Published
Part 2
It is my impression that adding a conceptual, non-musical dimension to one's work is almost a prerequisite for commissions and grants. How do you view this tendency and how “conceptual” is your own approach to writing?
I do wish grant and commissioning bodies would drop the requirement for “themes” altogether. It’s really so tedious and incentivises BS for the most part. For lots of obvious reasons, I would prefer artists to be judged on their track record, primarily on their previous work, their actual music, and creative output—not on how well they can dress a proposal up around the topic of the day.
So, for sure, there is a conceptual framework for my own practice, but it has grown directly out of the practical process of making, listening, and experimenting. Mostly, the discoveries have happened during the intuitive, hands-on composing process in the studio, and only later have I found the language to understand what I have been doing. I don't begin with a theme and then make a piece to exemplify or illustrate it.
Sonic Phantoms, for example, developed out of years of practical experimentation with perceptual ambiguity, auditory illusions, and the strange things that happen when what we physically produce and what we perceive begin to diverge. The theoretical framework came through trying to understand and articulate those physical experiences. It wasn't a conceptual blueprint from which I then constructed the music.
I'm very curious about ideas, obviously—but I would much rather make something that gives the listener a stimulating and interesting experience that doesn't require an explanation in order to get into it.
Working with long forms, complex concepts or new vocabulary is potentially more challenging today because they require us to remember things that happened perhaps minutes ago – while most of us are finding it hard to focus even on what's happening right now. Both as a composer and as a listener yourself, how do you deal with this?
When I listen to my own music—whether it's one of my hyper-looping worlds or something more expansive and long-form—I can often become almost instantly absorbed. It feels like entering a portal into another world. I surprise myself by how quickly I can tune into that realm, and that kind of transportive absorption is actually the ultimate test for me in the studio. I need to have that kind of engaged listening experience myself—otherwise something isn't working and the material isn't working its magic.
I'm interested in repetition, absorption, and duration because of how they can fundamentally alter our experience of time and immediate perception. My loops and microloops are almost never static. I'm constantly shifting backwards and forwards through the material in a very organic way—shifting the points at which things begin and end, changing durations, exposing different layers, and listening intently for what comes forward or recedes. The repetition itself becomes a process of discovery for me.
There is a strange, beautiful paradox in using a very small unit of sound to create a massive temporal environment. This is something I've been exploring with my Sonic Phantoms work for years—with locked grooves and repetitive musical forms. A tiny loop can become an entire universe if you stay inside it long enough.
Repetition completely changes what we actually hear. In CyberSongs, digitally repeated speech fragments gradually shift from being heard primarily as language towards pure rhythm, timbre, and musical pattern. In Drawing Phantoms, repetitive motor activity narrows and intensifies the focus, creating the conditions under which unexpected sounds and phantom-like vocal patterns begin to emerge from the noise. I enjoy what happens when you stay with material long enough for your perception of it to break down and reorganise itself.
In a very attention-grabby and fragmented world, I need to create the conditions for sonic absorption—more like meditation, I suppose—where perception can settle, wander, and my brain can actively find its own way.
For many artists, life-changing musical experiences take place live. Few works these days, however, are performed beyond their premiere. What, do you feel, does this mean for composers, and the music they write, and how does this reality influence your own work?
I love performing live—both my own solo shows and more theatrical, staged manifestations of my work with like-minded artists.
When we did the CyberSongs project with Ensemble Klang and Nathalie Smoor, we had a packed premiere at Korzo Theatre in The Hague. It was an incredible buzz, with a warm and super-enthusiastic audience. Nathalie Smoor—an incredible talent—learned how to “sing” all the synthetic CyberSongs by heart while executing complex choreography inspired by the film footage. It was an almost impossible feat, and one that is almost unique to her.
As an associate artist for Ensemble Klang, I had the luxury of precious time to workshop this mega-piece together with musicians who can pretty much do anything. But it pains me to think about the amount of work we put into it for just one show. Staging large works like that—with musicians, actors, lighting designers, and technical staff—is expensive and labour-intensive, with immense financial and logistical pressure to book a long string of dates to make it feasible. Collaborative productions take a huge amount of time, with rehearsals and intense coordination to bring to performance level.
I do enjoy that process, but whilst it's ultimately thrilling, I can also deliver a similar amount of power and energy with my own solo shows. It’s a natural trade-off—working with physical performers costs extra time and funds, and often you never quite feel like you have enough of either to take the work as far as it could go.
Is it a better work for it? It depends on so many factors. If the conditions are right, there is an irreplaceable energy in bringing work into a physical space with a solid sound system and projection setup. However, there's a lot to be said for the freedom and flexibility of being able to just show up and do the performance myself—with absolutely no rehearsals required.
In the studio, I actually like to work with headphones, and I usually compose this way. For a solid and truly transportive listening experience, a good pair of over-the-ear headphones is hard to beat for giving direct access to that dense, intricate, otherworldly sound world. I feel very creatively satisfied working this way.
But scaling that music up in a live setting, in the presence of an audience, completely changes the dynamic. Being in a live venue changes the physics of the sound itself. Materials that might sound quite simple or even unspectacular when listening in a quiet, isolated mode can become utterly spectacular in a live space with spatial control and movement.
There is a vast amount of active sonic work that simply must be done live in the room to induce those “sonic phantoms” I gravitate towards. You have to manage the materials in the moment and breathe true life into them to induce those phantoms. This is something I can't really reproduce in the same way in the studio.
Because of this, I keep my practice completely flexible and adaptable. Now that I have built up a sizable repository of materials, modules, and composed worlds, I am always ready to put together a live performance. There are always options, and because I work in a modular way, a show can easily stretch or compress depending entirely on the opportunity.
