Many DJs see nightlife as incompatible with family life. But, as the below conversations show, there's no shortage of electronic music mums and dads who successfully balance parenthood with the dance floor—though not without some compromises. Some bring their toddlers to festival stages in front of thousands of ravers. Others rush offstage to breastfeed between sets. They require intense organisation and sacrifice to hold it all together. And all of this in an industry which models itself as an escape from life's responsibilities—hardly the domain of a parent.

Will Saul

Henry Saul slips the Pépé Bradock record onto the turntable and lowers the tonearm. He is seven years old and stands eye-level with the mixer. This is his first DJ lesson and his dad is surprised at his proficiency—that is, until Henry decides he prefers Bradock at 45 RPM rather than the recommended 33, speeding it up until it sounds like footwork.

I'm in Will Saul's spacious country home in Somerset on a drizzly day in March. A golden balloon in the shape of the number four hangs halfheartedly in the kitchen, blinking in the festive strobe of a disco light. Yesterday was the birthday of Saul's second son, Oscar, who is now picking out vinyl with Henry. Their little sister Freya, 2, is trying to wear a record as a hat.

Some of the records cast onto the floor are from Saul's labels Aus and Simple, house imprints where he honed his talent-spotting skills, releasing early EPs from Joy O, Pearson Sound, Leon Vynehall and Bicep. Saul spent his 20s working in music in London. He DJ'd, ran labels, and in 2003 helped found the record shop Phonica. After he met Christabel, now his wife, they spent their first big night out together at Corsica Studios at an Innervisions showcase.

Their first child came along to some of Saul's biggest gigs, including a set to 5000 people in Barcelona. Henry was only 3, but he came out on stage. "I picked him up and he looked at the crowd," says Saul. "People as far as you could see. He waved and everyone waved back. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body. He was rigid with excitement."

Back then Saul was playing more than 80 shows a year and his absences were putting a strain on his relationship. "I looked at my life and thought: I'm not going to be able to keep this up in ten years time with more children," he says. He decided to cut down on touring and moved back to the countryside where he grew up, both for the relaxed pace and to be closer to his parents.

Now 40, Saul says he was only able to tour less because he also works outside of DJing. He is currently head of A&R at !K7 Records, home of the DJ-Kicks series. "I didn't feel that cutting back and moving was a sacrifice because I still love what I'm doing," he says. "If I got to child number three and was still playing 80 shows a year, the wheels of the family would have come off."

Freya is now peeping through the hole in a hip-hop record, and has found a new hat in Saul's headphone bag. She dances to a thumping beat and giggles, egged on by their floppy and excitable cocker spaniel Lulu. Saul surveys the scene and smiles. "You end up doing what's best for your family," he says, "but as they're getting bigger I'm making music more. I might start touring again." Then, seemingly oblivious to any contradiction, he continues, "and we might have another one when these three are all at school. We love kids—keep 'em coming!"

Raica

Chloe Harris has three children: Jack, 5, the rave baby; Kate, 3, the modular kid; and Cameron, 1, the dancer. Last year Harris' life was turned upside-down when Cameron was diagnosed with stage 4 neuroblastoma, a fast-growing form of cancer. He's undergoing treatment, but some chemotherapy is so aggressive that a child's body can only endure it once. Harris' voice is firm as she tells me this over Skype, but her pain is obvious. "It's not something anyone should ever have to deal with," she says.

This situation would test any parent, but for a musician it brings unique challenges. Harris DJs and produces as Raica, and runs the label Further Records with her husband. Even before Cameron's illness it was tricky. "We don't have the safety nets you have in a regular career," she says. "If you don't take a gig, you don't get money." She was unable to travel for shows when pregnant, two months before giving birth and one after, but couldn't afford to turn them down. She ended up playing with Actress a week after Cameron was born.

Harris had her first child at 35. By then she had already lived two musical lives. The first was touring with progressive house DJ John Digweed in the mid-2000s. She stopped when she started feeling boxed in by the expectations of audiences. "Once I was playing and drunk people were in my face, spitting and yelling: 'Play harder!'" she recalls, "I was like—fuck this. I was just done."

She moved back to her hometown, Seattle, and became a busy member of the local music community, running modular workshops, opening an online store and playing with acts like Aurora Halal and Kassem Mosse. She let her music get weirder. "I don't make music for other people anymore," she says. "It's more a way to relax and go through my thoughts and feelings. I was doing shows while Cameron was going through his cancer just to feel more regular."

The cost of Cameron's treatment has exceeded $100,000, and while the family is partly assisted by the state, it has been a huge drain on their finances. "It's really expensive and extremely hard, but you just pretend money doesn't exist and keep going," she says.

A friend set up a crowdfunding campaign to help the family pay medical and food bills. Harris was reluctant at first—"it feels horrible to ask for help"—but has been deeply moved by the support, particularly from Seattle's music community. The campaign aimed to raise $4000 and it has now collected $23,964 and counting. "The people in Seattle are beautiful," she says. "I have not felt so much love from a scene ever."

Right now, Cameron is improving. When Harris and I last spoke, he didn't have any cancer in his body. "It seems easy for him," she says proudly, "he blows everyone away." On the crowdfund page is a video of him; a bald, smiling toddler in a T-rex shirt gingerly walking towards his dad. Despite suffering hearing loss from the chemotherapy, Harris says Cameron still loves music. "He puts his arms up and starts raving, shaking his butt," she laughs. "He stops whatever he's doing to dance."

Robert Hood

Lyric Hood doesn't work the faders like her dad. She raises the volume on the mixer with short little jabs, quite unlike Robert's smooth, deliberate style. I watch as she works in the exultant opening strings of Floorplan classic "Tell You No Lie." Hundreds of hands fly into the air, and the Liverpool warehouse crowd lets out a deafening cheer.

Booking Floorplan didn't always mean a promoter would get two generations of Hoods. When I chat to the pair in their hotel, Robert says he always felt his Floorplan alias should be a collaborative project, even though he first produced its gospel-infused bangers alone. The first sign of collaboration was the coincidence of Lyric's birthdate, on Father's Day, 1996—though while talking to the Hoods I quickly realise that nothing is taken as coincidence. Robert rapturously recalls first seeing Lyric DJ for her church choir. "It was amazing," he says. "I felt like this was meant to be."

He invited her to join the Floorplan project after the release of the Victorious album. "I knew music was in her DNA," he says. Lyric's first club set was an unannounced guest spot during one of Robert's shows at Movement in Detroit, where she plugged in her iPad and mixed together pop tracks from Katy Perry and Martin Garrix. The crowd was nonplussed. "I knew some people were expecting something else," Robert smiles, "but something in my spirit just said, 'Don't box her in.'"

Lyric's taste changed, and her second appearance was at the closing set of Dekmantel 2015, which is hardly a low-pressure stage for a beginner. Yet Lyric was undaunted by the crowd, or by her dad's stature in the scene. "He's normal to me," she says, as Robert nods encouragingly. "It doesn't seem cool that my dad's a DJ because at home he's still just dad—killing spiders, taking out the trash and cutting the grass."

Robert Hood and Lyric Hood

Hood isn't the only Detroit DJ who taught their child to mix—Juan Atkins and Kevin Saunderson cultivate their own techno dynasties—but they're the only pair that tours together. Now Robert finds Lyric's youth helps him keep in touch. "She's the next generation," he says, "so if it's not moving her then it's not moving the kids." The night before they played to a young crowd in Glasgow. "I was looking at all these kids," Robert says, "and thinking, 'How does this old guy relate to them?' She's my bridge."

There are sacrifices, of course. "Before I got married it was all about me," Robert grins. He quit smoking and drinking when Lyric was born. "It is a sacrifice, giving up yourself and your ego. It's like being on the cross every day. But I want to be the kind of husband my wife and daughter need me to be."

For a family with strong religious values, the world of nightlife can be fraught with temptation and hedonism. "As her father I'm her shield, her guide, her protector and her teacher," says Robert. "I know sometimes I can be overprotective. Nobody knows better than she does what God has placed in her heart to do. I have to let her go and be who she's going to be." Lyric smiles shyly.

One aspect of Robert's protection is the purity ring Lyric wears. "He took me on a date and gave me the ring and said, 'I want you to always remember to make the right choice,'" she recalls. I suggest she might often be the only person in the club wearing that particular accessory. They laugh.

Lyric tells me she's started producing her own music, and envisions a solo career someday. I doubt Robert will stand in her way. Earlier that night, he had stepped back for the final ten minutes of their set. Lyric finished alone, her father watching appreciatively as she coaxed the crowd into a final frenzy.

Nastia

In 2007 Nastia was 20 years old and DJing into her eighth month of pregnancy. "Some people say the noise isn't good for the baby," she tells me over Skype from her home in Ukraine, "but it's not like I was drinking or going out every weekend." She has always done things her own way.

Her daughter Uliana was born in January 2008, and by April Nastia was touring. She had a club residency in Russia, so she would take a train from Kyiv with her baby daughter and her mother—three generations of women travelling together to support a DJ career. "I was very extreme at the time," she reflects, laughing, "I remember breastfeeding Uliana and then playing a couple of hours in the club before running back to the hotel to breastfeed again."

A year later she split from her husband. "We broke up and I had nothing; no gigs, no work," she says. "I was calling friends I'd worked with before saying, 'Guys can you give me a gig and I'll play for half the fee?'" Given she was desperate and owed money, I ask, didn't she think there might be an easier way to make a living as a single mother than DJing? "No," she says flatly. "Nothing is easier than doing what you love. I knew I was good at it and I built up my career from nothing."

This meant sacrificing time Nastia could spend with her daughter. "We had nothing so I had to focus on my career," she says, "Uliana always had to take second place." She says this was especially unusual in Ukraine, where women are often expected to drop everything for their children. But if she couldn't make herself happy, she thought, how could she make her daughter happy? "Because in the end the baby will grow up and leave. You don't want to regret how stupid you were when you were young and didn't do anything to make your life happen."

It's safe to say now, at 31, that Nastia is a successful international DJ. Last year she did 128 gigs and several tours, and she has finally established the stability to be able to take her foot off the accelerator. In 2019 she plans to spend at least one weekend a month at home. When she's there she devotes all her time to Uliana, rather than meeting friends, making music or digging for records like other DJs.

When confronted with the choice between giving up her family or giving up her career, Nastia instead chose to give up sleep and become ruthlessly organised. She plans her daughter's life meticulously, so she can be DJing in Australia but know who is picking up Uliana from school in Kyiv.

Some of her greatest joys come when her two worlds overlap. In 2016 she brought decks and speakers to her daughter's school to teach Uliana's curious classmates the basics of mixing. She has also brought her daughter on tour with her to India, South America and California. "She's the best person to travel with," Nastia says, though Uliana rarely attends her mum's sets. "She says, 'Mum what am I gonna do there, it's so boring. I better stay in the hotel and watch cartoons.'"

If Nastia is playing at night, she leaves Uliana sleeping alone in the hotel. "Some people think I'm crazy for doing that," she says, "but I know she'll be fine. I challenge her and through this experience she learns. Maybe the first night she feels stressed to wake up alone. But the next time she wakes up and I'm not there, she'll know that it's OK. I'll be back soon."

Karen Gwyer

Karen Gwyer only started making music after she had children. She never knew life as a musician outside of motherhood. When her career as a live techno artist picked up, she would take her young sons to soundchecks. Once at London's ICA they crawled under the stage and got completely filthy. Gwyer was so distracted that she couldn't plug in her equipment properly.

Two years later these same sons are sitting next to Gwyer in her airy Berlin apartment. Lucien is six and Remi is three. Both are charming, but it's easy to imagine them wandering off and wreaking havoc. In fact, they're playing so boisterously that they have to be sat down in front of YouTube during our interview. "10 Amazing Concept Cars From FUTURE!" proves a popular choice of video, and they are quiet.

Originally from the US, Gwyer moved to London in 2005 and then to Berlin with her husband in 2017. London was fine until the kids came along, when the stress and cost of childcare became too much. On top of that, Remi was born with serious allergies and Gwyer had to find special formula to feed him, which was painfully expensive. "I just snapped," she says. "We had to leave. If we didn't live somewhere with subsidized childcare, I would have had to give up making music."

Family life is simpler in Berlin, but there have been difficulties here, too. There is no family to help with babysitting, and nobody speaks fluent German. The boys have been picking up the language from school. When Remi is bored of us grown-ups talking he asks to go to the "Spielplatz" (the playground). To distract him I lift him high in the air. He squeals with delight, and when he touches down complains, "Mein hair is in mein eyes."

The electronic music industry is not made for parents. Gwyer says she is expected to be free at all times for soundcheck, and is often given details so late that she has no time to arrange a babysitter. I ask why she doesn't stipulate specific needs in her rider. "I don't want to be seen as a pushy person or a diva," she says.

Gwyer's pregnancy was part of the press coverage of her first release, so she was introduced to the world as both an artist and a mother. This is often the way for women, she notes. "Men could get away with being great parents and no one would ever know," she says. "Women can't, family always comes up because of logistics." I tell Gwyer that while all the women I approached for this article agreed to speak with me, many male DJs refused to get involved. She is not surprised. "It's not edgy to be a parent, is it?" she says. "It's perceived as being detrimental to your career. How can you sell somebody a cool image when people know you're at home running baths and wiping butts?"

She describes how younger female DJs respond to learning she is a musician and a mother: "You can see the terror in their eyes. They're thinking, 'I love DJing. I don't know if I could ever admit to myself that having a child is something I'd also love.' I tell them it's hard but you can make it work. But they think they have to choose. They're really conditioned to think that way."

Remi has drifted away from YouTube and is now doing a Thomas The Tank Engine jigsaw puzzle. He has almost finished the train station scene, but is struggling to find one last piece in the puzzle box.

Gwyer tells me about the festival gigs she has lined up—at 40 she's doing better than ever. "So obviously the fact that I'm a mum doesn’t make me so uncool that it's a problem," she says. "I'll take the music industry as it is and find my weirdo place within it, but I'll be the first to say I feel like a complete outsider. I play a couple of times a month and make music during the week. It works. Sure I get jealous of people playing regularly, but I wouldn't want that. I chose to have kids."

Remi starts to cry. He still hasn't found the final piece of the puzzle. "Where is it?" he wails.

"I don't know, I'm looking, I'm looking," says Gwyer. She inspects the pieces and expertly fishes one out, offering it to Remi.

His face lights up. "Yes, that's it!" he says with glee. "That's the missing piece, mummy!"