RETURNING TO FORM
An Interview with Michael, (Ethanim)
By Anya Petrova
“You don’t choose when Techno speaks. You just have to be ready when it does.”
Michael — better known by his moniker Ethanim — has been silent for too long. His hiatus was not a choice made in comfort, but a consequence of survival: the collapse of a Kansas City property he managed, the mental and physical toll of COVID-19, and the realities of navigating life in spaces where creative expression is treated as expendable.
Yet his return is neither casual nor tentative. This is a reconstitution of purpose — of artistry sharpened by adversity, of an identity rebuilt with intention.
In this interview, Michael speaks with candor about the challenges that reshaped him, his uncompromising stance against algorithmic culture, and the ethos driving Ethanim 2025.
Anya Petrova: Michael, you’ve referred to this period as a “hiatus.” What does that word really mean in your case?
Michael (Ethanim): Hiatus suggests pause. Mine was more like exile. I was managing dysfunctional hotel properties throughout the pandemic. The Midtown Kansas City property I invested myself into was systematically run into the ground by ownership until the enterprise collapsed — taking my position and my health with it.
When the systems around you fail, survival becomes the priority. There’s little room left for expression.
“This wasn’t rest. It was survival. But Techno never disappeared. It waited for me.”
AP: You’ve since relocated. How has this new environment shaped you?
M: I now serve as resident steward of a reputable interstate property in rural Missouri. The contrast to Midtown could not be greater. Out here, there is no city noise, no constant interference. It's quiet.
That quiet has been essential. It gave me the mental and creative space to confront what had been lost — and to decide what will be rebuilt.
Vignette: The Night It Returned
"I remember standing behind the property late one evening — the sound of the interstate in the distance, no lights, no audience. I put on my headphones and played a track I hadn't touched in years. In that moment, the music felt alive again. So did I.”
AP: Let’s discuss your creative practice. What does rebuilding the studio mean for you?
M: It means removing what no longer serves the work. The previous studio resembled an archive — a space holding artifacts of an earlier version of myself. That was unproductive.
I stripped it down to functional essentials. Every piece of gear, every track I audition, must meet a standard: does this move the vision forward? If it doesn’t, it has no place in the room.
AP: You’ve also been outspoken about social media and its role in restricting artists.
M: I was shadow-banned for criticizing Facebook’s algorithmic manipulation. They decide what art is seen, whose voice has value, and they do it based on profit, not merit.
My response was to re-invent ethanim.net — a platform outside their control. It is intentionally anti-algorithm. A direct connection with people who care about the music, without the interference of metrics or engagement games.
“If the doors won’t open for you, build your own.”
AP: And what of live performance?
M: Kansas City will always matter to me. St. Louis has a scene I’d like to explore again. Houston and Austin — those are places where I began, and I want to finish what was started there.
Vignette: The First Track
"The first track I auditioned after my silence was imperfect. It was raw, unpolished. But it resonated — not as nostalgia, but as truth. That was the signal that my instincts had survived the hiatus.”
AP: How have your health challenges influenced your work?
M: They forced discipline. Once, I could endure anything to deliver a set. Now, I play with awareness. Health isn’t separate from the art — it is its foundation.
AP: Define Ethanim as it stands today.
M: Ethanim in 2025 is discipline, defiance, and purpose. I am not chasing algorithms, nor am I compromising for mass approval. My work is for travelers of the sound — those who understand that Techno is a cultural Movement, not just a category on a streaming platform.
Vignette: Midnight in the Studio
"At times I play to an empty room in the quiet hours of the night. The glow of the equipment, the distant hum of trucks on the highway. It's not a club. It's not a crowd. But it is alive — and in those moments, so am I.”
AP: And looking ahead?
M: Expect purpose. Sets that don’t just make people move, but stay with them — the kind of nights and sounds you remember long after they fade.
AP: There are whispers about something called “The Tower.” Care to elaborate?
M: The Tower isn’t a venue, and it’s not a broadcast station — at least not in the way people think. It’s a place where the air hums differently. Where sound has memory. The Tower is my signal.
Standing there, I feel every beat I’ve ever played — not as an echo, but as if it’s still alive in the static. Some will find it. Most won’t. That’s how it should be. That’s definitive underground.
The Tower is my mythic anchor. Just like Berlin has Tresor’s vault door, and Detroit has the Packard Plant, I’ve got an ornate Tudor Revival–style brick repeater station with a 240-ft lattice tower — a relic of invisible signals. It’s authentic, it’s local, and it aligns perfectly with my ethos.
The repeater station embodies the progress of the telephone age — built to catch a signal, amplify it, and send it farther than before. House Music did the same, the first electronic incarnation born from Disco. Techno is the resulting evolution, the next leap, carrying the underground’s signal forward.
Like the tower, Techno doesn’t end where it begins — it repeats, it transforms, it transmits.
“My work is for travelers of the sound — those who understand that Techno is a Movement, not a product.”
This is not a return. It is a reconstitution.
Michael (Ethanim) has emerged from silence not to resume what was, but to build what must be.