The first edition of DJ Rituals began in the quiet hour before the show. Coffee, silence, water, nerves, bananas, USBs, and the practical details that keep an artist steady before stepping into the booth. In case you missed you can read it here.
This second edition begins somewhere even more intimate: with the things artists carry.
Not just objects, but pieces of home. A familiar taste. A quick call. A private scent. A drink that steadies the body. A few humble items, almost invisible from the outside, but powerful enough to make a hotel room feel less temporary, a tired body feel less drained, or a night feel a little more manageable.
Touring is often sold as movement. Airports, stages, lights, cities, rooms, and sunrise photos. But inside that motion, artists are constantly trying to create stillness. The ritual is not always about getting ready to perform. Sometimes it is about finding a way to feel human before the performance asks for everything.
For Guy Mantzur, the hour before the show is a space he protects carefully.
“I find the hour before the show really important for how the show will look and feel,” he says. “I love to have this hour free of overthinking, more relaxed and focused, so I finish working on the set before and do not hear any more music.”
Instead of adding more noise, Mantzur turns inward.
“I meditate, breathe, think with my eyes closed,” he says. “Then I usually call home, talking to my wife and child. It always helps me keep my feet on the ground.”
That call matters. In a life built around movement, home becomes something you do not only leave behind. You learn how to carry it with you.
And then, coffee plays its own part in that ritual.
“When I am traveling, I always bring my favorite coffee from home,” he says. “I love it so much, and it sends me directly to my hometown.”
The detail has become part of his circle.
“Everyone knows it already, so usually when I am playing with Guy J or Sahar Z, they call me thirty minutes before the show and say, ‘Mantzur, we are coming to your room. We want to drink some of this special coffee.’”
There is something beautiful in that image. Not the mythology of the booth, not the peak time photo, but friends gathering in a hotel room before the night begins, drinking coffee that tastes like home.
His rider reflects the same simplicity.
“Water, dry fruits, and some bananas,” he says. “Sometimes these things can save you.”
For Magit Cacoon, the pre-show ritual begins with slowing down.
“In the hour before I leave for the club, I usually need a little quiet moment to reconnect with myself,” she says. “I listen to music that has nothing to do with the set I am about to play and try to slow my mind down for a few minutes before the intensity of the night begins.”
That answer points to a different kind of preparation. Not the last technical check. Not a final push toward adrenaline. A soft return to presence before walking into a room designed to pull energy outward.
“It helps me arrive feeling present and emotionally connected, not just technically prepared,” she says.
On her rider, the item that matters most is simple.
“One thing on my rider that definitely makes me smile and helps me survive the night is coconut water,” Cacoon says. “Long flights, lack of sleep, and constantly changing environments can really drain you, so having that with me helps my body stay balanced between all the alcohol and junk food on the road.”
Again, the object is ordinary. That is the point. Touring has a way of turning ordinary things into anchors. A drink, a snack, a quiet room, a few minutes without demands. What seems minor from the outside can become the detail that keeps the body in rhythm.
For Rodriguez Jr., the ritual begins by making a temporary room feel less temporary.
“I like to feel at home in my hotel room, even if I am only staying there for a few hours,” he says. “Over the years, I have developed a few little rituals to make any room feel like my own: family photos, a stick of palo santo, the teas and cosmetics I always travel with.”
Before heading to the club, those details become part of a quiet sequence.
He puts on music that has nothing to do with the set, irons his shirt, makes jasmine green tea, and takes a cold shower.
“Touring can be chaotic, so those moments help me slow down and reset my operating system,” he says.
His rider’s answer takes the ritual somewhere deeper.
“It might be the ginger shots,” he says. “That is not something I talk about very often, as I hate sounding preachy, but after many years of excess I decided to go sober, about seven years ago.”
The ginger shot has become more than a health item. It is a replacement for an old reflex.
“In a funny way, those ginger shots have replaced the tequila shots I used to take before going on stage,” he says. “They deliver the same kind of wake-up call, that little slap in the face that cuts through the fog and helps me deal with anxiety, stress, and self-doubt before a performance. And no hangover to deal with.”
It is one of those private details that opens a much larger door. The ritual is not about purity, image, or performance wellness. It is about finding a new way to face the same pressure. The same nerves. The same room. The same need to step into the booth with enough clarity to give something real.
What connects these answers is not luxury. It is care.
Mantzur carries home through coffee and family. Cacoon carries balance through quiet and coconut water. Rodriguez Jr. carries a private room with him through photos, tea, palo santo, and ginger shots. These are not demands. They are tools. Quiet defenses against the speed of a life spent moving through places that rarely belong to you.
The outside world sees the artist arrive at the booth. It sees the lights change, the first record land, and the crowd respond. It rarely sees the private work that happens before that moment: the call home, the drink made slowly, the shirt being ironed, the eyes closed, the body trying to steady itself before the room gets loud.
That is the heart of DJ Rituals.
The night may belong to the dance floor, but the preparation belongs to the artist. And sometimes, the things that hold it all together are not dramatic at all.
A cup of coffee. A banana. A bottle of coconut water. A ginger shot. A few minutes of quiet.
The things artists carry are small, but on the road, small things can save the night.
