Sauci Soni

Sound keeps calling me back because it has always been more than music - it has been care. I started DJing in Afghanistan as a way to create relief for people working in intense, high-stress conditions every day. I saw in real time how a few hours of music could shift the energy in a room, soften people, and bring them back to themselves. That stayed with me. Sound is powerful. It regulates, it connects, it heals.

My taste was shaped long before I touched decks. I grew up in a Carnival culture from the age of five. My dad was a singer and guitarist with crates of the latest LPs, my mum had the radio on constantly, everything from Caribbean to global sounds, and my parents were always first on the dance floor. I was singing and playing instruments all through school. So rhythm, melody, and movement feel instinctive to me.

Moving through Afghanistan, Canada, Haiti, Turkey, and now the U.S., taught me that DJing is about reading people, not just playing tracks. Every place holds energy differently. You learn humility. You learn to listen. You learn that no matter the culture, people respond to intention and honesty in sound. Music becomes a shared language when words fall short.

Building spaces like B2B Open Decks, Sauci and Friends, and Pizza Rave have been deeply personal and shaped by my professional commitment to women’s empowerment.  I am always seeking ways to promote women’s voices and sound. Centering women and especially FLINTA* artists is about redistributing space, visibility, and resources in a nightlife landscape long dominated by the same demographics. In my curation, I focus on making those who are often sidelined not a “special segment,” but the foundation.

I see this work as both cultural and political. Dancefloors have historically been sites of resistance, and creating spaces where marginalized people can gather, experiment, and experience joy is inherently political. Socially, it is about building interdependent communities, building long-term, collaborative growth grounded in care. The goal is not simply to host good parties, but to create lasting spaces where marginalized people are genuinely centred, not just briefly included.

Growing up in Guyana, music was never just background. It was language, survival, and celebration. Calypso in the streets, soca and dancehall at gatherings, layered drum patterns that carried history. Rhythm still grounds my sets, even when I am playing harder industrial electronic sound.

I was raised to see music as something shared, and that shapes how I create space on the dance floor. I see electronic music as a space for processing and collective release, especially for communities that are not always given room to fully express themselves.

As someone from the diaspora, my identity shows up in contrasts — soft and hard, joyful and emotional. I often weave in subtle Caribbean influences, not always obvious, but felt in the sound’s tone and rhythm. The music that  I play carries where I come from and who I am.

I build my sets around joy because, where I’m from, music is how we get through things. It’s how we carry hardship, how we lift each other, how we find light even when things feel heavy. There’s always that mix in the sound — sweetness and struggle, softness and strength. You’ll hear that Caribbean spirit in the rhythm and the bounce. For me, music isn’t just entertainment — it’s healing, it’s release, it’s how we cope and keep moving.

When people listen back, I want them to feel as if they were inside a moment, connected, not just listening to a mix, but catching a vibe that lingers. I am always thinking about tension and release, and whether it feels communal, warm, and a little bit transportive — that’s when I know it sounds like me.