are like, “I’m a techno DJ, I’m an acid DJ.” They're people who play a lot of different styles and, thus, the people who come to this party like a lot of different styles.
And then the actual location of where we do it. I spent 5 years actually working at Black Flamingo and have been playing for however long, so I’ve gotten to know a lot of people. I’ve built enough people that know. There are a lot of people who are like, “the only time I come to Flamingo is when you’re playing.”
I’ve gotten to this point where I want to do bigger things with it, and do it in bigger spaces, and have a bigger budget to have bigger lineups. It’s hard to get to that level because for whatever reason, these opportunities haven’t come yet. [Ed note: since this interview Toribio has brought BDA to Elsewhere and Good Room. He has also held the party at Le Bain.]
So here’s what I’m lacking and what I want, which you guys do: You have a team. It’s just me doing this. Adrianne helps me with the flyers when she can, you know? But I want to get someone who can be there who is like you, who is just like a person who is the party who helps maintain the room while I’m playing. Because that’s the good thing about when I have a guest; I can step out, say whattup to people, take pictures, shake hands.
Kiss babies.
Yeah, kiss babies, shake hands, shake asses, you know. I’m also putting more thought into what I brand as a BDA party. Because the more you just throw that out there, the more it loses meaning. It has to be more intentional.
I love that you said that. You know, there are weekly parties in Boston, there are weekly parties everywhere, and it’s always going to be a party. But it’s hard to feel like you’re at something special when it becomes the routine of someone’s week— “We always go X Place on X Day,” and that’s that. But it’s just routine.
Yeah, like all the great parties like The Loft are about the community. 718 Sessions— I already know who’s gonna be there, what it’s gonna smell like, what it’s gonna feel like, and that’s what makes it a thing. Plus the music. A party is full of all these things coming together. The right people in the right room, the right space. And I still think, I’m at that level where I want a bigger space, and to really cultivate that.
On the topic of venues, Hermès chose a Conclave remix to close its Spring/Summer 2023 fashion show on the grounds of the Manufacture des Gobelins in Paris. And you posted something on Instagram expressing some amusement, some upset, over having that level of international recognition and yet struggling sometimes to find venues at home.
I posted that tongue-in-cheek. I thought it was funny. My manager was like, “ah, you shouldn’t post that,” but then I told him it’s getting good response—a bunch of people hit me up and agreed with me. It was not so much angry but matter of fact. It’s crazy how a billion dollar company recognizes my music and, somehow, some of these venues won’t even respond to an email to play in a small room. There’s that saying, I learned it in Spanish, I think it’s in the bible, it’s “el profeta no es profeta en su tierra.” The prophet is not a prophet in his own land. You know, people won’t respect you here unless you’re coming from out of town.
I have people that are younger than me that ask me for advice, but some of these people have no pedigree, and they’re getting booked. Some people get certain opportunities. And if you get them, go with them, you should, everyone should, you know? I just feel like sometimes—yo, I’ve been in this city now for 10-plus years—I should at least be able to get a reply to a fucking email. And it’s not like I’m a herb, because Hermès doesn’t think I’m a herb!
Hermès doesn’t give me validation, but I’m saying it as something outward that we can both point at. I know how I feel about myself, but I can’t show you the part inside me that I think is dope. But I can be like, “look, this big-ass brand thinks I’m dope, and you’re looking at it too.”
And it’s all politics sometimes. And I’ve been on both sides. I know what it’s like to deal with emails with booking. But after three emails—that’s crazy.
Well, while we’re talking about it, as a fashun person, I’d love to know how they [Hermès] reached out and what it felt like.
It was surreal to actually see it. Seeing the cobblestone bricks in Paris that have been there thousands of years, and seeing people walk down this runway, and that’s my voice that everyone is listening to.
The spirit of the clothing, the use of pastels, it felt a little you.
Yeah, I loved that. Yeah it’s funny that you say that because it’s true [laughs]. Yeah, I love pastels, and I love some of the things I saw there too. And I was watching others—the Louis Vuitton one was super cool too.
Do you like fashion?
Yeah, I’m getting more and more into it. It’s a little bit different for me because I’m a bigger person, so a lot of times there’s not shit for me. So how can I get into fashion if I literally can’t get into it [laughs]? But I am into it, and I just like art, so I like seeing the artistry in it and seeing how it translates, and how it’s an expression of different things, and how you can wear it.
So to see a brand like that reach out— that was super cool. It was also cool to see the vibe of the show, to see the audio and the visual come together and to see that not some random person picked it. She [Hermès Men’s Creative Director Véronique Nichanian] walked out with it. It felt good.
I want to do more stuff like that. Seeing Benji B be at the level he’s at— that’s cool that that’s a possibility, and something I’d love to do. I’d love to do more music for fashion shows, whether it’s scoring or performing, I’d like to do that in my future. Film scoring too. I want to do TV stuff. Music in general.
It's interesting you say that because all of those things you could do and might do in the future show how much music is a storytelling tool for you, and when you pair the visuals with it, the story’s complete. I often hear a story arc with you, whether it be in your mixes or in your party sets. You said in your write-up for your Crack (magazine) mix that there are three phases to your sets. You start out a little more low-key and then things get heavier, and you talk about an uplifting finish. I’m interested in your use of vocals. Are you conscious of the fact that the way you use vocals throughout your sets is very meaningful and indeed tells stories?
You’re awesome, man [laughs]. There’s so much I want to tell you.
I’m at a point right now where I feel like I’ve got a handle on certain things in my craft as a DJ, where I want to focus more on exactly what the vocals are saying. I played this joint—and I know it’s going over everyone’s head and it’s OK because I’m still trying to perfect it—“I’m a Bitch,” by [A Bitch Named] Johanna. I bought it last year and I never really listened to it. And then this bullshit happened with the Roe v. Wade overturn. She’s yelling, she’s like, “thats right you be a bitch about living. . . you gotta lose yourself free yourself muthafuckin be yourself. Yeah, I’m a fucking Bitch, and tell that man I’m a fucking Bitch—” that kind of shit. So that day that that happened, I was playing at this place Eavesdrop. I played that and Nathan Haynes, “Earth Is the Place.” [Singing] “Be what I wanna be, laugh when I wanna laugh…'cuz I’m a womaaan.” I’m at a point now where whether it’s explicitly or implicitly, I want the people to grab that. I want to get to a point where, perfectly, every single thing is saying something.
Right now, the way I think about how I construct a set is that there are different eras. There are different moments. And we’re going to be in this moment, and then we’re going to connect this moment to another one. I got that idea from seeing who is right now my favorite DJ, Theo Parrish. And I saw Theo at Nowadays a few years ago and he played James Brown, [singing] “We’re gonna have a funky good time, [singing/drumming] dik a da dik a da do,” and he played his edit and he played the original and he played another version, and you couldn’t tell what’s going on. I said, This is an era! (I was on acid, but you know what I’m saying!) You’re in this fucking world for a second—it was like a 20-minute happening. So I have these different happenings. I have a soulful house happening; an Afro-house happening; I have like a dirty, harsh, acid/techno/industrial/just booty shit happening; I have a Latin happening; I have a jazz happening. And they all build off each other. These little happenings can stand off by themselves. I can make a mix around just one. But you don’t know that that’s just a portion of the night for me. So in the Crack Mix—and I try to do this at The Lot [Radio]—I try to show an arc of how I would do it in a party and how I would connect these different things.
The opening era is hard.
Yeah, there are a few times that I remember I opened—and that shit sticks with me—it was so palpable, and everyone is in a space, and I’m in control and you can see people feeling the shift, like, OK, we’re getting in. It’s fun to see that, and they don’t know, but you know what’s going to happen in 30 minutes. And sometimes you get good at it, and you draw it out even more.
I see the parallel in comedy. I love standup comedy as an art form and I try to connect the parallels. But—and this is also the same with jazz—being comfortable with space and dead air. When I did standup one time, I was so uncomfortable with silence. You learn that from years of doing it that when you say a joke you just have to sit with it for a little bit because you know where the punch line is going to hit.
You have a track that I really love, “Swett,” on Marco Weibel’s compilation. You have a spot on Soul Clap’s 2022 remix album. Love Injection put out the Conclave album. These are all your friends. How vital is it to build a community in New York in order for everyone to be mutually successful?
It's the most important thing, and it’s why I’ve been able to achieve any little thing I’ve been able to achieve. I love being able to know the labels, the people I’m working with—and they happen to be my best friends. That creates a kind of trust, where I want to do the best because I want you to succeed, and I know you’re going to do the best because you want me to succeed. So it’s a great mutual kind of thing, and it’s not a transaction even though we’re trying to make transactions happen.
There are people, they’re just starting up, they look me up on Instagram, and they want to get into the scene, they want to start playing in Brooklyn. What I try to tell them is that the worst thing is to treat relationships transactionally. Nothing is going to be sustainable that way. It happens a lot with young kids—and sometimes they get the opportunity because they’re trying to be diverse at these big places. So now this 20-year-old thinks they’re good and they haven’t cut their teeth, and they haven’t found their voice. I feel like I just found my voice in DJing, you know? Some people, because it happened so easily, they don’t understand what it costs, so everything is treated like a transaction. That’s not going to last and what happens when you’re on your way down? You didn’t build any relationships. Now you’re going to be depressed.
There’s a lot of young people that don’t have the patience to talk real things with real people. I’m at a place where if I go to any party in New York and if I know someone it’s because I’ve been here 10-plus years and I’ve been working in different capacities. I’ve lived in underground lofts where these parties were happening. I’ve worked parties. I’ve thrown parties. I’ve worked venues. I’ve done the drugs with the people at 6 in the morning multiple times—I did that eight years ago, I don’t even do that anymore. (I’m not saying you need to do that!) The real relationship, it takes time.
Do you ever need a space away from music? Do you need a break? Honestly, even from music people? Do you ever want to stop thinking about nightlife for a minute?
You just said something, and I’m not sure if it was conscious or not, but there’s a difference between nightlife and music.
Absolutely.
So for me I can never be away from music. I find my mental health diminishes when I’m creating less. After four days, I’m like, Why do I not want to get out of bed? And then I create and I’m like, Oh, man, I feel better.
But it’s a struggle for you because you have other things in music that you need to and want to be doing that keep you from creating. It’s not like you’re being distracted by bullshit.
That’s exactly right. It’s all cycles, and I’m trying to find out how to balance it. There are definite times, and I value just being taken away from nightlife and DJing, and I get to wear this hat longer where I just get to be producing and creating music. And I like that. And then there are times where I’m creating for too long, and I miss being at a party.
I want to get to that point where once a month I can gladly not open up Instagram. I hate that I have to use Instagram. And then you never see the bad things, so it fucks you up. What? This person’s playing in Ibiza?? So in general I don’t need space from music, but I definitely need space from nightlife, from DJing sometimes.
I’m in the studio like 5 days a week all day. Sometimes when I’m in the studio that much I’m like, I need to go to the beach, or go to a nice restaurant, or just have a laugh with friends. I definitely need a break like that but I can never just— Bobby McFerrin, he talks about how he goes through cycles of not listening to any music, just to not be influenced. I can’t imagine doing that, but I think I want to try that.
I love being able to know the labels, the people I’m working with—and they happen to be my best friends. That creates a kind of trust, where I want to do the best because I want you to succeed, and I know you’re going to do the best because you want me to succeed. So it’s a great mutual kind of thing, and it’s not a transaction even though we’re trying to make transactions happen.
I’d love to end by talking comedy. Tell me more about that standup experience.
That was the most nervous I’ve ever been.
Where were you?
I was at The Lot. In the winter they usually have some kind of creative thing where people can stay inside. They have another container. So Andrew [Devlin] had the idea to do a comedy show, and he had actual comedians. I was the only one who wasn’t a comedian. He knows how much I love comedy, and I was like, "hell yeah!” I have a whole iPhone note of jokes.
But how real, how tangible that nervousness was—I can’t remember being that nervous. Just the form itself, there’s nothing to hide behind. I’ve played in bands, and I’ve played for the fucking European Union Parliament. I’ve shared stages with all these people, I’ve just never been as nervous as that day. I probably had like two bottles of wine before I went on there just to calm my nerves. I was the first or second one, too. And I’ve never done it before.
Did they call time?
Yeah, I was supposed to do like 5 minutes, but I did 15/20.
Because you were killing?
I was doing good actually, yeah! I have a bunch of one-liners, like a bunch of R. Kelly jokes, and that’s how I started, mostly about how he can’t read. And those did pretty well. And then I ended with really funny stories about my dad, and those really killed. But, being up there was so scary, and I was just nervous to have that dead air—it was like, OK I got that first laugh, cool. And like everyone’s listening to you. And there’s NO music. There’s nothing. And every sentence I say is what creates time, tension, and release, you know? That was so nerve-wracking. And I kind of like blacked out—I was just going through it. I saw some video—I was so nervous that I wasn’t moving around a lot, but it looked like I was just really chill. Then as soon as I was done, it was like, when you’re riding a roller coaster: I never want to ride a roller coaster again. And then as soon as you finish riding: Let’s go on every roller coaster ride! I was like, Let’s goo, let’s do morrre!
Do you go to [comedy] clubs a lot?
I want to go more. I went to the Cellar. I want to go again in the next few weeks. I love it. I watch comedy all the time. As a kid I used to watch specials.
Who was your fave as a kid?
The first comedian I really loved was Sinbad, funny enough. He was so funny and sometimes I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, but he would use different voices and you could just tell he was funny. And I didn’t realize until later that he’s a clean comic.
What about right now? Who’s a current favorite?
One of my favorites is Bill Burr. I think he’s a master. I saw him at Madison Square Garden. I was drunk, but I felt so proud of him, like, ‘he did it, man.’ I went to see Annie Lederman. She’s super funny. She doesn’t really do comedy anymore, but Natasha Leggeiro.
But there are so many different types of people I like. I like how unique Theo Von is. Mark Normand is a great joke writer. No one really does that shit. Tom Segura is a really great storyteller and how he says shit—he’s hilarious. Of course, Dave Chappelle, I think he’s one of the greatest. (The last special, I don’t know.) Tracy Morgan, I like a lot. The way he tells stories is how I can picture someone being right here, just being funny.
I want to do more. It was such a rush.
With all your freetime?
[Laughs] I know, exactly. That’s why I haven’t done it. Maybe in the winter I’ll do a few more open mics. That’d be cool if I did like a 10-minute special to promote Bring That Ass [laughs].
You told me an anecdote where John [FM] spotted you dancing in the 2013 François K Boiler Room, and I asked you what you meant by dancing, because everyone makes fun of the fist-pumping bros in the back of Boiler Room videos. You said, ‘no I was dancing-dancing, I was a dancer.’ I’m a dancer, so I need to know, do you, dance-dance?
I do dance, I’m not afraid to dance. I’m not like a B-Boy—but when I dance, I do dance, and I have no problem dancing. Sometimes DJs don’t. I don’t dance if it’s not genuine. If you play something that I really love, like when I’m at The Loft and shit, you see me spinning, you see me doing Afro-Caribbean types of shit, shaking and stuff like that. I do love to dance.
[Ed note: To bring things full circle, Toribio plays with the legendary François K this weekend at the new Brooklyn club Silo. It’s an RA Pick.]
Wasn’t it Todd Terry who said DJs have to dance more?
They should, for sure! You can tell some people don’t. Because at the end of the day it’s about that. It’s about the frequencies relating to the body and how different things are supposed to make different parts of your body move. You listen to some European type of techno shit and they’re worried about the high frequencies because you’re dancing with your head. It’s just like a kickdrum, some sound, and hi-hats and shakers. What is that supposed to make you do? And then you have Ron Trent or Louie Vega doing Afro—and your ass is gonna move, your body’s gonna move.
Certain disco tracks and basslines. When I hear [singing] “Just as long as I got you”— aw, that will set me off. I definitely have no problem dancing, and I love to dance, and I think more people should. But I’m not ill with it. I’d love to get to the point with it like a house dancer with the footwork, but I never got like that.
It’s just as important a part of the culture as DJing, or if we’re talking hip-hop—we have a rich history of B-Boy culture in Boston—rapping.
That was cool to see in Philly because there was a bunch of dancers that were ill with it. You could tell they rehearse in a studio with mirrors.
Once when we saw DJ Spinna, especially there, the dancers came out! And they were young! Young, in-training house dancers. It warms my heart that young kids are still keeping it alive.
That’s something I saw at Philly. And Spinna—I was going to mention that. Certain DJs have the dancers. And Spinna has that. When he played last year, it was somewhere at Sunset Park, I saw the same kind of people. It was like young. It was all types. Black, Asian, girls, dudes, the Puerto Ricans, probably 50 year old, 60 year old, all ill, doing footwork. That was really cool to see.
The cool part is that they’re comfortable having a conversation with their dancing.
Yeah, they’re talking. It is cool. There’s something about that! It’s incredible. It’s seeing art. That’s what art is. Art is an expression of something deeper than it appears to be. That’s what makes it art, and you get to see that with dance, and you get to see it in a space where you’re already hearing and feeling the music, but then you see the dancers,— it’s another thing. It brings so much inspiration, it connects so many dots. Like you said, you see people have conversation—how ancient is that?
I guess I’ll just end for real now by letting you do some shout-outs.
Hey, shout out Love Injection. Paul. Barbie. Shout-out to Phil Moffa, who’s mixed everything I’ve done. He’s taught me so much. He’s like a big brother of mine. He’s the one that helped me get an MPC first and he hooked me up with the sounds that I used on the album. Shout-out to Phil Moffa. Shout out Micky Perez. Shout out Maria Padilla—she’s the one that did the intro on the album. She’s one of my best friends. Shout out to Adrianne doing all the crazy flyers. Shout out musclecars. Shout out Aaron and Sammy, my managers.
