Rozkvět — When DJs Play for Next to Nothing, It Hurts the Entire Scene
“There’s no need to wait for a label, a grant, or a major institution. All it takes is for people to reach out to one another, join forces, and want to create something together,” says Prague-based musician, producer, and DJ Jakub Baierl, known from Méta Monde and Bariel AV, who introduced his new production alter ego, Rozkvět, as part of OKNO in Holešovice.
Is it possible to make a living from electronic music in Czechia — or at least earn a decent living? Why are musicians paid better in Slovakia than here? How do you create a collaborative album with producers who only know each other from the internet, and what can such a project reveal about the state of the local underground scene? What role do slowing down, therapy, and the desire to create collectively rather than pursue a solo career play in all of this? And how can the growing number of DJs playing for minimal fees ultimately hurt the entire scene?
In recent years, a strong generation of electronic music producers has been emerging in Czechia. How do you feel the scene has changed since you became part of it?
It’s much easier to get started today. In the past, you had to know how to play an instrument or have access to a studio; now, all you need is a laptop, a few programs, and the desire to create. That’s great, because it has opened the door to music for so many people. Personally, I’ve been around Prague’s electronic music scene since about 2018 or 2019, when I started DJing. I got into producing a little later, around 2020 or 2021. From my perspective, the scene has continued to evolve in much the same way — it’s just that the range of people involved has become much broader.
There are more opportunities to play now, and in a much wider variety of places. DJ sets happen in spaces where you would never have expected them before — libraries, exhibition spaces, or cafés that used to simply play music from a playlist. I think that’s great. It means the scene has opened up and become more democratic.
During Covid, a huge number of new DJs emerged. Everyone had time at home to learn, which was great, but at the same time it made the scene pretty overcrowded. Suddenly there were a lot of DJs and not enough clubs for them to play in. That also disrupted fees and pricing — you’d have complete newcomers asking for high fees, while people who had been playing for years were accepting very little, so the whole system stopped making much sense.
When it comes to fees, the situation here is generally pretty bad, especially within the DJ and electronic music scene. You either have to be somewhat established or simply know how to ask for what you’re worth. It’s not easy, but I believe it will eventually balance itself out.
Since we’re already talking about it — what are DJ fees actually like these days? Have they risen with inflation, or are they still more or less the same?
Honestly, not really. It’s still pretty bleak. Fees have barely moved in recent years, and that applies to both DJs and bands.
Interestingly, things are often better in Slovakia. I don’t really want to throw specific numbers around, because people tend to latch onto them and start making comparisons, but the differences can be significant. Every now and then, someone comes along and says, “I’m happy to play for free,” and that completely disrupts the system. Because then you go to another club, ask for three thousand crowns for an hour-long set, and they respond, “Why, when this other person will do it for five hundred?”
That’s obviously discouraging, and in the long run it damages the entire scene. I think the most important thing is to stand by your own value — even if it means playing fewer gigs. I’d rather play less often and be paid fairly than undercut myself.
Another thing is that many DJs also produce their own music, which is a completely different discipline. But a lot of bookers don’t really take that into account. They don’t care that you’re playing your own tracks or bringing original production into your set. The good ones recognise and appreciate it, but generally speaking, it isn’t reflected in the fee. And it should be, because it has value — a set featuring your own material brings something more than simply playing other people’s music.
And where do you think the main problem with low fees lies? Is it more that clubs simply don’t have the money, or that some DJs play for very little and drive fees down for everyone else?
It’s a combination of everything. Some clubs genuinely have very little money. Others could probably operate better if they knew how to work with grants and other forms of funding, but often they either don’t know how or don’t even apply. And then there simply isn’t enough money left to pay artists.
The other side of it is the DJs and bands themselves. The moment someone says, “I’ll play for five hundred crowns,” it holds everyone else hostage — everyone who could otherwise be asking for more. And because the scene is so overcrowded, there will always be someone willing to do it.
Interestingly, it works considerably better in Slovakia. You might not expect that when you look at the political or economic situation there, but I feel musicians are treated with greater respect and paid better.
If you play a show in Slovakia that would earn you ten or twenty thousand crowns here in Czechia, you might easily get thirty thousand there. And nobody argues with you over an extra thousand. Slovak bands themselves say that when they come to play in Czechia, they already expect to earn less. The system here works differently — you usually get a fixed fee regardless of how many people show up. If things go well and the venue is packed, you can make decent money, but if attendance is low and you also have other bands to pay, you can easily end up with almost nothing.
How do you explain that difference? It’s not as though Slovak culture has enjoyed particularly favourable conditions for development in recent years.
Paradoxically, I think it’s precisely because there are fewer clubs and bands overall. There’s more space for each of them — and consequently more money available for individual events. Here, the scene is saturated. We have an enormous number of clubs, labels, promoters, and people who want to perform. That’s obviously a great thing, but it also means the available budgets are spread across a huge number of people.
The scene in Slovakia feels smaller to me, so when something happens, it tends to have a greater impact. Bands are also often paid more simply because there aren’t as many of them competing for the same money.
Here, absolutely everyone plays — which is great, but at the same time it inevitably drives down the value of the work.
What the whole system really needs is more money flowing into it — from the state, but also from clubs, promoters, and sponsors. The scene itself is healthy, vibrant, and full of talent. There simply isn’t as much money circulating within it as it deserves.
How much does it actually cost to be a DJ?
Honestly? Being a DJ costs almost nothing — what it mainly costs is time. The equipment is usually already there at the club, so you don’t really need to buy anything major yourself. What matters is having a good USB drive and high-quality tracks. Most people gradually build up their collection by buying music — it depends on how many tracks you have and how often you refresh your sets. Sometimes friends send you unreleased tracks as well, so there are different ways to put a collection together.
But I definitely think every DJ should buy at least some of the music they play. Of course, we’ve all downloaded tracks from various platforms at some point — it happens. But I think it’s only fair to go on Bandcamp from time to time, buy something from producers you like, and support the community that way. Even if it’s only a few times a month.
At the same time, it can be difficult — if you spend a thousand crowns on music and then get paid two thousand for a gig, the economics don’t exactly add up. That’s the slightly absurd part. But I still think it’s important to give something back to the community for the whole thing to make sense.
Do most DJs actually buy the tracks they play? Does anyone even check whether your music has been acquired legally?
I can’t speak for everyone, but I think you should at least buy the tracks you play regularly — especially if you’re performing in commercial clubs or larger venues. It’s a form of support. Honestly, I occasionally download a track from an unofficial source too — I think most people have done that. But at the same time, I try to buy music on Bandcamp and support the producers who inspire me. It’s about finding a balance.
Nobody really checks, though. Clubs usually pay a blanket licensing fee to OSA, so officially, nobody is particularly interested in exactly what you’re playing. You don’t submit a tracklist anywhere. If someone wanted to go through your USB drive to check which tracks you’d actually bought, they’d probably look pretty ridiculous.
It’s more the community that keeps an eye on you. Other DJs. If you play something that doesn’t really fit, or something considered too commercial, people will notice. But that’s more a question of taste than legality.
And from a purely practical perspective, buying tracks makes sense too. If you download something from an unofficial source, you can end up with poor audio quality, incorrect metadata, or a corrupted file. And when you buy tracks from people you respect, there’s something symbolic about it too: you’re giving something back to the people who created the music that allows you to do what you do. Maybe that sounds a little idealistic, but I think it also says something about the kind of person you are. Buying the music shows that you actually care about the scene.
And what’s the atmosphere among DJs like today? Is the Prague scene friendly, or is it more competitive?
I think it’s changed a lot. It used to be pretty competitive — I had the feeling that before anyone would even let you play, you needed “years of experience” and the right connections. Some clubs simply wouldn’t book you because you played something too pop, for example, or because you weren’t part of their circle. There was this typically Prague, hyper-critical scene that tended to look down on everything outside its own bubble.
Now it feels much more relaxed. There are still clubs and communities with a very clearly defined musical identity, but overall, the atmosphere is much friendlier.
And yes, of course I’ve been criticised a few times too — usually by friends I was playing with. In the Yoga collective, for example, we actually banned certain tracks. If you played one of them, you’d basically embarrass yourself a little. I remember playing a remix of Cinderella once — and that was definitely crossing the line. Luckily, it was at a place where people loved it, so it worked out in the end. But if someone had heard it in one of my mixes somewhere else, I’d probably have been a little embarrassed.
Is there a track right now that best captures your current state of mind? And how would you describe the sound of Rozkvět?
Right now, I’m most drawn to tracks that are slightly broken up, with that kind of half-time feel. At first they sound slow, but they’re actually quite fast. It’s more about bubbling, bass-heavy beats — slightly industrial, sometimes almost ambient. The kind of music that gets under your skin and keeps vibrating even when it feels calm. I’d like to make an entire album in that spirit — something slow, but with an underlying sense of momentum.
As for specific tracks, Kryptic Minds – 768 is exactly the kind of music that fascinates me at the moment. Or Cesco & Hamdi – Swing King — a track that moves while somehow keeping you grounded. I’m also into Kwizma, TMSV, and J:Kenzo. Their music is dark and slow, but there’s a particular kind of power to it. And every now and then, you can hear “doors creaking,” as I like to say — those little sounds of reality that make the music feel alive.
You’ve mentioned being part of various collectives and communities. What does Prague’s community-driven scene mean to you?
Above all, motivation. These communities are full of people who share similar goals or ideas about music. You can talk to them, exchange ideas, and push each other forward. Sometimes your paths diverge, sometimes they come back together — that’s simply part of it.
With the last Bariel album, I really enjoyed being the person who brought those different paths together. And now I’m trying to do something similar within the more underground scene — encouraging other people to finish their tracks and actually release them. Electronic music is full of people who have twenty brilliant unfinished tracks sitting on their hard drives, but none of them ever come out. That’s a shame.
I’d love to create a large collaborative album — even twenty tracks by different producers. Something where people could share each other’s tracks, play them at shows, remix them, sell them… Basically, I want the community to exist through the music itself, not just through the relationships between people.
And how open are these communities to one another? Or does it work in a more elitist way — if you’re part of one collective, you can’t be part of another?
I guess it depends on the collective, but generally it’s not a problem. It works a bit like labels or residencies. You can be part of the Yoga collective and at the same time be a resident at Fuchs — those are two different things. But it probably wouldn’t make much sense to be part of both the Yoga collective and Radio Labe, for example, because they’re collectives with a similar focus.
But the whole thing is fairly abstract. There’s no closed hierarchy. If you want to leave one collective or move somewhere else, you simply tell people. Most of these groups are made up of friends anyway, so it’s not like transferring to another football team for a hundred thousand. That’s really not how this scene works.
Do you feel that these communities in Prague tend to form around genres, or more around specific clubs?
Mostly around genres and, above all, around people. It’s about the group itself. You might have ten friends who want to play together, so they start a label or a collective. Sometimes they meet through improvisation sessions, sometimes through a particular project, or they simply start playing DJ sets in a basement, a studio, or just for themselves. Some call it a label, some a collective, some a crew — it doesn’t really matter. Ultimately, it’s just a group of people who know each other and want to make music together. And I think that’s the most beautiful thing about it.
You’ve said before that you used to struggle with finishing tracks. What changed? Where did you find the energy to suddenly start several projects at once?
Honestly, taking a break helped. At one point, I told myself I didn’t have to release anything at all — and that if nothing came out, the world wouldn’t end. Paradoxically, the moment I let go of that pressure, I started releasing music again.
Working with other people helps too. When I give them a deadline, it means I have to stick to it myself. That motivates me. Feedback works in a similar way. When someone tells me, “This is great, you should release it,” I think, “OK, then I will.”
Most importantly, I’ve stopped striving for perfection. If I feel good about a track, I just put it out. I used to keep tweaking things endlessly, and in the end they would never get released. Now I’m trying to trust that being authentic is enough.
Would you say you’ve ever experienced burnout when it comes to music?
I don’t know if I’d call it burnout exactly, but there was a period when I constantly wanted “more and more.” You release one good track and immediately feel like the next one has to be better. Then you play a great show and want the next one to be bigger — more people, more press, more growth. But you can’t keep doing that forever. At some point, you realise that this growth model simply doesn’t work, because it will never feel like “enough.”
So I tried to turn it around and started enjoying the process itself more. There was a time when I was playing so many shows that I wasn’t even looking forward to some of them anymore — and that’s always a bad sign.
Now I look forward to the soundcheck, having a cigarette before the show, grabbing a beer, talking to people. I enjoy the evening as a whole. And I don’t worry nearly as much about how many people turn up.
How did you manage to let go of that pressure?
Slowing down helped. I had fewer shows, more time, and also more work outside of music, so I had to learn how to find a balance. And I realised that boredom is actually pretty healthy. When you have space, you go for walks, you think, you let things develop naturally.
I started going to therapy and spent more time figuring out why I was actually doing all of this in the first place. Now I might have thirty unfinished tracks and only one of them will eventually come out — and that’s completely fine. It used to frustrate me, but it doesn’t anymore. I no longer see it as a failure; it’s simply part of the process. And when I’m not making anything, I just watch something on TV.
Is it important to you that your music is connected to a visual experience as well?
It depends on the project. With Rozkvět, for example, I don’t have any huge ambitions, which is actually great. I have no expectations, and that gives me complete freedom. When I change my name and start a new project, I don’t have to compare it to anything I’ve done before. It feels clean, free, and relaxed.
When it comes to combining music with visuals, that’s one of the great advantages of DJing. A DJ has an enormous amount of freedom to respond to the audience, the space, and the atmosphere. You can adapt your set throughout the night according to the people, the mood, or what’s happening around you. You can’t really do that with a band — the tracks are already written and you have to play them. Of course, you can change the energy, but the structure remains the same. DJs have much more freedom in that sense.
We also often create our visuals live, which means we can respond to current events — even things happening in the world at that particular moment. But sometimes something as simple as the words “support your friends” is enough to express a point of view. It’s subtle, but direct. You can create a mood that people feel without forcing a message on them.
How did the idea of putting together a collaborative album with other producers come about?
Completely by chance. It grew out of my experience making the album with Bariel — I loved seeing how differently everyone approached the creative process. Someone wrote lyrics, someone sang, someone made the music, someone else contributed only layers of sound. That diversity really energised me, so I thought I’d like to do something similar within electronic music.
I made a few demos to suggest the kind of atmosphere the project could have and sent them to around nineteen people — mostly people I know personally, or at least from gigs and the scene. I expected maybe two or three of them to respond. Sixteen did. So now I’ve somehow become the project manager of the whole thing.
We have a group chat on Instagram — I couldn’t find another platform that everyone was on. Every now and then we have a Google Meet with seven or eight of us at once, which is pretty funny.
About twice a month, I post a summary in the chat — deadlines, what’s currently being worked on, who’s doing the mix, who’s mastering, who’s working on the artwork, whether there’ll be a physical release, ideas for release parties… and everyone responds with a thumbs-up or a heart. (laughs) A very minimalist group chat, but it works.
So an album like this is essentially based on collective decision-making?
Exactly. Everyone has the opportunity to say what they think. It’s a collective project, so I try to make sure everyone knows what’s happening and, at the same time, feels that they’re genuinely part of it.
The deadline for demos was the end of August — half of the people have already submitted their tracks, while the others are finishing theirs now. Mixes are being fine-tuned, the artwork is in progress. We’d like to release the album in autumn or winter.
I don’t want to create a huge media buzz around it. I’d rather keep it friendly — have a release night at Luft or Planeta, clubs that most of us consider home. We’ll have a few beers, listen to the album, and play some music. Then we’d like to do the same in other cities — Brno, Liberec with the guys at Papír… Basically, in places where the scene is truly alive.
What do you think a collaborative album like this can say about the Czech underground scene?
That it’s possible to do things together. That you don’t need to wait for a label, a grant, or a major institution. All it takes is for people to reach out to one another, join forces, and want to create something.
I assumed most producers would prefer to work on their own, but it turned out to be exactly the opposite. People want to collaborate and motivate each other. And I think that’s an incredibly good sign for the scene as a whole — that it’s no longer about individualism, but about sharing.
So I guess that also comes partly from therapy, right? From enjoying bringing people together and creating a space around you.
Yeah, maybe. But I think it’s also because I simply don’t enjoy doing everything entirely on my own. The creative process itself — composing, searching for sounds, coming up with an idea — I like doing that alone. I need the peace and quiet, that moment when it’s just me and the track. But once there’s something to work with, I want to share it. I enjoy finishing things with other people, hearing their opinions, exchanging feedback, and pushing things further. That communication is actually what keeps me going.
If you have a session scheduled for Wednesday and you know you’re just going to record vocals that are already prepared, that’s easy. But if you’re supposed to come up with something on Wednesday — on demand — that’s much harder. You simply can’t schedule creativity.
Who from the Czech electronic music scene has inspired you most recently?
Oblaka, for example, has an incredible feel for live performance. He makes things that just make you think: wow, this really works, this is exactly it. It’s intelligent, deep, and still danceable. Then there’s Ancestral Vision, who does excellent live sets, or the guys from Radio Labe and Amphibian. I really like their approach — they put together extreme rave parties, make their own music, release vinyl editions, and operate as a community.
That’s what inspires me — people who create because they want to, not because they have to. And I feel these producers deserve more space. But then again, maybe they don’t even want it. And that’s what’s beautiful about it — they do it because they enjoy it, not because they’re looking for attention.
And finally, ALEXMONHART has a fragrance collection built around different personality types: The Raver, The Thinker, The Ritualist, The Minimalist, The Dreamer, and The Avantgardist. Which one are you?
I’m a total Dreamer, but The Raver is the fragrance I like the most. Ideally layered with The Minimalist. Personality-wise, though, I’m definitely a Dreamer. I can come up with a thousand theories about absolutely anything. I’m becoming less and less of a Raver as I get older — so at least the fragrance doesn’t age.
