Mz Rizk
Stranger #4
Mz Rizk - sound artist, event producer and curator.
Mz Rizk is one of those people who, even before you meet them, already feels like a warm hug. From the very beginning, I felt welcomed by Dan, aka Mz Rizk. It’s probably because of the nature of Mz Rizk’s practice, which is rooted in using music as a powerful tool to share cultural traditions and heritage—something that deeply resonates with me. A practice grounded in accessibility, empowerment, and inclusion, carrying that sense of togetherness that comes from the Mediterranean background we share. Mz Rizk’s journey is incredibly interesting because it begins with a spontaneous passion and has developed into what I’d like to call a battle—using music as a weapon not to fight, but to bring people together and stand up for their rights. This conversation is about respect, resilience, and not giving up, even when the path is full of resistance. It’s also about understanding that when one door closes, another always opens.
How would you introduce yourself?
It depends on who’s asking and the context, but generally, I’d describe myself as a multidisciplinary music specialist or sound artist. Everything I do — whether it’s event curation, DJing, radio broadcasting, sound design, or performing live — is rooted in music. It’s the common thread that ties all my work together.
Could you share some key moments from your journey that led you to where you are today?
There are a few key moments, but most of the work I do today — which relates deeply to cultural identity — stems from a lifelong journey shaped by my upbringing. A turning point came in 2015 when I started collecting nostalgic Arabic records while travelling. Then in 2018, I performed at an event in Brooklyn called the Yalla Party Project, a party created by members of the North African and Middle Eastern diaspora. I met an incredible crew of people from Canada and the U.S., many of whom went on to build their own platforms in their home countries.
When I returned to Melbourne, I didn’t jump into creating an Arabic music event right away — I wasn’t sure it was possible in public spaces. But in 2020, after speaking with a long-time collaborator at Section 8 (where I’ve been a resident for years), I decided to try. I realized that many other cultural communities here had already carved out space for themselves, but I didn’t see that for myself.
That, combined with the influence of the party in New York and my growing record collection, pushed me to start Habibi Hafla. Since then, it’s grown into five years of events, art curation, and concerts.
What’s been the greatest challenge you’ve faced in your career, and how has it shaped you?
I think the biggest challenge has been not giving up — not choosing another career altogether. That alone has taken daily effort. Every day I have to remind myself why I do this, because the challenges never stop. From chasing payments to inconsistent bookings and the constant struggle for visibility in a scene that still lacks real diversity — it’s exhausting. You lose gigs simply because someone wants to book their friends, or management doesn't want to pay DJs , even if you’ve been showing up for years.
I’ve learned that when one door closes, another one — maybe just a crack — opens. It’s rarely the door I wanted, but it keeps me moving. What keeps me here is either hope — hope that something bigger is coming — or absolute denial. Probably a mix of both. After 22 years, I’m still aiming for the places I want to reach, even if the path is full of resistance, nepotism, and gate-keeping.
I’m fascinated by how you use music as an instrument to convey cultural tradition and heritage. Where does this research come from?
Luckily for me, music has always been in my DNA. I was born into a household where no one played instruments, but my mum loved music. She tells this story about how, as a baby, I wouldn’t sleep unless she left the radio playing under the cot — so music has been with me from the start.
Growing up, Arabic music was always playing in our home, and like many in diasporic families, our social life revolved around community events — christenings, weddings, engagements — every weekend there was something. That was our form of entertainment. And I’ve come to realise not every culture has that. For us, music and food are core parts of who we are.
When I first started DJing, I wasn’t playing Arabic music. I was focused on hip hop, R&B, jazz, neo-soul — for years, I was one of the more prominent DJs in that scene. But even now, people still associate me with that genre because that’s the last time they heard me play. That’s part of why I started my radio show — to share the range of sounds I’m exploring now.
Over time, especially as I started collecting records during my travels, my connection to Arabic music deepened. At first, like many kids, I wanted to assimilate, but as I grew into myself, I realised how much of that sound was already present in Western music. Artists like Madonna, Timbaland, and Aaliyah were sampling Arabic melodies. That flipped a switch for me — it made me want to learn more, dig deeper.
Then, in New York, I had this life-changing moment at a party where everyone was dancing to Arabic music — in a public space, joyfully and unapologetically. It felt wild because that kind of expression, for me, had always been private, something reserved for family gatherings. I had never felt that kind of joy in public until then.
When I brought that energy back to Melbourne and started these parties, I realised how powerful they were. They created space for community, for friendship, for collaboration. I’ve seen people pick up instruments for the first time, including the darbuka — which traditionally only men play — now being played by women and non-binary people at weddings. That’s huge.
These events aren’t just about Lebanese music either — Arabic music is incredibly diverse. We play sounds from Egypt, Syria, Palestine, Algeria, Tunisia, and more. Each region has its own cultural identity, and I love watching people light up when a song from their background comes on. There’s still so much I want to learn — like music from the gulf, which is very different to music from the Levant or North Africa, which I’m not well-versed in yet. That’s the next chapter of my research and record building
Even though these events are still relatively underground, the impact is real. People discover us by accident, or they wander in and feel immediately connected. We’re not a big commercial club night — we’re something smaller, more intentional, and deeply rooted in heritage. And I think there are still so many people out there who would love to be part of it — they just haven’t found us yet.
How do you think music can empower people?
Music has always been about empowerment, I think. Historically, it’s been a tool to communicate messages — especially in times of protest and resistance. Radio has always served as a powerful medium for that, and music becomes a way to reflect the times we’re in, without needing to say it outright. People might not be listening if you spoke the words, but they’ll feel it in a song. It has a way of carrying emotion and meaning that slips through people’s defences.
It’s also one of the easiest ways to bring people together. I have a good friend — she’s Serbian — and now she comes to almost every Arabic event I run. She loves Arabic music so much. That’s the amazing thing about music: it’s so rhythmic, so emotional, so fun — it transcends language and borders.
If we talk specifically about Arabic music, it covers the whole spectrum — deeply political, heartbreakingly romantic, commercial pop — but always relatable. That’s the beauty of it.
Music has also always been a form of escape. Think about rave culture, or even just getting to the end of a tough week — what do people do? They go to a party. A group of strangers, dancing together to the beat of a drum. That’s powerful. That shared experience, that collective release — it brings people together in a way not many things can.
So yeah, music is an incredible art form. It empowers by giving people space — space to feel, to be seen, to connect. Whether it’s for a good reason or a bad reason, music has this unique ability to draw people in and remind them they’re not alone.
What is the most beautiful moment you’ve witnessed during one of your performances?
There have been many beautiful moments, but one that consistently stands out happens during the Arabic events I throw — like Habibi Hafla. It’s when someone from the crowd yells, ‘Play a Dabke!’ That moment always makes me smile, because what they’re really saying is: Let’s come together.
The Dabke is a traditional line dance — you can think of it like the Greek Zorba or the Italian Tarantella. It’s done in a line and moves in a circle, with people holding hands or locking arms, moving together in rhythm. Each country has its own version — Lebanon, Palestine, Syria — they all perform it slightly differently. The variations might be in the way you stomp or step, but the core idea is always about unity.
And every time it happens at one of my events, the dancefloor transforms. Friends, strangers, partners — even people who aren’t from our culture — all join in. It’s this really beautiful moment of collective joy. Suddenly, the focus shifts away from me and onto the people — they become the heart of the event.
That’s always my favourite part of the night. No matter where I am, when that happens, it brings me so much joy. It’s a genuine expression of togetherness — and it’s so, so sweet to witness.
You're known as an event producer and curator. Could you tell me more about the events you’ve organised and your curatorial approach?
I began by running small R&B nights in tiny venues. Over time, as I built long-lasting relationships with artists and communities across Melbourne’s music scene, it became much easier to collaborate, book talent, and create experiences that reflected my curatorial style.
There are two kinds of events I usually work on: one is self-initiated — ideas I come up with and collaborate directly with venues on, without any funding. The other is through institutions and organisations who approach me to curate for them, based on the trust I’ve built over the years.
One of the first major events I ran was the Rizky's Block Party — an outdoor block party with basketball, breakdancing, and a very old-school hip-hop feel. It was inspired by New York block parties, blending jazz, funk, and breaks. The idea was to create a vibrant mix where the lineup was musically diverse and the crowd could hear something new at every turn. That event had a great run until the scene shifted and the audience moved on — which is natural.
Another significant project was Gallery — a midweek event I started after years of doing youth work and DJ workshops. I noticed open mic nights were dominated by men, and often not very welcoming for women, queer folks, or people from marginalised communities. So I thought, ‘I’ll make a space for them instead.’ Gallery was named like an art gallery, and I booked up-and-coming artists — mostly people of colour, women of colour, and LGBTQIA+ performers — to showcase their work in a space that felt safe and intentional. Safety, to me, means being in a room where you can express yourself freely without feeling intimidated or rushed off stage. That event was really special, and I’ve had artists like Kaiit, Sampha, and Thndo perform there early in their careers.
Because of the trust I’ve built through these projects, institutions often approach me to curate or program for them. I’ve curated stages for Moomba and City of Melbourne, produced shows for Melbourne Museum, worked with the Melbourne International Jazz Festival, and programmed events for Rising and Midsumma at the State Library. A lot of these organisations know I can connect with communities and artists they might not know how to reach.
My curatorial approach really depends on the brief — the space, the time, the audience. But one thing that’s consistent is that I work with artists across multiple genres, cultures, and communities — people who don’t always have the spotlight. I’m fast at pulling lineups together because I’ve built real relationships with so many talented people. And even though I don’t love the word ‘diversity’ because of how it’s been co-opted, I guess if you had to sum it up: I curate events with artists from diverse backgrounds, with intention, respect, and care.
Do you usually address your message to a specific audience? If so, who is it?
I don’t really target a specific audience — I can DJ for anyone, anywhere. I’ve done sets for kids, for older crowds, for clubs, festivals, and community events. That comes from years of listening, collecting, and learning — over time, you become a kind of musical expert.
And not to sound cheesy, but for me, the dancefloor is freedom. When I play, all I want is for people to feel something. To move. To let go. That moment of musical joy you get when you hear a song that hits — that’s what I’m trying to create.
I think my message naturally comes through in how I brand myself and how I show up. People know I’m always up for a fun time. And people who know me really well also know that I don’t drink or do drugs. For me, it’s always been about the music first. Unfortunately, in our culture, that’s not always the case — sometimes it’s party first, music second. But I want the opposite.
I want you to feel the music — in your body, on your skin. And I believe music is for everybody. Everyone should be able to participate in their own way — whether it’s dancing in the middle of the crowd or sitting at the edge just listening. That’s what I try to do every time: create safe, fun, and memorable spaces where people can connect and feel free.
How do you create inclusive spaces? Do you have any guiding principles you follow?
I think guidelines can be really important in some spaces, but for me, over the years and through the many venues I’ve worked with, I’ve built strong relationships with people — from managers to security — who are equally committed to creating safe environments for their patrons.
One of the positives of the internet and social media is that more people are talking about things that didn’t get discussed in the ’90s or 2000s. Issues of consent, respect, and safety are now part of the conversation in ways they weren’t before, and that awareness is changing how venues operate — many now have codes of conduct and clear expectations.
At the events I run, like Habibi Hafla, I make sure people know the space is safe — and that we take action if it isn’t. For example, we often have amazing women performing belly dance. But sometimes, if someone isn’t from a culture where belly dance is familiar, they might misinterpret it — particularly groups of men. And when that happens, I’ve let them know that their behaviour is not appropriate on the mic and made it clear: this isn’t for you, and you need to respect that.
The great thing is, because of the trust I’ve built with venues, if I ask security to remove someone, they don’t question me — they just ask who. That kind of support is key to maintaining a safe and respectful vibe.
Everyone is welcome at my events — please come, participate, dance, join the Dabke, make friends, experience something new. But if you can’t do it respectfully, go away, learn, and come back when you’re ready to be a decent human being.
I try to lead with openness and respect. I especially want the SWANA community to feel celebrated and seen at events like Habibi Hafla, but everyone is welcome — as long as they understand that inclusion also means respecting the space and the people in it.
There’s no perfect formula for creating inclusive spaces — but at the end of the day, if someone’s making others feel unsafe or uncomfortable, you deal with it. Quickly. That’s how we protect the vibe and the people.
Is there a dream project you’ve always wanted to realise, but haven’t had the chance to yet? What would it look like?
There are so many dream projects I’d love to realise! Usually, they involve me DJing somewhere, but also curating and producing events that bring people together around art and culture.
Last year, I curated an event at the Arts Centre called Art Souk, in collaboration with Multicultural Arts Victoria. It was a multidisciplinary arts festival where I could present my vision — mixing arts, music, performances, and community. That experience really showed me what’s possible, and I’d love to do that again on a much larger scale.
I imagine something like a Biennale, with different pavillions representing various minoritised regions and communities. There are so many incredible artists from these regions whose work deserves more visibility and support. While there are many big festivals funded by specific cultural groups, unfortunately, there hasn’t been a platform that brings together those diverse voices under one umbrella — that’s what I want to build.
My dream is to get the funding to run a three-day conference and festival featuring art installations, music performances, workshops, and networking opportunities — a space where communities can connect, celebrate, and create.
Basically, I want to take Art Souk and make it much, much bigger — a powerful, inclusive festival that truly reflects the richness of our multicultural arts scene.
Name a person that inspires you or that you admire.
Someone I really admire and who’s also a dear friend is Chiara Kickdrum — Chiara Costanza. Over the past few years, I’ve watched her evolve from an amazing techno DJ and producer into a brilliant film composer. Seeing her thrive in her art is such an inspiring and uplifting feeling because she’s genuinely a beautiful person.
It’s especially powerful to witness her success in an industry often dominated by men, and yet she’s carving out her own unique path with confidence and talent. We started around the same time — she was into techno, I was into hip hop — so we’ve both been navigating our own journeys in parallel, each finding our own way to grow.
“Dear Chiara,
I’ve been inspired by you for a long time.
The way you move between making movies, performing live, and going to clubs with such ease and purpose really strikes a chord. Your ability to craft immersive soundscapes while staying authentic to your vision has encouraged me to trust my instincts and carve out my own path in music.
I’m thankful to have seen your journey and growth over the years. It has been both grounding and inspiring.”
