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.