Words and Interview by Cat Lewis
Most musicians in the UK can’t live off music. Recent figures show only 13% manage it. Nearly half earn under £14,000 a year from their work. The solution for many is diversification—gigging, teaching, bar work, whatever pays. Benjamin Yellowitz took this approach further than most: they’re a nonbinary, UK-based singer, songwriter, producer, sound engineer, sound designer, session musician, touring artist, audiovisual engineer, and festival crew.
They built a career where losing one income stream wouldn’t sink them.
With so much going on across genres and income streams, Benjamin had to figure out how to present their work without flattening it. They landed on separation.
“Benjamin Yellowitz is my acoustic project. Yellowitz is my electronic stuff. It’s a funny juggle.”
By 2023, it was working—they’d signed a publishing deal with Hummus Music and collaborated with major electronic producers on tracks that reached millions of listeners worldwide. It should have been their moment.
Then they lost their voice.
A polyp formed on one of their vocal cords. They needed surgery and several months of vocal rest—no singing or speaking. Suddenly, the busiest year of their life ground to a halt.
Now, Benjamin sits across from me in a black shirt and a pearl necklace, voice intact, telling me why silence is a good thing.
What did you do before music?
“There is no before music,” Benjamin laughs. “It’s been part of my life since childhood. I want to say I’ve always been rhythmically blessed, but that sounds wrong—I’ve always been able to play. At school, I got told off a lot. I constantly tapped. I couldn’t stop talking or tapping.”
Benjamin grew up in Kings Heath, Birmingham, the UK’s second biggest city in the West Midlands. Their earliest inspiration came from their parents—both were in a band called Indecision—and Benjamin smiles as they say how they’d listen to the band’s tapes growing up.
I had the best of Birmingham. Many cultures and creative careers came together there. Whether you’re a grime MC, reggae band, singer-songwriter or indie band, it was all there.
“I was in the middle of a cultural hub. It taught me so much.”
Nearly at their doorstep, Benjamin had venues like the Hare and Hounds, a pub in Kings Heath that nurtures up-and-coming talent. Musicians who played there early in their careers include Ed Sheeran, Ellie Goulding, Basement Jaxx, and UB40, who played their first gig on its stage in 1979.
One time, a jazz singer called Lizzie Parks asked me to play for her, and that led to us supporting Bonobo. Moments like this crept into my life and taught me what the music industry is like and how it works.
Growing up, did you explore the Birmingham queer scene?
“For me, Birmingham’s gay district was just pop music. It’s camp gay. My aunt, Hannah Yellowitz, introduced me to a much more artistic, emotionally broad, deep, rich understanding of queerness. She’s a director who focuses a lot of her work on queer stories. I remember going to see a show she did.”
It was two guys onstage staring at each other. The music was off, silent, and they looked like they were about to fight. It was so tense, and when it nearly got too too much, they lunged for each other and kissed.
“From that moment,” Benjamin says, “I wanted to quit straight culture.”
From an early age, Benjamin knew music was the dream.
“I knew I wanted to get into music, but we didn’t have the money for me to study at university. My route was to go to London and study music tech.”
Benjamin took every opportunity they found to get involved in projects of the artists they met.
How did a birthday cake get you fired from a job?
At fifteen, they ran their own open mic nights at a local pub—until their 18th birthday, when their mom brought a cake iced with “18” that revealed they’d been working there illegally for three years.
“They fired me on the spot.”
There was a lasting benefit from the job: it introduced Benjamin to a working guitarist named Tom Robins, who became their mentor.
“He told me if I listened to him and took this work seriously, I could earn money. That’s how I started.”
At 16—claiming to be 18—Benjamin began earning £250 a gig. Per Tom’s instructions, Benjamin wasn’t allowed to talk to venue managers—they’d just get on stage, play the gig, keep their head down, pack up, and go.
“A lot of my work, even now, is thanks to that manager: the things I play, how I play them, my understanding of harmony, my understanding of melody and rhythm, my chord style. It all comes from him.”
Is that where your guitar style comes from?
Benjamin has a distinctive way of playing guitar—they play it as both a string instrument and a drum with the addition of loop pedals.
I’ve always preferred the drums to guitar, but it’s just not practical for a singer to be the drummer. I’m not Phil Collins.
Moving to London, Benjamin planned to study music technology—it offered a clear path to sound engineering and audiovisual work. The University of West London introduced them to people who influence their life in profound ways.
I met a guy named Berti who invited me to do a tour in Italy. I was keen and ready to go! We did one show in Italy, and Berti said, ‘Wow, let’s get you doing this for real!’ He organised ten shows and my touring career began.
Tell me about touring!
I tell Benjamin it sounds glamorous. They burst out laughing, shaking their head.
We toured in this tiny, packed, shitty Toyota. It was the middle of summer in Italy and we were stuck in traffic jams. It was so hot, my ex and I both got rashes on our arms from being so close and sweaty in that car.
In their last year of university, they went on a two-month tour across Italy, Germany, Poland, the Czech Republic, and France. They explained to their school tutors what they were doing and how it counted as “hands-on learning.”
“When I was home in London, I did gigs and worked as a sound engineer for several venues. But when I went on tour, the venues still needed a sound engineer. If I kept touring, I’d lose these jobs. So I started running a sound engineering agency.”
At this point, Benjamin puts their head in their hands. “Can you imagine how busy I was? It was disgusting.”
They laugh. “Honestly, nothing’s changed. I started having other people cover for me while I was on tour and ended up setting up a cooperative.”
It’s a familiar pattern, Benjamin says, for many touring musicians: feast-or-famine work, with income that spikes and disappears.
“You want to make it so it’s a feast all the time, so you always have work to come back to.”
How did you meet DYVR?
It was during this period of touring and grinding work that Benjamin met DYVR, a queer house and techno artist—a musician who would become a close collaborator.
I did sound for DYVR a few times. She did a similar ‘tortured soul stamping on a stomp box’ thing as me.
Both of their managers suggested they tour the UK together.
We sat on the train the first day—I’d fucked up our travel and hadn’t booked anything properly. DYVR was very polite about it, and in ten minutes, I’d fallen in love with her.
“At that moment, I knew the tour would be mental, and it was.”
After it, having made a best friend, Benjamin trained DYVR in sound engineering, and DYVR trained Benjamin in communication.
“We started working together on sound and lights. We were perfect complements of each other. Yin and yang.”
Soon, Benjamin and DYVR set up their own business, Smiley Sound.
“When we toured, we experienced so many grumpy sound engineers. It was endless. I’ve been in the industry for fifteen years now and understand why sound engineers are so grumpy. But we wanted to create something that focused on getting away from that stereotype.”
Smiley Sound specialises in live sound engineering, AV installation, studio setups, conferences, music production, mixing, mastering, and “anything else.”
“In the early days, we were endlessly optimistic. We just tried to get more work, and we were excited. It worked. There wasn’t a time of day that I couldn’t have worked if I wanted to.”
It turned out that approachability was good business—venues noticed.
Sound engineering is all about people. Everything is easier, and the job is done better, when you show up as a human and focus on great communication.
What’s work like now at Smiley Sound?
Attendees and clubbers often don’t see the work of the sound engineer, but they feel it. The sound engineering makes or breaks the night.
Touring acts come to a venue. You’re given a rough tech spec for one act, but not the others. You set up the stage with mics, inputs, everything. Then the bands arrive, and they’re stressed. They think they’ll have a hard time with the sound engineer, and we try to show them we’re different.
As Benjamin talks, I sense frustration.
They tell me sound engineering is heavily male-dominated. The most recent Musicians’ Census from 2024 reported that women make up only 15% of audio engineers.
As a non-binary person, Benjamin knows the dynamic well.
What is music engineering a man’s club?
Benjamin shrugs. “There’s a weird balance. It really plays out in gender and masculinity.”
In this industry, if you’re friendly and nice, people think you’re not a good tech person. There’s this idea that people with fewer soft skills, who don’t converse well, are the most tech savvy.
They shake their head—Benjamin is living proof that the stereotypes are wrong.
“Sometimes we have a promoter who’s really stressed about tickets. They haven’t sent you everything, but they put pressure on you. At that point, the sound engineer is essentially in control. You become responsible for the entire night, but you haven’t been given all the information, and the band already hates you before they’ve even meet you.”
Does the venue provide all the equipment you need?
“Sometimes, you’ll be wondering whether the equipment and system will even work. Sometimes, the previous person left the place a mess. I’ve had times when I kept telling the manager of the venue, ‘Hey, you need to buy this other piece of equipment.'”
Benjamin cracks up. “They don’t buy it for months on end, and by the time they’ve bought it, something else is broken.”
It doesn’t sound ideal, but Benjamin seems to like the pressure.
It’s a thrill—getting through sound check, connecting with the band, getting the next band on. And then we have the best seat in the house.
Listening to Benjamin, I get the appeal. The sound engineer becomes the conductor of the room.
In a show, I just have to flow with the music. It’s a rollercoaster. I might have a full band doing a big set, then suddenly the lead singer is alone with their guitar onstage and I need to change the atmosphere. I need to make the guitar take over.
I tell them it sounds like a cortisol and dopamine rush. Benjamin’s eyes widen as they describe the pace of a standard job and its emotional toll.
Once you’ve been in the music industry a bit, it’s like you can’t live without high cortisol and dopamine. You need both to balance each other out.
That rollercoaster stopped fully in March 2020. COVID-19 shut down venues, gigs, and touring overnight. So Benjamin pivoted again.
“When lockdown came, I moved to podcasting and sound design, and that work just flew in.”
How did podcast audio differ from other audio work?
Benjamin learned how to complement a story.
“The first podcast I took on was fascinating. It was about how different parts of the UK’s economic system still benefit from transatlantic slavery. It was deep, important stuff, and it was quite upsetting a lot of the time. My job was to provide music that reflected what they’re saying, but not so emotive that it swayed the audience’s emotions in the podcast.”
In this work, Benjamin needed restraint. At the same time, their vocals and distinctive husky singing style got noticed by multiple electronic dance music producers. In those collaborations, the work flipped: make something intensely emotional and let it transform the track.
What’s it like to contribute vocals to a track?
Collaborations, they explain, involve inviting others into your creative process and letting them lead parts of it. How does that feel?
“Nuts,” Benjamin says. “I don’t know whether I should say this, but there’s a disconnect when my vocals or tracks are sent to producers or DJs. On some level, artists must be connected to their work, but I let it go easily, and I like that degree of separation.”
Benjamin’s proud of their newest release—a collab he did under the name Yellowitz with big-time, UK-based house duo CamelPhat.
Once Benjamin has done their part, the track is sent off, and the final result is often only 50–70% similar to what they sent in.
“Essentially, so long as your vocal is processed in a way you’re happy with, you just have to trust your collaborator.”
I’d seen CamelPhat, Vintage Culture, and other artists Benjamin collaborates with, headlining huge festivals—a world that feels separate from the space Benjamin seems to want to occupy. Ultra Music Festival in Miami draws hundreds of thousands to hear the biggest names in electronic dance music. Afterlife runs boundary-pushing event series across the world, known for their wild visual experience. This scene feels a world away from the queer, independent, quirky venues where Benjamin performs in the UK.
What’s your view of mainstream electronic music?
“It’s fascinating. It all feels distant. It’s very glamorised. There are huge stages and loads of lights, and that’s it. It feels almost corporate, like big-money business, even if it isn’t.”
I’m one coffee into our talk, and already Benjamin has covered their work as a singer, songwriter, sound engineer, AV tech, and EDM vocalist while mapping out their career.
Benjamin isn’t signed. They tell me labels often prefer artists who tick one box—easy to classify, market, and target—and Benjamin isn’t that.
Labels don’t know how to classify me. I don’t sit still. I can’t live in one box. I want to be everywhere.
On cue, Benjamin starts tapping on the table.
I wanted to do sound and ended up doing lights. I wanted to do acoustic and ended up in electronic. I’m a singer, but now I produce other’s songs. Now I’m finished with podcasts and want to do TV and film. I never stop.
Do you want to be signed to a label?
As a songwriter, Benjamin explains how having a music publisher was more important to them than being signed to a label.
Music publishers control the copyright of a song, investing in songwriters and composers and managing the rights.
“Having a music publisher was what I really wanted, and I’ve got one now. They handle royalties and all the complicated stuff. The technology needed for that stuff is awful. It’s not easy to calculate earnings. It’s stressful.”
A music publisher’s core job is to make sure a songwriter is paid when the song is used, and to license the song when someone wants to use it (to make a cover, for a movie or TV placement, for an ad, in a video game, and so on). Publishers commercially leverage songs and get writers paid. This means they must register songs correctly, collect royalties from different pipelines, issue licenses, and sometimes actively pitch a song or catalogue.
This is different from a manager or agent. See it this way: a publisher handles the song rights, a manager handles an artist’s career, and an agent handles the gigs (bookings, fees, and so on).
How are publishers different from record labels?
Benjamin helpfully explained: a label distributes the final piece of music listeners hear on Spotify, SoundCloud, and so on. On the publishing side, it’s different; publishing has to do with the actual composition—the elements that make up a track (a bit of music taken from another artist, perhaps, or vocals from someone like Benjamin).
If I wrote a song and asked Benjamin to sing on it, Benjamin would have to get a cut of the royalty earnings from that track.
Publishers make money through publishing rights—from radio plays and “syncs,” an industry term for when a song is featured in a movie, on a TV show, in a commercial, or played at a fashion show, whatever. Wherever a song is played to monetise something else, the various artists who helped compose it, or whose work are invovled in in it, each get paid in accordance with the contractual agreement set up with the publisher.
Comparatively, the label just handles the song’s distribution. A song is licensed to a label, typically for a limited time—often five years—after which the license returns to the artist or artists.
Why is royalty tracking “awful”?
Royalty tracking can be “awful” and messy because money comes from many sources, on different schedules, and under different rules.
By “technology,” Benjamin does not mean synths or AI; they mean all the messy back-end systems—metadata, spreadsheets—along with all the headaches, like the statements that don’t match, and payments that arrive months too late.
“If there’s a mistake, it’s a nightmare. For example, some tracks I’ve done were registered three times in different countries, which needed fixing. That pushed my income back an entire quarter. Even sorting stuff like that, which takes a lot of time, is another reason why most musicians need diversified income.”
Still, it worked. In 2023, Benjamin had their most financially successful year yet.
“That year was one of my best income years. All my skills were required at once.”
The workload followed suit. “I did that year without a break, working almost every day.”
With projects piling up—recordings in progress, albums in the works, and a massive release with megastar Brazilian DJ and producer Vintage Culture—Benjamin felt the timing click.
“I knew this was my time—I needed to do this right now. I was ready to go for it.”
When did your body say no?
“I found I had a polyp. I was losing my voice, losing my range. My voice got gravelly. It was emotionally painful and physically exhausting.”
A polyp is a noncancerous growth, similar to a blister, that can develop on the vocal cord through overuse, smoking, or shouting. It prevents someone from talking properly, causing painful hoarseness, breathiness, and an extremely rough voice.
“I was a shell of a human. It’s a recurring theme in my life. Benjamin becomes shell. Benjamin finds life and rest again. And then Benjamin finds another interest.”
They pause.
On top of the voice and music stuff, I’m polyamorous with several partners. I’m barely keeping up. Loving many poeple is beautiful, but not low-maintenance.
How did the polyp impact your work?
“I lost my voice completely. I needed surgery. Luckily, I had good funding. I had just signed a publishing deal and lived off the advance when all other income stopped. I was lucky to get a lot of funding from different music bodies.”
Recovery took months of silence—and patience. Benjamin describes the support from friends and peers as amazing. Benjamin felt they were losing everything their life depended on. Surgery meant that once recovery was over, they didn’t lose their ability to sing, but some vocal techniques were gone.
“For the last two years, I’ve had less husk in my voice. I’ve been scared to use the husk and raspiness again. It takes its toll on your vocals.”
In our conversation, Benjamin’s open body language and cheerful energy make it clear they’re naturally social—a people person—so, alongside the physical and financial toll, I ask about the mental one.
Let’s talk about feelings.
Their whole life revolved around audio. Suddenly, silence took over. It was hard and dark sometimes, but it taught them valuable lessons.
Downtime changed me. I busied myself into happiness because I was too afraid to be on my own. I feared sitting in silence, and then I had to.
“As I recovered, I realised the life I’d been living—I couldn’t get away from people. Even in recovery, I could not get away from work, people, conversation, and social engagements.”
Benjamin sighs.
It’s a beautiful life, and it’s incredible if you have the capacity for it. But I always ran over capacity, and my voice suffered because of it. In the recovery, for the first time, I discovered I was my own best mate.
Silence taught Benjamin they could sort out life problems on their own. While recognising how crucial community and conversation are, Benjamin found a self-reliance did not know they had.
“Quiet time is one of the best things that happened to me,” Benjamin says.
Now, after a gig, I tell people I’m on vocal rest, just for a day or two. I just don’t talk.
On some occasions, I’ve seen Benjamin take this to the extreme—dressing as a mime with a red beret, striped shirt, and face paint. It’s a playful way to make being muted fun, and another tool for an active, energetic mind.
Quiet time comes with a lot of sign language, body language, hugging, and touching. It’s great. Words are a full-time job and speaking uses up so much concentration. Hugging and being playful with my body, I can do that all day.
Any personal insights from losing your voice?
Mostly, it gave Benjamin a profound appreciation of community.
“I’ve always made a community around me and brought people together. All the things I do and the things I’m surrounded by are made possible by incredible creatives.”
It’s not just the creative community Benjamin feels gratitude for—it’s women.
I’ve always been surrounded by women. I grew up in a big family. Eighteen cousins, sixteen of whom are women. We lived on the same block. I had five aunts. Pretty much all the dads left, so it was all women.
The inspiration behind their track Bad Dad Club rings clear: “I love women. They raised me.”
Let’s talk about gender.
In this interview, Benjamin presents femme, but they tell me they can go masc just as easily. They’ve avoided being boxed in professionally, and they avoid it with gender, too.
“I don’t like a box. I’m just whatever.”
Benjamin’s love and respect for women runs deep: “I really want to respect FLINTA* space. I appreciate that I’m living the privilege of being a white male when I want to be. I can’t encroach on other groups while still holding on to privilege in different areas of my life.”
The multi-dimensional life Benjamin leads means they can lean into a more masculine type when it feels right.
Speaking on FLINTA* spaces, Benjamin feels some exclusion, some separation, might be necessary to preserve these spaces and parties safe for queer women.
It’s rare to have space just for lesbians and FLINTA*. There’s always vicarious people in those spaces who end up being very straight. What they’re doing is diluting the space and the confidence women can have in it, because it’s not the environment they thought they were going into.
How is your voice now?
After two tough years and a steep learning curve, Benjamin’s vocals are mostly back.
Two big things will shape their 2026: Benjamin hopes to buy their first home with their partner and focus on exciting new projects.
“I have several releases coming out as Yellowitz, and I’ve got a whole album coming out in 2026 for Benjamin Yellowitz, my other identity.”
In Benjamin’s diversified spirit, they explain how this album will differ from all previous releases.
“There are a lot of incredible artists I’m collaborating with, like Baby Sol, Jodie Howl, and The Famous Daxx. I’ve got strings. It’s been wild. I’m really happy with the album and so excited to share it with the world.”
Benjamin Yellowitz lives in London, UK. Follow Benjamin Yellowitz on Instagram and SoundCloud. Yellowitz’s latest dance track, “Goddess”, is available on Beatport, Spotify, and all major streaming services.
Their acoustic music projects can be found on YouTube, Spotify, and all major streaming services.
Words and interview by Cat Lewis
Images provided by Benjamin Yellowitz
Cat Lewis writes on culture, creativity and the unseen characters of nightlife. Drawn to the subversive, quirky and queer, her writing champions those not usually seen and tells their stories loud and clear.
