From Dorset to Burning Man: Director Hoj Jomehri on Telling Lee Burridge’s Story

There’s something quietly compelling about documentaries that manage to capture the essence of electronic music culture without resorting to the usual visual clichés or breathless narration. Hoj Jomehri’s Sound of a Dream, which had its world premiere at London’s Doc’n Roll Film Festival this October, is one of those rare films that gets it right. The American-Iranian director has created a feature-length portrait of Lee Burridge that goes beyond the typical artist documentary format, tracing four decades of evolution from a small seaside village in Dorset to the global stages that have defined modern dance music culture.

The film arrives at an interesting moment for music documentaries. We’ve seen a notable shift in how these stories are being told, with projects like Reality Is Not Enough, the Scottish feature on Irvine Welsh’s transition from novelist to DJ, finding genuine audiences at major festivals. There’s clearly an appetite for properly crafted, unscripted features that treat electronic music culture with the respect it deserves, rather than reducing it to montages of sweaty crowds and strobing lights.

Sound of a Dream follows Burridge’s journey through the formative years of Hong Kong’s underground club scene in the 1990s, his residency at Fabric, the creation of the All Day I Dream movement, and performances at Burning Man and Coachella. It’s a co-production between Unsound Films and Believe Media, the latter having form with music documentaries through their work on Have You Got It Yet? The Story of Syd Barrett and Pink Floyd. Following its London premiere, the film will have its New York screening this spring.

I sat down with Jomehri to discuss the making of Sound of a Dream, the challenges of documenting a career that spans genres and continents, and what it takes to translate the ephemeral nature of club culture onto film.

You’ve spent years moving between the booth and the edit suite, so there’s a natural overlap in how you read rhythm and build narrative. When you were structuring Sound of a Dream, did you find yourself approaching the edit in the same way you’d approach a DJ set, thinking about flow, peaks, and the spaces in between, or did the film demand a completely different kind of architecture?

While the craft is very different, there’s a fundamental similarity between the DJ booth and the edit bay — you’re taking a massive amount of source material and shaping a story from it. In both disciplines, I rely on instinct and intuition to build narrative and flow. That was especially true with Sound of a Dream, where I wanted the film to feel like a DJ set in how it moves through the story.

Lee’s story touches on the outsider experience, something you’ve spoken about as formative in your own life. How much of your own journey through rave culture and finding belonging in those spaces informed the way you framed his narrative? Was there a risk of the film becoming too personal, or did that proximity actually sharpen your instincts about what needed to be shown?

My own experience definitely gave me an emotional shorthand, but I never felt like the film was in danger of becoming about me — the goal was always to stay true to Lee. My proximity to rave culture gave me a frame of reference; I understand the feeling Lee is trying to create for people because I’ve felt it myself. That helped guide what I wanted audiences to feel while watching the film.

The film weaves together live performance footage, animation, archival material, and talking heads in a way that feels intuitive rather than constructed. What was the process of deciding which moments warranted which treatment? Were there particular sequences where one form of storytelling simply couldn’t do the job, or did you find the different layers speaking to each other in ways you hadn’t anticipated?

Probably a little of both. I didn’t start with a rule about which moments needed which treatment, but I knew I wanted the mediums to be as colorful and expressive as the subject matter. Sometimes I’d just loop the timeline or listen to the words on repeat until I could visualize how that part of the story wanted to be told.

It’s about listening to the material and paying attention to what each moment is doing for the story. As the elements start to come together, it becomes more about a feeling, if a talking head feels flat, I’ll dig into that moment and find another way to bring it to life.

You came up through branded content at a time when the form was still finding its language, working with brands like ABSOLUT and Airbnb. How has that commercial discipline shaped your approach to longer documentary work? Are there techniques or instincts you’ve carried over, or does the absence of brand objectives actually free you to work in ways that aren’t possible in that world?

Working in branded content taught me a lot about tone, clarity, intention, and the power of simplicity. When you’re working with brands, every choice has to be justified, you’re constantly asking what a moment is doing and why it belongs. You need to make sure the work overall feels true to the brand’s tone of voice. That discipline absolutely carries over… I’m always thinking about intention, tone, and how to communicate an idea as simply as possible. 

Without a brand message to land, the work opens up. You’re still shaping an idea, but you can let it unfold more gradually, more emotionally, and more ambiguously. The foundation is the same, the freedom comes from not having to resolve everything into a single takeaway.

We’re seeing a real moment for music documentaries right now, both in the dance music space and beyond, and audiences seem genuinely hungry for stories rooted in actual creative communities rather than manufactured narratives. Why do you think that’s happening now? Is it a reaction against something, or are we just finally catching up to the fact that these scenes have always been rich with proper stories worth telling?

I think it’s less of a reaction and more of a catch-up. I remember seeing Searching for Sugar Man when it came out, I knew nothing about Rodriguez, his music, or his story when I walked into the theater, and I walked out a fan. That experience really stuck with me. Funny to think that was 2012 – around the same time I was starting to get serious about Sound of a Dream.

Those kinds of human stories have always existed in music. Music documentaries feel like a natural way to tell those stories, to introduce people to artists, music and communities they might never encounter otherwise. 

The rave generation has matured into a position where they’re making culture rather than just consuming it, and there’s clearly an appetite for work that takes dance music seriously as both art and community. Do you see Sound of a Dreamas part of a wider shift in how electronic music and club culture are being documented and preserved, or is it more about capturing one person’s trajectory at a particular moment?

You might say I had tunnel vision. I was so focused on documenting the scene immediately surrounding me that I wasn’t really thinking about any shifts happening beyond it. I wasn’t trying to preserve club culture in any formal sense, I just wanted to document something I felt close to, before it changed or disappeared.

Your background as a DJ and producer must have given you a different kind of access or understanding when filming someone like Lee, particularly around live performance and the unspoken communication that happens between a DJ and a floor. Were there moments during production where that shared language became essential, where someone without that background might have missed what was actually happening?

Having that understanding was valuable; sensing the best way to move through a crowded dance floor with a camera, knowing where to put the camera at a given moment, feeling when the vibe was just right, or giving my crew a 2-bar warning so we’d be ready for the drop. Just as importantly, I knew when to put the camera away and let people just be. A lot of that is muscle memory I probably take for granted, but I think it helped.

Looking at the current landscape of music cinema, both documentary and scripted, there seems to be a move away from the traditional rise and fall narrative towards something more textured and ambiguous. What drew you to tell Lee’s story in this particular moment, and did you feel any pressure to fit it into established templates, or were you always committed to letting the material dictate its own shape?

I was close to Lee, close to the music, and it felt like what was happening around me was something worth paying attention to right then. I never felt pressure to force it into anything. I just wanted to tell the story as authentically as possible.

From a production standpoint, what does it actually take to pull off something of this scale? When you’re filming across multiple venues and countries, capturing live performances in low light with unpredictable sound environments, what does the crew look like, and how do you navigate the practical side of permits, venue access, and convincing people to let you film in spaces that are often protective of their atmosphere?

You have to be prepared, flexible, and willing to pick your battles. The crew looked different depending on the situation, sometimes it was just me, a camera, and a shotgun mic. That started out of production necessity, but I think it ultimately helped build trust both with Lee and with his fans.

Coordinating with Lee and his management, we would earmark certain events — like The Brooklyn Mirage, where I’d bring in more of the crew. At most, that was 5 or 6 people. Whether I was working solo or with a team, I always kept the gear minimal and avoided staying in one place too long. Keeping things nimble protects the atmosphere, and it meant Lee never had to perform with a camera in his face for too long.

For people coming up now who want to tell stories in this space, whether about music culture or any other subculture they’re embedded in, what’s your honest advice about where to start? There’s this assumption that you need expensive gear and a full crew from day one, but you’ve worked across the spectrum from high budget branded work to more intimate documentary. What would you recommend in terms of kit, editing software, and approach for someone who’s got the stories but not necessarily the resources yet

My personal kit is always changing, but it’s intentionally small. Usually it’s just a camera body, two or three lenses — if I can only take one, it’s a 24–70, an on-camera shotgun mic, and a tripod. On the editing side, I’ve worked in Premiere and more recently DaVinci Resolve. 

But my advice is to start with conversations. You don’t need a crew or expensive gear to have a conversation – all you need is a quiet room. Use your phone and record a conversation with someone you find interesting, video or audio. Treat it like an interview. Take that recording into whatever editing software you have and start stitching the responses together. Do you feel a spark? Yes? Great. Keep going. 

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