In 2022, Italian electronic music producer, DJ, and sonic alchemist Go Dugong—real name Giulio Fonseca—embarked on a journey to Venezuela for an artistic residency organised by the HAPE Collective. Little did he know, the experience would profoundly reshape his artistic path and possibly life.

The residency was designed to foster meaningful cultural exchanges between artists from around the world. What began as an invitation soon evolved into something far deeper, eventually giving rise to the album Madre, released in November 2024. “I accepted and flew to Venezuela, where I met Carlos,” Go Dugong says. Once in Venezuela, Go Dugong crossed paths with Washé (Carlos Conde), a local musician, researcher and co-founder of Ethco Record, dedicated to preserving and studying indigenous Venezuelan music.

The introduction was made by Simone Buosi, HAPE’s founder, who had recently met Washé in Caracas and been captivated by his work. “At that time, HAPE Caracas had just been established as the Venezuelan branch of the collective,” Go Dugong recalls. “Simone, who was living in the city, met Washé and was blown away by the depth and scope of his research.” It’s not hard to see why Simone would connect the two. Dugong had already been exploring traditional Southern Italian rhythms, particularly from his native Puglia. “Simone knew that I’d been researching traditional rhythms from Southern Italy, so he thought—artistically—you’re kindred spirits.”

Their residency unfolded in two very different landscapes: the sprawling, chaotic capital of Caracas, and the untamed depths of the Venezuelan Amazon. But before the music could begin, they had to learn how to speak to one another, musically and otherwise. They began with no expectations. “At first, we just played a bit to understand each other’s approaches. I didn’t know much—anything, really—about Venezuelan indigenous music.” The early sessions were improvised and uncertain, a slow feeling-out process. “I explained my research, he explained his, and there was a natural exchange. We began improvising together. Once we’d broken the ice musically, we stopped and began discussing what we actually wanted to express through the music.”

Before the trip, their differing approaches to music were already noticeable. Carlos was instinctive, raw. “He’ll pick up an instrument and just start recording.” Go Dugong, by contrast, was methodical. “I tend to explore a sound until it inspires something else.” Surprisingly, they found unexpected links between traditions. “The Wayuu use an instrument called the trompa, which is almost identical to the Sicilian marranzano, a jaw harp. It looks and sounds the same,” he says. Elsewhere, echoes of Sardinian launeddas and the ciaramella emerged in Venezuelan wind instruments.

Rhythmically, though, the divergences were more pronounced. Go Dugong, drawn to the trance-inducing pulse of tambourines and frame drums, found a quieter, more ritualistic sense of rhythm in the indigenous Venezuelan soundscape. “The African influence you find in other Venezuelan traditions isn’t really present in the indigenous forms. They use maracas a lot, but rhythm isn’t dominant.”

The project’s learning curve was steep. Dugong’s curiosity about the ritual significance of instruments pushed him deeper into the complexities of indigenous culture. “It’s extremely complex,” he says. “When we visited communities in the Amazon, we realised just how hard it is to understand which instruments belong to which ethnic group, what their roles are. There are over 50 groups, each with their own languages, rituals, and instruments. I’ve seen maybe 0.5%, just in Venezuela.”

And what of his own traditions? Dugong introduced Carlos to the healing music of Tarantism, the cathartic rituals once performed to purge women of the spider’s poison through rhythm and dance. “I explained the instruments, the stories, but honestly, we didn’t dive too deeply. Being there, the focus naturally shifted to Venezuela.”

The first recordings emerged from this convergence of ideas and approaches. “We began with ‘Tierra’ and ‘Agua’. ‘Tierra’ was originally one long track, but we split it. It became both the intro and the outro of the album.” Both were recorded live, with minimal editing. “It was one of those rare moments where the first take just felt right.”

They used visuals to shape the sound. “For ‘Tierra,’ we drew the geological layers of the Earth, from the surface down to the magma. That diagram became our score. As we played, we moved through each layer, trying to express it in sound.” ‘Agua’ followed a similar path, fluid, formless, free of any grid or metronome. “Just pure improvisation,” Go Dugong smiles. “That became a strong foundation.”

But the project only truly came alive when they asked themselves, “What are we trying to say with this music?” Go Dugong pauses. “Until then, it sounded good, but it felt empty. Like a blank page with random scribbles. Aesthetically nice, but without meaning.” It was meaning, narrative, imagery, emotional charge, that gave the project its shape. “I need to have an image in my head,” Go Dugong says. “A film, a story, a photograph. Something that drives the music.”

The story gradually revealed itself, Go Dugong explains, once he and Carlos began to dig deeper into the meaning behind the sounds. “Yes, gradually. It really came together when we began talking about nature, our relationship with it. How it’s not just about birdsong and gentle breezes,” he says, shaking off the clichéd image. “There’s a kind of romanticised version of nature in a lot of music, relaxing, floating, pretty. But for us, it was more of a Herzogian vision.” 

Not conflictual, but something wilder. “Yes, violent, chaotic, unpredictable. Nature is a constant cycle of life, death, decay, rebirth. It’s incomprehensible in many ways,” he says. That’s when the idea took shape. “So we said, let’s go to the Amazon. Let’s immerse ourselves in that chaos, feel its energy and try to channel it into our work.”

They left Caracas and headed towards the rainforest, not for spectacle or field recordings, but to confront something more elemental. “We wanted to immerse ourselves fully, not just in sound but in the ethics of what we were doing. We wanted to meet the communities, understand the context, make sure we were engaging respectfully.”

The immersion lasted two weeks. No electricity, no fixed location. “Sleeping on the ground or in hammocks. You’re exposed to the jungle twenty-four seven.” For Carlos, it wasn’t entirely new, but it was still intense. “He’d visited before, but more urban areas of the Amazon. This was different. We brought a few instruments with us, found others there. I just had my recorder.”

They recorded on site, exploring a kind of sonic dialogue with the environment. “One thing we really wanted to explore was a kind of call and response with nature. Carlos’s instruments are incredibly organic, they almost demand to be played in natural spaces. We wanted to see whether certain locations, especially those considered energetically powerful, might respond in some way.” Sometimes they did. Other times, it was the silence that spoke loudest. “The silence itself could be overwhelming, deafening even. It wasn’t empty. It was full, as if the jungle were holding its breath.”

The pair stayed with three different indigenous communities. The first stop was near the entrance to the Amazon, eight or nine hours by car from Caracas. “Puerto Ayacucho was the first stop,” he says. From there, they followed the Orinoco River and its tributaries. “In the first community, of the Huottüja people, also known as the Piaroa, although I prefer Huottüja, as Piaroa was a name given by the Spanish, meaning ‘red skin’,” he explains, “we watched documentaries together, learning about their rituals and traditions.”

Then came an eight-hour canoe trip to a community near the sacred tepui, the Wahari-Kuawai or Cerro Autana, a flat-topped mountain central to local cosmology. “According to their cosmology, that’s where life began. It’s an incredibly sacred place. You can see it from the community, but no one is allowed to climb it.”

They later visited Paraka-Wachoe or Lake Leopoldo, another sacred site. “We recorded there too, some of those sounds ended up in ‘Agua’. But the community didn’t play, Carlos and I recorded everything. The locals simply guided us to powerful places”.

Their final stop brought them to the home of a Huottüja shaman named Rufino Ponare. It was here that Go Dugong underwent a ritual involving yopo, a plant containing DMT. “It was a powerful experience, really.” The weight of the whole journey settled on him. “Honestly, I can say it changed my life. There’s a clear before and after for me. That experience altered my relationship with nature, it changed a lot of things. I’d say it sparked a spiritual path that I’m still on today.”

The ritual took place at night in a churruguata, a communal hut shared by the whole community. “Most of the community sleeps in hammocks inside, and a smaller group, including us, gathered around the shaman for the ritual,” he explains. “You sit in a semicircle on your stool. The shaman chisels seeds from the yopo plant, which contains DMT. He calls each participant forward, one by one, and you inhale the powdered yopo. It’s similar to ayahuasca in effect, but not in form: yopo is inhaled, not drunk.”

Once it begins, the participant goes to their stool and sits down. “The effect lasts about an hour. You start having visions. The shaman sings throughout, guiding the process.” Sometimes there are maracas. “I remember the moment the songs started. I had my eyes closed, head resting on my legs. You adopt that position because yopo often induces vomiting, you have to be ready, or you could choke.” Even vomiting becomes part of the ritual. “You’re even encouraged to look at it, some believe there can be visions in it.”

The ceremony goes on until sunrise. “You repeat the process. It wasn’t easy. I had visions. Not about myself, but about the community. They weren’t good visions. Bad omens. I was kept there until the end, with the shaman singing constantly. I think he was negotiating with the spirits, trying to reach an agreement, to release something.” In the end, the shaman told them all was well. From that night came the track ‘Yopo’. “We played it for the shaman afterwards,” he adds. “He listened, nodded, and gave it his blessing.”

“The music almost faded into the background at a certain point,” he says. “It was such a powerful, intense experience. I stayed for a month, two weeks in Caracas, two in the Amazon.”  Those final two weeks left a deep imprint. “At first it’s shocking, physically difficult. You’re exhausted, constantly on alert, swarmed by insects. It’s not peaceful. The forest isn’t a serene, relaxing place, it’s raw and wild. You have to be present every second.”

That disorienting chaos, the one he had spoken of earlier, eventually gave way to something more grounded. “Gradually, your body starts to adapt. Your senses open up. You become more attuned, more perceptive, less tired. You respond more quickly to your surroundings.” When he returned to Italy, he felt transformed. “I came back in this incredible psychophysical state, strong, balanced, grounded. Like a mountain.”

But there was another layer to it. “Mentally, I was sharp. And because I was so focused, a lot came up: old traumas, unresolved things. It was too much at once, so I sought help. I needed someone to help me navigate it all, to make sense of what I was uncovering.” He didn’t want to repress it. “No. I was overflowing. I needed someone to help me process it, so those things wouldn’t affect my present anymore.”

That led him further afield, this time to India. “I ended up there twice this year. I stayed in an ashram, a protected space. Energetically clean. It helped me focus on my inner world.” That silence, that internal realignment, echoed deeply into his creative practice. “It set off something huge, a deep transformation. It changed everything, including my relationship with music.”

Before all this, music was survival. Identity. Existence. “I used to say, ‘If I don’t make music, I don’t exist.’ I felt my identity was completely tied to it. Now, that’s gone.” He still makes music. Still loves the energy of it. But the impulse has changed. “I make music because I enjoy it. Because it makes me feel good. But I don’t need it to live. I’m not attached to the result anymore. What matters is giving everything I have in the process.” It’s the process that matters now. The ritual of making. “Exactly. The process. That’s everything.”

His connection to Southern Italy is still intact, still pulsing in the background. “When I was in Venezuela, I still had to finish some work connected to that research. Beyond the residency, I had to take a break now and then because I had a delivery due, an album, actually.” That project continues his engagement with Italian folk traditions, while something else begins to stir. “That chapter isn’t closed. The album should be out in March. And I’ve also been working with Lorenzo d’Erasmo, experimenting with slowing down pizzica rhythms into something looser and more stretched. Sort of a ‘pizzica rebajada’, if you will. Played slow, not just pitched down.”

Back in Italy and the studio, Madre—the album born out of Go Dugong’s Venezuelan journey—began to take on new dimensions. It was enriched by collaboration with both local Venezuelan and Italian musicians “We worked with two Venezuelan artists: composer and electronic musician Miguel Noya and Austrian-born Venezuelan jazz musician Gerry Weil. I met Miguel while I was there. We didn’t get to play together in person, but we talked a lot, about music, spirituality, psychedelia. We had a deep connection, and when I returned to Italy, we worked remotely. Gerry Weil sadly had just passed away. A few days ago. He was 85. A true legend in Venezuelan jazz. And such a force, both musically and personally.”

From Italy, as well as Simbo, [Simone Buosi’s artistic name], Go Dugong brought in Clap! Clap! [Cristiano Crisci] and DJ Khalab [Raffaele Costantino]. “With Simbo, the collaboration was very natural. He organised the residency and came on the Amazon trip with us, so we spent a lot of time in the studio. That’s how Manaca came about.” While Clap! Clap! and DJ Khalab were “two old friends, though we’d never made music together before,” Dugong felt they were a perfect fit. “I felt they had the right sensitivity for this kind of material. I told them everything, about the residency, the experience, the concept. We had a long call, I shared the tracks with them, and gave them a couple of options to choose from, where they felt most inspired to contribute.”

Translating this project live has been its own challenge. “Doing it solo wouldn’t excite me. So I’ve decided to build a live show with other musicians. That means rethinking the tracks, giving them new life. It’s stimulating.” The line-up is already in place. “Drums will be Giovanni Todisco, he’s got insane groove, one of the best I know. On trumpet, Iasko. And for sax, Lorenzo Faraò from Addict Ameba.”

The sound design will be immersive. “To reinterpret Carlos’s indigenous instruments, I’ll use more classical brass—trumpet and saxophone—but played to mimic the original textures: flutes, clarinets, animal-like sounds.” And yes, there will be visuals. “Definitely. I’m working with a friend using AI to build psychedelic visual material—something immersive. It’s shaping up to be a full package.”

The first dates are already scheduled. “Starting in spring 2025: Milan, Rome, Naples, maybe Turin. February and March. Then we’ll look at summer festivals.” Europe is on the horizon. “That’s the hope. Womex-type showcases would be perfect. It’s a project with potential. If we could bring it to Washington, even for a couple of shows, it would be amazing.”

As for what’s next, nothing is closed off. “I’m always open. I don’t close chapters. I actually met a few musicians in Venezuela I’d love to collaborate with. One that really makes me dream is Oksana Linde.” The Venezuelan composer and ambient electronic pioneer? “Yes. We’re in touch. I’d love to do something with her. Also Miguel again, and maybe Washé. We’ll see where it leads. I’m also thinking about returning to Venezuela.” Or maybe bringing Venezuela to Puglia. “Funny you mention that, we actually thought about it. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but it could work. Especially during the summer festival season, or the traditional festas in town squares. That would be really cool.”

His connection with HAPE Collective is still very much alive. “For now, we’re focused on this release, it only came out a few months ago. We’ll see how things evolve. When the time comes, I’m sure we’ll come up with something new.” Simone, the driving force behind HAPE, remains central to it all. “He moved from Chad to Venezuela. He’s a real force of nature. Wherever he goes, he brings people together, creates connections, sparks ideas. I’d love for you to learn more about him: the whole story behind HAPE, from the album with Gilles Peterson in Cuba to Nickodemus & Pulo NDJ in Chad, and now this project in Venezuela. He’s been doing this for over a decade. And he only works with people he trusts, which, somehow, includes me too, strangely enough.” Go Dugong bursts into laughter, as if still surprised to find himself part of it all.

As our chat winds down, Go Dugong takes a moment to reflect. When asked how he might describe the experience to someone with no prior context, no reference point, he pauses, then begins carefully, as if drawing a line between memory and meaning. “In a nutshell, it’s a project where two people from very different cultures came together to explore their relationship with nature. To do that, we immersed ourselves completely—in the Amazon—for two weeks. We tried to capture that energy in the music. I hope anyone listening to the album can close their eyes and picture those landscapes, and somehow feel what we felt during that time.”

Asked whether that depth would be still perceptible without the shamanic rituals that came later, he nods without hesitation. “Of course,” he says. “That came at the very end of the trip, actually, on the last day. It didn’t shape the experience itself. Everything I brought into the music was felt in full clarity during those earlier days.” He pauses, then adds, almost with reverence, “The Amazon is powerful enough on its own. It’s like being in the place where life began. There’s an energy there that I’ve never felt anywhere else.”

That energy, he believes, made its way into the record, particularly in ‘Selva’, which he feels comes closest to capturing the raw, overwhelming force of the rainforest. “I think we got pretty close, maybe 90 percent,” he says. “That one really channels the rawness of the jungle. So yes, I think we reached something meaningful with this record.”

Even if the album only came out in November, it’s already two years old in his mind. He finished it long ago, and though he can still hear things he’d fix—“parts I’d change, the mix, a few details”—he doesn’t dwell on it. “That’s always the case. You grow. You learn. But I’m still happy with it, which is rare for me. That experience was what it was, and the record reflects it. If I did it now, it would be something else entirely.”

Since then, new ideas have begun to take shape. Some born of that same ritual energy, others taking different directions. “Lots of experiments,” he says. The slowed-down pizzica project is still alive, still evolving. At the same time, he’s diving into something faster, more urgent: “ritual-inspired footwork,” as he describes it. “Different cultures, different tempos. Still rooted in that ritualistic energy.”

And then it’s done. The jungle recedes, the recorder clicks off, and for a beat, there’s only silence. But it’s not the end. The ritual continues—quietly, steadily—just beneath the surface.

Madre, the collaborative album born from Go Dugong and Washé’s shared journey for HAPE Collective,
was released on 08/11/2024 via 42 Records.

You can listen and purchase a copy HERE

Cover Image by: Gustavo Vera Febres-Cordero