The hype and hustle of BUNT.

His ‘In The Round’ shows are all about community—planting him right in the middle of the room amongst his fans. No barriers. No VIP section. Just music, movement, and proximity. “If you want to be next to me,” he says, “just come early.”

But before this thesis had a name, before the floor was cleared and the table dragged to the centre, BUNT. was just another SoundCloud-era dreamer, uploading sun-lit, folky remixes and hoping for a little traction. There was early promise but no blueprint and his shift toward emotionally punchy, vocal-forward stutterhouse felt less like a reinvention than a slow and deliberate steering of the wheel.

Then, like any great internet-era moment, came an unexpected notification: “People started messaging me like, ‘Alex just used your song in a story.’ It was surreal,” Levi Wijk recalls, referring to Alex Pall of The Chainsmokers. “I think he was on holiday or something.”

What followed was the kind of DM-slide most artists fantasize about. Pall followed Wijk, they exchanged messages, and eventually, a proper session in LA was on the table.

“For me, it was just insane. I have so many childhood memories with those guys. I remember when I was seventeen, eighteen, “Closer” was the song we played after Christmas dinner. Every year my family would pick one song to walk through the woods to. That year, it was “Closer”.”

It’s not that BUNT. chased this moment, if anything, he tiptoed into it cautiously. He had a demo already that he'd worked on with Issey Cross but held it back at first. He wanted the collaboration to breathe.

“[Pall and Drew Taggart] were showing me ideas, and I had this one I’d been working on. I didn’t want to play it immediately because then it becomes that version.”

The result was “Spaces”—a song that feels like a natural midpoint between Chainsmokers maximalism and BUNT.'s more emotionally porous aesthetic. It works because it doesn’t scream for attention. It lets the listener walk into it.

“They’re really good at knowing what not to include,” Wijk says. “I’d have ten layers. They’d say, ‘Just keep the clap. That’s enough.’ It sounds bigger when there’s less.”

It’s a lesson in restraint, but also trust, and is emblematic of how Wijk seems to navigate all of this: with a weird mix of childlike awe and ruthless clarity.

Before "Spaces," BUNT. built his reputation on a distinct blend of folk-pop and electronic euphoria. Early tracks like “Young Hearts” and “Oh My Other” introduced his signature use of acoustic textures and jubilant, anthemic choruses. His 2021 project Clouds marked a breakthrough, showcasing a more polished, emotionally resonant sound that leaned into nostalgia without losing momentum. From remixing classics to crafting viral originals, Wijk steadily evolved from blog-era curiosity to a main stage contender.

At a typical club night, the rules are simple: DJ up there, crowd down here. There’s a hierarchy and we’re all not sure why. The best you can do is squirm closer to the front. Wijk never liked that. So he started tearing it down—literally.

“In the round” is what he’s calling it now, but the first time he suggested it, no one took it seriously.

“Years ago like in 2023, we played 100-cap, 200-cap, 300-cap rooms in the U.S. and Europe,” he says. “No tour manager. Just me and my videographer. Two German dudes walking into a club like, ‘Can we rebuild everything?’ And they’d say, ‘You bring zero people and now you want to put the table in the middle?’”

The answer was usually a no, shockingly. But once Wijk’s songs started gaining some traction that all changed. Clubs rewired speaker systems. Safety protocols got bent. And eventually, what started as a half-mad, low-budget idea became the only way Wijk wanted to perform.

“The same people who told me it was impossible are now the ones saying, ‘We’ll only book you if it’s in the round.’ That’s the energy people want.”

This isn’t posturing but spatial politics: No booths, no barriers, no influencer-only corners. The best seat in the house isn’t bought, it’s earned by showing up early. While originators of the idea, Boiler room, have built their brand on virality, Blade-like aesthetics, and people-watching heaven, BUNT. is rethinking the idea of being “up close and personal”.

Looking cool behind the DJ is as old as dance music itself but this isn’t what Wijk wants his fans to walk away thinking. “Even my friends message before a show and ask if they can stand next to me, and I say no,” he states firmly. “That spot should go to the fans who lined up first.”

You can hear the tension in how he talks about the industry's logic and the pressure to scale, monetise, and polish the edges. “People kept telling me, ‘You’re leaving so much money on the table. You could sell premium access. You could charge crazy prices.’ But that’s not what this is.”

If that sounds idealistic, it is. But it’s also a form of emotional self-preservation and as Wijk has learned, joy needs protection – especially when you’re the one responsible for generating it night after night.

In an industry that monetises exclusivity, Wijk is actively devaluing it. The VIP experience at his shows consists of paying slightly more to get in 30 minutes early: “You can’t buy a ticket to stand next to me," he explains. "If you’re early, cool. If not, that’s fine too. But it should feel earned, not bought.”

He describes his early shows as almost DIY. Small theatres, minimal security, no pit barriers. Just bodies moving in synchronicity. The physical closeness reshapes the emotional tone of the night. Songs that start out soft and introspective mutate into something raw and ecstatic.

“The music doesn’t change,” Wijk says. “But the way people respond to it in that setting—it’s like, you know, why is everyone raging to this super emotional track? It doesn’t even make sense. But it works.”

The closer you look, the more Wijk's success starts to resemble a group project – not in the diluted, committee-driven sense but more like a collective orbiting around one person trying to stay human in an industry built to devour people.

“My videographer is also my best friend,” he says as the man himself, Louis Kortmann, walks past our conversation. “We speak German after the show—which really helps. You’re surrounded by strangers all night, and then afterward, it’s like, okay, I can be myself again.”

That detail sounds small, but it’s not. It’s emblematic of how intentional Wijk has been about keeping his circle intact, even as the venues get bigger and the stakes higher. “It’s not about hiring the most experienced people,” he says. “It’s about the people who believed in the project when it wasn’t working.”

Take Nico Crispin, for instance—Wijk’s former creative partner and founding member of BUNT., now no longer making music, but recently invited back on tour as an opener.

“He runs a tennis brand now. He hadn’t played live in years. I just asked, ‘Do you want to come on tour?’ He said yes, and now he’s on the bus with us.” It’s not romanticism but infrastructure and Wijk needs this: the grounding, the familiarity, and the inner circle that doesn’t orbit his hype.

It’s hard to explain just how contentious it can be to look like you’re enjoying yourself onstage. Especially in the DJ world, where credibility often hinges on stoicism, technical perfection, and a general aversion to looking like you’re trying too hard. But Wijk breaks all of those rules and does it on purpose. “I know I’m not going to make the smoothest transitions,” he admits. “My hands are up, I’m engaging with people—I can barely touch the decks. That’s not the point.”

But the criticism is real. Scroll deep enough into any comment thread and you’ll find the purists: DJs accusing him of faking sets, of being style over substance, of not “deserving” the crowds he gets. “It’s always the bedroom DJs,” he laughs. “And I get it. I was that guy once. TikTok wasn’t working for me and I was like, ‘This app is trash.’ Then it worked. Suddenly, I loved it.”

Wijk doesn’t flinch when talking about the hate. but tries to understand it. “If Skrillex and Fred Again can get hate, then I’m fine. It just means people are paying attention. But if you start to hate Skrillex, that's insane,” he laughs. “ I’m the biggest Skrillex fanboy you can imagine but even I hated his music when I first heard it.”

The truth is, Wijk doesn’t even see himself as a DJ but more of a club motivator and hype conductor. “I think a lot of people will critique me and say, 'oh, this guy isn’t a real DJ,' but that’s because I’m not.," he tells me. "’m an entertainer. If people want to see the cleanest transitions or listen to a certain type of music, there’s so many amazing people doing that. I’m just doing something else.”

The most affecting story Wijk tells is about Hamburg show, the first time he headlined in his hometown. He brought his dad on stage and told the crowd about the song’s meaning. “I don’t like being on the mic," he recalls, "but I felt like I had to. Afterward, someone left a one-star review on Ticketmaster. Said I talked too much. That one stuck with me for months.”

It’s an anecdote without resolution. He doesn’t spin it into a moral or a clapback yet the wound is still visible.

But for every critic, there’s a crowd – and for BUNT., the crowds keep getting bigger.