Issues (Julia Michael) DJ Mix'd Diary

Rated-21+ (with 2 Explicit Tracks & 4 "Cleaned Versions" of Explicit Tracks).

Track 1. Issues (Julia Michaels)

The mix opens in confession. “I’m jealous, I’m overzealous…” — Julia whispers what we’re all scared to say aloud: that our highs and lows coexist. In this DJ set, I wanted her honesty to breathe first, because every drop that follows is really about that same pulse — imperfection set to rhythm.

When Julia sings “I could love you just like that / And I could leave you just as fast,” it becomes a DJ’s metaphor: the crossfade between passion and self-protection. Every beat in “Issues” felt like a pulse between apology and need — a sonic reflection of people trying to love while still healing.

I mix her closing line — “And one of them is how bad I need you” — straight into Bruno Mars’s “That’s What I Like”because it flips the mood. Julia’s emotional rawness melts into Bruno’s silky confidence, and together they bridge vulnerability into indulgence. The transition isn’t just BPM-tight; it’s emotional architecture — showing that every issue eventually finds its groove.

Track 2. That's What I Like (Bruno Mars)

Coming out of Julia Michaels’ “Issues,” I wanted the energy to feel like release — the moment after confession when the lights come back on. Bruno Mars doesn’t just enter; he glides in. His opening line, “I got a condo in Manhattan, baby girl, what’s happenin’?” is pure invitation. It’s the sound of someone who’s done apologizing and ready to celebrate desire.

I mixed this right at the point where Julia’s final “how bad I need you” fades into silence. Then the downbeat hits — slick bass, finger-snap percussion — and the room exhales. The DJ booth becomes a mirror; “Issues” exposed vulnerability, now “That’s What I Like” shows what confidence feels like once you stop hiding it.

Where Julia offered honesty, Bruno offers abundance. 

Silk sheets replace emotional knots. “Strawberry champagne on ice” isn’t just luxury — it’s a metaphor for self-worth rediscovered. This track reminds me that love can be both tender and extravagant, that balance isn’t found in perfection but in rhythm.

As the groove loops, I tease the next transition — a subtle percussive echo that hints at Shape of You. The BPM nudges upward; flirtation becomes physical motion. The crowd doesn’t even notice the shift — they just move. That’s what I like.

Track 3. Shape of You (Ed Sheeran) – Explicit Version

The energy shifts again — the confession (Julia) became confidence (Bruno), and now confidence becomes contact. Ed’s “The club isn’t the best place to find a lover, so the bar is where I go” opens like the first step outside the spotlight, where stories happen in corners lit by neon.

This track isn’t about lust for its own sake — it’s about chemistry as choreography. The push-and-pull between beats mirrors “we push and pull like a magnet do.” I brought the EQ low and let Bruno’s bass melt into Ed’s syncopation so the crowd wouldn’t notice where romance turned to gravity. The hi-hat rolls like fingers tracing skin; the sub-bass pulses like breath.

When he sings, “Last night you were in my room / And now my bedsheets smell like you,” the mix becomes scent memory — fleeting, intimate, impossible to capture. It’s a reminder that touch outlives conversation.

Track 4. Fake Love (Drake) - Clean Version

Every good night has that one turn — when the bassline stops feeling warm and starts feeling warning. “Fake Love” is that pivot. Coming off the body-heat of “Shape of You,” I drop the lights low and let Drake’s opening line “I’ve been down so long, it look like up to me” hover in the dark. The mood flips: the dance floor becomes introspection.

This song isn’t a breakup; it’s revelation. The repetition — “Straight up to my face” — echoes like a mantra for anyone who’s ever realized the room cheering for them wasn’t all sincere. I trim the low frequencies from Ed’s track, then roll in Drake’s minimalist snare to make it feel like the pulse just got distant, as if trust itself is backing away.

In this part of the DJ-mix’d Diary, I wanted to confront the truth every artist faces: when success and attention attract imitation, not understanding. Drake’s flow — half-resentment, half-resilience — becomes a statement of survival. I let it bleed long into the fade, no reverb tricks, no filter sweeps. Just that dry honesty: 

“I got fake people showin’ fake love to me.”

From here, the mix slides into Flume feat. Kai’s “Never Be Like You.” The transition is subtle — the tempo stays steady, but emotion starts to melt back toward vulnerability. The heart’s been bruised, but it still wants to feel.

Track 5. Never Be Like You (Flume feat. Kai) – Clean Version

After the distrust of “Fake Love,” the mix opens its wounds. The synths in “Never Be Like You” rise like water filling an empty room — a shimmering apology layered in reverb and re-entry. Kai’s voice doesn’t beg; it aches. When she sings, “What I would do to take away this fear of being loved,” it’s like hearing the echo of everything Drake couldn’t say.

I structured this transition to feel like emotional gravity returning. The percussion is fractured — off-beat enough to mirror regret. Flume’s production feels like glass melting, and I wanted that texture to cool the mix. This is the first time in the set where the bass softens instead of boasting. It’s not about control anymore; it’s surrender.

That refrain — “I’m only human, can’t you see?” — becomes the mix’s confession booth. I let it loop against a filtered delay, fading Bruno’s luxury and Drake’s defense into vapor. The emotional center of the mix lands here: love’s imperfection as both curse and cure.

When Kai pleads, “He’ll never be like you,” I cue Hotline Bling (William Singe – Intermission) — but not as comfort. It’s irony. Because when we think we’re done missing someone, that’s when the ringtone starts ringing again.

Track 6. Hot Line Bling [Intermission] (William Singe) – Clean Version

This isn’t a track — it’s a thought that slips through the reverb.
After the pleading self-awareness of “Never Be Like You,” I drop the lights again. A single vocal loop breathes: “You used to call me on my cell phone…” and it’s like catching your own ghost whispering through your headphones.

The intermission is internal. It’s the space between knowing better and still checking your phone at 2 A.M. William Singe’s version carries that ache — stripped back, almost too intimate. I use it as a heartbeat more than a song. The room gets still. You feel the words more than you hear them: “Ever since I left the city, you started wearing less and going out more.”

This is where I imagine the DJ — me — thinking instead of mixing.
It’s the pause before the comeback. The loop fades into silence, but in that silence you can sense the next drop forming:

“Starboy.”

Track 7. Starboy (The Weeknd) – Explicit Version

This is the resurrection.

Where “Hotline Bling” was self-doubt and “Never Be Like You” was confession, “Starboy” is rebirth in chrome and neon. The opening line — “I’m tryna put you in the worst mood” — doesn’t whisper hurt, it weaponizes it. The tempo locks in; the sub-bass returns like a pulse you forgot you owned.

In my mix, this track doesn’t just start — it erupts. The first synth stab slices through the lingering echo of Singe’s intermission, turning the vulnerability of the last five tracks into armor. The Weeknd brags, but beneath the diamonds you can hear exhaustion — “House so empty, need a centerpiece.” It’s wealth as distraction, success as disguise.

I EQ the vocal highs so that “Look what you’ve done!” hits like both a taunt and a confession. Every DJ knows that moment: when the booth lights flare, and you see every reflection of yourself you’ve tried to hide. The crowd hears swagger; I hear survival.

By the end, when the refrain loops “I’m a motherf**in’ Starboy,”* it’s not arrogance — it’s reclamation. The mix has traveled from fragility (“Issues”) through indulgence (“That’s What I Like”) to heartbreak and illusion (“Fake Love,”“Never Be Like You”), and now lands here: 

Identity rebuilt under spotlights that burn as bright as they blind.

As the final synth fades, I cut everything but a soft echo — a tiny heartbeat leading to Track 8 – “OOOUUU” (Young M.A – Clean Version), where bravado stops being therapy and starts being power.

Track 8. OOOUUU (Young M.A) – Clean Version

This is where the vulnerability burns off and confidence gets loud. 

When Young M.A slides in over the low-end from Starboy, the energy snaps from luxury to street-level authority. She doesn’t need validation; she is the pulse. The first line — “I think I had too much Hennessy…” — isn’t about intoxication, it’s about power loosened from inhibition.

I blend her intro right after The Weeknd’s last “Look what you’ve done!” so that his boast morphs into her growl. The drop is raw, the snare dry — a deliberate contrast to the polish before it. The booth lights turn red: RedLyfe energy, grit over glamour.

“Yeah, they hate but they broke though.” The crowd always cheers at that bar. It’s an anthem for anyone who’s clawed back their worth. I let the chorus “OOOUUU” ride twice as long, layering it over a filtered echo from Starboy so it sounds like success talking back to its past.

This part of the set is catharsis through arrogance — not ego, but armor. Every DJ needs that track that says, you tried to bury me; I became the rhythm. By the time the bass fades, the mix is bulletproof again, ready to pivot from street steel to spiritual reflection.

Next up is Track 9 – “HUMBLE.” (Kendrick Lamar – Clean Version) — the perfect counterbalance. After the victory roar, humility hits like thunder.

Track 9. HUMBLE (Kendrick Lamar) – Clean Version

The crowd’s already lit from OOOUUU, but when Kendrick’s bassline drops, it’s like the floor suddenly remembers its foundation. This track isn’t about flexing anymore — it’s about centering. The phrase “sit down, be humble” lands like a commandment after the chaos, slicing through the fog of ego.

I wanted this transition to feel like grounding — the sonic equivalent of breathing after battle. The way Kendrick moves from “I remember syrup sandwiches” to “Grey Poupon, that Evian, that Ted Talk” mirrors the emotional evolution of the entire mix: from scarcity to self-realization, from needing validation to defining worth.

In my booth, I drop the mids and leave the kick bare on that “bitch, be humble” hook — not as aggression, but as punctuation. It’s a reminder to myself: no matter how high the spotlight climbs, integrity is the real headliner. Every mix needs that track that checks your spirit mid-set.

By the bridge, “I’m so sick and tired of the Photoshop” becomes a manifesto. The lights turn gold — not luxury gold, but enlightenment gold. The crowd goes silent, vibing not on volume but truth.

As “sit down, be humble” repeats into reverb, I cue the warmth of Trey Songz’s “Nobody Else But You.” The humility bleeds into vulnerability again — proof that real strength is knowing when to admit you still care.

Track 10. Nobody Else But You (Trey Songz)

After Kendrick’s sermon, the room exhales. The lights go from gold to violet, the sub-bass softens, and Trey’s first line—“I don’t want nobody else but you”—hits like forgiveness on loop. The track drips smooth sincerity; it’s the sound of pride turning human again.

I let Kendrick’s final “be humble” echo under the first two bars so the message overlaps: humility becoming vulnerability. The percussion here isn’t for dancing; it’s for swaying. Trey’s voice slides across the mix like candlelight after thunder.

This section of the diary marks the emotional reset—the point where bravado gives way to honesty. “Looking in the mirror like, ain’t you scared to lose her?” That lyric becomes the mirror for everything before it: Julia’s confessions, Bruno’s indulgence, Ed’s magnetism, Drake’s distrust, and Kendrick’s discipline. It’s all here, resolved in one phrase of devotion.

The crowd doesn’t shout to this one—they nod. Some sing softly; others just close their eyes. For a moment, the mix belongs to love again.

As the outro fades, I cue the synth swell for “Stay” (Zedd & Alessia Cara). The BPM rises, the melancholy lingers, and emotion turns cinematic—because after choosing love, the next question is always: will it last?

Track 11. Stay (Zedd & Alessia Cara)

The air turns blue. After the velvet warmth of “Nobody Else but You,” Alessia Cara’s voice feels like morning light spilling through blinds — too honest, too clear. The crowd moves slower now, not because of the tempo, but because this is the first time the lyrics beg instead of boast.

When she sings “All you have to do is stay a minute,” I echo it into infinity, letting the word stay ripple like memory refusing to fade. The production is crystalline — Zedd’s synths stretch like a heartbeat trapped in glass. I blend the rhythm from Trey’s track into a slow dissolve, so the transition feels like the aftermath of an embrace that lasted a second too short.

This part of the diary is about timing — that fragile space between holding on and letting go. The “clock is ticking” motif connects perfectly with the narrative arc of the mix: from love’s beginning (Issues) to indulgence (That’s What I Like), temptation (Shape of You), disillusion (Fake Love), repentance (Never Be Like You), and rebirth (Starboy). Now it’s about acceptance — love, suspended in time.

When the final “stay” fades, I layer the faint percussion of “Wild Thoughts” (DJ Khaled feat. Rihanna) underneath — like heartbeat returning to motion. The energy is about to rise again, sensual and alive, the calm before the heat.

Track 12. Wild Thoughts (DJ Khaled feat. Rihanna)

This is the spark after stillness. When Rihanna whispers “I don’t know if you could take it,” it’s not a question — it’s a dare. The tempo snaps back into life; the rhythm from Stay’s ticking clock transforms into hips and heartbeat. The DJ booth becomes the boundary between restraint and release.

I mix this one in with almost no warning — just a warm swell of bass that spills under the final “stay.” The first guitar lick hits like sunlight after a storm, a modern Santana riff that brings the mix full circle: from emotional honesty to physical truth.

“When I’m with you, all I get is wild thoughts” — that line plays like closure and temptation at the same time. This is the rebirth of desire, not as escape, but as balance. The earlier tracks confessed, prayed, repented; this one lives. Rihanna and Bryson Tiller trade verses like fire and smoke — the tension of people who know exactly what they’re doing and don’t need to apologize for it.

Visually, I imagine this moment as golden light and slow motion — bodies in rhythm, faces unmasked. The message beneath the sensuality is freedom: the right to feel again.

When the hook finally dissolves, I let the rhythm drift into the opening piano chords of “7 Years” (Lukas Graham) — a stark contrast. The heat gives way to memory, passion to perspective. The next track will feel like waking up the morning after.

Track 13. 7 Years(Luke Graham)

When Rihanna’s last “wild, wild, wild” fades, the guitar gives way to a single piano note — stark, human. Lukas Graham’s voice enters like memory itself, fragile and honest: “Once I was seven years old, my mama told me…”

This isn’t just a slowdown in BPM — it’s a slowdown in spirit. I wanted the crowd to feel the weight of everything they’ve danced through: the jealousy, the love, the bravado, the doubt, the awakening.  7 Years plays like a montage of the lives we’ve lived between each drop.

I cue a soft filter so that his vocals sound distant, as if you’re hearing them from across decades. The beat sits low, heartbeat-steady, the sonic equivalent of looking at old photos after a night out. 

When he sings “I always had that dream, like my daddy before me,” it threads back to the diary’s first confession in Issues — the search for balance between who we are and who we’re trying to be.

In the mix, I let the lyric “Soon we’ll be thirty years old” swell against a faint echo of Stay’s ticking clock — time looping back. Every DJ set has a moment where it stops being about sound and becomes about soul. This is that moment. You can feel the crowd still dancing, but now they’re smiling at the stories behind every track.

As the song closes with “Once I was seven years old,” I layer the shimmering intro of “Shining” (DJ Khaled)underneath — because reflection without joy would be incomplete. The diary’s next step is gratitude: to celebrate how far we’ve come without forgetting how we got here.

Track 14. Shinning (DJ Khaled)

The keys from 7 Years fade, and a new kind of light fills the room — golden, unstoppable. Beyoncé opens with that glimmering mantra, “Shinin’, shinin’, shinin’, shinin’, yeah.” The moment the snare lands, you can feel every story from earlier in the mix crystallize into confidence.

I built this transition to feel like revelation. The piano from Lukas Graham fades into Khaled’s brass, and the crowd immediately straightens — this is the victory lap. Beyoncé isn’t just singing about success; she’s defining the peace that follows the struggle.  “Money don’t make me happy, and a fella can’t make me fancy.” After all the confessions, heartbreak, and rebuilding, she arrives as proof that joy doesn’t need validation.

Jay-Z’s verse drops like a mirror to Starboy: older, wiser, fearless.  “21 Grammys, I’m a savage.” It’s the sound of legacy, not ego. I keep his vocals slightly wider in the stereo field so it feels like the room itself is nodding along — the weight of experience shaking hands with the beat.

Visually, this is when I imagine the lights full-spectrum — golds, purples, and deep reds cycling like memory. The crowd moves slower, not out of fatigue, but reverence. They’ve danced through every emotional layer — now they’re glowing in it.

As Beyoncé’s final “slow me down” echoes, I strip the drums and let the reverb trail straight into the rising synths of “All Night” (Beyoncé) — the finale. From confession (Issues) to victory (Shining), this next track becomes resolution: love, after everything, surviving the storm.

Track 15. All Night (Beyoncé)

The final song begins in silence. Then a slow hum, a heartbeat, and Beyoncé’s voice — calm, resolute: “I found the truth beneath your lies.” The air in the room changes. The light that once strobed red and gold settles into a soft amber glow. This isn’t a climax; it’s healing.

The lyric “True love never has to hide” lands like the diary’s thesis statement. Everything that came before — Issues,Fake Love, Never Be Like You, even HUMBLE. — leads here. Where those tracks wrestled with ego, fear, and temptation, this one forgives them. It’s the sound of two people, or maybe one spirit, finally seeing itself whole again.

In the mix, I let Shining’s sparkle dissolve into All Night’s warmth without a break. No DJ drops, no filters — just continuity. Beyoncé’s “kiss up and rub up and feel up on you” becomes the tender echo of everything the diary has endured: sensual but sanctified, desire purified by understanding.

Then comes the truth that crowns the entire project:

“They say true love’s the greatest weapon to win the war caused by pain.”

Every synth, every drum in the mix up to this point has been that war. Now, the weapon is forgiveness. As the beat softens, her final line — “How I missed you, my love” — feels like sunrise after a decade-long night.

The crowd doesn’t cheer; they breathe. The lights dim. I let the last note hang until even the reverb disappears. The diary ends not with applause but with peace.

This web page last updated: 17 October 2025.