We meet ÀRỌ̀NÌ at the Hull Paragon Interchange, mid-afternoon, the concourse doing what it always does — announcements, wheeled suitcases, someone’s kid losing it near the WHSmith. ÀRỌ̀NÌ stands still in the middle of it in a full helmet and a hand-stitched Morrocan Hooded Djellaba, and it takes about two seconds for the whole platform to clock it. A woman with a pushchair does a full double-take and doesn’t stop staring until she’s out the door. Two lads filming on their phones without even pretending not to.
It doesn’t let up. Walking out of the station towards the Ferens, cars actually slow down at the lights to look. Down on Humber Street, someone leans out of an upstairs window to get a better angle. Outside a terrace on the way to the Deep, a woman stops mid-sip, mug halfway to her mouth, and just watches us pass. Nobody in this city has seen anything quite like it, and it shows — every single stretch of the walk, somebody stops what they are doing.
That’s sort of the point, we will learn. ÀRỌ̀NÌ isn’t a costume that shows up for the show and disappears after. It walks through the city like this, and the city notices every time. We talked for about forty minutes, by the Deep’s waterfront, outside the Ferens Art Gallery, down on Humber Street, back at the station, and the answers came slower than we expected. A few times there just wasn’t an answer, and that told us something too.
This Friday, 3rd July, 2026, ÀRỌ̀NÌ steps out for the first time as a live curator, at The Gidi Vibes’ second anniversary show, First Signal, at Polar Bear Music Club. Here’s most of what we talked about.
Let’s start simple. Who are you?
Long pause. Then: “That’s the one question I can’t help you with.” Not unfriendly, almost apologetic. “I know it is the obvious opener. But if I answer it, everything after gets read through that answer instead of through the music. So — no. Ask me something else.”
Fair enough. What do you actually do, then, if not DJ?
“I curate. I know that sounds like I am dodging the question again, but it isn’t the same job.” A beat. “A DJ reads a room and reacts to it in real time — which is its own skill, a hard one. What I am doing on Friday is closer to… I have already decided the whole journey, months of it, before anyone’s in the building. My job on the night is to make that decision feel like it’s happening live, like it was never planned at all.”
Is that not the same thing DJs say though?
A short laugh — you can hear it even through the helmet. “Probably. Ask me again after Friday and I might have a better answer. I have never actually done this bit live before.”
That’s honest.
“It’s the truest thing I have said so far.”
We ask about Crossroads, the name for the whole concept, the sound ÀRỌ̀NÌ is bringing into the room this weekend. Afrobeats sliding into Amapiano, into 3-Step, into Afrohouse, without — theoretically — anyone noticing the exact moment it happened.
Why Crossroads?
“Because nothing interesting happens in the middle of a road. It happens where two roads meet and you have to choose. Afrobeats crowd meets Amapiano crowd meets house-heads who have never really been given Afrobeats in a way that respects them. Friday is built for all three to end up standing in the same spot without feeling herded there.”
Do you worry it doesn’t land? That people just feel the genre change and go ‘oh, this isn’t for me’ and head to the bar?
Longer pause here than any other question. “Yes. Genuinely, yes. That is the risk I have built the whole set around and I won’t know if it worked until I’m in it.”
A couple on the gallery steps behind us have stopped their own conversation entirely to watch.
We are stood outside the Ferens right now — did you pick these locations, or did the photographer?
“A bit of both. The Deep, the Ferens, the Interchange — they are not decoration. Hull’s been quietly building itself into a serious music city, the UNESCO conversation, Felabration going through here — and most of the culture writing about that never puts the music next to the buildings that are actually saying it out loud. I wanted a photo of me at the Ferens the way I would want someone to look at Friday’s set. Like there’s more in it than the first glance gives you.”
Because nothing interesting happens in the middle of a road. It happens where two roads meet and you have to choose.
That’s a very curator answer. “I’ll take that.”
thisisaroni · Paths & Frequencies — Curated by Àrọ̀nìYou have also got Paths & Frequencies on Venn Radio. How’s Friday different from that?
“Radio’s private, in a way — even though people are listening, it doesn’t ask anything of them in the moment. Friday asks something. It asks a room full of people to trust me for three and a half hours without knowing where it’s going. That’s a much bigger thing to ask of strangers than a monthly show.”
Are you nervous?
Silence, for long enough that we nearly moved on. Then: “Yeah. I will say that plainly — yeah, I am. First time doing any of this live, new equipment I have barely had time with, a room full of people who came out for a reason I have to actually deliver on. I would be more worried if I wasn’t nervous.”
One of the shots from this shoot has you next to H.I.M The Sage. What’s his part in this?
“He’s one of four live voices on the night — he brings The Voice, that’s how it’s billed, and he’ll know exactly why when he’s up there. Alen Allaw, DeeMoe, Rohees, B.O.G, and AbidemiSax on sax throughout — that’s the night, if you’re counting.” A pause. “I’m not going to explain what everyone does before they’ve done it. Part of Friday is that even the people who know the lineup on paper don’t fully know what it means yet.”
Will we ever see your face?
“Wrong question — you always ask that one last, people always do.” A pause, and for the first time all afternoon it doesn’t feel like a deflection so much as someone actually thinking about it. “Maybe someday. Not Friday. Friday you will hear more of me than you will ever see, and I think that’s the right way round.”
That’s where we left it — ÀRỌ̀NÌ heading back into the Paragon crowd, and the whole concourse doing exactly what it’s done all afternoon. Heads turning. Someone’s dad nudging his son to look. A woman by the ticket machines just stops, mid-tap of her card, and stares until the crowd swallows the helmet whole. Three hours across this city and not one person let it pass them by.
