Few artists occupy the intersection of club culture, emotional storytelling, and technological inquiry quite like HAAi.
Born in Australia and now based in London, the producer, songwriter, DJ, and electronic innovator has spent the last several years crafting a body of work that refuses easy categorization. Following the critical success of HUMANiSE, one of 2025’s most celebrated electronic records, HAAi returns with DIGITiSE, a ten-track companion album arriving October 9 via Mute.
What began as a remix project soon evolved into something entirely new: a dancefloor-focused album designed to translate the emotional core of HUMANiSE into physical movement. Featuring collaborators including Pat Alvarez, Echonomist, Skybreak, James Messiah, Kaiden Ford, ILĀ, and Colombia’s Cantoalegre children’s choir, DIGITiSE expands HAAi’s vision while remaining rooted in one central question: what does it mean to be human in an increasingly digital world?
Ahead of the album’s release, we sat down with HAAi in New York City to discuss vulnerability, queer visibility, AI, community, and why dancefloors remain one of the last truly human spaces.
HAAi x Pat Alvarez – ‘DIGITiSE’: https://mute.ffm.
HUMANiSE lives in the space between dystopian machinery and emotional connection. What first drew you to exploring that tension artistically?
I think HUMANiSE really came together almost on its own. The main thing I was aiming for was storytelling and getting across lived experience.
Part of the conversation around the album is about coexisting with machine learning, which is kind of wild because even since I made the record, the speed at which technology has developed has been crazy. It’s influencing so much of the world already.
For me, it was important to bring humanity into the record. That’s why I worked with choirs and used my own voice throughout it. That human heartbeat became an essential part of the album.
Dance music is often framed as escapism, but your work feels equally emotional and existential. Do you see the dancefloor as a place of confrontation as much as escape?
That’s a great question.
I think the dancefloor will always be a place of escapism for a lot of people. Especially in the world we’re living in right now, I feel grateful to be part of something that can provide refuge.
Even if it’s simply creating a space where people can let go and dance, that’s meaningful. I think everyone needs something different from the dancefloor. My role is just to provide the space.
You moved from being a teenage singer-songwriter in Western Australia to becoming a globally recognized electronic producer and DJ. How did reconnecting with your own voice change your relationship with electronic music?
I started singing on some of my own music during Baby, We’re Ascending, and when I realized people really connected with that side of my work, I leaned into it.
It felt like a very honest way of showing the human side of music-making.
Especially with all these conversations we’re having around AI, I think artists need to focus on the things that can’t be replicated. If you’ve lived through something and you’re telling that story through your music, that’s not something that can be manufactured.
Those stories can’t be cloned.
There’s a striking vulnerability running through your work despite the intensity of the production. Was it difficult placing yourself more visibly at the center of the music?
Not really.
I went into making the album fully intending to sing on it. Vulnerability was always going to be part of that process.
I came from bands originally, so singing wasn’t something that felt particularly nerve-wracking. It actually felt nice to be more vulnerable through music.
It’s easy and fun to stand behind machines all day, but when you bring more of yourself into the music, it becomes a completely different experience.
Your productions constantly shift tempo and energy, almost refusing stasis. Does movement itself feel central to your identity as an artist?
Absolutely.
I think my sets and productions are reflections of my personality. I’m a very high-energy, hyperactive person, and I think that naturally translates into my music and DJing.
If you’re putting your whole self into something, it would feel inauthentic if your personality wasn’t present in the work.
Collaborations have become a huge part of your artistic world. What do you look for in collaborators?
The biggest thing I look for is the absence of ego.
I’ve been incredibly lucky. Everyone I’ve worked with has come into projects with such good intentions.
Jon Hopkins is a very close friend and someone I can always call when I’m stuck on something. Alexis Taylor has been a longtime collaborator and dear friend. Working with Trans Voices has also been incredibly meaningful.
Everyone involved in these projects has been kind-hearted, talented, and genuinely invested in creating something together. That’s what matters most.
Queer visibility is woven naturally into your work rather than being treated as a statement. How important is it for you to create spaces where identities can simply exist without explanation?
It’s one of the most fundamental things for me.
I’ve received so many messages from queer people saying they felt seen by the music, and that’s incredibly meaningful because being queer is a huge part of who I am.
If you have an opportunity to platform talented people from your community, why wouldn’t you?
And beyond that, I think it simply makes the music richer. Different experiences, different perspectives, different stories — that’s what makes art interesting.
You’ve built a remarkably queer creative team around you. Has that happened intentionally?
Partly, but also naturally.
I remember being in rehearsals recently and suddenly realizing that almost everyone in the room was queer. It was amazing.
One thing I’ve learned is that people from underrepresented backgrounds often have to work significantly harder just to get a seat at the table. The result is that they become incredibly good at what they do.
I look around at my team and I feel proud. They’re some of the most talented people I’ve ever worked with.
You’ve spoken openly about concerns around AI and technology. What worries you most?
What worries me isn’t necessarily the technology itself.
What worries me is people replacing the creative process.
Making music is one of life’s greatest gifts. Why would you want to hand that over to something else?
The process of obsession, experimentation, discovery, frustration, failure — that’s the entire point. That’s where the meaning lives.
I want to connect with something made by another human being who has actually experienced what they’re singing about.
In an increasingly digital world, do you think people are craving physical connection more intensely than ever?
Definitely.
The more technologically connected we’ve become, the more isolated many people feel.
I think people are actively searching for ways to reconnect with one another.
After the pandemic especially, there was a real hunger for human interaction. I think we’re still experiencing that. There’s been a kind of renaissance of physical connection, and hopefully that continues.
Whether it’s through clubs, festivals, or headphones, your music often pulls people into a shared emotional state. What do you hope people discover about themselves inside a HAAi set?
That’s such a lovely question.
I hope people feel seen.
I want them to feel like they matter.
Whether it’s a record or a live performance, I work incredibly hard to make experiences feel immersive. I want people to step into a world that has been built for them.
If someone leaves feeling seen, connected, or like they belong somewhere, then honestly, I couldn’t ask for anything more.
A Bigger, Ravier Sibling
With DIGITiSE, HAAi isn’t abandoning the questions posed by HUMANiSE — she’s bringing them directly onto the dancefloor.
The album explores community, connection, technology, and identity through the lens of movement, transforming existential reflection into collective celebration. It’s a record designed to be played loudly, experienced physically, and shared with others.
In an era increasingly defined by algorithms and artificial intelligence, HAAi continues to champion something refreshingly simple: people gathering together in a room, feeling something real.
And perhaps that’s the most radical thing of all.
