The household I grew up in was musical in a very holistic sense, as some of my earliest childhood memories attest. There’s my mum trying to teach me box steps of waltz in our lounge. There’s my dad sitting on a stool in the kitchen, holding his trumpet with a sordino on, rehearsing for an upcoming factory orchestra's concert. And then there are my older brothers with bizarre, alluring textures of modal jazz and progressive rock emanating from deep inside their cave.

Given the early exposure, my musical horizons were bound to broaden. By the time I got out of college, I had traversed all the way from post-punk and industrial to jungle and D&B via Golden Age hip hop. My hometown’s poky record shops and classmates’ muddy mixtapes hidden in linty pockets of army surplus jackets had become one giant treasure chest overflowing with exciting tunes that blew my mind back then – as they still do.

If music knows no boundaries, neither does life. After moving overseas, working for symphony orchestras, creating sound designs for fringe theatre, and getting into record label management further blurred the line between passive consumption and active self-expression. It was only natural that my weekly hip hop dance classes and Ableton Live projects were eventually followed by my first assignment for the music press. If ever there was a homecoming, this was it.

I’m of the school of thought that music is so complex and rich an artform, it can only be understood when delved into from every conceivable angle, fully experienced first-hand in whatever incongruous, idiosyncratic shape it may take. At its best, music is a home with a big sign hanging on the wall that says: All Grooves Under One Roof.