Text: Ethan Chu
Edits: Greg Law
talents JASMINE KELLY ANDRE LEUNG SANJAY NEWAR stylist YUKA YU mua SAPPHIRE SHEN hair stylist EARL YAM photography GIOIA CHEUNG YK brands SENSE_STORE SENSE_ANNEXES MOONLIGHT GANG DIE\./YOUNG [TIE] STARRYRAMUNE [ACC] HMAD.OFFICIAL [SHOES]
The storm outside is relentless. Through a fractured Zoom connection, rain drums against the window behind Sanjay, Lushroom (Andre), and Jasmine Kelly. Fresh from re- hearsal for their upcoming Asia tour, there’s something beautifully unguarded about the trio—a familial ease that transcends pixelat- ed screens. They aren’t merely bandmates; they’re a self-contained engine of Gen Z creativity, their origin story unfolding like a constellation of serendipitous moments, instinctive trust, and quiet determination.
Sanjay’s musical awakening began at sixteen with SoundCloud covers—a starting point he describes with characteristic humility. ‘I never really thought about writing songs like original music seriously or having a sort of style,’ he admits. When his track ‘Heart of Steel’ unexpectedly dominated the platform’s folk charts (a classification that still makes Jasmine laugh), it propelled him to Spotify and, eventually, to a casual recommendation from a high school friend: ‘You should check this guy out.’ That guy was Lushroom.
Jasmine’s path to music was more circuitous. Piano lessons at five felt like punishment; she despised them, fabricating her way through sheet music until she escaped at ten. Music only clicked years later when a friend’s broken ukulele sparked her curiosity. You- Tube became her conservatory, leading to
a folk duo that busked across Hong Kong and graced the Clockenflap stage. Yet by university, she was recording on her phone, battling COVID-induced writer’s block that nearly ended everything. ‘I said, okay, I’m just gonna study economics and go to work.’
Lushroom’s initiation came through Green Day and Skrillex, sounds that defied his understanding of what music could be. ‘I was like, whoa, what the… that’s not real.’ By thirteen, he was DJing school fashion shows and house parties. A competition win brought equipment, Logic Pro 9 followed, and suddenly the possibilities seemed infinite. ‘oh, you can make this stuff on your comput-er.’ He began releasing music as Lushroom, cultivating a local following whilst studying audio engineering, until COVID redirected him back to Hong Kong.
When discussion turns to their blend of Eastern and Western influences, Jasmine responds with characteristic pragmatism. ‘I think just the world is gonna be more local- ised anyway.’ She writes predominantly in English but embraces Mandarin following the viral success of ‘Dancing in the Dark’
Their convergence happened in the most ordinary of places: the floor of Tin Hau MTR station. Lushroom, scrolling through Spotify with Apple headphones, stumbled upon a track by Scaredkrow—Sanjay’s former alias. ‘I played it and I was like… I need this guy. Who is this? How come nobody knows who this guy is? His writing was crazy.’ The mes- sage he sent changed everything. Sanjay, refreshingly open to possibility, ‘said yes to everything.’ Their experimentation yielded
in China. ‘It’s just fun to play with rhymes.’ Lushroom views their genre-fluid approach
as evolutionary rather than rebellious. ‘It’s very easy to put yourself in a box. But humans are fluid. We like a lot of different things.’ Their creative process thrives on productive tension—where one person’s discarded idea becomes another’s breakthrough.
a licensing deal for their debut EP during Lushroom’s gap year. ‘Oh, whoa. It’s kinda really serious now.’
For them, authenticity isn’t about rejecting the mainstream; it’s about refusing compromise. Sanjay distils it perfectly: ‘As long as you stay happy with what you enjoy making, that’s the best way you can really feel like you’re still expressing yourself.’
Their immediate future is refreshingly grounded: an Asia tour, new music, elevat- ed merchandise. They’ve learnt not to force outcomes. ‘You plant all these seeds and you don’t know when you’re gonna be reward- ed,’ Lushroom muses. Fame isn’t the goal— sustainability is. ‘We want to prove that you can make it work,’ Jasmine states. ‘You don’t need a lot of people—you just need good friends.’
As the call ends, the rain in Hong Kong softens. What remains is the echo of a shared ethos: that creativity thrives not in isolation, but in community. That the most compelling art often comes from trusting your circle, learning as you go, and letting your work speak in more than one language.
Jasmine’s return to music was beautifully direct. Pandemic-bound in Hong Kong, she impulsively messaged Lushroom on Sound- Cloud. ‘Oh, your beats are cool.’ His imme- diate response—’Do you want to sing on this track?’—sparked recognition between two displaced souls: she from Budapest, he from Florida. After several sessions, Lushroom’s de- livered the confrontation she needed. ‘I was upset. You’re gonna stop doing music? I said no. it’s only risky if you suck.’ His directive was simple: buy a laptop, download Logic, commit. ‘I think I needed that push.’
Nice Young Records emerged not from strategic planning but from internet culture. Lushroom’s explanation is wonderfully mat- ter-of-fact: ‘There was a meme of an alien with text that says “nice young man, loves
his mom.” I thought it was funny.’ The name migrated from DJ gigs to clothing, finally becoming their musical platform. When Sanjay and Jasmine joined, it transformed into something greater. ‘It was made out of necessity,’ Lushroom reflects, ‘but it’s become an identifier.’
Their strength lies in complementary skills and shared dedication. Sanjay orchestrates art di- rection, Jasmine crafts websites and graphics, and Lushroom drives production. There’s no passenger mentality here. ‘We all try really hard to pull our weight,’ Jasmine observes. ‘If we don’t know how to do something, we just go online and search how to.’ They operate with startup agility: multilingual, adaptable, fiercely independent.
