Jeff Mills Live in Manila Felt Like Catching a Comet on its Second Pass

On May 19, Detroit producer, composer and DJ Jeff Mills, also known as “The Wizard,” made his debut performance in Manila in SM Aura Premier’s Samsung Hall in Bonifacio Global City, Taguig. The performance was a part of his months-long global tour, celebrating the 30th anniversary of Live at the Liquid Room – Tokyo, a live mix album recorded in October 1995, and considered by many as Mills’ magnum opus.

The recorded release trims an alleged three‑hour original set to 68 minutes separated into three “segments,” which Mills explained was one of his best flow of tracks in the performance. Mills removes and cues records at impossible speeds, with movements so precise they sound effortless, flying through a pile of vinyl while the average listener can barely track which pattern just morphed into which kick. To many, Mills’ Liquid Room is considered the Rosetta Stone of techno — the art of almost everything related to DJing embodied —— and ground zero for electronic music fans of all stripes.

The Manila event was organized by Groove Nation and spearheaded by Toti Dalmacion who helped pioneer the city’s ‘90s rave scene with its roving party Consortium, bringing in acts like Richie Hawtin, Laurent Garnier, and even two of Detroit’s techno staples Derrick May, and Juan Atkins. Mills, who worked closely with May and Atkins in the late ‘80s and ‘90s, has been a long overdue addition to Manila’s roster of legendary DJ performances, and one that finally happened during one fine Tuesday evening.

The Strings of Life and Liquid Room Influence

The event began with a documentary screening of the same title, featuring commentary by Mills on how he  used reel‑to‑reel tape to capture his set. DJ Nobu, a Japanese techno pioneer in his own right, described being in Liquid Room for Mills’ performance: the room was “bouncy” and elemental, he said; the crowd would drop into a trance, the silence in their heads deafening while Mills pummeled them with sledgehammer kicks and elastic rhythms. At the time, Nobu was a guitarist for his local hardcore punk band in Chiba, until Mills’ set changed his life and pushed him into producing electronic music. Mills also recalled crafting a special track for that Tokyo night: an engineered time bomb to mimic the feeling of a perfectly plotted climax that would eventually be called “i9.”

Then the white cloth of the screen rose. Classical music swelled from the sound system. And there he was. Mills in the flesh. The shock of seeing a legend materialize in a way I won’t forget.

The stage setup was massive. Four monitors flanked his sides. Two vinyl turntables and two digital players hugged the center. A giant road case of records sat like a vault at the back. The star of the build, though, was his booth: concrete hollow blocks topped with a thick plywood slab that was less aesthetic and more functional, preventing the reverberating bass from rattling the turntables as the record needle, or stylus, effectively acted as a microphone blasting out music onto the speakers.

At first, the lighting felt a touch bright for techno’s usual shadow play, but within the first hour the room adjusted. Bodies began to shape‑shift: subtle steps mutating into locked‑in grooves, faces softening into that shared, eyes‑half‑closed recognition. The selections were an education in tension. Mills would drive the kick like a pile driver, then pull back into flickers of syncopation, then slam back down as if reminding everyone: This is a factory heartbeat, this is a machine speaking. 

By the second hour, sub‑bass notes crawled up the spine with cruel patience; other passages went for the eardrums with a thin, piercing blade. Then he teased his signature track “The Bells,” one of techno’s music immortal motifs. The room howled. Soon after, Mills had dropped the big one for faithful techno freaks: May’s “Strings of Life” under his Rhythim Is Rhythim alias. A collective detonation erupted in the crowd when its iconic string-like synths hit.

During Mills’ final stretch of his four-hour set, the crowd wanted more. He obliged with an encore: “The Bells,” again — this time treated like a virtuoso solo, the DJ’s version of a guitarist leaning into feedback. He rode the controller’s highs and lows, flicked the EQs to simulate a drum feature, faded hi‑hats in and out like a conductor cueing percussion. Wizardry, as advertised.

After the show, reality snapped back. The room hummed with that post‑show buzz, a thousand inner monologues trying not to ruin the spell by naming it. Photos and videos weren’t allowed in the event, so when the lights flashed back on, attendees were quick to take a snapshot of Mills’ empty concrete booth; it is an image, a relic, that now lives in the heads among those lucky enough to witness Mills, aged 62, live in Manila. The night reminded partygoers how it could really just be about the music, even in a music scene that can be so caught up in its own optics — like who gets to play, when, and where. You could sense it in how quiet people got between drops, in how strangers grinned at each other when a mix landed perfectly.

In the history of techno, Live at the Liquid Room – Tokyo is a blueprint for how a DJ can architect rhythm, how you can sculpt time with four decks and a plan. Seeing that blueprint redrawn in real life — decades later, across the ocean — felt like catching a comet on its second pass. Techno, they always say, is about machines. Nights like this argue it’s about maintenance — of memory, of community, of faith that repetition can still reveal something new. “The Wizard” took control of time in Manila for one night and it was spectacular.