The blue-chip orthodoxies of quantum mechanics, string theory, and multiversal physics – which blithely posit an infinity of parallel realities to explain the messy, unintelligible absurdities of this world – collapse under the weight of a single, undeniable flaw. To hypothesize the existence of infinite alternate dimensions, one must first locate a cosmic equivalent of Hazy Pockets operating out there in the dark. No such evidence exists. There is only one, given directly to our senses, riding into town like an itinerant, disco-loving cowboy-conjurer. Joel Isaac Black – a tireless soul man, studio veteran, and irrepressible dilettante – stands as an improbable anomaly: a preacher of sweat-drenched, low-slung boogie music stranded in a city defined by cold, robotic, relentless techno.

Born in Texas to a blues musician, his childhood lulled to sleep by the swampy, gut-bucket resonance of slide guitars and cheap harmonicas, Black was infected early by a certain visceral, irrepressible soul. Migration west to Los Angeles saw him working as a rock ’n’ roll drummer, studio owner, and audio producer, before embarking on a decade-long sentence of fanatical crate-digging. Sorting vinyl at Amoeba Music – the world’s largest independent record repository – he absorbed a living, sprawling archive of pop-cultural detritus, forgotten soul 45s, and global grooves. Re-baptized under the flickering lights of the discotheque, he gathered this encyclopedic mental library, packed his bags, and took his musical gospel across the Atlantic.

Arriving in Berlin, Joel took up residence in the infamous, trash-chic kingdom of Kater Holzig and its culinary outpost. In a dual capacity that feels entirely appropriate for his tactile philosophy, he operated simultaneously as a resident DJ and a professional chef. Serving high-end cuisine to the ravenous nocturnal elite at Katerschmaus while curating soundscapes for the hedonistic playground outside, he honed an instinct that blurred the line between artistic performance and raw, hospitable service. He approached the mixing desk much like a kitchen counter: with working-class muscle, an eye for rich textures, and an absolute rejection of pretentious, self-serious gatekeeping.

Hazy Pockets’ marathon DJ sets are engineered not for cool, dispassionate nodding, but for total, uninhibited physical surrender. Throwing a volatile stew of acid-funk, blues-stomp, and relentless, punchy disco-house into the room, he melds disparate, anonymous crowds into dense, jubilant totalities. It is drinking music, working-class catharsis, and pure oh-my-god-we-work-so-hard-we’re-gonna-have-a-good-time-tonight exorcism. The raver kids, the aging acid-heads, the fashion executives, and the corporate suits are all equal before his altar. Where traditional Berlin selectors demand submission to a rigid, monochrome 140-BPM grid, Hazy Pockets offers something altogether more human: a joyful, sweat-slicked sanctuary built on swing, grit, and the irresistible impulse to dance.