Jarred Beeler was supposed to be in South London on the day we spoke, playing as DJ Plead at Peckham's Bussey Building. Instead, he's cooped up in his parent's basement in Sydney under strict self-quarantine. Since last October, Beeler's home was whatever UK or European city his next gig was in. He had been due to return to Australia in April for a string of tour dates, but the coronavirus pandemic forced him home early.

As he dashed between DJ bookings in Italy, France and Spain, the spreading pandemic raised alarm within his tight-knit family, who asked him to return home before the situation worsened. "I ended up in Serbia visiting a friend and then my grandmother called me and said, 'Get home before you die!'" Beeler said. "She guilted me. Then my mum called. Everyone was like, you better fucking get home because shit's about to close. So I just bought a ticket, got on a plane with only hand luggage and left all my stuff there."

We had planned to meet in person in Melbourne. But social-distancing regulations forced us inside, to the increasingly familiar glow of our laptops and smartphones. When we connected on Facetime he appeared relaxed, sinking into a grey sofa. It was late morning and there was a small wash of light seeping into his room, enough to make visible a keyboard leaning against a wall in the background. I asked him how it felt to be back home, with his plans for the foreseeable future on hold. "Well the fact that I'm doing this interview now is kind of hilarious in a way," he said. "Like a breaking through interview but in this time of shutting down: breaking through—but shutting down!"

Beeler is coming off the back of a packed year playing at venues like De School, Corsica Studios and Panorama Bar. "Ultimately I had only just sort of broken into this space of being able to feed myself from touring and playing shows," he said. "It's all relatively new to me so I can't really be too upset. It was all kind of a blessing in the first place and a fluke."

Music has been more of a fun side-project for Beeler over the past decade rather than something he has pursued, a way to hang out with mates. He was raised by a Swiss father and Lebanese mother in the suburban Western-facing parts of Sydney—he's hesitant to outright call it Western Sydney, because its weighted geographical meaning has become a "token in some regards." Growing up, he played guitar and was constantly listening to music.

Before DJ Plead and Poison (his side project with T.Morimoto), Beeler started making music in 2011 with Marcus Whale and Lavurn Lee under Black Vanilla, later BV. They crafted off-kilter R&B-inflected tracks, their sound harmonizing well within the experimental electronic music scenes in Melbourne and Sydney in the early to mid-'10s. Alongside acts like Habits and friendships, it was a period when genres would fuse seamlessly, bands and DJs occupied mutual spaces and daring experimentation was valued: the freakier, the better. Beeler remembers this as a formative time that shaped his "mishmash" approach to music.

It was BV's densely percussive 2016 track "Hunted" that set his solo project in motion. He was inspired to mix the Lebanese pop and wedding music from his childhood with the UK bass and house sounds Lee had been playing around him. As Beeler explored the intersection of his heritage and club music, the results resonated with fans. He felt self-conscious competing with other producers as his knowledge of dance music at that time was limited, so he created a space that he felt only he could command.

"This is gonna sound really cocky—but there aren't that many people banging out the rhythms that I know," he said. "It's deeply personal and I feel like that's why I'm confident in my productions now, because..." he paused. It's honest? I offer. "Yeah. I don't need to compete. I don't need to make house music and try to figure out where I stand in making house music, whatever that is. I just make stuff that has this motif and it makes sense to me and I feel secure."

The sound of Beeler's Lebanese heritage has come to define his work. The songs he grew up hearing at family gatherings and on CDs passed along from one aunty to another are woven into his music. His productions are percussive, with polyrhythmic drum patterns and staccato melody lines. His DJ sets, rhythmic and urgent, follow suit. Genres like Lebanese dabke and Egyptian mahraganat fit snugly within his repertoire, layered in among UK bass, house and hard drum.

"Because I am mixed, it's a way for me to prove to myself that I am indeed Lebanese," he said. "It's hard not speaking the language. Being half [Lebanese], there's always a bit of a distance there." The music serves as a portal between his dual backgrounds. "It's important and I really wish I could speak Arabic and get down with my fellow Arabs. One day, inshallah, but until then I just gotta keep making these tracks."

Going forward, he intends to move his focus from the dance floor to somewhere more suitable for solitary moments like the one we currently find ourselves in. "I love making dance music and that's how I got the name for myself so far, but maybe this is a good opportunity to think outside of that sphere," he said. He wants to make less functional music that instead emphasises melodies and emotions—something he hasn't had a chance to do while on the road, fixated on never-ending DJ prep and feeding what he calls the "dance music machine."

Beeler is grateful for this dance music machine, which in the past year has seen him release on labels like TSVI and Wallwork's Nervous Horizon and Air Max 97's Decisions. He's played in Asia, the US and Europe, and on platforms like Boiler Room and Rinse. An influx of opportunities flowed in from Europe last year, so he decided to base himself there. "It would have just been a lost opportunity for me to stay in Australia, produce music and maybe release it. You have to really be there to meet people and play shows. It's so important I think to really have a physical presence in a community," he said.

Community and the physicality of connections fostered on dance floors are what Beeler enjoys most about his new-found career. His own label, Sumac, which he runs alongside T.Morimoto and Jon Watts, releases music that usually originates with friendships formed within dark clubs. There's no specific sound that defines the label—instead the focus is on pushing each other and musician friends to share music tucked away on hard drives. The widely praised debut release from Logic1000 is a release they consider a "flagship example" of this objective.

Outside of his label, DJ sets at Dekmantel and Lente Kabinet were set to keep him busy this summer, but now Beeler finds himself in limbo. His parents think he should return to his 9-5 work, but he's "not ready to be totally pragmatic yet." He'll prioritize producing music but hasn't felt as inspired as his peers sharing livestreams and quarantine-produced EPs. "I haven't really done anything," he said. "I've predominantly been on this couch just thinking and talking to people. I feel very unproductive, but I don't feel particularly guilty. It's just how it is at the moment."

Like many, Beeler is taking the situation day by day, remaining hopeful and following his gut. Music has been a side project before, and he's OK if it has to be again. But his recent experiences in Europe—the happiness from playing in cramped venues with dedicated crowds and talented local DJs—sees him reluctant to cut it all off just yet.

His last set before his "small retirement" was at De School, after Herrensauna resident CEM. He said it left him feeling "truly honoured," the sparkling residue of the event still lingering. "Those types of situations are more shocking to me and more spine-tingling than the markers of say Boiler Room or Rinse, though they are really great and I do appreciate them, but it's the moments where I'm blown away by the actual situation, the feeling and the people. I know that sounds really corny but that's really how it is. What a rare honour to do this."