The White Collar Project is the work of Venezuelan DJ and vinyl collector Alejandro Zamora. What began as a personal refuge during a difficult period has grown into a global community built around raw, unedited vinyl mixes and a wider aesthetic that stretches into visuals and fashion. Zamora speaks here about how silence reshaped his relationship with sound, why he values imperfection, and how instinct guides his selections across house, techno, hip hop, soul and Latin records.
In our interview, he reflects on the influence of growing up in Caracas, the unexpected feedback he receives from listeners around the world, and the artists and writers who continue to shape his creative process. At the heart of it all is a belief that music is less about perfection than presence, and that vinyl, in its flaws and crackle, offers a kind of honesty that can connect people in unexpected ways.
In several interviews you’ve mentioned that vinyl became a kind of refuge during legal battles and isolation. Was there a moment or a track during that period when you realised this refuge might become something others cared about too?
There was a night when I played a record I’d almost forgotten about. I recorded the mix, not thinking much of it, and shared a snippet online. The response was immediate and surprisingly personal. People messaged to say they really enjoyed the music selection, or that it reminded them of better times. That’s when it clicked for me. What felt like a private escape could actually be a bridge. The refuge wasn’t just mine; it was something I could share, and maybe it could help someone else get through their own rough patch.
You left music behind for a while, then returned with The White Collar Project. What did silence teach you about sound, about what you want it to do, not just what it sounds like?
Silence taught me that sound isn’t just about filling space, it’s about creating it. When I stepped away from music, I realised how much I’d been using noise to distract myself. Coming back, I wanted my sets to breathe, to have moments where nothing happens and that nothing actually means something. Now, I care less about technical perfection and more about music selection, whether the music gives people room to feel, to reflect, or just to be present.
Your mixes cut across house, techno, hip hop, soul and Latin records. How do you decide what belongs together in a set, and what is simply better left on the shelf?
It’s mostly instinct, but also respect for the story I’m trying to tell. The real truth is that I never plan my sets. I always bring a bunch of records from different genres and when I am DJing I like to blend in order to tell a story. I listen for a common thread. If two tracks feel like they’re in conversation, they belong together, no matter the genre. If something feels forced, or like I’m just showing off my collection, I leave it out. The shelf isn’t a graveyard; it’s just waiting for the right moment or the right set.
How has being Venezuelan shaped your vinyl collection, your sense of groove, and the sounds you reach for when you’re digging or selecting tracks? (Beyond “Latin grooves” what particular scenes, artists or record stores from Caracas or Venezuela still echo for you?)
Being Venezuelan means I grew up with a mix of influences: Caribbean rhythms, salsa, house, even disco on the radio. There’s a looseness and a swing in Venezuelan music that’s hard to shake, and it shows up in what I reach for, even in house or techno. I still think about old record shops in Caracas, like Sabana Grande, where you could find anything from Eddie Palmieri, Sexteto Juventud, Ray Barreto to Mauro Picotto, Chris Liberator, Joey Beltram. It was crazy the amount of music you could find in one spot.
The White Collar Project’s audience seems global and devoted. What do you learn from that community, through messages or feedback, that surprises you or changes how you show up behind the decks?
The biggest surprise is how universal some feelings are. It really showed me that music is a universal language. People from different countries admire the music collection, even with imperfections. I’ll get a message from someone in Japan or South Africa saying they enjoy the mix with friends, or they even played it loud where people gather to enjoy socially and dance to good music. A mix helped them through a tough day, or that a certain track reminded them of home. That feedback keeps me honest. It also makes me want to dig deeper, to keep finding sounds that connect people in unexpected ways.
Vinyl mixes are unedited, raw. Mistakes, crackle, drift, these are part of the texture. How do you feel about imperfection in your sets, and how much of it is intentional versus what you just accept?
I’ve learned to embrace imperfection; it’s all part of the story. I don’t go out of my way to make mistakes, but I don’t hide them either. Vinyl is alive; it breathes and sometimes misbehaves. That rawness is what makes it human. I think people connect with that honesty. It’s a reminder that music isn’t about perfection, it’s about presence. When you play vinyl, you don’t have any safety net; you have to continue and try to make that imperfection into a sound effect.
When you think about legacy, about what you want The White Collar Project to leave behind, is it more about the music, the emotional lifeline it provides, or the visual and fashion artefacts? Or all of them equally?
I would love to create a community of vinyl lovers, people that appreciate rare, kinetic art and premium streetwear clothing. For me, it’s all connected. The music is the heartbeat, but the visuals and fashion are how you carry the feeling. If there’s a legacy, I hope it’s about giving people permission to be honest; to feel what they feel, to start over, to find beauty in the rough edges. Whether that comes through a mix, a piece of clothing, or an image, I want it all to add up to something real and lasting.
Outside of music, what’s something like a book, a visual artist, or a place that has shifted how you think about your creative process lately, perhaps subtly or perhaps profoundly?
When I talk about art, I instantly think about Carlos Cruz Diez and Jesús Soto. I’ve been inspired by their work and their vision. The way Carlos Cruz Diez uses light and space to change how you experience a room. It has made me think about how sometimes less really is more, and I am always applying this concept into music too. I’ve also been reading Ocean Vuong’s poetry, which is all about finding meaning in small moments. Both have pushed me to slow down, to pay attention to detail, and to trust that subtlety can be just as powerful as spectacle.
Head to https://www.thewhitecollarproject.com/ for more