Kaytranada: Waves of Rhythm

Hypebeast

2 days ago

This article originally appeared in Hypebeast Magazine Issue 35: The Wavelength Issue.
Whether we inspect the behavioral mechanisms that propel the cosmological motions of the universe or the spiritual shifts within us, the wave is nature's most fundamental rhythm.
One either learns the power of its force—or drowns beneath it.
For the two-time Grammy-winning artist KAYTRANADA, success—as producer, DJ, and now singer—has been predicated on a profound understanding and manipulation of how the waves flow. This mastery has been both self-evident and continuously evolving throughout his career, as reflected through his production's maturation.
Sonic alchemy appears on the track 'Feel a Way,' from 2024's TIMELESS , where his adroit ears transmute the quotidian into gold. It is a seemingly effortless feat in chopping samples to fit his swinging grooves. Here, he takes an innocuous sound, a drag-of-a-joint, from an obscure Jack Margolis record and transforms it into a slinking percussive loop.
This is the kind of aural latticing that might be lost on casual listeners, but in perceiving its sonic nature, one realizes how each part of the whole is important—where, in this instance, the sample texturally accentuates the song's salient and hazy ambiance.
Throughout KAYTRANADA's process, sounds are expertly flipped, stretched, and run through an effect bus, ultimately becoming his LPs or loosies. Those recordings are then tightly curated onto unassuming flash drives.
Tracks are spun on CDJs from a sleek, lectern-like station; his DJ sets become gatherings where the 32-year-old, Port-au-Prince-born artist can commune with the energy his music stirs in the crowd. His sets unfold as an emotionally-pendulous journey. Bodies in the crowd ripple in waves and screams as his careful choreography guides every listener's pulse to his whim. That is craft at work.
If it truly takes ten years to become a renowned household name, KAYTRANADA's fifteen-plus have turned him into a cultural fixture. Even a cursory search reveals how trusted he is in the industry, evidenced by an extensive list of credits: from Kali Uchis and PinkPantheress to Mach-Hommy, Aminé, and many other titans.
But you don't even need to look; just listen.
Whether you're a diehard fan or not, his influence on modern music is ubiquitous. That's not to say he has single-handedly created 'the sound.' He's undeniably a product of his upbringing on the internet, shaped by torchbearers like J Dilla and Madlib. But rest assured, if you hear a bouncy, staccato bass line accented by bright, jazzy synth chords, KAYTRANADA is likely the foundational driver behind those 'type beats.'
Yet, even as he appears culturally buoyant, seemingly steady while the industry is engrossed with what's en vogue, his emotional buoyancy is another story. KAYTRANADA, or the public-facing persona many know, is informed by Louis Kevin Celestin, the person. And artistry is nothing without introspection.
In conversation, KAYTRANADA describes TIMELESS as one of his most expressive and unencumbered projects to date, explaining that achieving solidity as an artist required an evaluation of his ongoing relationship with existentialism. And through this reflection, KAYTRANADA learned to embrace what we can't control—that we must surrender to the flow of uncertainty.
HYPEBEAST: First off, congrats on the three latest Grammy nods. You've been nominated eight times now. How do you mentally process that? What's changed since your first nominations?
KAYTRANADA: I feel good. I'm not putting all my attention on it, though, because it'll be disappointing if I lose. I'm nominated alongside some heavy hitters, and it's a toss-up. But they're all amazing peers. Whoever wins, it'll make sense. So yeah, I'm not trying to put my heart into it. Whatever happens, I'm not going to overreact.
The core of that sounds like radical acceptance, which reminds me of a Creole proverb I learned: 'Dlo pa janbe trou.' To me, it feels like it's about resilience and understanding that we can't control all hardships, but we can control how we move through them. TIMELESS has that feeling.
Yeah, I saw that when I was making this album—especially across the years since Bubba . The pandemic and moving to LA coincided with so many changes. Big life changes. I had to accept that when it comes to making music, it doesn't have to be so important that I feel a need to prove myself or stand out against other albums. I was overthinking a lot while making TIMELESS , wondering, 'How can I top my last one?' It got ridiculous. Eventually, I realized I really don't care. I'm just going to express how I felt in those times. That time of evolution and acceptance—giving up control and letting things be—translates into the album. I'm in an acceptance mood, taking things for how they are.
That's connected to a quote from you about how it was hard to be yourself in your salad days while still innovating. What parts of your earlier self did you hold onto, and what did you let go of to embrace this evolution?
Like I said, I had a lot of controlling thoughts—overthinking and comparing myself to my peers. That kind of thinking kills creativity: How can I be better than everybody else? That felt ridiculous, but you see how a generation was influenced by people like Kanye saying he and his music are better than everyone else. It led people to believe they needed to think the same. I realized that was a manipulation tactic: Why do I need to be better? Therapy showed me a lot: self-discovery, self-love. I always loved myself, but I never knew it was so important to care for yourself in that explicit way. That wasn't taught to me. After winning a Grammy in 2021, I went through things I didn't comprehend until therapy. I just had to go through a lot of old traumas.
I get it, especially in a Black family. The idea is to be great first, then worry about trauma later—or not at all. Perfectionism creeps in. Eventually, we realize we can't keep measuring ourselves against
everyone else. We need our own standard, our own lane.
Yeah. Growing up Haitian, my mom was always like, 'You can do better than that. I was top of the class, so you can be too.' But I had trouble in school—bad grades, shy, found it boring. No matter how hard I tried, getting an A was tough. My mom would say, 'Why can't you get an A-plus? Why come back with a C-minus or B-plus?' It was always, You can do better. That bled into my music. I had to break myself from those chains.
I feel that. My mom used to say, 'This is an A household.' I think sometimes our close collaborators can become a chosen family. That can bring 'family-like' clashes. TIMELESS has a lot of collaborators—a broad spectrum of voices. Despite that, it's cohesive. How did you maintain harmony while navigating creative disagreements?
That definitely happened. Early on, I struggled to give feedback to artists. I wasn't great at saying, 'Hey, try this.' Sometimes I didn't trust my ideas, or I wasn't sure I had the idea. So I'd let them do their thing while I made the music. It still felt collaborative, but I got a bit more comfortable speaking up by the end of creating the album. I'm shy, and sometimes I feel my ideas aren't the best. Maybe I'm still healing from past trauma where collaborators told me my ideas sucked. That shattered me and made me not want to speak up. But sometimes their ideas are better—so it's about merging ideas. I never want it 100% me or them. I'd rather have a 50/50 approach to show it's truly collaborative.
From a listener's perspective, it's hard to imagine you struggling with that, especially with the
album's cohesive flow. And it also marks the return of your brother Lou Phelps as a featured artist. Family can be comforting but also tricky. How did that relationship influence you two musically this time around?
It's been a journey. There were moments when we disagreed. As The Celestics, our second project was Supreme Laziness . Around that time, I was blowing up with my electronic stuff, but Lou was still trying to 'make it.' In a family, there can be entitlement. He assumed it would be easy— just drop an album, it'll go fine.
But headlines made it seem like 'it was just KAYTRANADA and his brother.' That bothered him—and me. I wanted him to have his own shine. Early on, it was easy to give him my opinions, but he'd shut them down, wanting to prove himself. So I'd think, Never mind, do you. Even if I said, 'I'd change this idea,' he'd get defensive. That was something we had to go through. During the pandemic, he had an epiphany: 'Damn, man, all this time you were trying to help me be better.' Subconsciously, I agreed. He wasn't on my previous albums either, though he wanted to be, which was a scandal for my mom. She asked, 'Why not put your brother on?' But it didn't feel right until now. Lou was ready, and 'Call You Up' was just a demo of his that I grabbed for the album. This journey took understanding, communicating better, and maturity. We still collaborate. The Celestics haven't broken up. Lou's always been around.
In both of your growth processes, you saw that family is family, and we just need to let them have space to be them.
Exactly. Lots of patience and maturity.
There's a vulnerability in that which extends to TIMELESS and its danceability. I told a homie some tracks feel like 'crying while dancing on the dance floor.' How'd you balance emotional weight while giving people something to move to?
Life experiences, plus my favorite disco and boogie songs are often heartbreak anthems that are still upbeat. 'You broke my heart, but I'm going to be okay,' type songs. Think heavy instrumentation, bass, strings, drums — like seven or eight minutes, giving you a breakdown that feels so emotional. That's what inspired me. That was always my type of music. I've always loved danceable sad songs, with big chords and heavy drums but also a vulnerable message. Also, on TIMELESS , I explored more R&B, so some songs lean purely that way.
That emotion also comes through on 'Stepped On,' where you follow in the footsteps of J Dilla and Madlib's Quasimoto by putting your voice on the track. What made you express yourself that way — where you're even more vulnerable than being behind the track?
Pure self-expression. Nobody else has the melodies or ideas I have for my music, except maybe my brother. My beats are upbeat, but I don't always want house-style vocals. Sometimes I want it off-grid, like Raekwon or Q-Tip. In today's industry, people are often on the beat or even ahead of it, so I decided to do it myself.
Also, as a Black gay man, I asked, What would I sing about? On 'Stepped On,' I wrote about a breakup and my personality as a yes-man—just feeling stepped on. The lyrics came easily. Being on tour with The Weeknd pushed me, too. I thought, I'm going to try to write a song for The Weeknd to challenge myself. During Bubba , I had demos singing with Thundercat playing bass; I wasn't confident, but everyone said, 'You sound good, Kevin.' I was like, really? Eventually, outside compliments—and compliments from somebody I was dating—pushed me to take it seriously. Now I have more demos stashed. 'Stepped On' was my test to see if people would like it, and it worked.
In previous interviews, you've mentioned referencing punk, new wave, noise and genres known for being subversive and pushing sonic and cultural boundaries. How did they become tools for you to push your own or society's boundaries?
In those genres, you don't need a perfect singer. It's purely self-expression, often dark, nighttime vibes. I found a link to some sub-genres of hip-hop—Dilla, Black Milk, Madlib—because they'd sample synthy new wave tracks, making them sound funky, electronic, but still hip-hop. When I started searching for those samples, I really listened and realized, They're just expressing themselves with synths and drum machines. They're not trying to stand out by doing something over-the-top or calling in extra producers. They're just being themselves. That was inspiring. I wanted that formula for my vocals: no rigid approach, just expression.
Right, it's about letting go of those boundaries. In a way, you're paying homage to new wave/noise's ethos: Get on a track, say what you need to say, and move on.
Exactly. TIMELESS is like a time capsule. Listening to those '80s and '90s artists, they'd just make an album—12 songs, here's how I feel. It could be their best album, their worst, or mid. Who cares? It's how they express themselves. I want my future albums to be that way, too. Not, 'Oh my God, gotta create the biggest album and do the biggest rollout.' No, just express yourself. Don't overthink it.
Frankie Knuckles once quoted Robert Owens, saying, 'Give me roses while they're dead because I can't use them when I lay.' As an artist whose evolution has been visible, do you think you're getting the recognition you deserve, or is it too early to call?
I'm still learning. I also feel not everyone hears what I'm doing—listeners can be lazy, skimming tracks too fast, creating quick judgments. So a part of me feels I have something to prove, but at the same time, I don't. Music is self-expression. I do it for myself and the people who are waiting for more—not for those who don't like it.