Part. 01
I’m not sure who still remembers it. It’s been ten years now (2026), maybe even longer, since modern liquid drum and bass was still in its early beginnings.
Nevertheless, in my view once Chilloutbear was already questioning the very concept of mixing through this approach back then.
Indirectly, for me Chiltoutbear was also questioning the normality of mainstream DNB and its rave culture as such. Through this approach, the YouTube channel was setting different values from those represented by the mainstream drum and bass at the time.
Something similar happened when, in 2017, someone said about Sidney SN that he was doing liquid only because he was a beginner, and that once he “woke up,” he would start doing neurofunk.
It was exactly the opposite. I had already known drum and bass for sixteen years. I started creating liquid DNB mixes precisely because I did not identify with the mainstream— not only the Czech one those two were talking about.
When I faced violence directed at me in a very well-known situation, I couldn’t understand why it happened. Maybe someone was trying to create doubt around me—but I don’t know how it’s possible for someone to spread falsehoods about the reasons behind what happened to me.
I don’t believe I ever presented myself as some kind of influencer who would cause such strong reactions, let alone violence. What makes this especially sad for me is the fact that drum and bass, as a culture, stands for non-violence—as well as being anti-racist and pro-LGBTQ, for example. So when someone chooses physical violence as a way to respond to a drum and bass artist, I have to seriously question whether they even belong to this culture or understand its values.
Part. 02
06/28/2021 to: ondra@stormclub.cz
I was thinking about what stance I should take toward the management of Storm Club. Of course, in regard to the incident with the club’s leadership. The unfriendliness of Storm Club’s management toward me.
Honestly, I still feel sick about Storm Club’s leadership. I realise the event was staged. But from my perspective, it was an unconstructive solution—a deliberate attempt to discredit me. The reality is that, partly because of the incident at Storm, my name is actually stronger now.
In my opinion, Storm Club is far from ideal. Sometimes, if you just mention Storm Club, the response you get is, “Only junkies go there.”
Last summer and autumn (2020), I was often at Storm Club because of the anti-epidemic measures. A state of emergency. I’ve been part of the culture long enough to understand what it’s going through—what parties and clubs people go to, who attends (mentally, generationally, etc.).
So I can’t be satisfied with what’s going on at Storm Club either. I know people don’t go to the parties for the drum and bass, but for something else. “Ravers” don’t even know who’s playing—and they probably don’t care. What matters to them is having their guarded shelter. And how old are they usually? This is quite common at Storm. And I don’t see any effort from Storm Club to address it. But there are solutions. Plenty of clubs know how to deal with this.
I just think for management of Storm Club “junkie kids who don’t know” are good business. So they don’t even see it as a problem. Storm is probably existentially dependent on this situation. This is not culture.
In fact, it’s becoming clear to everyone now that the Storm Club management tried to discredit someone who is visible, positive, and gained recognition for what they do. Honestly, what I experienced as Sidney SN on Grand Opening Day on Storm Street was unexpected and beautiful. I walked through a kind of hall of fame among Czech DJs. That’s like a dream for many artists. This kind of thing is happening to me more often now. Sometimes I feel like Charlotte de Witte. That was never the goal of Sidney SN. Fame is just a side product of what and how Sidney SN mixes.
He genuinely likes people. So of course, it’s great if there’s positive feedback. They’re part of the mixes too. I actually find it a bit funny that Storm Club is only reacting to Sidney SN now. A lot of people know me as Sidney SN. Even years ago, people would recognise me on the street—three or four years back. In other Prague clubs—not just Storm Club—people from the culture also often know me as Sidney SN. I know exactly what I’m doing.
And if the Czech DJ “top tier” shows me appreciation, like what happened on Grand Opening Day on Storm Street, I truly thank you all.
I appreciate everyone who enjoys what I do—whether they’re ten, twenty, thirty, forty, or sixty-five years old. I’m aware that especially Sidney SN’s liquid mixes can appeal to a wide range of people. Naturally, I also think about the fact that one of my mixes might introduce someone to D’n’B, and then they—or their family—might not be thrilled when they realise that some parties aren’t exactly a great environment… I speak from personal experience. I’ve known for a while that a lot of people who listen to Sidney SN don’t even go to parties—or they only listen to liquid or deep D’n’B that I make. At home or in their headphones. I know many people who avoid parties because of exactly what I’m talking about. I also know many who used to go, but don’t anymore.
Of course, I’m also deeply grateful for the support Sidney SN receives from various international labels and cultural figures. When someone supports the one they started out with—that’s divine. I love what I do. And I’m certainly not going to give it up just because Mazzon and others don’t like it and try to handle it through their mercenaries. If this is how the management of Storm Club treats someone else’s art—something that was built from scratch, born from passion and life itself—then regardless of Sidney SN, I don’t feel good about supporting Storm Club right now.
I don’t even know if I should bother defending myself against words like “sewer” or “rednecks”… Redneck behaviour is what happened during Breakpoint. Breakpoint kind of became a breakpoint for me, Sidney SN.
I thank Mazzon for standing behind what happened. Better to live in truth than in lies.
From the incident, I sense fear—fear that someone could become the cream of the crop, and others might just be pretending to play that role. Storm Club’s management and their associates need not worry about that. Because this was never the goal of Sidney SN.
How bold—to kick me out of an empty Storm Street…
Part. 03
Yet man being grew, even in a time meant for despair. That’s the reason the Central Europe people came to hate the person after the pandemic.
“The foundation of existence is the energy of the Universe—nature’s systems. When the human world collapses, the Universe still runs on the same current, unaffected by humanity. People die on their own, but the Universe continues to grow—because these nature’s systems are not dependent on human civilization. The human world does not matter. What matters is existence itself.”
The COVID-19 pandemic did not only test healthcare systems—it revealed the cultural and moral foundations of societies. While the virus itself was universal, the response to it was not. Some nations, particularly in Western Europe, treated the crisis as a collective challenge requiring coordinated sacrifice. Others, including the Czechia, struggled with a different kind of virus: a deep-seated distrust of rules and a chronic aversion to shared responsibility.
In Czechia, the word “restrictions” became emotionally charged, not because of their content but because of what they symbolized: the perceived theft of personal autonomy. Many Czechs interpreted pandemic measures—lockdowns, mask mandates, vaccine campaigns—not as necessary precautions in the face of a global health emergency, but as authoritarian overreach. It wasn’t uncommon to hear people speak of “freedom” as if it meant the right to ignore collective danger. In this cultural frame, even the most modest public health policies were viewed not as protective, but as oppressive.
The irony is painful. While voices across the country condemned “fear-mongering” and “manipulation,” people continued to die. Thousands of lives were lost not because the virus was especially cruel in Central Europe, but because the social fabric was too weak to hold under strain. In the Czech mindset, it often seemed as though individual liberty had been elevated to a sacred principle—even when that liberty meant endangering others. This was not freedom in any meaningful civic sense. It was a kind of anarchy disguised as resistance.
By contrast, many Western European countries implemented far more stringent lockdowns, restrictions, and tracking systems. Yet these societies emerged from the pandemic with comparatively better outcomes—not only in terms of public health, but in social resilience, economic recovery, and trust in institutions. They accepted temporary constraints as necessary measures in service of long-term stability. What looked like strictness from the outside was, in fact, an expression of collective maturity.
Czechia’s post-pandemic stagnation—lingering until as late as winter 2023 (It confirmed a gradual economic recovery trend, starting with modest growth in late 2023 and slowly increasing through 2024 into 2025.)—was not merely the result of policy mistakes, but a cultural failure to imagine freedom as something shared. The public sphere was flooded with reactionary narratives: that fear was used as a tool of control, that freedom had been “shut down,” that nothing was real. These narratives offered emotional comfort, but at the cost of civic coherence. They implied that no one owed anything to anyone, even in the face of mass death.
This self-isolating cynicism was also compounded by the political pressures of war. As Russia invaded Ukraine in 2022, Czechia was thrust into another wave of destabilizing fear—but unlike in Western Europe or Germany, where solidarity with Ukraine became a unifying moral compass, Czech discourse was splintered by confusion, conspiracy, and fatigue. The nation became vulnerable not just to war-related stress, but to manipulation—both from outside powers and from within its own fractured media ecosystem.
In many ways, the Czech response to COVID-19 and its aftermath reflects a deeper civic trauma: the unresolved tension between post-totalitarian memory and modern democratic responsibility. A history of imposed authority has made voluntary cooperation suspect. But without trust, without a shared ethic of accountability, a society cannot withstand crisis—whether biological, geopolitical, or moral.
As we assess the long shadow of the pandemic, it becomes clear that the real divide in Europe is not East versus West, but maturity versus defiance. In the West, societies that accepted temporary hardship rebounded with a sense of cohesion. In Czechia, the suspicion of order led not to more freedom, but to isolation, stagnation, and loss. The lesson is vital: freedom without responsibility is not liberation—it is abandonment, anarchy.
Part. 04
I’m publishing this retrospectively. Everything that changed has pushed me away from coming back. I’m thinking of the end of 2022. It was a my good year’s end, though it drove many people from a country to madness. The year 2023 revealed this reality, when someone clung to that madness. And in a way, I can be indifferent. It’s only happening in a specific communities.
From my perspective, having experienced different civilizations or cultures, I cannot understand why anyone would try to impose weaker values on me when I have encountered entirely different standards and ways of thinking that are rarely found elsewhere. I do not have to agree with them or participate in them when I know that better worlds and higher standards exist.
