A Montreal veteran on what the DJ scene’s lost—and what’s still worth saving

In a scene increasingly driven by spectacle—where the booth has become a stage, the DJ a brand, and the night something to document instead of feel—longtime Montreal based international DJ and sound system builder JoJo Flores speaks through frequency, texture, and intent.

If you’ve ever found yourself dancing at Baby, eating at Arthur’s, or caught off guard by how good the music sounds at a restaurant like Bar George or a speakeasy like Coldroom, chances are he had a hand in shaping the experience.

After decades behind the decks, Flores has become a kind of sonic custodian that’s both playing music and preserving its purpose: He offers master class DJ lessons, installs high-fidelity systems around the city, and champions vinyl less not as a nostalgic flex, but as a quiet rebellion against everything the scene’s started to forget.

The sound is the substance

For Flores, sound isn’t a background detail. It’s the infrastructure of experience. He installs sound systems with the same attention to texture that chefs give to plating. Room shape, acoustic treatment, speaker placement, even how sound travels across a terrace—it all matters. Because when done right, it disappears and becomes a feeling, not a scene, let alone a photo on someone’s phone.

“Usually in a restaurant, taste is the focus,” he says, seated in the speaker-lined back room of his listening café Cafe Gotsoul. “But all your senses should be catered at the same level. Sound should never be an afterthought.”

That philosophy extends to his own gigs too. He’s not just cueing up tracks or just pressing play on a laptop—something a lot of older generations of DJs will accuse younger generations of doing—but viewing his work as a form of curating energy. 

And when he plays a set on vinyl, that intent becomes tactile.

Vinyl as resistance

Flores has started travelling again because playing vinyl has become something of a novelty for younger crowds. “They gravitate toward it because it’s something they haven’t seen before,” he says. “Before, it was normal. Now, it’s rare.”

What used to be standard has become almost radical because it requires skill: Flores, for example, cuts his own records with a lathe his former club partner bought from Germany. It’s niche, meticulous work, but it keeps him connected to the music as a craft. 

“You’re not just mixing beats,” he says. “You’re mixing frequencies, textures, dynamics. That takes ears. Not eyes.”

Therein lies a dilemma: Flores isn’t shy about what social media has done to the culture. DJs play 30-minute sets and post five minutes of crowd euphoria. The rest? Irrelevant. Image trumps musicality. And yet, he’s not bitter. He understands the game. He just chooses to play a different one.

“I don’t post a lot. Some people think I retired,” he laughs. “But I’d rather have a good vibe in the room than a good post on the feed.”

He recalls a young woman who tried to take a selfie in his booth by propping her phone on the turntable while a record was spinning. She didn’t ask—just walked right in. “I was furious, and she kept asking what my problem was. So I abruptly cut the music, and loudly said: ‘Okay, let’s talk.’ Suddenly, the whole room was watching us. She was so embarrassed, and didn’t come by the booth again that night.

Montreal as a model

Despite the global drift into curated personas and disposable playlists, Flores insists Montreal still has something special. Stereo, for one, remains a pilgrimage site for audiophiles. Promoters like Ferias create DIY parties with intentional sound and loyal crowds. And Flores himself champions local talent just as hard as international bookings. He’s spent years shaping how the scene moves, hosting parties in the 2000s and 2010s.

“I’d book a big name maybe once a month,” he says. “But the rest of the time, we held it down. And when we did bring someone in, we didn’t let them eclipse the locals. It was about balance.”

That meant international guests didn’t automatically get top billing. Local DJs weren’t warm-up acts—they were the main draw. “It’s my party,” he says. “I’ll dictate when people play. But I always made sure the crowd stayed rooted in what we built here.”

He bristles at scenes where imported names always get the main slot, and residents become permanent openers. It creates hierarchy, not community.

The real experience

Ask Flores what makes a night memorable and he won’t mention crowd size, bottle sales, or headline font sizes. He’ll talk about when people actually came for the music. No VIP booths. No sea of iPhones. Just sweat, groove, and soul.

“It was a safe space. People left their troubles behind. Rich, poor, Black, white, gay, straight—none of it mattered. Now? Clubs feel cliquey. People go to be seen. Not to feel.”

Still, he’s hopeful. Some of his students care. Some want to play vinyl. Some want to know where house music came from, not just where it’s trending next.

And as long as there are DJs who treat the booth like a sacred space and not a selfie station, the culture isn’t dead. 

It’s just waiting for the real heads to press play.