Deadmau5 is unhappy.

At the very least, Canadian music producer Joel Zimmerman is extremely agitated.

Without his infamous mouse head to hide behind, his displeasure is obvious as he saunters into the green room at Canadian Music Week. Two things are on the agenda for the next hour 鈥� photos and an interview about his impressive career as a music creator.

Might he consider taking photos first?

鈥淚 don鈥檛 give a s鈥攖,鈥� the Niagara Falls, Ont., native mumbles, digging into a bag of Doritos.

His publicist interjects.

鈥淟et鈥檚 give a minute,鈥� she says before turning to him. 鈥淵ou can have a snack. Whenever you鈥檙e ready.鈥�

What unfolds over the next 20 minutes is a mostly unprintable conversation layered with so much foul language it would probably make Quentin Tarantino blush.

Anyone who intently follows Zimmerman鈥檚 career likely knows the 43-year-old is allergic to interviews. He rarely does them. When he agrees, it often seems like he鈥檚 having a tooth pulled.

But on this day he鈥檚 got reason to celebrate: an induction into CMW鈥檚 Music Industry Hall of Fame, joining an acclaimed list of Canadians including Gordon Lightfoot, Rush and Alanis Morissette.

The honour marks his 25th anniversary in music, a milestone he says is pegged to 1999 when he first copyrighted a song under one of his previous aliases and nearly a decade before his single 鈥淕hosts 鈥榥鈥� Stuff鈥� became a worldwide dance hit.

To recognize the quarter-century mark, he鈥檚 traversing the globe with a tour dubbed Retro5pective: 25yrs of Deadmau5, performing shows as far away as India, one of his favourite places to eat.

He鈥檒l return to Canada for summer festivals in Holland Park, B.C., and Calgary, and eventually retreat to his mansion outside Toronto where he鈥檚 collected an array of rescued animals, including two horses, three goats and a fancy ball python.

The music industry machine would suggest it鈥檚 in Zimmerman鈥檚 best interest to make the rounds at this CMW induction and offer a few pleasantries. He鈥檚 agreed to at least make the rounds.

Earlier, he took part in a 45-minute fireside chat at a Toronto conference centre in front of a few hundred music industry players and fans.

Dressed in mismatched black and red hightops, tattered jeans and a T-shirt, Zimmerman walked onto the stage to a bombastic round of hype from the host.

With his language cleaned up, he talked about the value of musicians owning their master recordings, his decision to live in Canada despite his success, and pondered one day playing the newly minted Sphere in Las Vegas.

He recently toured the colossal $2.3-billion venue with its technology team and imagined how mind-blowing its wraparound screen and cutting-edge sound system would be for an electronic show. One of the hurdles, he said, is making his grand ideas profitable.

But the conversation went south in the final minutes as Zimmerman rose from the couch to fact-check his interviewer鈥檚 notes. When the 45-minute clock ran out, he proclaimed, 鈥淭ime鈥檚 up鈥� and bolted from the stage without a goodbye.

Now walking into the green room with a Tim Hortons cup in his grip, all those swears bottled up from the stage were about to spill out. He snatches his bag of chips off the table and slumps down in a chair. Once he鈥檚 finished his afternoon snack, he agrees to pose for pictures.

This, too, appears painful.

鈥淚鈥檓 not a f鈥攌ing Ken doll,鈥� he tells the photographer when asked to change his position slightly.

A minute or two tick by and Zimmerman becomes more irritated as the camera snaps.

鈥淎re you doing a whole coffee table book?鈥� he asks.

Walking back to his chair, the musician positions himself for an interview that quickly turns combative. He interrupts questions before they鈥檙e finished and challenges any word he considers vague.

It鈥檚 hard to believe he wants to be here. Does being inducted into the Hall of Fame even matter to him?

鈥淥f course it f鈥攌ing matters,鈥� he scoffs.

鈥淏ecause it鈥檚 just things I鈥檓 going to look back at and think, 鈥�(Wow), that鈥檚 amazing what I鈥檝e been able to achieve.鈥欌��

He鈥檚 achieved a lot, for sure.

When his name first started circulating in the Toronto electronic music scene Zimmerman was an enigma 鈥� his colourful, illuminated mouse headpieces a unique and recognizable brand that both concealed his identity and provoked curiosity from clubgoers.

But Zimmerman鈥檚 compositions dispelled any suggestions it was mere gimmickry.

In the underground scene of the mid-aughts, his instrumentals 鈥淔axing Berlin鈥� and 鈥淰anishing Point鈥� were recognized as unique and meditative creations that worked their magic best in the darkest hours of the afterparty.

Many of those early songs were drafted in his mom鈥檚 Niagara Falls basement before his career started picking up and he moved to a tiny apartment in Toronto. He remembers those city lodgings as practically unlivable, but an early sign of his independence and a chance to 鈥渉ave chicks over whenever I want.鈥�

Deadmau5 crept into the electronic mainstream around 2008 with 鈥淚 Remember,鈥� a slow-building piece centred around angelic female vocals. The song, co-created with frequent collaborator Kaskade, is now deemed a contemporary club classic.

鈥淕hosts 鈥榥鈥� Stuff鈥� followed soon after, and he built his self-created independent record label Mau5trap with his own tracks as he supported a deep roster of other young creators, including Rezz, Sydney Blu and Tinlicker.

At the peak of his popularity, Deadmau5 sold out Toronto鈥檚 Rogers Centre and remains the only Canadian act to do so.

Ten years ago, when a more spirited Zimmerman appeared at CMW to discuss his flourishing career, he revealed to host Jian Ghomeshi that his accountant said he already had enough money to retire from music.

He didn鈥檛 plan to, however, since there were many ideas he wanted to bring to fruition.

It would seem Zimmerman spends little time glancing back on those early highs.

鈥淚 don鈥檛,鈥� he confirms flatly.

Doesn鈥檛 marking a 25th-anniversary force him to reflect?

鈥淵eah, because you鈥檙e forcing me to,鈥� he chuckles, firing off an expletive under his breath.

鈥淚 don鈥檛 sit at home, eat peanut butter and just reminisce while my cats are hanging out and I鈥檓 watching 鈥楽tar Trek.鈥欌��

OK, so what鈥檚 important these days?

鈥淛ust health,鈥� he answers. 鈥淗ealth and happiness is starting to kick in as what鈥檚 really important.鈥�

Why would he choose those words?

鈥淲hy?鈥� he returns with another scoff. 鈥淵ou think I鈥檇 be 鈥� happy with stage-four cancer in a hospital bed?鈥�

Zimmerman concedes there鈥檚 some privilege in his response. After all, he notes while unloading another swear, it鈥檚 鈥渆asy to say when you made a (boatload) of money.鈥�

His final rebuff comes after a question about his enjoyment of trolling fellow artists, usually on social media but occasionally during his shows.

Most recently, he captured attention for one of his burns aimed directly at fellow Canadian Grimes during his set at Electric Daisy Carnival in Vegas.

The Vancouver electro-pop artist had already been skewered online for fumbling through technical issues during her debut DJ set at another festival.

Zimmerman twisted that knife at his own show by running a mocking video of her bungle as he dropped a pounding club beat. Was he taking a shot at Grimes as one of the growing number of celebrities who, despite their inexperience, seem to think they鈥檙e DJs? Not really, he says.

If anything, Zimmerman seems annoyed at the snobbery of such a question and adopts a mocking prim accent.

鈥淚 take my partying very seriously when I go the electronic music show,鈥� he says, pounding the table.

鈥淭ell you what, interview me a year from now and ask me how much anyone gives a (heck) or even remembers that.鈥�

鈥淚t鈥檚 just fun, OK?鈥� he adds. 鈥淎nd heaven forbid we have a little fun, some screaming and some laughs at a music festival. It鈥檇 be really weird if we didn鈥檛. It鈥檇 be very unmemorable if we were all very serious.鈥�

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