PUBLISHED February 11th, 2026 06:41 pm
Natasha Hassan has never spoken about music in terms of ambition. There is no clear origin story, no neat arc from discovery to recognition. Instead, she talks about proximity; staying close enough to sound, people, and systems long enough to understand how they work, and when they stop working.
Based in Singapore, Natasha is known across the underground as TASHASAN is a DJ, illustrator, and community organiser. But those labels only gesture at the surface. What drives her work is quieter and more deliberate: an attention to structure, responsibility, and the emotional labour of holding space, on the dancefloor and beyond it.
We sat down with her recently and as our conversation unfolded slowly, what follows is a considered portrait of how Natasha thinks about music, community, and the ongoing work of making space in Singapore.
Before the Decks: Listening First
Before DJing, Natasha was already listening closely. She describes herself as deeply introverted, someone who absorbs more than she performs even if that’s not always how she’s perceived publicly.
“I’m actually a very introverted person. But because I’ve been working in this media and music industry for so long, I’m able to put up this front that is a little bit confident… like I could socialise and all that.”
That outward confidence, she explains, is learned. Music was never about being seen. It was private, immersive, and wide-ranging, extending well beyond electronic genres. Long before she touched a set of decks, she was collecting references, rhythms, and emotional textures, storing them away without knowing exactly where they would surface.
That same inward logic shaped her visual work. Under the name Poogazi, she spent years illustrating surreal characters disguised as humans; exaggerated, playful, but deliberate. Looking back, the connection feels obvious. DJing didn’t arrive as a pivot, but as an extension of how her mind already worked.
From Illustration to Sound
For Natasha, DJing was not a leap into performance culture. It felt closer to translation. Sound became another way of organising feeling, tension, and release. Like illustration, it was about sequencing, choosing what to include, what to withhold, and how long to let something breathe.
“Because I am a designer, I feel like DJing was a natural progression or an easy transition… the framework kind of translate easily,” she explains.
DJing was also accessible in a way that instruments weren’t. Surrounded by producers and musicians, she saw it as a way to participate meaningfully in a culture she respected. That accessibility, however, came with its own sense of obligation.
“It’s not just DJing for fun,” she says elsewhere in the conversation. Being close to people who had paved the way before her sharpened her sense of responsibility to show up prepared, intentional, and honest.
When Music Became Necessary and Then Difficult
There was a moment when music stopped being something Natasha enjoyed and became something she needed. Later, it became something she had to step away from. Working within a major corporate music environment exposed her to how visibility is manufactured, from playlist placements to pay-to-play dynamics. Seeing the mechanics up close was destabilising.
“I really lost all the meaning for my love for music because of what I saw… and I was the contributing factor to this.”
The disillusionment ran deep enough that she stopped listening altogether. Music, once a refuge, became something she couldn’t engage with honestly. For a period, she replaced it with podcasts and white noise, putting distance between herself and the thing that had once defined her inner life.
That pause wasn’t dramatic, but it was necessary. When she eventually returned to listening, it was with fewer illusions and clearer boundaries. Music no longer needed to be everything. It just needed to be intentional again.
Responsibility, Community, and Making Space
Natasha half-jokingly describes her sound as “socially responsible, conscious booty bass.” The phrasing is playful, but the intent behind it is not. For her, shaping a dancefloor is never neutral. It means shaping energy, mood, and attention and that comes with responsibility.
“We are in a privileged position to be doing this, and I feel we should remind ourselves that we still have a responsibility as a human being to always speak up on issues that are happening around us.”
That responsibility doesn’t show up as slogans or overt messaging. It lives in selection, pacing, and restraint, in resisting the urge to flatten everything into easy release. Her sets are physical and bass-driven, but they leave room for tension and reflection.
It also extends beyond sound. As a woman, and as a brown woman, navigating Singapore’s electronic music ecosystem, Natasha is candid about the unevenness that still exists. While race shapes her experience, she points out that gender remains the more persistent barrier, especially when it comes to lineups and access.
As a booker and organiser, she often finds herself wishing there were more women to choose from, not for optics, but because opportunity and development remain uneven. Her response has never been to centre herself louder, but to quietly build environments she once needed: intentional, supportive, and grounded in trust rather than hype.
Projects like North East Social Club, and later Huru-Hara, grew out of that impulse. When North East came to an end, it did so with the sense that its work was done. Huru-Hara now reflects a shift toward regional exchange, particularly between Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, focusing on Southeast Asian artists who are often overlooked.
When Natasha looks ahead, she avoids grand statements. What feels unresolved isn’t her career, but how to continue doing this work without losing herself to it: how to stay present, responsible, and curious without burning out. That quieter recalibration has also led her back to Keep Hush, the London-born platform she first brought to Singapore as a community-led collaboration rooted in listening rather than spectacle. Its upcoming second local edition draws from the sounds and relationships that have shaped her approach to nightlife over the years, taking place on 3 April at RASA (stay tuned for more information).
For now, she listens. She builds carefully. She makes space where she can.
In a city that often prioritises visibility over depth, Natasha’s work is a reminder that some of the most meaningful contributions happen quietly on the floor, behind the scenes, and in the spaces we choose to protect.
Follow @_natashahassan on Instagram to be updated on her latest happenings.