TECHFUI is a small but international family — a vinyl label founded over a decade ago by Bahraini creative Salah Sadeq. What is the label about? Quite a lot, actually: a non-genre, timeless sound; a name that feels spatial, technical and almost Feng Shui-like; and, above all, a long-standing ambition to support fresh artists with truly distinctive voices.

That search for originality mirrors Salah’s own musical journey — the kind of music he used to play back in Bahrain, which was embraced and cherished by those around him. Today, TECHFUI has grown beyond a vinyl label into a platform shaped by experience. With over 30 years immersed in music, Salah is now ready to share his story, along with his insights into the local music scene.

— Why did you decide to make the label vinyl-only and step away from digital distribution?

— From the very beginning, the label was conceived as vinyl-first. I come from a generation where music existed as records — digital formats, CDs and streaming all came much later. So for me, vinyl had to sit at the core of the label.

At one point, we did experiment with digital distribution — a distributor convinced us that even if you are underground and not selling huge numbers, being on platforms would help with visibility and marketing. Over time, I realised that simply wasn’t true for us. We received far more engagement from having a record physically sitting in a shop than from being listed across dozens of digital platforms. People would message us saying they had discovered the label because they came across a record in a store — sometimes even in places like Japan. No one ever said, “I found you on Beatport.”

The bigger issue with digital distribution, though, was transparency. The numbers never quite added up, payments rarely materialised, and there were constant, unexplained fees. It became clear that unless you are a mainstream artist with heavy marketing and social media driving streams, you don’t really get anything back. At that point, it started to feel like a con.

So we decided to return to what mattered most to me: the physical experience. Every record I own has a story — where I bought it, who gave it to me, how and when I played it. I can’t say the same about my digital library of over 15,000 tracks. Vinyl allows us to know where every record goes, to properly measure our impact, and — most importantly — to preserve meaning.

— You now release only 300 copies per record. How does that shape the intimacy and curation of each release?

— We originally started with 500 copies, but moving to 300 was both a practical and a philosophical decision. From a business point of view, smaller runs ease the pressure around distribution and logistics. Creatively, though, it opened up a lot more space.

With fewer copies, we can put more thought and care into packaging and artwork. Each recent release has involved a visual artist collaborating on the sleeve, and that often expands into posters, T-shirts, or other creative offshoots. It reflects our wider approach — we don’t want the label to feel like a closed system. We actively invite different artists, cultures, and disciplines into the process.

Cultural exchange sits at the heart of what we do. Every release isn’t just about the music; it is a collaboration that spans regions and creative practices.

— Do you feel vinyl creates a different kind of dialogue with audiences in the UAE specifically?

— The UAE has always moved in cycles — it is a very transient place. I moved here around 2006, so I have seen scenes grow, disappear, and then resurface again.

Vinyl had a strong presence in the 90s, largely because there weren’t many alternatives at the time. But the real underground vinyl culture began in the early 2000s, when OHM Records opened the first proper vinyl store in the Middle East. That moment really mattered. DJs from breakbeat, hip-hop, house and techno all gravitated towards it. People were collecting, playing, sharing — there was a genuine sense of excitement and community.

Then digital took over, the recession hit, and the scene dipped. What is interesting is that we are now in a second phase. With places like Flipside, Vinyl Souk and various online distributors, vinyl is clearly back — but in a different form.

What is driving it this time is meaning. People want to know who designed the sleeve, where the record was pressed, and who is behind the project.

People are tired of consuming things too quickly. Even Gen Z is craving depth. That is why cassette tapes are reappearing as well — people buy them even if they don’t own a cassette player. It is about the object, the token, especially when it is a regional artist. It becomes something to keep, something meaningful.

I saw this clearly at Vinyl Souk. A girl bought a record purely because of the artwork and the marble-transparent pressing. She asked who illustrated it — it was an artist from Georgia called Numb — and once she heard that story, she was already convinced. The music came third. She listened briefly and said, “Yeah, I will take it.”

That, for me, says everything. People are connecting with the story around the object, not just the sound. As long as we protect that — and avoid mass production and generic releases — this culture will keep its value.

— You have played and built projects across the region. How do you see the electronic music scene in the UAE evolving today?

— This is a sensitive topic, especially because it is still evolving — but not in a way that benefits real artists, independent labels, homegrown distributors, or local bands. A lot of people are being overlooked right now, and this isn’t just a UAE issue. It is happening in cities all over the world.

The scene has become far too focused on popularity, social media, and influencers — and that is where my real frustration lies. I don’t like using the word hate, but if there is one thing I strongly object to, it is this shift. You see summits and conferences taking place, and when you look at the panels, the people speaking often aren’t the most qualified to be there. They are there because of clicks, visibility, or influence — not experience. That, to me, is a serious problem.

Meanwhile, there are people spending day and night running record shops, building platforms, maintaining websites, releasing music, and funding labels out of their own pockets — myself included. And it begs the question: how can a scene be discussed meaningfully if the people dealing with these realities every day aren’t part of that dialogue?

I know artists in the region with genuinely exciting ideas — from live performance concepts to visual experiments — who simply aren’t being given space or attention. What we are seeing instead is a system that keeps recycling the same names, driven by closed networks and commercial logic rather than curiosity.

That is why the idea of a scene feels increasingly questionable. To me, it no longer feels like a scene at all — it feels like an industry. When visibility outweighs artistic substance, something has gone wrong.

What is frustrating is that there is still so much originality and value beneath the surface. Incredible work is happening, quietly and independently, and it deserves to be seen. I just hope the direction shifts before too much of that disappears.

— How has the rise of influencer culture changed opportunities for DJs and artists?

— I think it has been damaging to talent development. Artists now spend far more time creating content than working on their craft. If all your energy is going into Instagram, you are not rehearsing, digging for records, or refining your sound — and it shows.

You might land the gig you have been working towards, but the depth isn’t there. That is why so many sets today feel interchangeable.

I have nothing against brands — I have worked with many of them very successfully But now their brief is often reduced to, “We need an influencer.” That doesn’t elevate the experience; it waters it down. Music should be about offering something meaningful — not just being visible.

— Do you feel there is growing space for deeper, more experimental sounds — or is the mainstream still dominating?

— From a business and financial point of view, the mainstream is very much driving the scene. The money, the bookings, and the visibility all tend to favour the more polished, cosmetic side of electronic music.

That said, whenever there is frustration or a creative gap, real artists tend to retreat and do the work. Some get discouraged and step away, but many go deeper. I am still meeting DJs, producers, and visual artists creating genuinely interesting, experimental work. They are out there — they are just not always visible.

What gives me real hope is the generation coming after Gen Z. I have met young artists who want to work primarily with hardware, who are keen to learn the craft properly and avoid shortcuts. That is one of the most encouraging things I have heard in a long time. Some of the people we are now working with on the label come from that mindset, and I am very happy to have them involved.

So yes, there is room, and things are moving in a deeper direction. My concern is simply that if the right people aren’t supported at the right time, many of them will end up giving up before they are properly heard.

— What role do boutique, vinyl-driven labels like TECHFUI play in shaping and diversifying the scene?

— For me, it always comes back to intention. I never saw the point of starting a label in Bahrain simply to release the same trendy European artists that labels in Barcelona or London are already putting out. What value does that really add — either to the region or to the wider scene?

If you claim to have an ethos, you need to offer something distinct. Unfortunately, a lot of labels today are just copying and pasting, chasing attention rather than contributing anything meaningful.

From the beginning, we committed to working with artists who bring something honest and individual. When artists ask what “style” we are looking for, I tell them: don’t send me generic, formulaic, or copy-paste music. We are speaking to you because we hear character in your sound. That thinking extends to how we curate releases. Sometimes we work with more established artists, but we make a point of involving emerging or regional artists as well — whether through remixes or collaborations. It is not about stacking big names; it is about creating meaningful exchanges and real opportunities.

— TECHFUI has always been rooted in family, friends, and fresh talent. How does this ethos guide you today?

The reason I keep coming back to this idea is that we don’t see anything we do as a transaction. It is never just about playing one event, doing one release, one remix, or one radio show. From the beginning, it has always been about relationships.

If you look back at places like the Hacienda, artists were given space to grow. Sasha, for example, developed through warm-up sets, experimenting and learning in front of an audience before becoming who he is today. That kind of support matters.

We try to work in the same way. DJs who open for our parties eventually get main sets. Collaboration comes naturally — through music, releases, or shared projects. What is missing today is that sense of togetherness. There is too much gatekeeping and competition, when this culture was always about sharing.

Not everything needs to be a livestream or a big gig. Sometimes it is just about people sitting together, playing records, and building something slowly.

— What is next for TECHFUI? Are there any milestones coming up?

— Over the past year — particularly post-COVID and since moving back to Dubai — I have been focused on clarifying where the label is heading and who we want to work with. That process has put us in a strong position — we already have releases five through nine planned, which is usually something that takes years to organise.

When we stepped back and looked at the names involved, it genuinely felt like a “wow” moment. We are collaborating with artists such as Prins Thomas, Guy from Downstairs, WYWY, DUST., Marco Passarani, and Andre Pushkarev, alongside a growing group of local and regional artists. At the same time, we are developing a few new projects that I can’t speak about yet, particularly those focused on community and charitable work.

Looking ahead, our focus will be on showcases and building connections across different continents. I am especially keen to continue taking regional artists abroad — something we already do with showcases in Tbilisi — and to expand that to places like Goa and beyond.

— You are preparing a special mix for Sandy Times Radio. What can we expect musically?

— When I started thinking about what I wanted to do for the STR, I knew I wanted it to feel special. I wanted it to sound like the mixes I used to make on CDs — going back to that feeling of carefully curating something from start to finish.

As I was going through the catalogue and looking at how much music we have released, I had this slightly childish, excited realisation. I have always admired artists and labels I look up to — the ones with so much music that you feel like you could still discover something new every time they put out a mix or a compilation. I remember thinking years ago how nice it would be to reach that point ourselves.

And suddenly, I realised we are there. Between the compilations we have released and the individual records, we now have enough material to put together a mix made entirely from TECHFUI tracks. That is what you are about to hear — a mix that comes purely from the label’s own catalogue.

— You have said, “I love my house as much as I love my techno and other electronic or puritan jams.” How does that spectrum show up in your DJ sets today?

— I come from a time when DJs didn’t play genres — we played music. Character mattered more than labels.

I have always collected records based on emotion and curiosity, not categories. That is why I strongly dislike what I call “TikTok techno” or “TikTok house” — formula-driven sounds designed for clicks rather than connection.

When I choose records, I think in human terms: how will this move someone? How will it flirt with the room? How will it create tension or release? Genre comes later — if at all.

— With 30+ years in music and design, what elements of your craft have evolved most — and which remain your core constants?

— What is funny is that I never wanted to be a producer, and I never planned to start a label. People kept encouraging me, and I resisted for a long time. I was already spending all day on a computer designing — the last thing I wanted was more screen time.

What finally convinced me was when they said it wasn’t about becoming a chart artist, but about learning. Producing changes how you listen, how you select tracks, and how you mix. Once I understood that, it pushed me into a new phase. I became more focused on structure and detail, and my mixes slowed down and grew longer. I moved away from quick cuts and towards longer blends that let tracks breathe.

That shift also came from playing longer sets, especially in places like Amsterdam, where you might play six or eight hours and really have to control the flow. As I started playing across different countries, I realised I couldn’t play the same way everywhere. Sometimes you adapt instinctively; other times you learn through mistakes.

There were moments when I questioned whether I was compromising too much. It is our job to make people dance, but it is easy to lose part of yourself along the way. I have been doing this professionally since 1992, and with time I learned to be more selective — to say “no” to gigs that didn’t feel right, even if the fee was good. That process helped me reconnect with my identity and be more intentional about the music I play.

— What impact do you hope TECHFUI leaves on the cultural and sonic landscape of the region?

— If there is one thing I would like to see more of, it is open collaboration. Less gatekeeping, less elitism, and fewer closed circles. People need to be more open-minded — across ages, cultures, and backgrounds. When we work together, everyone benefits. That mindset shouldn’t stop at music; it should extend to booking line-ups, releasing records, and sharing platforms. The scene only grows when people stop pigeonholing themselves and start opening doors.

That is something I have learned both through music and my day job. Collaboration brings new ideas, shared learning, and often much faster results. On my own, I might spend two months finishing a track. The remix I did with DUST. took three weeks — even with us working remotely from Bahrain and Dubai. In the same room, it could easily have taken just a few days.