Interview Mike Moggi Mannix

I’m sitting across from Dao Grier in the back corner of Pawnshop, Dublin’s resurrected temple of techno.

The space hums with low-end energy even while empty; you can smell the grit of nights gone by and the promise of nights yet to come. Cables snake across concrete floors, a half-finished pint sweats on the table, and Dao grins the way only someone who’s built something from dust can.

He’s the kind of man who carries twenty years of dance-floor history in his laugh — Pygmalion, Tengu, Berlin, the long crawl from the Red Box to Ibiza the Americas and back again. And now, Pawnshop: a DIY miracle that clawed its way through 14 months of red tape, sound restrictions, and COVID-era rubble to become the city’s underground heartbeat. His journey isn’t a neat career arc; it’s the full Dublin rave fable — mischief, graft, fuck-ups, and the quiet moments that kept the flame alive.

The Early Noise

Mike Mannix: So, let’s start with when you were a kid, man. Was there music at home?

Dao Grier: Yeah, always. My ma played piano and guitar. My dad’s sister was an opera coach in Belgium. It was a mad musical house — guitars on every wall, a piano in the corner, and someone always trying to play it half-arsed after dinner.

He laughs. “No one could read a note, but everyone could bang out a song or two. My two sisters could sing. So yeah — music everywhere.”

Mike: So it was predestined, really.

Dao: Yeah, it was in the walls, man. My earliest memories are my dad’s record collection — Stones, Kinks, Hendrix. I remember hearing Jimi’s guitar for the first time and thinking, what the fuck is that sound? That was it — hooked.

As he talks, he leans forward, “Music and sport were my obsessions — rugby, football, golf. But music was what got under the skin. My ma’d be playing piano, singing, and we’d all pile in, half in tune, half taking the piss. There was life in it.”

MTV, Grunge, and the Rave Awakening

The conversation drifts through childhood like a mixtape — Hendrix fading into Public Enemy, Prodigy bleeding into Nirvana.

Dao: MTV was everything back then. You’d turn it on and get Madonna and Michael Jackson, then Nirvana, then Prodigy — Firestarter blowing your head off. It was variety, proper music on daytime TV. You’d get Yo! MTV Raps at one in the morning, and I’d be sneaking out of bed to record it.

He slaps the table. “First hip-hop album I ever had was It ‘Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back.’ Changed my brain, man. That protest energy. Then came Wu-Tang, Snoop, all of it.”

Mike: When did Dance music music hit you?

Dao: Probably around 15 or 16. I started hearing Laurent Garnier, ‘Crispy Bacon’, Jeff Mills Live at the Liquid Room. Found those tapes off mates in school.

We’d trade bootlegs that’d been recorded 200 times”

You could barely hear ‘em, but they were gold. That’s how it started — chasing that underground sound.

He grins, shaking his head. “First record I ever wrecked was a Techtronic one I’d cut off a Frosties box. Tried to scratch it on my dad’s LP player. Snapped the needle clean off. Got a hiding for that.”

We’re both laughing now — the kind of laugh that fills a pub, not a club interview. This is what makes it real.

 

The Red Box Epiphany

Dao: When I hit about 17, I started sneaking into the Red Box. Midterm break, fake ID, whatever it took. That’s where the bug hit. I’d already loved the music, but seeing it live, feeling it shake the floor — that was the moment.

Mike: You remember who was playing?

Dao: Ah, probably Dave Clarke or someone like that.

The sound, the lights — it was church, man. Proper communion”

You’re standing there and you just know, this is me for life.

From there it spiralled: Creamfields after exams, Homelands while still in school, that unstoppable teenage momentum that pushes you from mosh-pits to warehouses to fields in the middle of nowhere.

Dao: After that first Creamfields I was like, right — rugby’s done, techno’s in. That was me.

Sessions, Gaffs, and the Birth of a Crew

The pint glasses clink as we refill. The energy’s rolling.

Dao: I could’ve gone the DJ route easy enough. I had decks, I could mix. But I loved throwing the parties more. I was the one sorting who’s on next, making sure the tunes flowed, door money counted, beer stocked. Organising chaos. It just fit.

He laughs. “We had this notorious session gaff off Leeson Street. Hundred and fifty heads sometimes. Half of Dublin’s techno scene passed through that house at some stage. I was meant to be in Trinity studying engineering, but, man, the only engineering I did was rigging speakers.”

Mike: So even then, you were running the show.

Dao: Yeah, totally. Didn’t even realise it, but I was learning how to run a venue — crowd flow, security, timing.

I just wanted people to have a deadly night. That was the buzz”

 

Ibiza Baptism

By the time he’s talking about his first summer in Ibiza, the grin widens again.

Dao: I was 19, supposed to go to the States for rugby training. Coach thought I was bulking up. I went to Ibiza instead, came back two and a half stone lighter and spiritually converted. Fuckin’ right I was done with rugby.

He bursts out laughing. “We were flyering, hustling, sleeping four to a room. Hearing Richie Hawtin at Space, Carl Cox doing 8-hour sets, seeing clubs open at 8 a.m. and not close till after lunch. It was mental. You’re standing there, sober or not,

watching the sun come up over a thousand people losing their minds, and you just think — I want to build this. I want to give people this feeling.”

Miami Pawnshop — The Spark

Mike: So that’s where the name came from, right? The original Pawnshop?

Dao: Yeah. Miami 2008. We were backpacking from South America up to the States, hit the Winter Music Conference, and there was this club — Pawnshop. Total dive. Broken airplane seats, half a school bus inside, graffiti everywhere. Proper danger but beautiful with it. Marco Carola and Loco Dice playing back-to-back, Adam Beyer, Steve Bug. Unreal lineup.

He leans forward, eyes bright. “That place stuck with me. I remember thinking, fuck, that name’s perfect. Years later, when I had to name this place in a rush, one of the lads said,

‘Call it Pawnshop.’ It just clicked. Full circle.”

Mike: So you were manifesting it before you even knew.

Dao: Exactly. Took 15 years, but it landed.

Pygmalion — First Steps into the Industry

Dao: After travelling, I got back home mid-2008, skint and directionless. My ma sent me to a guidance counsellor. I told her, ‘I wanna open a club.’ Two weeks later, my mates rang — they’d just got keys to a bar. Pygmalion. Week before Paddy’s Day 2009. Total building site.

He laughs remembering it. “We ripped the place apart in a week, threw a party, filled it with mates. DJs who never got a shot in clubs finally had decks. It was chaos — bar in the middle, 360 serving, couldn’t escape the crowd. But it worked. It was ours.”

Mike: That was your first proper test?

Dao: Yeah. We were running it on instinct. Friday and Saturday packed, dead midweek. Learned fast how hard it is to make a bar work outside the weekend. But we had freedom. We could book who we wanted, stay open late, lock-ins ‘til morning. Cops raided us once at 7 a.m.

We shut it down — then turned it back up an hour later. Got raided again. Worth it.”

He grins like a man still proud of the mischief.

 

Berlin — Learning from the Source

Dao: A few of the lads from Pyg went off and opened a club in Berlin — Klei Reise. I was 26 and restless, so I joined them in 2010. It was under a hostel, old Turkish bathhouse, crumbling walls, no licence, perfect.”

Mike: So, classic Berlin.

Dao: Yeah, mate. You could open till whenever the fuck you wanted. Cops would show up, you’d show them an email saying you’d applied for a licence, and they’d go, ‘Cool.’ Total freedom. It taught me everything — DIY sound systems, crowd care, programming nights properly. You could see the culture wasn’t about money, it was about belonging.

He takes a sip and adds, softer, “That year in Berlin gave me the backbone.

When I came back to Dublin, I knew exactly what kind of club I wanted to run — honest, sweaty, and unpretentious.”

Tengu — Building the Reputation

Dao: I came back 2015, got involved with Tengu. At first I thought, ‘This is a restaurant, not a club.’ But once I saw a few gigs there, I realised it could be magic. Great smoking area, killer crowd, open-minded vibe. That’s where I met you, actually.

Mike: Yeah, man — you had that easy energy. No front.

Dao: I just wanted people to feel welcome. You’d have a 21-year-old raver beside a 40-year-old head, and it worked. I made sure it wasn’t all one thing — a bit of disco, a bit of acid, techno nights for the heads. Balance.

He pauses. “It was a place that reminded me what Dublin could be — diverse, creative, raw. We had promoters like Lumo and Out to Lunch doing their thing. It was community again.”

Mike: That’s when you really solidified your name.

Dao: Yeah. Tengu was family. I learned how to run a proper operation without losing the underground heart.

Lockdown and the Leap

Then the world stopped. Dao shakes his head remembering it.

Dao: Lockdown was grim. Clubs shut, everything gone. I went back into Thai boxing, got fit, smoked too much weed, watched everything we’d built freeze. But that’s when the idea for a new space started simmering.

Mike: And that became Pawnshop?

Dao: Yeah. It wasn’t planned, more like a calling. I found this spot — the old Berlin Bar site — and it felt right.

We knew it’d be a fight, but fuck it, I’ve never done easy”

He laughs. “We spent 14 months just trying to open the doors. Me and the crew sanding floors, painting walls ourselves, learning plumbing, electrics, you name it. Every penny went into it. By the time we opened, we’d literally built it with our own hands.”

 

Pawnshop — The Rebirth

Now he looks around the room we’re sitting in, like it still surprises him.

Dao: I wanted it to feel raw, dangerous, and safe— all at once. Like that Miami Pawnshop vibe. You come in, see brick, sweat, sound — and it just grabs you.

Mike: It does. It feels lived in already.

Dao: That’s because it’s built from love, not spreadsheets. We run it lean, independent. Everyone here gives a shit. And we book proper heads — locals who deserve a shot, estasblished talent in the game and Detroit legends, We’re connecting generations.

He grins. “That’s the mission — bridge the gap. Give new blood their shot, honour the old guard. This scene only survives if we keep both.”

The Graft Behind the Glory

Dao: It’s not glamorous, man. I’ve been sanding floors at 3 a.m., then on a call with sound engineers at 8 a.m. the next day.

But I love it. It’s honest graft. You can’t fake that”

Mike: And that’s what people feel when they walk in.

Dao: Exactly. They know it’s not some investor-driven club. It’s ours. Community-run. It’s the same heads who were raving 15 years ago, now building spaces for the next lot.

The Nights That Matter

Mike: So, tell me about that one night — the one where it all clicked.

Dao: Opening weekend. Everything that could go wrong did — sound cutting, lights tripping. But the crowd didn’t move. They just kept dancing. That was the moment. I stood at the back, watching, and thought —

we fucking did it. This is Dublin’s underground reborn”

He smiles, eyes glinting. “Every city needs a basement like this. Every generation needs a place to lose themselves.”

Legacy and what’s Next

Dao: I don’t want Pawnshop to be a fad. I want it still here in 2030 — maybe evolved, maybe in a bigger space, maybe smaller, but still honest. We’re already seeing the knock-on: new promoters, younger DJs, kids discovering techno properly. That’s the dream.

He finishes his pint and leans back, satisfied. “Dublin deserves proper spaces again. No bullshit, no VIP ropes — just music and sweat.”

As the soundcheck starts in the next room, bass thumps through the concrete and conversation fades, he stands to leave, he turns back and says with a grin, “Come in, drop your phone, drop the drama, and find your rhythm.”