Amani wears many crowns. She is Amani the successful producer, and sometimes she is Amzii Khan, the rapper, lyricist, and vocalist. But perhaps the weightiest of these crowns is that of Amani Latif, the daughter of Rina Latif, the design revolutionary whose work bridged the rich heritage of Bangladeshi textiles with modern haute couture. It’s nearly impossible to discuss Amani’s creativity and inspirations without mentioning her mother. However, Amani doesn’t shy away from the connection. When Rina Latif’s name inevitably comes up, she offers me a concise truth, “She ran so I could walk.” Amani is, in essence, the sound of a legacy finding its own frequency. Her output this year, including the powerful single, “Maker and Muse” testifies to this enduring bond.
What artistic sensibility do you feel you have inherited from your mother, and what can you express in music that you couldn’t in her medium?
Honestly, I think I got my mother’s obsession with detail and her really raw emotion. She taught me that true art – and this applies whether she’s stitching a garment or I am layering a song – has to land and evoke something truly visceral in the audience. Her thing is fabric and texture, mine is sound and frequency, obviously. But the core philosophy is identical.
It shows up in my music as storytelling, usually through these incredibly intricate layers and a really deep, almost over-the-top feeling. I think I inherited her ability to completely romanticise craftsmanship and genuinely see the creation process as an art form itself. Through sound, I was finally able to just translate the whole totality of my experience. That means the grief, the messy love, the entire rebirth process. I have basically taken the shadows of my life and transformed them into something living, powerful, and fluid. Music became my definitive language of selfhood, you know? It’s not running away from her legacy. I am expanding it. I am continuing that line of emotional storytelling, just swapping the needle and thread for a synth and a beat.
What was the pivotal moment that turned music into your profession, and what early challenge most shaped you as an artist?
The pivot was absolutely losing my brother. Music just instantly stopped being a pastime or a way to chill out and became a mode of survival. It gave me this safe place to house the pain, the memories, and even my hope, my “feelsie goodsies,” as I call them.
The most challenging part, though, has been finding my creative capacity again after all that grief. Like, learning how to make things when my insides still feel a bit like “TV static.” Losing him was like genuinely losing a limb. I am having to learn life all over again, honestly. The only thing that sustains me is the love my close ones feed me daily. So now, every track I produce feels like a necessary bridge between the woman I was and the artist I have been forced to become.
Describe your creative process: do you begin with theme, lyric, or melody? How do you ensure your musical voice is authentically Amani?
My process actually starts with none of those things. It begins with an atmosphere, a specific feeling. I have to hear the emotion first. Only then can I translate that vibe into an actual sound or a lyric. I might draft whole verses in one go, like a burst of energy, or I might obsess over just one phrase for a couple of days. My authenticity is rooted in the simple fact that I refuse to force any version of myself that doesn’t feel organically real in that moment. My sound evolves because I evolve, but the one constant thing is that little trace of truth in there somewhere.
It’s kind of interesting, I express myself through two distinct personas. There’s Amzii Khan, the rapper, lyricist, and vocalist. She’s the one who uses words as confessions and, yeah, sometimes as weapons. Then there’s Amani Latif, the producer who crafts those liquid drum & bass soundscapes that feel so cinematic, spiritual, and almost otherworldly. Drum & bass has always just captivated me; it was born in the underground UK rave scene back in the early ’90s, where rhythm and rebellion totally collided. That pulse of liberation and emotional movement is exactly what I try to channel in my production.
What is the emotional core you hope listeners take from your work?
Honestly, my deepest desire is for listeners to feel radically seen in their contradictions. Like, the sacred stuff alongside the chaotic mess, the divine coexisting with all the imperfect bits. My emotional core is nothing less than complete honesty. I just strive to create sonic worlds where pain and beauty can sit together, and where the whole journey of healing actually feels cinematic. Long-term, I would be absolutely honoured if my music is remembered as a bridge, a link between vulnerability and strength, emotion and rhythm, and spirit and sound. That would be pretty amazing, to be honest.
Beyond her public legacy, what is the most valuable piece of advice your mother has shared, and how does it influence your work?
My mother actually gave me two bits of wisdom that are my total compass. The first is, “Never dilute your essence to fit a space. Make the space expand for you.” And the second is, “Take care of your mind and your soul before you take care of anything else.”
I seriously live by those words. They are what ensure I create from a place of real groundedness and unwavering authenticity. The entire philosophy behind “Maker and Muse” comes directly from those two lines. It’s all about honouring the chaos and the calm to achieve inner equilibrium. Her strength and wisdom are the invisible threads that weave through every single beat and lyric. Rina is Amani. Amani is Rina. And on my worst days, I always remind myself, “Don’t forget the queen who birthed you.”