“I’m just a pawn”
We met KENG~, the producer who has chosen not to make a living from music so that he can create it without compromise.
There are artists who spend their whole lives trying to turn their passion into a career, and then there are those who do exactly the opposite….
When I meet Maurizio Caggiano, better known as KENG~, I think I’ve already got the interview all mapped out in my head. Over thirty years in the music business, seven albums released, founder of BASIC Records, live performer, sound designer, percussionist, teacher, developer, photographer, decorator, creative. The classic story of the independent artist who has spanned three decades of electronic music.
We order a coffee, I switch on the tape recorder, and the first question comes out almost automatically:
“Let’s talk about you as a musician.”
Maurizio smiles, shakes his head, and cuts me off before I’ve even finished my sentence:
“Stop…”
He takes a sip of coffee:
“I’m not a musician.”
I remain silent:
“I am a humble servant of the cosmos. A medium.”
I realised straight away that the interview I’d prepared wouldn’t be the right one, because KENG~ doesn’t think in terms of career, the music industry or musical genres; he thinks in terms of energy, listening and freedom.
“Music does not belong to me.”
What does it mean to be a medium?
«It means stopping thinking that music belongs to those who create it. I believe we are simply interpreters. When everything really clicks, it’s no longer you who decides. You listen to the music, the audience, the space. You listen to the moment. The music already exists. You simply try to give it form, like a demiurge.»
There is nothing mystical about the way he tells the story – quite the opposite, in fact. He speaks with the ease of someone who has built up that conviction over decades of study, concerts and experimentation.
A child, a Bontempi toy and boundless curiosity
The story begins like so many others. A Bontempi toy organ, the age of four, the first lessons – except that, rather than sticking to the exercises, little Maurizio preferred to press buttons, adjust the stops and change the sounds:
«The teacher would set me exercises. I’d do them. But then I’d carry on. I was fascinated by the keys, the sliders and the buttons. I wanted to understand why the sound changed. I think that’s where my interest in sound design began.»
He hasn’t stopped since. Piano, percussion, didgeridoo, synthesisers – any rhythmic instrument that falls into his hands – but above all, a curiosity to understand what lies behind every sound.
«At a certain point, just playing instruments wasn’t enough for me any more. I wanted to make them.»
Building rather than choosing
Many producers start a track by scrolling through thousands of presets; he does the opposite.
«If I can, I avoid presets. I like to programme synthesisers from scratch. Or record the world.»
When he says “recording the world”, he literally means going out with his Rode microphone and sampling whatever catches his attention: a gate, the sound of a factory, a door, the wind in the trees, a stone, a train; then it all goes back to the studio, where it is broken down, granulated, filtered and resynthesised.
«For me, concrete music isn’t a genre. It’s a way of observing the world around us.»
What are his favourite summaries?
«FM, because it creates incredibly rich harmonies. Granular synthesis, because it allows you to manipulate time in an almost physical way. And subtractive synthesis, which remains one of the most elegant forms of sound design.»
Pure Data, Max/MSP, SuperCollider, Reason: rather than just software, they seem to be becoming musical instruments.
“Technique is there to help us forget technique.”
At this point, I point out an apparent contradiction to him:
He’s a technician, a programmer, a developer, a computer science lecturer and a sound designer, yet he talks constantly about instinct.
She smiles….
«Because technique is there to help you reach the point where you can stop thinking about it. This applies to playing an instrument, to programming, to mixing – and it applies to teaching too. Once you’ve internalised a technique, you can finally listen.»
BASIC Records wasn’t set up to sell records
In 2015, he founded BASIC Records; the acronym stands for Basilicata Sound Innovation Community.
«Many people only see the word »Records’. For me, the important one is ‘Community’. I didn’t want to set up a record label. I wanted to create a space where it would be possible to experiment without having to ask anyone’s permission.”
Today, BASIC is a record label, a mastering studio, a multimedia production company and a creative workshop. It is a natural extension of his vision of independence.
“I never wanted to make a living from music.”
It is probably the most surprising remark in the whole conversation.
«Everyone thinks it’s a sacrifice. For me, it was an achievement. I’m a teacher. And I do it because I love it. Not because I was waiting for something else to come along. I sincerely believe I’m one of the happiest teachers in the world.»
Since 2023, he has been a tenured teacher at a school in Piacenza, where he teaches the Computer Science and Technology Workshop, Graphic Design, Information Technology and Professional Techniques for Commercial Services.
«The fact that music doesn’t have to pay my bills has given me enormous freedom. I can release whatever I want, completely change my style, and experiment. I don’t have to chase algorithms or playlists. My responsibility is to be sincere.»
Seven albums. Thousands of tracks that no one will ever listen to.
«I’ve released seven albums. But most of my work has never been released.»
She looks at me and smiles.
«I think I have thousands of tracks that I’ll never release.»
Why?
«Because many of them only exist during the live performance: I take them, break them down, rebuild them, layer them over my other productions or other artists» music, add synthesisers, percussion and samples – every performance becomes a different entity. That’s exactly the part I enjoy.”
“Don’t ask me what I’m doing.”
Whenever someone organises a concert, the same question always comes up.
“What shall we put on the flyer?”
«I always give the same answer. Please write: KENG~ Hybrid Set.»
Why?
«Because I don’t even know what I’m doing myself, and I say that without any false modesty. My two decks practically never play a single track each; they play together, all the time. Then analogue synthesisers, percussion, samples from my Roland sampler, loops, textures and effects come into play. At a certain point, even I find it hard to recognise my own productions.»
The audience is asking for definitions.
DJ? Live performance? Producer set?
He still hasn’t made up his mind.
«Definitions are for catalogues. Not for music.»
The real Selectah is the audience
There’s a word that comes up a lot in conversation.
“I’m listening.”
«In Jamaican culture, the Selectah is the person who chooses the records. I believe that the real Selectah is the audience; I listen to the dancefloor, I sense the crowd – it is they who, without realising it, decide the direction of the journey.»
That is why it can start with ambient music, move through electroacoustic and musique concrète, and end up in techno, forest psytrance, hi-tech, jungle, footwork, dubstep or IDM, without the transition ever feeling forced.
It doesn’t follow a set script; it follows a conversation.
The most important lesson didn’t come from music
Towards the end of the interview, the tone changes – not because I ask him to, but because, inevitably, the conversation turns in that direction.
Three years ago, he was diagnosed with lymphoma; within three months, it had grown to a significant size, and he underwent twelve cycles of chemotherapy.
«The doctors kept asking me how I managed it. They’d say to me: “Other people are completely wiped out after chemo. You organise events, play music, build installations – you just keep creating.””
I always gave the same answer: »If I stopped doing all this, no therapy in the world would be able to save me.’»
He pauses, for the first time during the whole conversation.
«Medicine cured me. I’ve never had any doubts about that. But my son’s love and music gave me the strength to face that battle. When you become a father, everything changes. You no longer live just for yourself. Every choice takes on a different meaning. I’m a very happy dad. And I think it was precisely that happiness that reminded me every day why it was worth carrying on.»
Today, that period is behind him; he doesn’t talk about it as a personal victory, but as yet another experience that has reinforced what he has always believed in:
that music is not a profession, it is not an identity, nor is it even a goal. Music is a place. A place where you can carry on living, even when life seems to be demanding everything of you.
We leave the café, and before we say goodbye, I ask him whether, after more than thirty years, he still feels the need to prove something.
He laughs.
«No. I just want to keep surprising myself. If that happens, the audience will probably be surprised too.»
As he walks away, I think about the remark he made when correcting my first question.
“I’m not a musician.”
After two hours of conversation, I still don’t know whether he’s right, but one thing is clear to me: whatever he does, he does it with a freedom that has become extremely rare in today’s music world.
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