HIDDEN STORIES

If you know anything about House Music, you know what Shelter represents. For years it was one of the spiritual homes of the underground scene, led by the legendary Timmy Regisford. As a young DJ from A Coruña, the idea of playing there was something I could never have imagined.

Looking back at this flyer still gives me goosebumps.

Sharing the lineup with Jesse Saunders was something I didn't fully process at the time. Jesse is widely recognized as the producer behind "On and On", released in 1984 on Jes Say Records, a record that many consider the first House Music release in history. Think about that for a second. I was standing behind the decks with one of the people who helped write the very first chapter of the music that completely changed my life.

The lineup didn't stop there.

Pal Joey was another name I had admired for years. If you've never heard of him, do yourself a favor. His productions defined a huge part of New York's underground sound throughout the '90s. Records like "Party Time" are still timeless, full of soul, groove and personality.

Then there was Alexi Delano. We immediately connected, probably because we could speak Spanish together. Sometimes something as simple as speaking your own language makes you feel at home, even when you're thousands of miles away.

One name that often gets overlooked is Andy Hanley. Whenever people talk about Body & Soul, they usually mention Danny Krivit, François K and Joe Claussell, and rightly so. But Andy was the one opening those legendary nights, patiently building the atmosphere before anyone else stepped into the booth. I've always thought he deserved far more recognition than he ever received. In many ways, his sets were my favorite part of the night.

The lineup also included my friends from Funky Soul Rebels, especially Nick Patton and SEPH, who was always the driving force behind the collective. Years later, SEPH would become one of the key voices in my documentary Jackmania It's All About House Music.

There's another detail almost everyone has forgotten.

Before the party even started, everyone gathered to watch a documentary called House Music 101, a film exploring the roots and evolution of underground House culture in the United States. I still remember sitting there before the music began, watching those images on the screen and thinking how special the whole night already felt.

I don't remember the exact year anymore. It must have been around 2001 or 2002. More than two decades have passed, but every time I look at this flyer, I'm transported back to that room.

At the time, I probably didn't realize what I was living. Today, I do.

Sometimes you spend years chasing your dreams, and one day you discover you were already living them.

There are moments in life they remind you why you fell in love with music in the first place. For me, one of those moments happened in June 2001, when I was invited to play at Sónar Festival 2001 in Barcelona. At the time I was just over twenty two years old. I was young, completely obsessed with House Music, and hungry to conquer every stage I could find. Looking back now, I probably had more confidence than experience, but that hunger pushed me to places I never imagined possible.

Back then, playing Sónar was the dream. If you were a House DJ in Spain, there wasn't a bigger stage. Then I saw the lineup and reality suddenly hit me. Frankie Knuckles. Masters At Work. Artists whose records had shaped my taste and inspired countless hours behind my turntables. Somehow, my name was sitting alongside theirs.

I remember every second of that day. My set was going exactly as planned until something unexpected happened. Masters At Work were supposed to take over after me, but for some reason there was a technical issue with their booth. Nobody told me exactly what was happening. The only instruction I received was simple: "Keep playing."

Then I saw them walking toward the stage. Louie Vega and Kenny Dope. It's funny because I had spent years imagining what it would feel like to meet them, and when the moment finally arrived, I was as nervous as any fan waiting backstage. Before leaving home, I had packed two treasures from my personal collection. The Masters At Work limited edition gold and silver vinyl box sets, each containing five records. I had one mission. I wanted both of them to sign them.

When the changeover finally happened, I walked over with my records in my hands.

Louie Vega couldn't have been kinder. He smiled, thanked me, and signed both box sets without any hesitation. It was exactly how I had imagined meeting one of my musical heroes would be. Kenny Dope... not so much. Let's just say he wasn't in the mood to sign records for an unknown kid from Spain. Whatever the reason, things didn't go quite as I had planned.

What he didn't know was that I'm incredibly stubborn. I hadn't carried those records all the way to Sónar just to leave with one signature. So I waited. I watched. I looked for the right moment. Those two box sets came back home with me, signed by both Louie Vega and Kenny Dope, and they remain one of the most personal treasures in my collection. Every time I see them, I remember that twenty two year old kid who believed absolutely anything was possible.

Twenty five years have passed since that night. I admired growing up and many others I've been lucky enough to meet along the way. Those achievements mean a lot to me, but they were never the destination. And if that night at Sónar 2001 taught me anything, it's this.

After I finally got my records signed, I did what any twenty two year old would have done. I ran down to the dance floor to celebrate with my friends. We danced, laughed, and looked at each other every few minutes as if to ask, Is this really happening? We had grown up listening to these artists, buying their records whenever we could afford them, and now we were standing a few meters away, watching them perform live at Sónar. It felt surreal.

A while later, I quietly made my way back toward the stage. Officially, I had one excuse. My record bag was still there. Before going down to the dance floor, I had deliberately asked one of the stage technicians to leave it beside the booth instead of taking it to the backstage area. "Just leave it here," I told him. "I'll pick it up when everything is over." The truth is, I knew exactly what I was doing. I wanted one last chance to be close to Frankie Knuckles. It turned out to be the only time in my life I would ever have the privilege of seeing him perform live.

When the night came to an end, I picked up my record bag and there he was. Frankie Knuckles was walking off the stage. It lasted no more than a second, maybe two. We shook hands, I looked him in the eyes, and with the shyness of someone standing in front of one of his greatest heroes, I simply said, "Thank you." That was it. No conversation. No photograph. Just a handshake and one word. Looking back today, I realize that those two seconds became one of the most valuable memories of my entire career. It was my way of thanking the man whose music had inspired so much of my own journey.

Dreams don't come true because somebody opens the door for you. They come true because you keep knocking long after everyone else would have walked away.