Cinna Peyghamy

Posted on 30 de April de 202515 de June de 2025 by nr

Feature · Athens Epidaurus Festival
Words · Melis Özek

Auditory Matter as Ritual Form and the Space Between

What does it mean to truly listen, not as a passive gesture but as a radical, embodied act of attention? In a culture shaped by speed and spectacle, listening offers a slower kind of presence. One rooted in care, intimacy, and transformation. One that moves beneath language.

Cinna Peyghamy brings us into contact with the spatial texture and weight of sound. Moving between percussion and electronics, field energy and sculptural precision, his work challenges the idea of listening. Here, sound is force. It’s matter. It’s ritual. With a background in science and a commitment to improvisation, Cinna treats sound as a phenomenon to be shaped, inhabited, and released. In this conversation, he speaks of silence as suspension, of performance as a state beyond thought, and of listening as a sensual, even sacred act.

This conversation coincides with the presentation of Cinna Peyghamy’s spatial sound work within the AEF x SNFCC x MONOM program in Athens. Developed in collaboration with MONOM and originally conceived for the 4DSOUND system, the piece deepens Peyghamy’s exploration of vibration, resonance, and embodied sonics. Here, sound is not treated as discrete, rather as a sensorial continuum to be entered, absorbed, and metabolised. The work resists the notion of performance as delivery; instead, it unfolds as a durational ecology of attunement, shaped by presence, porosity, and mutual transformation.

What happens when we reopen the ear , not only as a site of perception, but as a threshold for memory, identity, and transformation? How might deep, embodied listening allow us to access the invisible architectures that shape who we are , internal time, ritual, spiritual resonance , and reorient us toward a more fluid, post-human understanding of self? In a world saturated by visual dominance and extraction logics, can listening become a quiet form of resistance, a way to transmit emotion, reimagine presence, and dissolve boundaries between body, landscape, technology, and the unknown?

That’s such a deep and fascinating question. I always like to start by saying that sound doesn’t need images to be understood. Hearing is one of our most fundamental senses, but it’s also a way of perceiving the world across different timelines and intensities. Whether you’re in a concert hall or walking through a forest, sound is something you can feel. It surrounds you, it moves through you. It’s not abstract—it’s physical.

In French, we use the word matière to describe sound. It means material, something tactile. And I treat it like that—as something I can shape, mold, and work with like clay. Unlike vision, which we can close off easily, we can’t simply choose not to hear. You can close your eyes, but you can’t close your ears. That makes sound uniquely intimate, but also inescapable. It reaches you whether you invite it or not.

Orson Welles once said something about how we’re addicted to images, and I think that’s still true. We live in a visual culture. But sound is older. In nature, it’s how animals protect themselves. It’s how a child cries for its mother. It’s primal. And yet we tend to treat it as background. I’m interested in what happens when we bring it back to the foreground.

How do you see sound as a source of transformation?
Sound is transformation. It is energy in motion. A wave doesn’t move matter, but it transfers force. It literally reshapes the space around us. It changes how the air behaves. When a wave hits the ear, it gets translated into electric signals in the brain—and that translation becomes emotion, memory, sensation. So even before you attach meaning, sound is already doing something to you. That’s the level I’m working on. The invisible level that still leaves an imprint.

When you’re composing, how does that sense of energy and space influence your creative process?

I often describe myself as a two-faced musician. I play acoustic instruments, but I also compose electronic music. My work lives in the space between—electrifying the acoustic and bringing acoustic resonance into the electronic world. That duality is everything to me.

The way energy feels is completely different depending on the source. When I’m playing percussion, I’m the source. I create the sound. My hand hits the skin, I feel the feedback in my body. There’s a direct, muscular relationship to the sound. But when I’m composing electronically, I’m working with machines and software. The speaker becomes the voice—but it’s designed, manufactured, mediated. It’s a different intimacy.

At the computer, I’m focused on texture, weight, spatial balance. How do the frequencies sit? Where does the bass fall in the room? But when I’m performing live, it’s almost athletic. I think about posture, hand coordination, physical stamina. It’s about staying attuned to the space and what it’s asking for. One is psychological, the other is fully embodied. Both are necessary.

Silence and decay seem as present in your work as tone and rhythm. What is the function of absence in your compositions? Is there a kind of sacredness in withholding sound?

Absolutely. There’s a quote often attributed to Chopin—”Silence is music”—and I believe it. But silence is difficult. Most people are afraid of it. Even outside of music, silence in conversation can feel awkward, like something you need to fill. But I think silence is also peace. It’s immobility. It slows things down. It invites reflection.

Silence functions very differently depending on the space. If I’m performing in a church, silence has weight. It echoes. You can use it to stretch time, to create tension, to let something land. In a club, it’s trickier. Silence exposes the background—the bar noise, the chatter, the bodies. It’s more fragile. But even then, it can be powerful if you trust it.

When I’m composing, I often return to a track and realize I’ve said too much. Why is there so much happening? Did I really need that many layers? Maybe not. Subtraction is a tool. You remove until you’re almost at silence—but not quite. That in-between space is where I try to live. That equilibrium, where presence and absence are in dialogue. It’s a place of heightened listening.

How did your collaboration with MONOM influence the way you think about resonance, space, and performance?

I worked with MONOM in May 2024. Usually, artists do a residency and create a fixed piece using their 4DSOUND system. But from the beginning, I knew I didn’t want to compose a finished work. My practice is rooted in improvisation. I never go on stage knowing exactly what I’ll play. That’s what makes each performance alive.

The MONOM system is incredibly complex—more than 50 speakers in a multidimensional space. With the spatial sound engineer, we adapted my usual stereo live set into a format that could move through that environment. I didn’t write anything in the traditional sense. I treated the space as an instrument and trained myself to play it.

Every day during the residency, I practiced, improvised, tested gestures. How does a frequency move across the room? How can I shape it in real time without hiding behind a screen? We developed a system that let me perform the room. The final show was fully improvised, like always. But it felt different. I had to react instantly to what I was hearing. That concert was recorded and will be presented at Subset. It’s a piece made entirely of live responsiveness.

What does it feel like to perform in that way?
When I perform, I enter a very specific state. I’m not thinking. I’m not planning. It’s like a small inner sphere—me, my drum, my synth. My hands are doing the work. I let them think for me.

It doesn’t matter if there are ten people or a thousand. The focus is the same. It’s not about control. It’s about attainment. The performance reflects the space, the mood, the temperature, the breath in the room. Everything affects everything. I like to compare it to walking a tightrope. You can’t lose balance for even a second. That’s what keeps it alive.

Questions from Christina Vantzou:
Is there a sound you’ve always wanted to hear but haven’t been able to?

I’ve always wanted to hear the sound of an earthquake. Not buildings falling, not the aftermath. I mean the sound the earth itself makes when it moves. That ultra-low frequency that we can’t quite access. It’s probably more of a vibration than a sound. But I hope one day we’ll find a way to hear it.

Would you say sound exists more on a cosmic level or a sensual one?

Sensual, definitely. What we talked about at the beginning—sound goes through you. It wraps around you. It touches you. That’s the core of it. It’s bodily. It’s intimate. It’s a feeling.

Photography · Payram
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Rainy Miller

Posted on 18 de April de 202522 de April de 2025 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · Rainy Miller
Words · Melis Özek

Between Noise and Narrative: Tracing the Raw Vein of Expression

Rainy Miller didn’t enter music through the front door. No training, no grand epiphany, no polished ambition. His story begins not in a studio, but on the streets of Preston, in the shadow of the UK grime wave that surged through the city in the mid-2000s. He was barely a teenager when music, almost by cultural necessity, became part of his language.

It was raw, instinctive, DIY in the truest sense. There were no lessons in harmony, only the urge to speak, to echo, to belong. And from this chaotic, makeshift entry point, Rainy found his voice — one shaped less by technicality, more by emotion.

This wasn’t about perfection. It was about emotion. Like life is about. And in many ways, that early, unstructured beginning still echoes through his work today: emotionally charged, intimate, deeply human. As he puts it, “We weren’t worried about being perfect, we were just expressing ourselves.”

In a world obsessed with polish, Rainy Miller reminds us of the beauty in imperfection and the power of simply expressing, wherever you are. In this conversation, Miller reflects on his beginnings, his pull toward Preston, and the way music becomes a vessel for the things that are hardest to name. His process is tender, instinctive, often elliptical—unconcerned with rules or industry books. Life has to be lived. That’s what Rainy is about.

This spring, Rainy’s taking it on the road, channeling his emotionally charged sound into a run of intimate European shows. From Berlin Atonal (April 25) and Peckham Audio in London (May 1) to The Flying Duck in Glasgow (May 2), Lisbon’s ZDB (May 8), and Disgraceland in Middlesbrough (May 11).

Melis Özek How did your journey into music begin? Was there a defining moment?

Rainy Miller My journey into music began gradually. I wasn’t trained in music at all, nor did I have any initial urge or outlet to pursue it. there was this huge wave that swept through Preston, the UK grime scene back in 2006, that took over the city massively. I was around 11 or 12 years old at the time, and everybody got into writing bars and rapping.It was city-wide, more of a culture. You would actually be the odd one out to not be doing it. That was my initial introduction to music, recording with a rudimentary approach. Because of how young we were and our limited access to equipment, it was DIY by nature. It was free of restrains.

What was interesting is that due to the nature of the music and our lack of technical musicianship, we immediately fell into a school of thought focused on emotion, instead of calculating musicality. That was probably a bit of a blessing, because we weren’t worried about being perfect, we were expressing ourselves. It was an experimental, organic way of stepping into music, just playing with what was out there and seeing what we could create.

MO Your work carries a distinct sense of place—Preston isn’t just a backdrop, it feels embedded. How does Preston shape the creative process?

RM Well, this is interesting because I’ve spent a lot of time moving between Preston, Manchester, and back to Preston again. For some reason, I always end up back in Preston – and I’m living here again now. Due to the nature of the music I make, which always revolves around personal thoughts, all of my music has been contextually bound to times when I’ve been in Preston.

I’ve never really written music about times when I’ve been in Manchester or anywhere else. Preston gives me the entire context for my music. There’s this weird magnetism that keeps pulling me back, whether it’s living here or writing about experiences from here.

I think I’m drawn to the underdog mentality of the place. Preston is a second city in the northwest, and unlike other prominent music cities that have already established their sonic identity, Preston feels more ambiguous. It doesn’t have a clear musical flag in the ground yet, and I find that really intriguing.

My music isn’t intentionally trying to sound like Preston, but the city is naturally embedded in my work because my experiences here shape the narratives. When I write, the location and its memories are fundamental to drive the sense of musicality. The city is in the music itself – not because I’m trying to make it sound like a specific place, but because my personal narrative is so deeply rooted here.

It’s almost like Preston isn’t just where I’m from – it’s a fundamental part of how I understand and express my experiences through music.

MO The North has its own rhythm, its own sense of space. How does that translate into your compositions, your pacing, your textures?

RM I’m not a trained musician, so I don’t sit down looking for specific chords or thinking about musical keys. Instead, I lean into the backdrops, stories, and contexts of places to drive the piece. For me, what comes before making the music is the narrative behind I’m making the music about.

Naturally, the musicality is driven by location and feeling – what I need to portray based on what happened at a specific time in a specific place. Because many of these stories come from when I was in Preston or at home, the city’s essence naturally flows into the music. It’s not a calculated process, but an organic one where the rhythm and pacing emerge from the emotional landscape of the experience.

MO Your music feels deeply immersive, almost like a constant soundtrack that weaves through various narratives.Can you share more about the sources of inspiration and influences that shape your music? How does your creative process unfold behind the scenes?

RM I’ve always had a civic pride in language and accent, inspired by artists like Ian Brown from the Stone Roses. While their music might be different, I’m drawn to their approach to lyricism – people like John Cooper Clarke, Richard Ashcroft, and Sean Ryder. These artists pushed forward a narrative for the North.

My creative process is almost like scoring films in my head. The music has to come from how this movie in my mind plays out to capture the right emotion. I do a lot of field recording, which I borrowed from artists like Space Africa. I use granular synthesis to create musicality from tones found in physical places – using sheets of ambience and resampling things.

For instance, I can’t play guitar, so I’d borrow a friend’s guitar and tune it to a song that carried the emotion I wanted. By tuning it that way, I’d naturally find things within the same key that had the right emotionality. It’s about using the nuances of a lack of technicality and turning them into a strength that feels unique.

The inspiration comes from personal context, from the stories and emotions embedded in specific moments and places. It’s about creating a sonic landscape that reflects those internal experiences, using whatever tools and techniques feel right in the moment.

MO Your music seamlessly blends pop, ambient, and drill, yet it feels deeply personal rather than defined by genre. Is this fusion intentional, or does it emerge organically through your creative process?

RM The blending of genres isn’t intentional in the way you might think. It’s really about using different genre characteristics to express specific emotions. When there’s noise music in my tracks, it’s because that moment needed to convey a sense of frenetic anger. When I use Midwest-style guitar parts, it’s to carry vulnerability or a specific emotional weight.

I was heavily influenced by artists like Space Africa, Blackhaine, Croww, and Iceboy Violet, who use ambient textures like shades of paint. For me, genres are just tools to express emotion. I’m not trying to create a genre-defying sound – I’m using whatever musical language best communicates the feeling I want to express at that moment. It’s less about the genre and more about the emotional character of the music.

MO Your debut album Limbs introduced listeners to your unique sound. Looking back, how did the creative process for this album shape your evolution as an artist? What were the key moments that defined its direction?

RM Limbs was a pivotal moment for me. It was the first time I really got back into lyricism after making more beat-driven music that wasn’t fulfilling me. I realized I couldn’t fully express myself without lyrics, but I didn’t want to rap and couldn’t sing traditionally. That’s where auto-tune became crucial.

I was massively inspired by Frank Ocean’s Blonde and Blood Orange at the time. They showed me how to use auto-tune to create a unique linguistic language. The album also taught me about song structures – I studied pop writers like Bon Iver and Frank Ocean to understand how to construct songs that serve a purpose.

It was essentially my first step into finding my voice – literally and figuratively. I was learning how to express myself through music in a way that felt authentic and emotionally true.

MO A Choreographed Interruption and Fire, And Then Ashes followed Limbs, each exploring different sonic territories. How did the process for these projects differ from Limbs, and how did your sound evolve between them?

RM These projects were transitional for me. With A Choreographed Interruption, I was leaning more into very personal, intense lyricism. It felt like I was clearing out the last of my pop sensibilities – getting those final pieces out of my system.

Both projects were about shedding a certain skin as an artist. I was moving away from trying to write “good” music and instead focusing on writing music with a genuine purpose. They were less about creating something polished and more about artistic intention and experimentation.

It was like I was gradually stripping away the layers of what I thought music should sound like, becoming more comfortable with more experimental approaches. These albums were about breaking down traditional song structures and finding my true artistic voice.

Each project was a step in my evolution – from the more structured approach of Limbs to the more experimental, purpose-driven work of these later albums. It was a process of discovering what I really wanted to say and how I wanted to say it.

MO 2023 was an incredibly productive year with 3 singles and 2 albums. What inspired the flurry of work during this time, and how did these projects come to life? Were there particular influences or moments that drove this creative output?

RM I think it was about being given a purpose to write. The scenes we’d been involved in at that point were really exciting, and it felt incredibly easy to make music. We were working super collaboratively, which was new for me – I’d never really written music so collaboratively before.It got me out of working in such a personal way and allowed me to abstract things into a wider context. A Grisaille Wedding record, for instance, was written with quite a lot of fictionality – something I’d never done before. It became easier to write when I wasn’t having to be so directly personal or worry about how the songs might affect my family.

The collaborative environment and the freedom to write more abstractly meant my productivity was through the roof. It was about finding a new way of creating that felt less emotionally constrained.

MO Your collaborations with Space Afrika have been key. How has working together shaped the sound and creative process, and what does this fusion of work mean personally?

RM Working with Space Afrika was massive for me. It wasn’t just about them specifically, but about the entire Northwest scene. When I met them, everyone had such rich and deep knowledge of music. They opened up entire worlds to me – introducing me to noise music, ambient music, forward-leaning electronics.

They essentially opened the door to something I’d been looking for musically for a long time. Being able to grind down our creative endeavors against one another gave us these really nuanced, unique edges to how we create. It felt like we were solving a puzzle together.

While the core context of my music didn’t change, the palettes they introduced me to were the greatest musical influence I’ve experienced. It completely transformed how I thought about creating music.

MO You’ve collaborated with artists like Blood Orange, Blackhaine, Actress, and Mica Levi—each with their own distinct vision. How have these collaborations shaped your approach to music? Are there specific lessons or creative shifts that have emerged from working with such diverse voices?

RM These collaborations meant I had to wear different hats – becoming more focused on production and engineering. Working with artists like Blackhaine and Croww was about lending myself to something bigger than just my own work.

With Blackhaine, I wanted to contribute to something that felt larger than my individual perspective. It became another tool in my creative arsenal, allowing me to engineer for other artists like Ice Body Violet and work more broadly in production.

These collaborations expanded my skills, letting me work as an engineer and producer. It wasn’t always easy – collaboration has to feel right – but it opened up new ways of thinking about music creation.

MO The visual world around your music is deeply immersive. How do you see the relationship between sound and image in your work?

RM For me, music is always derived from image or memory first. There’s always a visual aspect before the music is made. Because my music has been so personal, it’s always tied to specific physical times and places.

I’m obsessed with binding context to things. If you’re making a song about something, you should be able to take a picture that embodies the same feeling, or make a film that captures the same emotion. It’s all driven from the same context.

The visual and musical elements are interconnected – they’re different expressions of the same emotional landscape. The musicality is derived from emotion and visual experiences from the very beginning. It’s about creating a complete artistic experience that tells a complete story.

MO Your song titles feel like glimpses of a larger story—elliptical, almost cinematic. How do you approach naming a track?

RM I like finding context for the song titles, but I also enjoy shrouding things in a bit of mystery. Because my songs are often personal, I want to cloak them slightly so they don’t feel too raw.

Take ToddBrook as an example. ToddBrook is a place near Derby where a dam burst in 2019. The song is actually about a day when I had an emotional reaction that felt like my mind was breaking open- like a dam bursting. So the title ties back to the experience, but in a loose, contextual way.

I always try to add layers of context, like adding muscles to a skeleton. The more context you wrap around something, the more it can move and breathe as its own entity. It’s about creating intrigue while maintaining a connection to the original experience.

MO Self-directing your videos gives you full control over how your music is visually interpreted. How does your approach to filmmaking differ from your approach to music? What inspires the visual language of your work, and how does your creative process unfold from concept to execution?

RM The approach to videos are simple – just me, a camera, and a camera stand. I’ll figure the rest out later. Take the Vengeance video, for instance – it was the first time I used movement on camera, and that movement was literally emulating how I physically moved on the night the song was written.

I don’t know how to edit videos or understand frame rates, and that doesn’t matter to me. It’s about serving the purpose in the most accessible way possible, in the most honest way I can. Artists like Klein inspire me – where technicality is irrelevant, and everything is driven by emotion.

It’s about creating a visual representation that captures the emotion, without technical perfection. Just pure, honest expression.

MO Fixed Abode is more than just a label—it’s a statement of intent. What sparked the idea to create it, and was there a specific moment or frustration with traditional structures that pushed the creation?

RM I created the label around COVID. When I had Choreographed Interruption ready to release, we sent it out and found that labels either weren’t interested or were keeping artists on hold for an unpredictable period of time.

I realized this way of working didn’t align with my creative ethos. So I thought, why not create a label where we can release music entirely on our own terms? The logo is an adaptation of an asterisk, playing with the idea of terms and conditions in contracts.The name Fixed Abode is a play on the UK phrase about not having a home. For me, it was about creating a forever home for art from the Northwest – a place to release music without having to play by traditional industry rules.

MO Joseph, What Have You Done? took five years to take shape. Can you walk us through how the album evolved? How did time change its meaning? Who is Joseph?

RM The album’s journey was long and evolved significantly. It started around 2020, initially sparked by a documentary called Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus. At first, it was going to be a highly conceptual, biblically referenced album with a specific approach.

The biblical references remained a consistent visual and thematic language throughout the album’s development. The title Joseph, What Have You Done? itself suggests a biblical narrative, though the meaning is deeply personal rather than strictly religious.

But life happened. As I went through personal changes over these years – moving from a fragile mental state to a more stable one – the album’s purpose shifted. It became more about personal catharsis. Now it’s structured in three acts: the first deals with darker, more vulnerable material; the second explores falling in love and out of love. At last, the third appreciates the people to surround me.

The five-year process wasn’t just about musical composition, but about living through experiences that would provide the album its depth. You have to live a bit of life to write a meaningful record.

MO This album feels like it exists between past and present, personal and universal. What was the emotional core of this record for you?

RM The album is essentially a journey through different emotional states.It’s about traversing from a fragile mental state to a more stable place. The record is chronological, showing my emotional evolution over five years. It’s deeply personal, but the biblical and contextual references allow me to abstract it slightly, making it feel more universal.

MO Searching for the Wrong-Eyed Jesus was a key inspiration for this project. What about that film resonated with you? Did it shape the way you thought about narrative in music?

RM The documentary opened up fascinating connections for me. It explored folk music, folklore, and Christian evangelism in the American Midwest. I was drawn to finding parallels between that region and the North of England – how similar the towns feel, how their folk tales resonate.

Medulasa described my work as Northern Gothic after hearing an earlier record, which perfectly captured what I was trying to do. I became obsessed with the Southern Gothic elements and wanted to create a mirror to that in the North of England.

I pulled some lyrics directly from folk tales in the documentary, tying them to my own memories. It was about creating a collage of experiences, splicing references into something that stands alone as its own narrative.

MO The Fable / The Release explores the idea that memories—real or imagined—shape our sense of self. Can you elaborate on this?

RM The song drives from a memory I’ve had since being very young – a potentially traumatic experience. The fascinating thing is, I’m not even sure if it’s a real memory or something I imagined.

There’s a voice note about delirium that runs through the record, and the song explores this complex relationship with memory. It stems from an experience from my childhood that’s so distant and unclear that I can’t distinguish whether it actually happened or if it’s something I’ve constructed in my mind.

What’s crucial is that regardless of whether this memory is real or fictional, it has physically affected me and changed how I’ve grown mentally. The song isn’t about definitively proving what happened, but about understanding how these undefined memories shape us.

I’m interested in the idea that memories – whether factual or imagined – can be equally powerful in forming our sense of self. The song is essentially about not needing to dig up the past, understanding that revisiting certain memories can be harmful. It’s about letting go.

The song is strategically placed in the record at a point of transition, representing a moment of understanding that some memories, real or imagined, shape us but don’t need to define us forever. It’s part of a broader journey of emotional release and personal growth that runs through the entire album.

This exploration speaks to a larger theme in my work – how we construct our identity through fragments of memory, perception, and imagination. It’s about the blurry lines between what’s real and what’s remembered, and how those lines ultimately shape who we become.

The approach is very much in line with my overall artistic philosophy – using context, references, and personal experiences to create something that feels both deeply personal and universally resonant.

MO With live premieres across the UK and Europe, how does the work translate into live settings?

RM Live performances are actually more aggressive than the record. They’re a way for me to physically exercise the emotional baggage of writing. It becomes less about performing for an audience and more about expelling emotions.

I tend to black out a bit during performances – it’s like an hour of purely exhausting myself emotionally. The only time I get nervous is when performing in front of my family, because the music is so brutally honest and touches on potentially emotional subjects for them.

MO Beyond Joseph, What Have You Done?, what’s next for you and Fixed Abode?

RM For Fixed Abode, we’ve got some exciting things coming. There are a few artists I’ve loved for years who are returning to make music. We might potentially work on an album with Richie Culver.
I’m also looking to collaborate more. I’ve been discussing potential collaborations with Puce Mary. After such a personal record, I’m excited to collaborate and perhaps create fictional pieces.

The aim is to expand. Not just musically, but as a creative platform that can support various artistic endeavors.

In order of appearance

Rainy Miller
Rainy Miller
Rainy Miller
Joseph, What Have You Done? Artwork

Listen to Joseph, What Have You Done?.

Koreless

Posted on 14 de April de 202519 de April de 2025 by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 162

Feature · Koreless
Words · Melis Özek

The Art Of Reduction

Known for his otherworldly soundscapes and meticulous approach to production, Koreless explores the delicate balance between precision and sentiment. The Welsh artist reflects on the power of silence, the art of reduction, and the fluid dialogue between sound, visuals, and intuition: shaping a world where technical mastery and instinctive emotions intertwine.

Melis Özek Various cultural influences can be traced in your work. How are abstract concepts translated into something tangible and audible within the music? The titles of your tracks, for example, seem to carry significant weight.

Koreless Rather than stemming from a deep symbolic or thematic intent, many of my track titles are chosen for their visual symmetry and aesthetic appeal when written. The process of naming feels less about attaching meaning and more about how the words resonate visually and intuitively. It’s typically the final step in my creative workflow, and it can be surprisingly difficult. I often start with placeholders, only to spend a long, deliberative process finding the right fit. In the end, I gravitate toward words that simply feel “right” and possess an innate visual harmony, rather than searching for deeper significance.

As for cultural influences, they inevitably find their way into the music, though I try not to overanalyze them. I believe creativity thrives when it’s rooted in exploration rather than over-intellectualisation. While I’m inspired by my surroundings and experiences — and, of course, the music I consume — I consciously avoid letting those influences dominate my process. Any cultural or personal nuances that emerge do so organically, without deliberate intention. For me, the creative process is at its most exciting when it’s driven by curiosity and discovery, rather than a predetermined concept or heavy analysis.

MO Speaking of titles, let’s go way back! Yūgen—meaning “dark” or “obscure”—captures beauty only partially perceived, with its exact translation depending on the context. Earlier works drew inspiration from this philosophy. What led to its discovery, and how has it shaped the artistic approach to capturing its elusive essence in music?

K When I was younger, my work was heavily influenced by philosophical ideas, and the music I created during that time reflected a stark simplicity and disciplined minimalism. It was around this period that I encountered the word. Though I can’t recall exactly how I discovered it—likely during one of my internet deep dives—it immediately resonated with the ethos I was exploring. It felt like a serendipitous connection as if the term had been waiting for me to find it.

The word’s ambiguity and roundedness perfectly mirrored the essence of the music I was creating—abstract, open to interpretation, and resistant to fixed meanings. It encapsulated the sense of searching for beauty within the undefined and the unspoken. In many ways, it became a conceptual anchor for that creative period, embodying the elusive, intuitive qualities I sought to express through sound. The philosophy of yūgen, with its emphasis on the partially perceived and the subtly profound, naturally aligned with this approach, shaping the way I thought about music as something to evoke rather than explicitly define.

MO Your music often feels like a dialogue between sound and silence. How is space approached in your compositions, and is silence viewed as a sonic instrument as powerful as any other?

K I’m fascinated by what I call the “fridge off” effect—that moment when ambient noise, like the hum of a refrigerator, suddenly stops, leaving behind a serene and almost tangible silence. That void, that absence of sound, is one of the most powerful sonic experiences I’ve encountered. In many ways, I find that silence can have a more profound impact than the addition of sound itself.

There’s a beauty and tranquility in that stillness that I’m constantly striving to capture and preserve in my compositions. However, I don’t consciously overthink this process. I’m naturally drawn to a sense of order and tidiness in my music, which can sometimes come across as “inhuman.” But I’ve come to appreciate that even chaos when presented in an intelligible and structured way, can be a beautiful form of order. Ultimately, the emotional element of my work comes through instinctively—I suppose it’s inevitable, as I tend to be a bit of a softie at heart. Those feelings seep into the spaces I create, blending with the silence to form a dialogue between sound and stillness.

MO What drives the fascination with creating “inhuman” music, and how is this concept balanced with the profound emotions evoked as the foundation of the work? Is there a guiding philosophy behind this juxtaposition, and how is that delicate balance maintained?

K I’m deeply drawn to the idea of order, which can often translate as “inhuman” because humans, by nature, can be messy. I find myself striving for tidiness—a reduction of complexity to something simple and pristine. Early in my work, this simplicity was incredibly stark, but I’ve since realized that even chaos when presented in an intelligible way, can embody a kind of beautiful order. This realization has allowed me to embrace a more nuanced approach to the interplay between structure and emotion.

As for the emotional element, it’s something that happens naturally. I’m a big softie at heart, and that emotionality tends to color everything I create. I don’t consciously aim to infuse emotion—it simply emerges, balancing out the inhuman cleanliness of the music.

I think it’s also worth noting that we’ve long moved past the notion that electronic music can’t be emotional; that debate was left behind decades ago. In fact, I find electronic music to be inherently beautiful, with its capacity for clarity and structure. Interestingly, I see this pursuit of inhuman cleanliness in all music now—even in genres that present as organic or acoustic, like guitar-based music. There’s a shared tendency to approach an almost surgical refinement, which creates a fascinating interplay between the mechanical and the emotional across the spectrum of music.

MO Visuals seem to have always been a key part in your world-building process. Joy Squad and White Picket Fence: They are as precise and evocative as the music they visually embody. How involved is the process of shaping these visual narratives, and how is the relationship between sound and imagery expanded upon?

K I really enjoy the collaborative process of working on visuals—it shares the same hands-on, experimental spirit as music-making itself. While I can’t create the visuals personally, I maintain a collection of inspiring images that serve as starting points or reference material. From there, I work closely with talented visual artists like Daniel Swan, whose refined eye allows them to translate the music into a cohesive visual language far better than I could.

I see visuals as an incredibly powerful way to complete and enhance music that intentionally leaves space for interpretation. Even a simple choice, like pairing a random image with a track, can profoundly shape how the music is perceived and felt. It’s a fascinating, symbiotic relationship between sound and imagery. My approach is largely intuitive and collaborative—I don’t follow a rigid, pre-determined formula. Instead, I focus on curating evocative images that resonate with me, and then I trust the visual artist to translate that into something complementary to the music.

MO Collaborating with artists like Sampha brings unique opportunities to merge creative visions. How have these experiences influenced approaches to music production and performance?

K Collaborating is always an eye-opening experience, especially as someone who finds music-making to be a largely solitary process. Every artist has their own unique, often idiosyncratic, way of working. When I first collaborated with Sampha, for example, I was struck by how completely different his approach was from mine, even though we were using the same tools and software. He would do things that had never even occurred to me, and it was fascinating to see how someone could approach the same medium in such a distinct way.

This dynamic is especially interesting when working with other producers. It forces you to rethink the processes you take for granted and can offer a fresh perspective on your own workflow. Each collaboration is an opportunity to step outside your own bubble, and it has definitely shaped how I think about both production and performance.

MO The reinterpretation of Benjamin Britten’s piece Moonlight brought a classical composition into a contemporary electronic framework. What inspired this reimagination, and how was its original essence preserved while infusing it with a distinct sound?

K I’ve always been a huge admirer of Benjamin Britten’s music, particularly the way his harmonies unfold in Moonlight. The piece struck a chord with me when I first heard it—probably on the radio—and I felt compelled to dive into its harmonic structure. Initially, it was just an exercise in understanding the chords, but as I worked on it, I found myself recursively remaking the piece, shifting elements around, and experimenting. Over time, it evolved into something that felt like a faded memory of the original, still retaining its DNA but with a distinct identity of its own.

Britten’s work fascinates me because it’s often more subversive than it’s given credit for. While many gravitate toward the avant-garde composers of his era, like John Cage, Britten was crafting music that remained staunchly traditional yet deeply beautiful and harmonious. At the same time, he was a complex figure—being openly gay at a time when it was incredibly difficult to live as such—adding layers of depth and quiet rebellion to his legacy. That duality of his music—its surface simplicity and underlying complexity—was something I wanted to explore through my reinterpretation.

The process itself was painstaking but rewarding. I worked primarily with sample libraries, attempting to replicate the orchestration and structure, often failing along the way. Those “failures” eventually led to something unique—an interpretation that began as a distant, mutated version of the original and gradually became more faithful, especially in the final third of the piece.

It was about chipping away at it, letting the reinterpretation grow organically, and embracing the cumulative imperfections. By the end, I felt like I had captured not only a piece of Britten’s original essence but also a reflection of my own approach to creating music. It was less about achieving perfection and more about letting the process shape the outcome.

MO Many tracks seem to begin with a core idea or motif that is extended into hypnotic and immersive experiences. How are these foundational elements identified and built upon, and what is the approach to creating both progression and timelessness within a track?

K My process often starts with identifying a core idea—a motif or sound—and then removing anything unnecessary that might clutter it. It’s about letting that central element exist on its own terms, without overwhelming it. However, it’s a delicate balance: if you leave it entirely on its own, it risks losing its vitality but overloading it with additions can suffocate it. You have to feed it just enough to keep it alive but not so much that it overwhelms.

This delicate dance shapes the progression of a track. I like to keep one main idea gently moving, allowing it to grow organically. The aim is to create something timeless and immersive by focusing on simplicity, maintaining a sense of clarity, and letting the motif take the lead.

MO Your music defies traditional genre boundaries, weaving classical influences, experimental electronics, and ambient textures into something entirely unique. What draws you to this cross-genre approach, and how is the authenticity of each element ensured while contributing to a cohesive sonic narrative?

K I try not to think about genres too much. Some artists commit wholeheartedly to a single genre or the blend of genres, which is incredible, but my approach is less about fitting into a specific category and more about allowing different influences to blend naturally. One reason I’ve avoided using drums extensively is that they often tie music firmly to a particular genre. Removing them creates a kind of fluidity where genres can more easily dissolve into one another.

The result is a cross-genre sound that emerges organically. I don’t intentionally set out to blend classical, electronic, or ambient influences—it’s more about responding intuitively to what feels right. Each element is authentic because it stems from genuine exploration rather than a deliberate attempt to check boxes.

MO Music thrives on intricacy and detail. How are studio productions adapted into live settings without losing their emotional depth?

K Great question. In the studio, you have endless time and the best equipment to refine every subtle detail, but live settings are completely different. The acoustics of a large, untreated space and the sheer volume obliterate much of that subtlety.

What I’ve found is that going back to the very first version of a track—the initial demo, before all the intricate carving and layering—often works best for live performances. Those early iterations are simpler, more direct, and more raw, making them better suited for a live environment. For example, the original demo of Joy Squad was much harder and more straightforward than the final version, and it’s that directness that translates so well on stage. Instead of stripping back a finished track, I base live versions on the “seed” of the song—the essence I captured in its earliest form.

MO Your music is often described as being crafted with architectural precision, with each layer meticulously placed. How do you approach structuring?

K Honestly, there’s no intellectual rigor involved—it’s more about time and a bit of obsession. I spend hours and hours working on tracks, going through countless versions, carving, refining, and sometimes returning to earlier iterations. For example, I might move from version 20 to version 40, only to go back to version 17 because it felt truer to the song’s essence.

For me, the process is less about finishing a track and more about the joy of working on it. It’s almost like playing a game—when I was younger, I was hooked on Farming Simulator, where you meticulously build and manage a farm. Music-making has a similar feel: it’s about endlessly chipping away, tweaking, and experimenting. That iterative process naturally leads to intricate details, but they’re really just the result of my enjoyment of the craft. I’m fortunate to spend my days immersed in this process, and the emotional depth comes naturally from that ongoing engagement with the music.

MO Released in August 2024, Deceltica showcases intricate electronic elements. What was the inspiration behind this track?

K Deceltica was created shortly after I moved to a remote mountain area in Wales, surrounded by sheep farms and a kind of vast, quiet isolation. My studio was set up in the attic, and while experimenting with my synths, I stumbled upon the core of the track by accident. It all happened in a rare creative burst—I worked on it non-stop for about 48 hours, playing it on loop while lying on the floor, almost hallucinating from the lack of sleep.

The entire process felt immersive and intense, which is unusual for me, as most tracks take much longer to shape. The environment undoubtedly influenced the track—it was a rare moment of being entirely engrossed in a piece, letting it evolve organically until it felt complete.

MO “Drums of Death” has such a unique energy, combining club music with raw emotional intensity. Could you walk us through the production process for this track, especially how it came together from your initial idea on the flight to Berlin, to the live debut at Berghain, and now its place on EUSEXUA?

“Drums of Death” has an interesting backstory. I originally made it years ago while flying to Berlin for a show with Sophie. At the time, I felt my live set lacked something harder and more dynamic, so I created the core of the track during the flight in about an hour. At soundcheck, I gave it a rough mix, debuted it during the show, and then shelved it for years.

When FKA Twigs and I were finalizing her EUSEXUA album, we felt the project needed something harder and more playful. I remembered this track and played it for her—it immediately clicked. We recorded vocals, added chorus melodies, and brought in Tintin to contribute parts. The whole thing came together quickly, in just a day, which is rare compared to some tracks that take months.

This ties back to my process in general. Sometimes, tracks feel like a game of chess, with ideas evolving and developing over weeks or months in the back of my mind. Other times, as with “Drums of Death,” everything just flows effortlessly, and the track practically builds itself.

MO The UK’s musical landscape in the early 2000s to 2010s was marked by the rise of labels like Young and XL, which helped push forward the boundaries of electronic music, indie, and experimental genres. As someone who was right in the middle of it, how did you navigate through this evolution?

K While I was releasing music through labels like Young and XL, I felt more connected to the Glasgow scene during that time. It was a smaller, tight-knit community of friends, which made it more manageable and personal compared to the larger scale of the London scene.

London and the big UK labels always felt a bit overwhelming to me, like looking in from the outside. Glasgow, by contrast, was where I felt grounded—a creative microcosm producing amazing music and offering a space that felt intimate and inspiring. Even now, I tend to keep my distance from big cities, preferring a more hermit-like existence.

MO To expand on this concept of evolution, from earlier EPs to the present, the evolution of sound presents a striking transformation. How have creative philosophies evolved?

K Early on, my music was stark and minimalist, partly because of technical limitations and partly because I liked it that way. My first releases were strictly focused on essentials—nothing more. Over time, I gained more technical skill and began exploring more elaborate compositions, which was a deliberate attempt to break out of my self-imposed simplicity.

However, creativity often works in cycles. After proving to myself that I could make something more complex, I’ve recently felt drawn back to the discipline of simplicity, focusing again on reduction and restraint. Change is essential to keep things exciting—whether it’s stripping back or building up, as long as I feel like I’m exploring something new, I stay engaged.

MO Reflecting on the latest work, where might the music head next, and what concepts or sonic territories remain unexplored?

K I’m feeling drawn toward reduction—trying to make the simplest, purest pieces possible. It’s about embracing limitations and finding beauty in the essentials once more.

Credits

Talent · Koreless
Photography · Gavin Watson
Styling · Calvin How

Christ Dillinger

Posted on 14 de April de 202519 de April de 2025 by nr

NR 19 Detour · 2025
Published · Print Page 024

Feature · Christ Dillinger
Words · Andrea Bratta

Making Music In My Sleep

Fame isn’t what it used to be. NYC Virtuoso Christ Dillinger dissects the illusion of underground music in the streaming era, and the strange paradox of modern celebrity—where millions of plays don’t always mean real influence. Is true artistic independence still possible, or has the industry absorbed every rebel into its algorithmic machine? A raw, unfiltered take on music, control, and the fight to stay real.

Andrea Bratta I’m just gonna get straight to it: I loved that you rapped over house beats. There’s something so nostalgic about it — it loops all the way back around and lands as something totally fresh.

Christ Dillinger In 2020, I linked up with PartyBoy. We started talking, and he was the one who told me my voice would sound great over dance beats like this.Between 2019 and now, me and PartyBoy actually made four or five different songs—probably even more. He sent me a bunch of beats, I produced some, and we went back and forth, crafting tracks that were similar to what you guys are hearing now.. But PartyBoy’s a perfectionist, and so am I, so none of those early songs ever came out. The first one we both agreed was a hit was Hoe—that’s the one we finally dropped. And that song blew up.

After that, I started doing shows with him, meeting DJs, and getting deeper into dance music. It felt like having him co-sign me really solidified my place in that world. He also helped me refine my beat selection—picking tracks that matched my voice and my rap style better. I gotta give a huge shout-out to him. Not only is he one of my best friends, but he also played a big role in helping me perfect my sound and develop a better ear for quality dance music. There’s a lot of dance music out there, but not all of it is good, you know? When it comes to house music, my biggest influences have always been legends like Frankie Knuckles, Gypsy Woman, and disco-heavy sounds. I’ve always loved disco—Bee Gees, Donna Summer, all of that. I also really fuck with James Brown. When I make a house track, I want to bring that same energy—like James Brown commanding a stage. I want the performance to feel alive, where I’m rapping every lyric, dancing, and making people feel the music. Even if someone doesn’t catch every word, they can vibe with how I ride the beat, keeping everything high-energy and uptempo.

That’s the approach I take—melding funk with dance music. Even if the beats don’t always reflect that directly, the way I attack them does. I want my words to hit like James Brown, snapping you into the groove. So even if you’re not catching every lyric, the rhythm and energy keep you locked in, just riding the tempo.

AB Yeah, it’s like another element—another instrument. You use it as part of the beat, shaping the rhythm in its own way

CD I go out a lot in New York, and I gravitate toward places that play house music. I don’t really go to rap shows, except for a few artists I personally like. If one of my friends is performing, I always show up. But when I’m going out on a Friday or Saturday night to have fun, I prefer clubs that play good house or dance music.

I listen to a lot of DJs, especially underground artists in New York and beyond—people who aren’t widely known but are killing it in the scene. There are clubs in New York that fly under the radar, places people don’t really talk about, even though house music is one of the biggest genres worldwide. It’s still not mainstream in America, despite having a strong fan base. The average person on the street might not know much about it, but the culture is thriving.

There’s this one club, Gabriella, in Williamsburg—it’s a great spot for house music. It’s a dream of mine to perform there one day. I spend a lot of time going out and listening to DJs in person, watching how people react to their sets. That helps me refine the style of house beats I want to work with.

One of the biggest turning points for me recently was meeting a producer named CP. I started a group with him—he’s in Bass Negative Squad with me. Besides Party Boy and my friend Varg, he’s one of the only producers who can make the exact type of dance beats I love to rap over. The moment I met CP, I made the entire Nuke in the Club album, and right after that, Evil in the Club—we just clicked creatively. He’s also one of my best friends in real life, which makes collaborating effortless.

CP was a huge catalyst for me putting out more dance music. I’ll never stop making house music with him—he’s my go-to.

You can really feel that chemistry on the record. It almost plays like a DJ set—the way the tracks flow seamlessly into each other. Even the way you switch up your flows between songs makes the whole mixtape feel like one continuous, immersive experience.

AB That record almost feels like a DJ set—the way it flows seamlessly from track to track. Even the way you switch up your flows between songs makes the whole mixtape feel like one continuous beat.

CD Yeah, that’s something I’ve always been drawn to. I grew up listening to a lot of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Jimi Hendrix, and one of my favorite things about their albums is how they flow together with no gaps. Back then, they had to record everything in the studio as a continuous piece, and I love that approach. Albums like Late Registration and The College Dropout by Kanye West do the same thing—everything connects from start to finish.

When I make my albums, I structure them the same way. All the beats and songs are connected, and I lay them out in Ableton as one long 20-minute project. I actually rap the whole thing in one go, then go back and cut the tracks up for streaming platforms like Spotify. But if you listen on SoundCloud or YouTube, I always upload the full 20-minute version because that’s how the project was meant to be heard.

House music, to me, is made for long-form listening. It’s not meant to be chopped up into short, digestible clips for TikTok or whatever. The house sets I love—DJ mixes that last two hours or more—take you on a journey. When you’re in the club, there’s that warm-up phase, then maybe an acid house section where things get weird and intense, and eventually, the DJ resolves it, bringing you back into the groove. That tension and release are what make house music special.

But in today’s world, because of streaming and the way music is marketed, artists are pushed to make two- or three-minute tracks. I get that, but I prefer making 10- or 20-minute songs. I haven’t made a 30-minute track yet, but I definitely will at some point. That’s why I upload my house projects as a full-length piece—because that’s how they were created, and that’s how they should be experienced.

AB Yeah, my first encounter with the record was through YouTube, so I got to experience it that way. And for me, growing up, going to clubs was always about house music—or even techno—but house was really at the core of it. A lot of the house music I was drawn to came from the U.S., with DJs like Frankie Knuckles, as you mentioned, but also Terrence Parker, or even some more ghetto stuff like DJ Deeon, DJ Assault.

CD Shout out to DJ Assault. Big inspo.

AB It’s funny you mentioned how, in the US, especially in places like New York with its rich house scene, there were legendary spots like Paradise Garage where house music was born and grew. The connection between house and rap music is so present. It’s interesting, though, because now in New York, the way people think about club music has changed. But listening to records, especially your rap tracks, I can really feel that influence from house music, and how you’ve been exposed to it. The way DJs play, and the approach to creating art through music, it should be long, intentional, and immersive. I completely agree. I don’t get why, in Milan or other more commercial settings, big DJs only play one-hour sets. It doesn’t make sense to me either. You really need two, maybe three hours, to get into a groove and let the full experience unfold.

CD And also, you know, if you think about how clubs and drugs go together, they kind of create this flow where you’re moving through different emotional states. Like, you need that switch between emotions, that contrast, because that’s what makes it feel real.

AB Yeah, I feel like a lot of people take drugs, and every drug comes with this moment of anxiety—like, that split second where you’re like, Oh shit, am I okay? Am I too high? A lot of drugs give you that feeling where, for a moment, you genuinely think you’re gonna die. And that same kind of tension, that anxiety, I feel like it’s in music too. Or at least, it used to be. But now, a lot of music just skips that part.

CD Exactly. Have you ever heard Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd?

AD Yeah, of course.

CD So the second track, On the Run, that track is basically one of the first times a band used something like an 808, like an electronic bass-driven thing, in a song. But more than that, the whole track is just pure anxiety. It never really resolves—it just builds and builds. And then it flows into Time, which is like this explosion of energy, almost like a resolution. That’s what I think is missing in a lot of music now. Everything is so commercialized, and everyone just focuses on the high-energy, euphoric moments—the climax—but they leave out the anxiety, the tension. And that’s such a necessary part of life.

AB Yeah, because if you’re only listening to music that’s about the high, the come-up, the happy parts, then it starts to feel disconnected from real life. Like, we can flood ourselves with dopamine all day—whether it’s through social media, music, drugs, whatever—but eventually, you’re gonna hit a low. And if the art you consume doesn’t reflect that full spectrum of emotion, you end up feeling kind of detached from your own experience.

CD Exactly. I feel like people don’t even fully understand sadness anymore because they don’t sit with it. Like, no one really sits with their thoughts anymore. The second you’re alone, you pull out your phone, you start scrolling, and suddenly you’ve got a million different people’s emotions hitting you all at once. No one’s really in touch with themselves. And I think long-form music—stuff that takes time, that forces you to sit in it—kind of helps restore that. It trains your brain to seek out deeper, more meaningful experiences instead of just chasing quick dopamine hits.

AB That really hits home for me. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot, and I think a lot of people feel it too—this weird paradox where we’re all super connected, but at the same time, it makes us feel lonelier. And when you lose that connection with yourself, you start losing touch with what you actually like, what you actually want.

CD Yeah, 100%. And that’s what I’m trying to do with my music—bring that depth back, create something that really makes people feel. I think that’s why I’ve found the right people to work with too. Like, Party Boy—he’s got that legendary status, especially in Europe, with how close he is to the Berlin scene. And Varg, too—he’s such a huge influence.

AB Yeah, I was at the show in Paris with you and Varg, and the energy there was insane.

CD That’s what I mean—it’s about creating those experiences where people actually feel something real, something beyond just a dopamine hi. It was crazy. I mean, that show was insane. It was sold out, and then we had a line wrapped around the corner, people outside the building the entire night. Kanye came to that show. Yeah, and Ian Connor. Destroy Lonely, too. Kanye actually came. He’s my favorite rapper, so for him to come to one of my shows, where I’m headlining, is honestly insane to me. It still hasn’t fully sunk in—I’m still trying to process it. But yeah, it was wild. I mean, basically, everyone in the city came out.

AB That must have been surreal.

CD It really was. And for me, being from there, it helped me understand how music works, how America works, and even how the world works. Like, I’m a huge Jimi Hendrix fan—he’s the reason I started making music in the first place. And I always think about how his career took off. He toured in the U.S. for a while, but it wasn’t until he went to London that he really blew up. When his music hit Europe, the reaction was insane, and then that hype traveled back to America.

AB And you feel like the same thing is happening to you?

CD Exactly. Ever since I started playing in Europe and working with more European artists, I’ve been getting way more recognition in the States. That Paris show felt like the peak of that. I had just dropped my album, like, a week before, and now I’m playing this massive show during Paris Fashion Week, with all these big names in the crowd. It was honestly crazy.

AB Yeah, I mean, Paris Fashion Week is becoming bigger and bigger, even in a musical sense. Like, I’m from Milan, and I work in Paris for an art gallery, so I split my time—two weeks here, two weeks there. And Milan is just… slower.

CD: Yeah?

AB Especially during Fashion Week. It’s very institutional—big brands doing their shows, and that’s it. Either you’re rich or working for rich people. You go, see the collections, maybe a fancy dinner, but the afterparties are boring. There’s no underground scene, no younger artists doing something exciting. While in Paris, it’s a whole different energy. There are shows like yours happening, real moments.

CD Paris is like the world stage. I felt really lucky to do that show during Fashion Week because all eyes are on Paris. And me headlining the biggest show of the week—it felt like I was showing the world what’s next. And the craziest part is, I’m just this dude from the middle of nowhere in America, you know? I came from the slums. And now I’m up there, performing at Fashion Week, surrounded by legends like Kanye. I wish I could’ve met Anna Wintour, though, just for the experience. Also, Varg took me to the 032c runway show. I had a great time, met the guy who owns the magazine—he was super chill.

AB To think that here in Europe we still dream of New York. Funny.

CD: That’s crazy to hear.

AB Yeah, New York has that mythology around it. And seeing you so hyped and motivated is sick—it feels like you’re in a headspace where you’re just gonna keep making new, better music. So, what’s next? Anything you can spoil?

CD There’s the record that just got out and Yeah, actually—me and Varg have an album coming out next month. Got a song on it with Skrillex. Another one with Mowlola, and Gabe from Uzi. Plus, I just made this song two hours ago. Shit’s crazy how it all comes together sometimes.

AB Damn, man. You’re on fire. How do you manage to be so productive? It’s like project after project, always something new dropping. Do you have a secret or just a mad work ethic?

CD Well, honestly, I’ve got OCD, so I’m always thinking about music. I’m also a little autistic, so I just get obsessed with it. Music’s the only thing I’ve really ever wanted to do since I was a kid, and it’s like I’m constantly creating. I’ve been making music for, like, five years now. I’ve probably made thousands of songs. Every single day, I make at least five songs. That’s just how I work—always making, always creating. Even before I had any fans or any real recognition, I was putting in work. Like, back then, it wasn’t about the hype. It was just about making the music I love. I don’t even really care if people like it. I make it because I’m a fan of myself. I listen to my own stuff, so I need to keep making more to stay engaged. It’s like I’m my biggest fan. But yeah, I try to put all my music out too. I know my manager doesn’t like that—I’m always trying to drop everything I make, which isn’t always the best move. But I just gotta share it. And some of the songs come to me in dreams, which sounds wild, but it’s true.

AB Wait, dreams?

CD Yeah, for real. It’s weird, but I’ll wake up from a dream and a song will just be stuck in my head. I’ve had dreams where I’m literally rapping the whole song, and when I wake up, it’s all there. Like that song “Nick@Nite”—I had a dream where I was rapping that. So I just write it down and record it. A lot of my biggest songs came from dreams like that.

AB That’s actually insane. You’re making music in your sleep. I think you need a “dream producer” tag or something, like “music made while sleeping.”

CD (Laughs) Yeah, honestly, that’s a vibe. But it makes sense, right? I’m always thinking about music. Even when I’m asleep, my mind’s still working on it. That song I just showed you? I heard that in a dream yesterday morning, so I just woke up and made it.

AB That sounds mad. So you’ve got some global vibes with this one. What about that other song you mentioned before we started speaking on the record? The one about King Leopold and Congo?

CD Oh yeah, that’s another crazy track. I just made a song about King Leopold of Belgium and how he enslaved all those people in Congo. The story is pretty wild, and I felt like it needed to be told in a song. It’s heavy, you know? The whole thing about colonization, the suffering—people need to hear about it. It’s messed up, but I think the song can help raise awareness in some way. Honestly, it’s just something I’ve been learning about recently. I’ve been reading more, trying to understand the history and the impact of it all. And I felt like I had to speak on it. You know, a lot of people don’t even know about that part of history. So I wanted to use my platform to shine a light on it. Plus, music’s the best way to make something like that stick in people’s minds. It’s all about making music that speaks to people—whether it’s about personal experiences or something bigger. Just trying to make an impact with every track.when you look at what he did in the Congo, it was one of the most horrific genocides, yet it’s barely mentioned. People always talk about stuff like Ukraine or Palestine, or the Holocaust, but no one really talks about Africa or King Leopold’s reign. I’ve always been thinking about it, which is why I finally made something about it. And funny enough, I was on a plane watching the new Tarzan movie, and they went to the Congo. In that movie, King Leopold’s there, and they show him enslaving Africans. I thought it was crazy they even put that in a Tarzan movie, but no one’s talking about it, you know? It’s like the narrative doesn’t get pushed. It’s almost like they’re hinting at something dark, but they don’t really delve into it. And you’re right—people just don’t engage with it, like they should. The history of Africa, the real atrocities, gets brushed under the rug in favor of more immediate, sensational headlines. But when it comes to things like Palestine, Ukraine, it becomes this thing that trends for a while, and people talk about it, post about it, but it’s all very surface level. It doesn’t really go deeper than the hashtags. And that’s what frustrates me—it’s tragic when people turn suffering into trends. Everything becomes reduced to these soundbites that lack depth, and people just move on to the next thing, desensitized by it all. It’s the same as the way we consume music today, right? Everything’s instant, short, and to the point, but it lacks the substance, the nuance.

AB Yeah, I completely agree. The way we consume tragedies, issues, or even music nowadays is so detached. It’s almost like it’s become a trend instead of something that demands real attention. And when it comes to music, you were saying something about how it could be used to spread information, make people think.

CD Absolutely. I think music is one of the best ways to spread this kind of knowledge, because it stays with people. Like, with Vietnam—people don’t really talk about that war in America anymore, but songs from that era, like “Voodoo Child” by Jimi Hendrix, or “All Along the Watchtower,” those songs are about Vietnam, right? And they still live on, because they carried the message, the feeling, the soul of that time. Music sticks in a way that facts don’t. So if you want people to understand something, to feel it in their bones, put it in a song. It’s way more powerful than some hashtag. People remember music, it resonates.

AB Yeah, it’s almost like music makes things more tangible, more real. You can’t escape it, it’s in your head. But, I guess, these days, there’s a lot of pressure on artists to just make quick hits. Do you think the current state of the industry—like the rise of streaming platforms—has hurt music’s potential to spread deeper messages?

CD Oh, for sure. It’s so frustrating. Streaming services, like Spotify, are all about playlists, quick consumption. People don’t listen to albums in full anymore. They just skip through, picking out the TikTok songs, the ones they already know. No one goes through an album and feels the artist’s journey, you know? That’s what’s missing. It’s like a formula now: the label wants everything to be radio-friendly, something that’ll fit into a 3-minute slot, and you can’t really tell a story that way. Back in the day, bands like Pink Floyd made 20-minute songs, they didn’t care if they could play them on the radio. They made art, and people had to come to them for it. That’s the kind of mentality I want to bring back. Music should be something you live with, not just something you consume quickly and forget about.

AB I totally get that. It’s about the journey, the narrative. Do you think the internet and platforms like SoundCloud gave artists more freedom before they were overtaken by the mainstream industry? Could that be a way forward, going back to that sense of independence?

CD Exactly. SoundCloud was this great place where artists could be free, release what they wanted, and build a real following. But now it’s like the industry realized, “Oh, these underground artists are getting attention,” so they started swooping in and taking control. They’ve commercialized it, just like they did with the mainstream. It’s like real estate—labels buy up artists like properties, hoping one of them makes it big, and in the process, they burn all the others. It’s such a messed-up system. I’ve had labels come after me even when I was still underground, offering me deals. They just want to control everything, and it’s frustrating because a lot of artists get lost in that cycle.

AB That’s pretty bleak, but it’s the reality, isn’t it?

CD You have to fight for it, you know? You have to resist the urge to play by their rules. Labels are all about numbers and stats, and they want you to fit into this box. But I refuse to do that. I don’t want to make music for playlists or radio airplay—I want to make music that speaks to people, that has substance. The moment you let yourself get caught up in that system, you lose the art. That’s why I’m focusing on doing things my way. If people want to hear my music, they have to come to me. I’m not putting out short, catchy tunes just to be a part of the trend. I want to create something that lasts, like the songs that captured the essence of their time, like Hendrix or Pink Floyd did. When I make my Congo song, or whatever, it’s not just going to be a quick hit—it’s going to be something with depth, something people can reflect on. . If I’m going to be an artist, I’m not going to do what’s popular. I’m going to put the message in my music, let it live on. No hashtags, no viral moments—just art. If people want the real, they’ll find it in my work. And I think that’s the power of music—if you do it right, it can outlive everything else. My Congo song will be out there forever, long after I’m gone, and that’s what matters. It’s not the same anymore. Back in the day, you’d put out something, and you’d get that natural buzz from people. Now, it’s all about these industry-controlled systems, like playlists and services, to get that same response. The underground, in a way, is being overtaken by all these commercial forces. It’s almost like “underground” is becoming its own genre now, rather than an actual space where artists can grow freely.

AB Do you think the underground still has a role today? Or is it just becoming a category or a label in itself? And what do you think could be a solution moving forward?

CD The underground, right now, doesn’t really exist in the way we think of it. It’s more like a space where artists who aren’t part of the big industry try to make it on their own, but even then, everyone has to play by the industry’s rules now. You have to pitch your music to playlists, do all the same stuff you’d do if you were signed to a label, but without the label’s support. So, the underground has kind of disappeared, especially with the internet. Things are instantly available to everyone, and the concept of underground, in the true sense, is fading. You’ve got to do it your way. If people buy into your art, great. If not, then whatever. The reality is that a lot of artists sign these deals and end up with fake popularity. You look at their numbers, and it’s all playlist-driven. It’s not real. It’s a facade. But in the past, artists were huge because people genuinely loved their work. Nowadays, that doesn’t even seem to happen anymore unless you’re one of the few really big names.

AB Yeah, that’s exactly it. Everything is so fragmented. People’s fame is now just micro-famous, in pockets. Back in the day, being famous meant you were universally known, but now, you could be huge online in one community and barely recognized outside of it. It’s a different world. But it’s given me an idea for a song… Make Being Famous Great Again.

CD Yeah, I love that idea. It’s funny because fame isn’t even lit anymore—it’s all just smoke and mirrors. People are chasing something that doesn’t exist the way it used to. I might have just found the inspiration for another song.

Credits

Talent · Christ Dillinger
Creative Direction · Ioánnes Papadakis, Rita de Rivera and Aina Marcó
Photography · Ioánnes Papadakis
Styling · Aina Marcó from CAMUFLATGE
Set Design · Rita de Rivera from CAMUFLATGE
Movement Director · Leo D’Aquino
Tooth Gems · Juicy Tooth Gems
Retouch · Alex Petrican
Photography Assistant · R.seventeen
Art Assistant · Camélia Bouziyane
Styling Assistant · Shaun Kalani

urika’s bedroom

Posted on 30 de September de 20242 de October de 2024 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · urika’s bedroom
Words · Andrea Bratta

During a torrid LA day, NR spoke with urika’s bedroom about Big Smile, Black Mire, urika’s debut album. A conversation whose range was as eclectic as the influences behind UB’s debut record: From architectural youtube rabbit holes, to how tech changed the way we listen and the playlistification or albums, passing by his midwestern-emo background, shooting commercial fashion ads in LA, and what makes music an entirely unique artistic medium.

Three’s the charm, we finally manage to get on call together!

Yes, at last! I heard of the crazy thunderstorm you had in Milan..

Cut my place’s power off completely for 24 hours, it was absurd. How’s it going in LA?

Yeah, it’s been crazy hot, and the power’s gone out a few times because of the heat. I think everyone was using so much energy with air conditioning that it caused a power surge on the grid.

You’ve got some big weeks ahead, right? The record is almost out. How are you feeling?

I’m feeling okay. Honestly, I haven’t really thought too much about it. My mind’s been on other life stuff and working on new music.

There’s a lot of layers to urika’s bedroom. Let’s start from the project’s visual identity. It feels very important. You are personally curating the art and creative direction yourself, right?

It’s a bit of both. We just shot a music video directed by my friend Rich Smith, where I took a more hands-off approach. But I’m also planning another video that I’ll shoot entirely myself.

How long have you been working on Big Smile, Black Mire? I’m asking this because your bio mentions 2019, so I’m especially curious about the project’s genesis and how it has evolved.

It all started after playing in my friend’s band, 2070, for a few years. I was playing drums, then bass, and we played a lot around LA. Around 2021, I decided to focus on my own stuff again. I committed to recording a song every day for a month, and if it was good, I’d put it straight on Bandcamp. That’s how a few people started to notice what I was doing.

So it’s been about three years in the making?

Yeah, the oldest song on the record is probably three years old, early 2021. Earlier this year, I started reworking them with my friend Silas, who has a project called Tracy. It was fun to deconstruct and rebuild them without feeling like anything was too precious.

So it was almost like a collage, or patchwork approach to composing?

Exactly. We didn’t want to give every song the same treatment. It’s kind of like cutting a hole in something and patching it up in a new way.

The record feels very cohesive, but there’s definitely a shift in sonic landscapes, especially on tracks like bsbm, Post War, and Circle Games. Were you consciously trying to explore different palettes for the record, or did that come together in post-production?

I tend to finish most of a song in one or two days, and I’m not great at continuing to work on it after that. But with this project, I sat on a lot of the songs and reworked them later. Silas and I didn’t approach it with a strict plan. We’d just play around with deconstructing and reconstructing the tracks, keeping it open to experimentation.

Yeah, now that you mention it, I can definitely feel that and track it in certain parts of the record. You’ve managed to blend a wide range of sonic influences, which ties back to what you said about working with so many other people. I read that you’ve also produced, mixed, and mastered tracks for other artists. That experience and know-how, being able to move between different sounds and styles, definitely comes through. Would you say there’s an underlying theme behind the record? I know you mentioned having a more natural, unstructured approach to making music, but was there a certain feeling or concept you wanted to convey with this album?

The main thing I wanted to explore was conflict—internal versus external. If the instrumentation felt dark, I’d lean toward brighter lyrics or vice versa. It was about finding tension between different elements, like referencing artists from opposite ends of the spectrum. I’d listen to Arca but also to Smashing Pumpkins. I didn’t want to shy away from any influence, no matter how different they seemed.

I peeped a little bit at your Spotify profile, listening to a lot of what’s on there to get a sense of where your influences come from. It’s such a wide range—from bossanova to post-club sounds, with some shoegaze in between. You can really feel that heterogeneity in your music. While listening to the record, I made a note about ‘free association’ because it feels like you blend elements in a way that flows naturally, almost unconsciously. It reminds me of surrealism in poetry, with that same fluid, unstructured creativity. I see that reflected not only in the music but also in the visuals and overall aesthetic of Eureka Bedroom. So, I’m curious—what are some of your other visual and musical influences? Where do you see the project heading?

I think a lot of my visual inspiration comes from late-night YouTube rabbit holes. I’ve been really into mid-to-late 20th-century contemporary ballet and dance films, as well as architecture, like the work of Ensemble Studios. It’s Anton and Deborah Mesa, and they create some really amazing, earthwork-inspired architecture. It feels similar to music for me in some ways. Visually, it’s very powerful, and I’m always trying to figure out what could serve as a kind of visual monument, you know?

That’s fascinating. What would you say is the connection you see between Ensemble Studios’ architecture and your music?

I can’t always explain it, but I think the way physical spaces look, their design and form, really inspire me. It’s almost unknowable, even to me sometimes, but it definitely has an impact.

Are there pieces of music you feel serve as sonic equivalents of monuments? What would you say are some “monuments” in music for you, and what does monumentality in music mean to you today?

I think everyone has a few musical pieces that leave a lasting impression, like monuments. For me, one of those is Demon Days by Gorillaz. It’s not necessarily where I’m at musically today, but as a kid, that album was huge for me. I only had one CD for a long time, so I’d just cycle through Demon Days over and over. That album became a monument in my mind—not necessarily because of what it is, but because of how it imprinted on me at that time.

Totally. I remember listening to entire albums as a kid too: You get the cd out of its case, you’ve got your little stereo. There’s a rituality to it –Something about that full-album experience we don’t get as much today.

There’s a deeper connection when you listen to an album front to back. Even the songs you don’t like as much give context to the ones you do love, you know?

It’s true. Today, we consume music so differently with playlists, grabbing moments here and there instead of immersing ourselves in the full journey of an album.

Yeah, that’s exactly it. Playlists can feel like you’re watching scenes from different movies, disconnected. Everything’s song-based now, and it kind of flattens the experience.

I completely agree. We’re in this Instagram highlights culture where everything’s a snapshot. That even seeps into how music is produced, right? Some artists might focus more on single tracks rather than how they’ll fit into the larger picture of an album.

For sure. I think some musicians—though not all—create with playlists in mind, knowing their songs will likely end up separated from the album context.

On your record, I noticed you feature a female voice in a few tracks. Was that a way of adding contrast to your own vocals, or was there another intention behind it?

It was both, I think. The voice definitely breaks up what I’m doing vocally, adding a new texture. But more than that, the person I worked with is someone I’m very close to, and we developed those parts together through a lot of free association. We’d bounce ideas off each other and build meaning that way. It brought a sense of release between the more intense songs, like a palette cleanser before diving back.

That makes sense. Did you consider how this would translate to a live performance, with those interludes providing moments of contrast in a live setting?

The first one we made was specifically for a live show intro. It was before our first tour, and I didn’t have enough material yet. I wanted a strong way to start the show, so we recorded that voice for that. I thought it would really capture the room if we played it loud, and it became this presence that commanded attention.

I love that. It reminds me of the resurgence of spoken word and audiobooks lately. There’s something powerful about placing emphasis on the voice and the word, especially in music as layered as yours. Speaking of writing, what inspires you when you’re writing lyrics? Are there certain themes you find yourself returning to?

It’s coming from a place of relatability. I always try to channel something meaningful. That might be the Midwest emo influence. I remember when I was younger, listening to these records where people were saying some pretty messed-up stuff. But as a kid, all I heard was the pain, and it felt protective somehow, like it was helping me through whatever teenage drama I was dealing with at the time.

It’s amazing how we can reinterpret songs or lyrics as we grow, and they take on new meanings based on where we are in life.

Yeah, that’s the beauty of it. The listener’s perspective is almost more important than the lyrics themselves.

There’s something about music that really gets to me, even now. I can’t fully explain what it is, but it reaches me in a way that no other medium does. I love reading, and writing is my bread and butter—that’s how I make a living. Words are my craft, but there’s a certain power in instrumentals, in sound, in the way a voice carries a note. It’s not always about the meaning of the words, but the tone, the texture of the voice, that can hit so deeply. Music has a kind of emotional weight that I don’t think any other medium can match. It’s something I’ve always felt, and maybe one day I’ll be able to articulate it more clearly, but for now, it’s just this indescribable force that stays with me.

Music has this unique ability to hit your nervous system immediately, without any barriers. With something like reading, you have to think about it, process it. But music? It bypasses all of that. You feel it right away.

There are barriers with most forms of expression, but not with music. It’s true. Maybe that’s why classical and instrumental music can move me so deeply. Certain instruments, like the piano—when I hear those first few notes, I’m instantly hooked and mesmerized. It touches me right away, without any defenses, which is incredible. I think that’s why music is something I’ll never tire of. I’m always curious and a good listener; I consume a lot of different sounds. Writing music, though—that’s something I could never do. That’s why I love talking to musicians, to try to understand their process from a closer perspective.

It’s like, the moment you hear it, you feel it.

I’m always fascinated by that. As someone who writes about music, I can never fully explain what makes it so special.

Even for those of us creating it, we don’t always fully understand what’s happening in the moment. We just follow where it leads.

It sounds like you tap into a flow state when you’re creating—like you’re functioning at your best when you’re not overthinking it.

I’m not even aware of the process. It just happens.

That’s amazing. It’s like tapping into something deeper, letting go of control.

Exactly. That’s where real creativity happens.

The skills required of independent musicians has changed over the years. Today, you have to be multifaceted—composing, writing, being your own art director, press guy etc. It’s exciting, but do you find it tiring? Would you prefer to focus solely on music and leave the rest to trusted collaborators, or are you okay with handling everything yourself?

Honestly, I’m such a control freak that the more I collaborate, the more I think, “I should just do this myself.” I know it would be nice to let go a bit and work with others, but I tend to be too neurotic for that. I’d rather handle it myself than send someone 50 revisions just to get it done my way.

Collaboration can be beautiful but also challenging. It’s very personal, especially with a project that means so much to you. I feel more relaxed working on other people’s projects, but with my own, it can feel too personal to hand it off to others.

Exactly. I’m still learning how to navigate that. I feel that the project’s coherence and unity are essential, and that’s part of what drew me to it in the first place.

Speaking of your project, you mentioned a big tour. Where are you headed next?

We’re touring Europe, hitting places like Brussels and Germany. I don’t think we’re doing Italy, though.

Last but not least. Why urika’s bedroom?

Honestly, I don’t think there’s a deep story behind it. I liked the sound of it. I can’t even remember how I came up with it, but I don’t think there’s much meaning behind it.

Photography · Donovan Novotny

DJ LOSER

Posted on 27 de September de 202427 de September de 2024 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · DJ LOSER
Words · Andrea Bratta

One must imagine Sisyphus happy with DJ LOSER

Everyone is a loser, according to Magdalena’s Apathy label head Pantelis Terzoglou, and that might actually be something quite liberating. For Terzoglou ego is not in the picture, only music. You might know him as the experimental ambient project Angel’s Corpse, or underground club legend DJ LOSER. NR spoke with him about creative needs, the importance of isolation in creation, and how to remain true to yourself without sacrificing your career, whatever that term means, today, for an artist.

As we were speaking off the record, you mentioned curating a soundtrack for a brand? Could you tell me more about that?

Yeah, it’s for a brand from Oslo, run by EriK Spanne, Duy Ngo and Tomas Silva. They’ve got this emerging brand called 1313 Selah, and their fashion show happened in late August. Me and Erik have been collaborating since before the brand officially started, mainly through music. They’ve connected with one of my sub-projects, Angel’s Corpse, which is more ambient, with elements of gabber and hardcore. It fits perfectly with their vision for their current collection.

Is this something that you’re really interested in, given that it’s a bit different from your usual, more club-oriented work?

Definitely. My initial drive was just to produce music and create audiovisual art, which is why I also started my label. My approach isn’t limited to club music, though that’s the most recognizable project of mine. My creativity spans different genres and styles, depending on where my inspiration takes me. Like, five or six years ago, I was into slower BPMs and more industrial soundscapes inspired by the late 80s.

So, while DJ Loser is club-oriented, my broader artistic vision goes beyond that. Projects like Angel’s Corpse let me explore those other sides. I’m not actively chasing career opportunities for this ambient direction, but if opportunities like this come my way, and I feel inspired, I’ll follow them.

Would you say that’s the same philosophy behind how you run your label?

Exactly, it’s a natural flow. When I started the label, it was just an outlet for a noise-industrial sub-project of mine called Magdalena’s Apathy. I was doing a few tape releases and eventually decided I wanted more control over everything — not just the music, but also the visuals and narrative around the releases.

I’m very much into world-building, so creating an all-encompassing aesthetic for my projects became essential. I even brought back CDs, because they fit my generation’s vibe and aesthetic. The label was initially just a personal project, but it’s expanded as more people connected with it. Now, I treat it like a platform for friends and people who resonate with what I’m doing.

So it’s more of an artistic platform than a business operation?

Exactly. I’m focused on being an artist first, rather than a ‘label owner’. Of course, I know how to handle the distribution and promotion side, but I don’t want to force anything or break the natural flow of the project. That’s how I’ve managed to make a living through music, by following what truly inspires me, rather than chasing trends or commercial success.Feels more fitting to my ways.

Where do you start when building a world around your music?

Most of the time, it starts with an emotional or aesthetic vision. I maintain focus for music that is about conveying feelings, not genres or styles. I aim to translate the way I feel & see things into sound, and then build the visuals around that. When I curate releases from others, I give them total creative freedom and then try to match their music with a fitting visual narrative. It’s about giving people an emotional and aesthetic experience, not just music.At least that’s my opinion on what a release should be doing. I think emotions and aesthetics connected in a personal direction lead to an impactful experience. A trance track can evoke the same feelings as an ambient track, a trap track or whatever. For me, it’s all about conveying those emotions, and that’s why my label and platform are not limited to a single genre. I want to capture the raw human experience in its many forms, whether it’s through club music, experimental sounds, or something more ambient.

What emotions would you say drive your music?

The need to express oneself is the biggest one. I’ve always felt a need to, and connect with people and society afterwards on a deeper level, beyond just words. Music allows me to express emotions and experiences that are hard to put into words. It’s not about social commentary for me; it’s more about creating a shared emotional space through sound. It’s my way of overcoming isolation and finding companionship too I suppose.

That resonates with me too. There’s an Italian saying that translates to “every translation is a form of treason,” meaning words can never fully capture the original meaning. Music, especially instrumental pieces, often conveys emotion more directly, without the barriers of language. How do you feel about talking about music — your own or in general?

Talking about music can be difficult. I can do it, but it’s tricky. It almost feels like betraying the core of what I’m trying to express or what music exists for. If I wanted to say what I mean in words, I’d probably be a writer, not a musician. Music is my language for things that can’t be fully expressed with words,or words distort the point.

I get that, I guess it’s also why even though I am an avid listener, I could never write music. Switching gears a bit, how do you view DJing in comparison to producing? Is that also a form of communication?

DJing is definitely different from producing, but it’s still a form of communication. It’s less introspective and more about connecting with people in the moment. When I DJ, I’m responding to the crowd and creating a shared experience. It’s like setting the vibe and guiding people through a moment together. I love the challenge of reading the crowd and helping them lose themselves in the music. It’s a great way to feel connected to others, in a more social way than producing music alone in the studio.

How’s the electronic music scene in Greece, particularly in your city? I visit Greece often—my aunt married a Greek guy and lives in Patras, so part of my family is there. But Patras is very different. I’m curious about Thessaloniki and whether growing up there influenced your approach to music, or did you feel more inspired by what was happening elsewhere? I grew up in Bari, which had a somewhat decent music scene, especially for Techno, but I was still more attracted to what was happening outside. So I was always online, searching and nerding out, and maybe that’s why I ended up doing what I do today.

Yeah, so I’m in Thessaloniki, not Athens, and there are definitely differences in both the quality and quantity of what’s happening culturally in the two cities. Thessaloniki has always had some presence of electronic music during my years here. It used to be bigger when I was a kid, based on what people told me, but from my experience, it was more about one big commercial event—your typical stereotypical, generic tech sound. At the same time, there’s always been an underground culture, which happens mostly in university spaces, raves, or small basement parties. I used to attend those places before I became a producer, and they definitely inspired me in terms of the nightlife. But when it came to the identity of the sound, I didn’t always connect with what was going on in the city. For example, when I was into more industrial and desolate sounds, Thessaloniki wasn’t offering that, so I had to go online to find what I needed. Now, the city is growing faster, especially because younger generations are more open and online, bringing new ideas. I’ve been to some gigs recently, and compared to 8 or 10 years ago, people are more open and much more up-to-date. But the biggest problem in Thessaloniki is the lack of good venues, and that’s what holds me back from being more active or bringing in artists. We just don’t have proper clubs with decent sound systems that can support creative ideas. So you either do something in a small bar that occasionally acts like a club, or you take the risk of throwing an underground rave—renting equipment and doing it illegally. But in Greece, it’s easy to get caught, and i’m not in the mood or age to jerk around honestly. Thessaloniki is a beautiful city, though. Honestly, Andrea, I’ve thought about moving to bigger cities like Berlin, London, or Copenhagen. But whenever I visit those places and stay for a few days, I find myself pulled into the social scene more than I might need to. My creative needs are fed in terms of input—there’s so much going on and lots of inspiration from people. But the downside is, I lose that time for myself, that alone time where I can focus on my own production and rhythm. My creativity thrives more when I’m isolated. I’ve come to realize that, as a producer, I work best as a hermit. When I’m in an environment that doesn’t necessarily feed my creativity, it forces me to search for inspiration from within more naturally. That isolation allows me to produce more original ideas. Does that make sense?

Absolutely. Living in Milan and working in Paris, I get it. I’m constantly moving between these two big cities, working with artists, musicians, and fashion brands. So I’m always in social contexts, bringing people together, meeting new people—but it’s not always real or deeply felt. Our conversation now feels more open and honest than many social interactions I have. My job requires a lot of writing and thinking, and I always feel this sense of fatigue, like I’m being pulled in different directions. It’s something I’m learning to embrace as part of maturing, while for you, it’s more about finding your own spaces. I think we’re both figuring it out, in different ways. How do you navigate the online world? On one hand, we have all these platforms where we can research and get inspired, but it’s easy to get lost because there’s so much content. How do you keep your identity online, especially as a label head or someone who curates for others?

For me, I’m very comfortable with the online lifestyle. I’ve always been into it. I grew up in internet cafes and was part of online communities from a young age, whether it was for video games or music. So navigating the online world for inspiration—whether it’s music, art, films, or games—doesn’t feel disorienting to me. I know how to find what I need and how to navigate it all. But social media is different. It’s much more distracting, and it creates this spiral of ego battles, comparing yourself to others. When I’m online in general, I feel fine, but after spending 5 or 10 minutes on Instagram or Twitter, I’m like, “What am I doing here?” It’s not about content; it’s about ego. So I don’t spend much time on social media anymore. I post what I need to post, read my messages, and then get off. Instagram, in particular, feels like a necessary evil—it’s important for people in our line of work, but it’s also incredibly distracting and can kill your creative flow. It feeds ego more than ideas, so I try to stay away as much as possible. People know they can reach me through other platforms, and I communicate more through email than social media regarding music and art. I find that’s a much better way to protect my creative energy and avoid distractions.

You’ve always tried to control your ego, right? How has that been, especially with the surprising success you’ve had?

Yeah, it’s been a journey. In the beginning, I didn’t get any ego boost from it—I was genuinely shocked that people were even interested in my music. I’m self-taught, no formal music education, just learning by ear and experimenting with software on my own. My first setup was literally in the same kitchen I live in now, with these basic Logitech speakers. So when my first tapes and vinyl releases came out, I was like, “What the hell is happening?” It felt like the endgame dream, but I never expected it. The tricky part nowadays is social media. When I’m out, meeting people, or navigating social circles, I don’t have any sense or thoughts of comparison. Whether I’m interacting with someone less known than me, someone much more famous, or a fan, there’s no ego clash. That’s just how I am in person. But social media, man—it makes you behave differently. Its made up this way that everyone ,even for a few moments, end up subconsciously judging people’s work based on their follower count, like giving more attention to someone’s work with 15k followers over someone’s with 500. It’s messed up. That’s why I actively try not to get caught up in it. I don’t want to let my ego be influenced by this false narrative.

Speaking of ego, what’s the story behind the ‘DJ Loser’ moniker?

Because I think that everyone is a loser! [laughs]

What do you mean by that?

Yeah, in my philosophical view, everyone is a loser because people spend their whole lives running, trying to create a life and memories centered around themselves—their experiences, emotions, all of it. But in the end, we die, and we forget everything. Nothing matters because of this absence of personal remembrance , but not in a nihilistic way. It’s more like, if you live with yourself consciously,, there’s a kind of inherent futility to it.

That reminds me of the Sisyphus myth.

Exactly. Both the actual ancient Greek myth was a lesson, and the Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus’ was one of my favorite books when I was younger. It helped me deal with my thanatophobia—my intense fear of death. Camus talks about ‘philosophical suicide’ and that idea really helped me navigate my fears.

Thanatophobia? That’s fascinating. How does that impact your life?

It’s the root of all anxieties, honestly. Fear of death is the mother of all anxieties. It’s the only absolute truth, you know? Everything else—stress, worry or even ambitions—is just masking that fear.
And when you actually grasp it, it’s mind-blowing. You reach this point where you’re like, “What the fuck?” I get what the Stoics were saying, like “Death is where you aren’t, so why care about it?” But for me, that’s the literal problem. It’s about the absence of consciousness and memory. It can feel like torture technique, honestly, to live, enjoy life, then have it all erased. That’s the crux of my fear—not death itself, but the idea that I will cease to think,feel, everything, even the things I value most.

So your fear of death is more about losing memory than losing life?

Exactly. I’m pretty much convinced that death is like a dreamless sleep—there’s just nothing after. So what’s the point of experiencing life if I won’t remember any of it? It’s not about it being pointless, it feels almost cruel. We’re biologically wired to keep living, to pass on our genes, but in the end, none of it matters because we won’t even remember.

Does this outlook inform your creative process? Does art help you deal with that fear?

It definitely does. Trauma and personal experiences shaped me into who I am, and they’ve pushed me toward art as a form of expression. Music was never a conscious career choice—Doing music was a need and I’m lucky enough to be able to live the life I’m living. Music was Something I had to do to boost the need of trying to make sense out of everything. And it helps. I try to live as authentically as possible, even in this capitalist system. I know what I have to do to push my career faster, how to market myself better, but that’s not true to who I am. I want to live my life in a way that’s honest to me, without selling out or losing my identity in the process.

Let’s forget death for a moment. I think we might get into a downward spiral that, albeit extremely interesting, I would avoid for our readers. What’s next for you? Any projects or upcoming gigs you’re focused on?

Right now, my focus is on my side project, Angel’s Corpse. It’s less club-oriented,based on the traditional sense, and more esoteric, diving deeper into themes like thanatophobia. It makes me feel more comfortable with those heavy ideas. As for gigs, I had my second label night in Berlin in August with a lineup that’s pretty hot—Brodinski, Evit Manji, Van Boom, and 0111001101110100. Berlin’s nightlife scene gives me the chance to curate a night with my vision in mind, and that’s a big deal for me.There are more gigs coming in Europe this fall both under DJ LOSER & Angel’s Corpse projects.

On the label side, we’ve got releases lined up—some from U.S. and European artists, ranging from experimental ambient to what I call “emo trance.” I don’t force a strict release schedule though. Creativity needs space, so things will drop when they’re ready. My main goal is just to keep doing what I love and help others express themselves too.

For your label nights, do you aim to create a fully immersive experience? Like curating thewhole aesthetic?

That’s definitely the goal—to create a 360-degree experience from the venue design to the sound. Right now, I’m focusing on curating the lineup and sound, but eventually, I want to control every aspect of the night. I could see that happening easier somewhere outside of Greece,but it’s one of my goals to be able to hold a night like that here though.

Looking forward to seeing how it evolves. And perhaps meeting you over drinks so we can spiral a little bit more. [laughs]

Sounds like a plan!

All artworks courtesy of DJ LOSER.

Bloody Clip

Posted on 4 de July de 2024 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · Bloody Clip
Words · Andrea Bratta

Through Clip’s looking glass

She loves music and making friends. Clip’s IG bio could very well encapsulate her attitude. But that would mean remaining on the surface level of what the NYC rapper and artist is all about. NR interviewed her back in (month) to learn more about her world. into her world —after all, what better guide could we ask for, if not herself?

I’ve seen a lot of media coverage, web exposure, and you just teased lots of big and very interesting collaborations. You came firing straight out the gate.

Oh, honestly, I’m really thankful for how fast things are evolving and how packed my year has been so far, but it’s kind of been weird to adjust because there’s been so many life changes. We kind of had to find the best way to navigate through all the madness. Luckily I have my team, and the people who are close to me –they really make it easier. But I still sometimes don’t really know how to navigate everything..I just try to make it work!

How’s all of this, a new team, more exposure, a bigger community, impacting you?

I still try to just do my thing, but at the same time I’m obviously trying to be more of an artist, really honing in on my craft without changing too much of myself. It’s the same energy I’m putting in, I guess only in a more professional way –less like a girl with just her phone doing whatever, and more structured.

Less DIY?

That’s the perfect word for it. I was so DIY for so long, and I still kind of am. Only now, I have amazing help around me!

It feels like your relationship with your fans and the people that your music speaks to is very important in what you do.

It’s everything.

Even the way that you interact with them, It makes you think that it somehow translates in your process. What sparks you?

Tying back to you mentioning communities, I always was longing to be a part of something growing up, and I found that through music. It makes me feel so privileged. I really just want to own that and make sure everyone that supports me feels as seen as I do right now. It’s something I hold close and try to remember everyday: making everyone feel like they’re accepted, because life is just crazy and we should try to make things better for everyone, in our small ways –But I’m getting a bit sidetracked. Back to my process; I like to say that I don’t really have one –It’s like the beauty behind the madness: Whatever comes to me, comes to me in the moment. I try not to overthink things, because overthinking is my biggest enemy, something I’ve always struggled with. Sometimes my friends will say that when I create, it’s like I’ve been possessed by a music entity or whatever. My old music really used to reflect a lot of emotions and situations that I was experiencing at the time because my life was just so crazy, changing so fast –I just used my music as a way of coping. Nowadays I’m trying to have more fun with everything. As I started going out more to parties I was like “okay, I would love to turn up to my shit in a club.” But I couldn’t! I only had sad songs out! [laughs] So lately, I have been trying to make more, let’s say, happier club bangers.

Things around you and what your experience is changing. The recipe might be seemingly changing, but it really isn’t, right?

Exactly! This is myself, and my music reflects that just, naturally, you know?

I read about how it’s very important for you to be a mirror for other people to see themselves in. However, your music is very personal and intimate. There’s this sort of contradiction, but you still manage to create something that feels open to the listener. They can project their own meanings onto it while still enjoying it. I wanted to ask you about this, but I think you’ve already answered it in a way.

It’s literally just like that. So yeah, that’s a cool and beautiful way of putting it!

You know, I was trying to find ways to pinpoint and define your sound, but somehow it eludes me. One word I would use to describe it is ‘cool.’ But ‘cool’ is a very elusive term. You’ve been associated with the fashion world, magazines, runways —all things that exude cool. So now, I wanted to ask you, since you describe things very personally, what would be your definition of what coolness is today?

That’s a good question. I think coolness is…owning it, your raw inner self. I like people that are vulnerable and are afraid to show the world who they are, but they still risk it and express themselves. The coolest people that I know are so real to the point where it might even be detrimental for them. But that’s what makes it cool, you can’t really replicate those things. And maybe that’s kind of a cliche, but I think not being an asshole is also very cool.

Do you have plans moving forward to further build on your personal brand of coolness, maybe reinforce your presence in different mediums other than music?

[Laughs] Anytime I used to get asked this, I would be like “Oh, you know, I’m just floating, I don’t know my plans.” But now I finally have a very precise idea about it! I want to be the face for people like me, that’s the masterplan. And, obviously, music is my priority. I love music, that’s my everything. I have this quote I always use “Music is why hearts have beats.” Music really is my life, and I never want to lose sight of that, but also I don’t want to box myself in it. I want to keep experimenting with different mediums, especially visual, and continue to show people like me that If I can do it, then you can too, because I’m literally the most normal person ever.

And what are some hidden references or elements that might have influenced your music, your overall artistic expression –something that we couldn’t pinpoint just by listening to your music, but that is there and embedded in what you do?

There’s a whole grunge era of me growing up in middle and high school that played a big part in shaping who I am. Everyone was kind of emo, but I really identify as a grunge girl. I am maybe still living in that era, you can feel it in my music. I loved alternative, experimental, sad boy music –Yung Lean, Lil Peep, Drain Gang. I was a little weirdo in class, listening to bands like The Neighborhood, Title Fight. Emotion is a big factor in everything I do. I think it’s cool to feel so intensely because a lot of people seem like walking zombies with no emotions, just going through the motions of life –I call them NPCs. I feel bad for those people who aren’t living life the way they want to. But getting back on track, the grunge era, rock, emo, and fashion all influence me. Growing up, my parents never really got me clothes because they believed school wasn’t a fashion show, going all the time like “all you need is like the essentials.” They were also conservative Jamaicans, so I wasn’t allowed to express myself the way I wanted. Once I was free from those restraints, it felt really good to be myself, and clothes played a big part in that. The whole fashion world is a big inspiration for me, and while it might not be directly felt in my music, it works hand in hand with it. And then again, now I’m walking runways and shit all over the world, you know?

How does that feel?

Pretty fucking cool! [laughs]

Being able to not only express yourself through clothes and music but also fully embrace your personality while being a professional adds a different dimension. The references you mentioned, such as Yung Lean or Drain Gang, are all artists who took subcultural and aesthetic elements and made them their own. They repurposed these elements, which is something you do as well; You are part of a new generation of artists that are both subcultural and have some mainstream elements in how they present themselves on the web. You have your own niche and audience, while rapidly moving up. This is something I think a lot about, and you are living it in a way —So, I wanted to ask you: Do you think that the way underground and mainstream used to be very separate entities is now changing? Are they colliding, or do you still think there’s a distinction between them?

People have their various opinions on this topic, mine is that the meaning of the term “underground” definitely has changed as a whole, especially after COVID, a period where a lot more people just started trying to make music, alone in their homes with nothing to do, just creating. I feel like that whole moment really shifted the underground as a whole and now it’s more saturated, but not necessarily in a bad way. On the internet, the underground is becoming the modern day mainstream, which is really cool. Maybe I’m biased because I’m so in the scene, but most of the people I know are not listening to the radio, they’re going on SoundCloud. They listen to their friends, they discover their favorite artists on Instagram, or Reddit. There’s a lot of artists that are maybe not having real commercial success, yet, but they’re getting a lot of streams, and they’re doing well, they have a proper fan base! Also, there used to be a lot of negativity in the underground, but everything now is just so broad, and so many people are just having fun with it. I’m meeting new friends because we’re doing shows together, going to parties together. Everything became really wholesome. We can breathe, relax.

Since there are now more platforms and more space for everyone, as you said, people are starting to let go of, perhaps, jealousy over a space they feel the need to protect.

Exactly. And it made everything less toxic because of that.

And how do you feel about collaboration? It seems like you are open to it, but also very selective. That’s what I’m getting from how you’re talking. Your music is very personal, and your relationship with your fans is personal too.

I think that my opinion is never gonna change on this, ever. And I’m satisfied with that. But, like you said, everything I do is extremely personal to me. So, it’s like, you can’t just give your baby to a random babysitter; you have to get to know them and find the right fit and vibe. That’s how I see it. If I do a collab, it’s because it was genuine. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t for money. Even if I was down to my last cent, I would never sell a feature like that. I feel like I’m selling myself short, giving away a part of me, selling out. Everything I do has to have meaning; it has to be personal and authentic. I tie that in with collaborations. I’m not opposed to them, obviously—I have some out, and some more on the way. It just has to make sense and be with the right people. Not that anyone is the wrong person or doesn’t make sense, but something has to really click.

Have you got a record coming out later this year? Give us some spoilers!

Definitely! I’m gonna drop a really good album. I can’t wait for that, I’m really happy with it because, honestly, all my sad stuff is cute, but I’m over it. I don’t really want to dwell on it. I’m really excited for my new stuff and looking forward to sharing it because it feels like a whole new phase for my sound. More mature. As I said earlier, I’ll never lose sight of who I am and what I represent, and everything I’ve built to get here. But I’m definitely treating this more as a job rather than just a fun hobby that’s getting me attention. I really want to keep pushing out things for people and keep creating, involving everyone in what it means to be in CLIP’s world.

Backing up a bit on the coolness stuff, I’ve read that you’ve been associated with the status of a new “it girl.” Sometimes defining someone, even with something very positive and cool, like ‘it girl,’ can feel cagey.

I don’t know. I love the term and everything about it. Growing up, I was so obsessed with what it meant to be an ‘it girl.’ But I realized that anyone can be that, It’s something you embody; it’s how you carry yourself as a person. I value my authenticity more than being boxed in as an ‘it girl’ because that label comes with so much behind it. It reminds me of people in school who tried to chase that status and play into someone they’re not. You know an ‘it girl’ when you see one, and that’s not something you should be labeled as. It’s about what you’re doing for the community, how your art is helping people. I think that’s what really matters: being a figure and a voice, using your platform to help people feel heard and feel good.

This really feels like a CLIP manifesto.

I’m so anti-labels.

Even regarding music genres?

Yeah, exactly. That’s why I don’t want to choose a genre for what I do. I hate being boxed in, it suffocates me. Like when I was living in Texas, I was suffocating. I hate that feeling, anything that makes me feel like that, I just tend to stay away from.

You lived in Texas, LA, and now New York, right?

Yeah.

How has each city influenced your experience? Is this journey and evolution through the places you’ve lived reflected in your sound? I feel like there’s maybe a New York phase in your music and another that feels more like Texas. Or maybe I’m just overcomplicating things and projecting.

No, honestly, that’s very real, even if perhaps it’s something that unintentionally reflects in my music and sound. You’re not the first person to tell me that. I’ve had personal friends say things like, ‘Oh, this vibe is really Texas,’ or ‘This reminds us of Texas underground music.’ I don’t do it intentionally. Despite how I feel about certain places or experiences, they define me, and my music is me. It just naturally reflects without me even thinking about it.

Team

Photography · Lea Winkler
Styling · Zoey Radford Scott
Hair and Makeup · Jeanette Williams

Chanel Beads

Posted on 5 de June de 202431 de July de 2024 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · Chanel Beads
Words · Andrea Bratta

The Feeling Remains

What is a feeling? neither us nor Shane Lavers from Chanel Beads might have a correct answer for it. That being said, NR spoke with him about navigating fleeting emotions through music, internal contradictions, and what drove —and bothered— him one week prior the NYC band’s debut album Your Day Will Come would see the light.

Hi Shane, how’s it going?

I just woke up, I’m in the middle of moving, so it’s been.. chaotic, but I am good!

And, most importantly, your first LP is on the way! How do you feel? How have the last weeks leading up to it been?

Yeah, it definitely feels like something new, but I try not to have any expectations, really. And then everything’s a happy surprise.

I’ve known about your work since fairly recently, actually. I’ve gotta come clean. I listened to your music for the first time in Paris, around November.

You were at the Bagnolet show, right?

Attending that show was a great moment for me, as it had been more than a couple of months since seeing someone play live –I came there being so curious about the whole thing..Your setup, and the way you guys performed felt refreshingly different. One thing I am wondering ,now that things are maybe starting to change, is about the shift from smaller, intimate venues to larger ones, like the recent gig you did at SXSW. What I loved about your show was its intimacy, and maybe some of it might be lost in bigger settings. How do you feel about this potential change in how your music is experienced? Are you adapting to it?

Settings like SXSW are complicated –We played a couple of outdoor daytime shows, and that’s just not a great fit, at least for what I’m trying to do. That show you just mentioned, if i’m not mistaken, the place was almost a gallery or a studio, it didn’t have a stage, but was still loud enough: That felt like an ideal place to perform. I’m uncertain about adjusting to formats where there’s a significant distance between me and the audience. Most of the live performances I’ve done are just kind of this weird act. It’s not acting per se, but it’s a really naked moment –Me trying to embody my music really plainly, really close to people. So yeah, I’m kind of nervous, and I don’t really know what to do if there’s like a gate and, you know, 20 feet between me and people. But I guess we’ll cross that bridge.

You maybe lose that conversational element that your music possesses.The Bagnolet show was the first time ever I listened to your music –I didn’t know anything about your work prior to that. A friend invited me to the show telling me it would be a good one so I decided to go in blindly, without listening to anything beforehand. I just wanted to be surprised by something new. Maybe that’s why I perceive this presence of a conversation between you and your listener, and that is something that an intimate live experience embodies better. Do you consider the relationship between your music and its audience, allowing space for their interpretation alongside your own narrative? Or do you primarily focus on expressing your own story, regardless of the presence of a stage or audience?

It’s kind of complicated. I mean, it’s definitely closer to the latter. It is always a bad idea to try to imagine what other people are thinking, and that is sometimes because you can never really picture a stranger’s mind. I don’t purposefully try to not-think of what other people will think, and I feel very lucky at the moment because that kind of distinction doesn’t even cross my mind because I am too focused on myself as the listener, or trying to have a conversation with myself.

It feels very insular, though, and sometimes after a songs’ made, I’ll kind of notice that I think that I’ve written something very specific and detailed, but then I am like “wait, there’s only like four or five lines in this song and not that much of a context for them.” Even I may not fully know what the song is about as it shifts as you write it. However, as long as it means something to me, I’m happy, I am excited.

Your songs often present two distinct voices or perspectives, a sense of internal conflict or contradiction. This duality seems particularly pronounced in some of the songs from your upcoming record, especially now that yours and Colleen’s singing alternate and layer more substantially, perhaps reflecting this conversation or dialogue within yourself you just mentioned. I had a question in that sense, but I guess you’ve already touched on this aspect, acknowledging the presence of two voices conversing or two parts of yourself engaged in dialogue –An interplay between different perspectives allowing abstract feelings to resurface and attempting to give them tangible expression.

Yeah. Context always changes in what I write, but it’s almost like..the feeling remains the same, there’s a consistency of an emotion lingering through and through. It’s akin to moving from one scene to another, seemingly unrelated, yet still connected by a common thread despite the shifting of time and space.

Without the need of a specificity.

Yeah. [pauses] The feeling remains.

It’s intriguing how your composition process seems to mirror this idea. I’ve noticed a very distinct style, and sound, in your music, even from the first time I encountered it. Despite this being your debut LP, your consistent approach to composing and shaping sonic palettes over the years has been evident. Was this new record an opportunity to crystallise and refine that style further, or was you just going for an experimental take on longer narrative possibilities or a more cohesive output of material?

It’s both of those things really, it kinda just felt like, “Okay, now I’ve got an album.” But I definitely was trying to match an emotional and lyrical sentiment with the sonics. I always felt kind of frustrated with the way I composed in the past and I know that a lot of musicians or artists might feel like they’re aspiring to something, but they’re kind of stuck making something else. It’s kind of a cliche, so I try not to think about it too much, like the one of sitting down with the guitar and then getting really into it, making beats or something like that. I think such things are kind of boring, and self mythologizing in a weird way.

Industry tricks 101: The creative journey’s sentimentalisation..

I’ve been talking about this with friends a lot. I felt really free with this project, I finally was able to let the floodgates open and release stuff because I felt in a position where I’m not interested in distinctions anymore, and whatever i do is just gonna exist as it is and I’m not gonna give a shit If people think it’s rock music, electronic music, or whatever. I’ve been having interviews where people keep asking me about Coffee Culture, because it’s kind of the record’s outliner, but I actually feel like I make more music similar to it than, let’s say, Police Scanner. And I guess this kind of feels like a cliche too –To be like “Fuck the listener, I don’t even care about the listener.” But yeah, I didn’t really like thinking about distinctions like “who’s listening to it? Am I listening to it or is someone else listening to it,” I am kind of practicing ignorance almost as a virtue, lately, in that regard. [laughs]

Have you been putting things out because you just finally felt really like it?

Yeah. And I try to stay away from distinctions and intellectualising stuff. It’s way more interesting to go back before those lines were drawn.

I get it! Sometimes, as I interview people, it’s almost weird because when I come there, I have all my stuff prepared, questions, notes. I’ve been reading, listening, informing myself on the artists’ work, weaving narratives around and intellectualising it. It all feels a tad funny sometimes, because I think of myself first and foremost as a listener and sometimes I think that maybe I should just focus on enjoying the music and, as you said, it is simpler, and maybe more interesting. How do you feel then when talking about music, your music specifically?

Well, I think it’s fun to over intellectualise things, I just don’t want to do it to myself. [laughs] It’s flattering to talk about your music with people, but it also feels weird sometimes –And don’t get me wrong, I’m getting good at PR training. If someone asks me a question, I’ll just be like “next question,” if I don’t want to say anything about it– The strange thing with talking about my own music is that, often, the whole point of it is that I’m not able to just talk about the things i want to communicate with it. If I could, just talking about them would have been fine, but because I don’t feel like I can do that via simple words, I resort to music. Whatever you’re trying to express, I feel it has to come out via the best channel you can express it through, so a complicated feeling or a complicated thought can come out with all the nuances it deserves. What I like about the way I’m approaching music is that it allows me to work with stuff that I’m still parsing through –It’s me trying to figure out how I’m feeling, and what I’m thinking or what the world is, in an external and internal way at the same time.

How long do you feel this record has been growing within you? A part of you may still be processing the themes woven into this record, and while you may have physically composed the record recently, it feels listening to you like its inception and development may have been with you for much longer.

A lot of what I do, not only with music but with visuals too, I approach it with a “waiting to strike” attitude, kinda like getting really prepared for something that is going to happen so that you can move quickly about it. It’s not improvising. It’s more like operating in real time, that’s why maybe I am so fond of playing live shows. Things always happen quickly and impulsively, but at the same time thought out and prepared. I’m not really interested in super constructed music, but rather in quick bursts that then are shaped from there. I have this kind of motto, “Never let them see you sweat,” which is like..You can think about stuff and prepare it, but ideally you shouldn’t be in control of all the variables, so then you can kind of discover new stuff in that moment. I don’t know if that answers your question, but that’s a complicated answer to give you, because I wrote the album pretty quickly, but there’s one song on it called Urn that I wrote, like in 2018, and it kind of came out way different when I finally recorded it again, so timelines are, let’s say, variable.

Like with Idea June, you released two different versions, very similar in their underlining, both songs’ sentiment feels the same, but they still are very different, maybe two sides of the same narration? It’s interesting that you decided to release both. The bit about not wanting the artifice behind things to be seen really resonated with me. When I saw you live, it felt..digital, electronic maybe, in a way. Your setup was hybrid, a computer playing the record and you playing over it, singing over it and adding vocal and sonic layers to it..but it felt very different from listening to the record versions of your tracks, because you don’t just execute the song, i feel it varies from set to set and is closer to what you said about doing the prep in order to be ready to change things on the fly.

Zach and Maya make their own guitar parts, and we just play the whole song front to back, they improvise a little but usually just once, and we get stuff like 90% locked in. As we refine it, especially during tour runs, it becomes less about improvisation and more about solidifying the structure. Still, there’s always this sense of recreating the song each time we perform it, even though the tracks remain consistent. It’s like discovering how the song should function anew with each rendition. Also, we’re not the type of band that heavily engages with the audience too much, like I’m not trying to crack jokes too much, which is what I do when I get nervous. I tend to funnel any nervous energy into the performance itself, though it’s more of an internal dynamic rather than trying to rile up the crowd. The live show is crucial because it feels like an ongoing dialogue with the audience about the sound and atmosphere of the music. We’ve encountered various venues with unique setups, like a show in Seattle held in an old drugstore, where our sound ended up heavily distorted due to the setup. It was mostly just kind of like shoegaze and punk bands playing, technically, like a festival –You just weren’t supposed to hear the vocals anyway, so they had a setup that was really not ideal for what we usually do. Rather than fighting against it, we embraced the challenge and improvised, adapting to the space on the spot. There was no respect or adherence to how the songs sounded initially, we just blasted the sound, fully screamed our lungs out and got over it, using it to our advantage. It’d be such a nightmare to just try to be like “Oh, this is not supposed to sound like this,” and fight with that. It’s way more interesting and compelling to just try to adapt to the room on the spot.

Are you aiming to maintain the same approach when performing in more standardised venues or supporting bands like Mount Kimbie? It’s a different dynamic, with different expectations and preparations for the show. How do you plan to stay true to your style and maintain some level of absence-of-control in these more controlled environments? It’s an essential aspect of what you do. Initially, when I saw you play, I found myself wishing for a full band and a more elaborate, proper, setup. But as I became more familiar with your work, I began to appreciate your approach to live music more and more. It really started to make sense and felt refreshing, new. How do you plan to maintain this chaos-theory approach to live music as your career progresses?

Our current approach is highly adaptable and, despite occasional suggestions to add a drummer –mostly from drummers themselves –I’m intrigued by its current possibilities. I’m not focused on delivering what people expect, so I’m not inclined to follow traditional paths. Mount Kimbie are an amazing band, they’re fantastic musicians, but as for myself, I’m currently not interested in playing an instrument onstage. Singing without any other responsibilities allows me to fully immerse myself in the moment, embracing any awkwardness that may arise. I’m just going to go with it and enjoy the experience.

Fuck it we ball.

It’s nice talking about the live shows and setup so much in this interview because it really provides a lot of the backstory behind our process. Most of the songs were written specifically for the way we play live right now –So many of the songs have multiple layers of singing in them because I got really into melodics and rhythmics that are fun to reproduce and alter during a live show. It’s compelling when we’re like in SXSW, a real, proper capital-R Rock festival..we’re in the belly of the beast, the beast being people telling us we need a drummer and stuff like that, but we still come out and do the show regardless and win people over.

It can be a great selling point, you have your way of doing things, that’s what won me over anyways. If you get, you get. If you don’t, you don’t. I think you don’t need a drummer, personally..for all that matters. [Laughs] A slight detour towards intellectualization: What served as the primary inspiration or driving force behind this record? Was it a specific narrative or theme you wanted to explore through your writing, or were you more focused on crafting a particular sonic palette and incorporating specific musical elements?

It’s definitely about the sound. While I was writing the lyrics, I did worry that I might end up with similar songs. Ideally, they all serve as cohesive glue, but I understand if someone were to criticize that aspect. When I begin a song, it’s usually because I have a particular sound or energy in mind. Then, I sit down and think about what’s been bothering me.

What has been bothering you?

I often think of the inability of things, or maybe myself, to change. I’m kind of in a pessimistic era these days. I mean everybody is, so..

It’s not like the world is in a great state, pessimism makes perfect sense. But your record still feels full of hope, in a way. It has mixed feelings and even tender undertones at its core –Like being very pessimistic about certain things, but still hoping to be wrong about it.

Well, I think there’s freedom in acknowledging how fucked things are, because then you are not deluded, but then you don’t wanna delude yourself about thinking that you are more fucked than you actually are. That’s maybe the real frustration for me..trying to find a point that feels good enough between these two extremes.

Maybe, life is just a pendulum swinging between deluding yourself and bringing yourself back towards a sense of reality. Chanel Beads’ take on Schopenhauer’s pendulum.

I guess we’ll find out.

Credits

Photography, Art Direction and Styling · Jack Pekarsky
Featured Artworks · Michal Alpern
Special thanks to Matthew Fogg and Olivia Larson.

Snow Strippers

Posted on 14 de May de 202431 de July de 2024 by nr

NR · Magazine
Published · Online

Feature · Snow Strippers
Words · Andrea Bratta

Like for Andy on The Merv Griffin Show in 1965, silence is sexy for Snow Strippers. NR explores the US band’s universe, one made of sound, images, and few words.

You just got back from your very first European tour, and have ahead of you the NA one.. Are you currently recharging the batteries or went straight back into work mode?

We’re always working cause we love what we do.

During the last couple of months you had an incredibly upward trajectory: Media coverage, web exposure, some pretty big collaborations, and the tours and dates are bringing your music to a wider-than-usual audience. How are you handling it?

Doesn’t feel that much different honestly we are grateful though.

You always describe your ethos as free styling. Now you are quickly moving away from the underbrushes and more towards the spotlight: are you planning on keeping things “DIY” or are you thinking of scaling? I’ve read that you were thinking of releasing clothes, which you started doing by now, curating other artists’ images and artistic direction, and dropping films via your Label, Nice Bass Bro.

Everything we do will always be our own vision and yes we said we were going to and we did.

You seem to have a very dedicated fanbase! I did a reddit check: it was impressive, and very informative –Loads of very interesting threads deep-diving on the Snow Stripper lore. It is almost as if your fanbase aliments your myth, how’s your relationship with them? Do you think of it in terms of image-construction?

We love talking to our listeners cause we like our music too and they changed our life and we are forever grateful.

Speaking of reddit: I quote “It’s just banger after banger after banger… never knew anything like it ..Is it just me that feels that this band has more hits than any other artist ?” Which is very true, your sound is very consistent and your production very cohesive, even though you’ve been around from relatively little..You drop a lot of music, but it always stays fresh and coherent. What are your plans moving forward? Keeping the recipe as it is or thinking of experimenting in new sonic territories?

I think we’ll always experiment or try fresh shit that just kinda comes naturally why wouldn’t we wanna try and make some new shit.

Since we mentioned hits: what defines a hit, today, for you, in the midst of infinitely available content?
A song a lotta people can fuck with or even a few people fuck with it a lot idk.

I am curious to hear your take on sped up Tik Tok songs, remixes and mash-ups. There’s a parallel between the controlled-chaotic nature of your sound and how the platform allows users to sample and repack aesthetics and sounds. It is by now, becoming almost industry-defining, with some mainstream powerhouses adapting to it. Thoughts?
I love the sped up and slowed down tik tok songs

You have experimented with different stylistic coordinates and made them yours, to the point where one cannot subtract your aesthetic stances from your sound..what comes first? Music or Visuals?
We like both !

Fave style icons?
Tati

Credits

Photography · Marc Souvenir
Creative Direction · Aina Marcó, Marc Souvenir
Art Direction · Marc Souvenir, Rita de Rivera
Hair and Makeup · Venus Hermitant
Special thanks to Good Machine PR

Phase Fatale

Posted on 17 de April de 2024 by nr

NR Sound Premiere #10 · Introjection
Release Date · 19.04.24

Artist · Phase Fatale
Album · Love Is Destructive

Introjection

NR presents Track Etymology, the textual corollary to nr.world’s exploration of contemporary soundscapes: A series of short interviews delving in the processes and backstories behind the releases premiered on nr.world’s dedicated platform.

Hello Hayden! It’s a pleasure being in conversation with you. How are you feeling about the release?

With this record, I pushed forward my techno side reflecting the direction I’ve been heading towards the past few years, where I want to take myself and the label. I explored new production methods like broken beats and using more digital instruments to create a future leaning dance floor sound.

It seems that lately you have been dedicating yourself a lot to the production-side of your practice. Last year, it had been 5 years since your last solo EP, and now we’re already getting Love is Destructive. What changed? did you feel the need to build more upon your personal take on music and get in a more narrative mood?

I never really stopped producing. I also released my last album in 2022 and the one previous on Ostgut Ton in 2020, combined with many collabs, VAs, and remixes. So while there was a gap in EPs, there was never a gap in the music. However, I definitely enjoy working on a more dance floor 12” again as it’s more concise and to the point, serving the purpose to work in the club. I feel like I needed to create my take on current techno elements used and push it forward with this EP which makes more sense in this format.

‘Ambivalence’, ‘Love is destructive’, ‘Introjection’ – Titles of your new production seem to be quite closely thematically linked. How do these titles reflect the conceptual landscape of the album, and what narrative or emotional journey do you aim to guide listeners through with each?

These titles link to a journey of love lost and love found. I believe uploading the music with meaningful titles combined with the artwork provides a more cohesive package for the record itself. But it’s open to the listener’s interpretation at their will.

What were the influences and core elements that have shaped your project, and how do they intersect with your journey as a DJ and producer?

The main influence is the cross-pollination of producers such as Regis, Silent Servant and Function and my roots in guitar music like My Bloody Valentine, Godflesh and The Cure. What I like in these bands is the combination of harsh noise with a musical structure palatable to a larger audience. This balance I also try to achieve in my own music.

“In techno in general, I look for this balance of sonic experimentation and boundary pushing which is all locked in by repetitious and danceable rhythms. The heaviness is subliminally inserted into the music itself.”

The relationship between sound and embodiment has been a recurring theme in your work, with references to the corporeal experience of rhythm and resonance. How do you explore the tactile dimensions of sound in your compositions –What is your relationship with audience perception, and how does your knowledge of audience response to tracks inform your compositional process?

When producing club music, I always imagine how it works on a dance floor I’m familiar with such as Berghain, and it’s usually inspired by moments performing or dancing there. I look to accentuating different frequencies as means of controlling the body while also keeping the spectrum well-balanced. There is only a finite amount to store within the music, and it’s also important not to overdo it. In terms of composition, I arrange with the notion that the tracks are used within a DJ set. So they are composed in such a way that the changes hit at the right time creating more drama in the mix.

As an artist deeply embedded in the underground electronic music scene, you occupy a unique position at the intersection of countercultural resistance and mainstream appropriation. How do you navigate the tension between subcultural authenticity and commercial viability, and what strategies do you employ to maintain artistic autonomy while engaging with broader audiences?

I grew up playing in post-punk and synthwave bands so that’s my background. I always look for new sounds in those worlds and combine them together in my techno sets as well as carry that influence into my production. I think it’s important to still acknowledge how these sometimes seemingly disparate genres are actually very connected since their beginnings and subconsciously weave that notion together in sets. I listen to myself in how I want to approach my music and only work with likeminded labels and artists who I connect with in their approach rather than being influenced by temporary trends that urge others to change their sound at a whim.

This record is dedicated to Silent Servant, your mentor. Grief finds expression in various artistic forms, including music. In techno, a genre often associated with its pulsating rhythms and immersive sonic landscapes, the exploration of emotions like grief may seem unconventional. However, some artists have managed to infuse their music with a sense of melancholy, loss, and introspection. How do you perceive the role of grief in techno music, and how do you approach incorporating or evoking such emotions in your own compositions?

Juan made the artwork for this record, and I think it’s probably one of the last ones he made. We never had a chance to talk about the new technique he used for it even. It makes the whole record combined with the titles and images of roses and cold machinery quite mournful. So many steps and movements of my production, DJing and music in general are somehow connected to Juan so it was very heavy to go through with this release to say the least. Even in techno, it’s possible to make room for grief because the genre lends itself to create other worlds and paint a picture of an alternate reality with the use of certain atmospheres and melancholic melodies taking the listener to another dimension to reconcile with it.

In the era of algorithmic curation and streaming platforms, the role of the DJ as a curator and tastemaker is evolving. How do you perceive the evolving nature of DJ culture, and what strategies do you employ to maintain a distinct artistic voice and ensure your creative output remains innovative and boundary-pushing?

It’s true that more than ever people look to who the DJ is and what defines them beyond just their music. Which on one hand I understand, as someone more into bands, usually the image (or lack thereof) played a role into how we perceive their music whether that was through artwork, photos, music videos or performances on stage. So I think the same can be applied to techno as it evolves. On the other hand, what should still remain most important is the DJ’s selection and their ability to technically mix them together while reading the vibe of the space they’re in. I’m a musician because it is the creative way to express myself so it inherently stays true to me, while I constantly search for new or old sounds to inspire me and broaden my sonic palette.

The notion of “genre” in electronic music is both a unifying force and a constraining factor, often shaping audience expectations and critical reception. How do you negotiate the boundaries of genre in your own work, and to what extent do you see yourself as a boundary-crossing artist pushing the limits of categorization?

Unfortunately, some people like to cast artists into one genre and leave them there, thinking categorically, no matter if they evolve, instead of just listening and updating their preconceptions. I’ve always defined my project as techno but perhaps with different influences, while others try to pigeonhole my sound based on my background or what other artists around me think to play. I think the best way to redefine and push the limits is just to constantly showcase your sound with releases and sets, hence why I’ve been saying ‘techno’ all the time like a broken record.

Your label BITE has been instrumental in showcasing emerging talent and pushing the boundaries of experimental techno. How do you envision the role of independent labels in shaping the future landscape of electronic music, and what criteria do you use to identify artists who embody the ethos of innovation and experimentation?

Labels play an important role in defining their own aesthetic in music through the sound as well as its visual concept and the way they present their art to listeners. I want to show my connection to dance music and what I find cool and interesting while hopefully building up new artists in who I believe. When releasing someone, I usually listen if their music is also influenced by genres outside of techno itself and somehow combines it all together into a sound that is definitively them, so that one could tell it’s them in a blind listen.

I wanted to close on a lighter note..I want to peep a bit behind the curtain: How do you approach the creative process when producing new tracks? Do you have any specific rituals or routines?

I usually get an idea while DJing or just listening to music for a song I want to make, whether it’s a sequence, rhythm, melody or just a general mood or style. Then I translate that idea in my head to reality with either hardware or software which usually somehow changes or evolves in that process. Because I’m on the road so much now, I’m learning new ways to work on the computer but still retain the spontaneity and rawness of the hardware I’m used to working with all these years. But this learning process is cool because it lends itself to new sounds and methods. The most difficult part is understanding when the track is finally finished, to stop playing around with it, and let it go. That all comes from just doing it over and over again.

Team

Interview · Andrea Bratta
Artwork · Silent Editions
Photography · Shuto
Pre-order the digital album here
Follow Phase Fatale on Instagram and Soundcloud
Follow NR on Instagram and Soundcloud

Tag: Music

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