It’s a blisteringly hot day in Sydney, and the iconic Carriageworks is buzzing with anticipation. A capacity crowd has gathered to witness the Australian debut of Sara Landry, hailed by Billboard as “one of the buzziest names of the current dance music moment.”
Born in the U.S. but now based in the Netherlands, Landry has been riding a wave of acclaim ever since her electrifying Boiler Room set in 2023 catapulted her into the spotlight. Tonight, that wave crashes into Sydney, with a palpable weight of expectation from the crowd.
“It’s been made very clear to me that my highest purpose in this life path is to be a conduit for connection, for alignment, and for, I think, ascension. I’m supposed to be using my powers or whatever gifts I was given in this lifetime to create a space where people can come and feel safe, to let themselves go and open themselves spiritually and mentally and energetically to receive these higher frequencies.” Sara Landry in DJ Mag
An exponent of “hard techno,” Landry arrives armed with her debut album Spiritual Driveby, released on her own Hekate Records—a nod to the Greek goddess of the underworld, fitting for her dark, pulsating beats. The Carriageworks, a converted industrial space steeped in history and now Sydney’s premier hub for contemporary arts and music, feels tailor-made for her sound. Fresh from catching Jamie xx here just last week, it’s clear this venue is carving out a reputation as the beating heart of Sydney’s dance scene. Tonight, it’s Landry’s turn to test its walls—and its limits.
Before the night detonates into its final form—the crowd is coaxed into a fevered readiness by Bella Claxton and Kander, the room is a pressure cooker, its walls reverberating with the energy of a crowd that’s already reached the brink.
When Sara Landry finally takes the stage, I’m struck by her diminutive figure, dwarfed by the towering DJ setup and monolithic speakers. But the illusion of smallness is obliterated the moment the first beat drops. From that second on, it’s clear—Landry is no mere performer tonight. She’s a goddess, and Carriageworks is her cathedral.
Every knob she twists, every pulse of bass, every hiss of a perfectly timed drop transforms the space. The industrial shell of the venue—its exposed beams and cavernous echoes—becomes her altar, the sold-out crowd her devoted congregation. Behind her, a cadre of fans gathers in reverence, leaning forward as if proximity to her magic might grant them some otherworldly wisdom.
There’s a precision to her set, a razor-sharp focus that makes her every move feel deliberate and destined. Yet, there’s also an undeniable sense of play—moments when she tweaks a dial, lets a beat hang just a second longer than expected, and then slams it home so hard you feel it reverberate in your chest.
By the end of the night, it’s not just her fans who are converts. Everyone in the room has been swept into her orbit, leaving with the sense that they’ve witnessed something special, something divine.
