Name: Karen Juhl
Nationality: Danish
Occupations: Singer, songwriter, sound artist, producer
Current release: Karen Juhl's Mother Tongue is out September 22nd 2023 via inklingroom.
Recomendations: I would recommend "6800 Ultra" by Johan Feierskov. I don't know anyone like Johan who can seamlessly blend gaming and glitch into an equally surreal and poetic music and video work. It's released on his own website, goodtimesontheinternet.com (yes, you read that right), which is a bit of an all-inclusive digital catalogue—a link jungle and a process archive with texts, images, and videos. I've worked closely with Johan for many years and have the immense joy of witnessing his creativity, which continues to find new expressions.
My second recommendation is The Last One by the French-Algerian author Fatima Daas. Much of the prose is structured like a kind of prayer, like recitations. The chanting atmosphere and rhythmic progression bring the work to life. It's an exploration of seemingly mutually exclusive identities – being a lesbian and a devout Muslim – but also an attempt to embrace the complexity and live out the contradictions.

If you enjoyed this Karen Juhl interview and would like to stay up to date with her music, visit her official homepage. She is also on Instagram.



When I listen to music, I see shapes, objects, and colours. What happens in your body when you're listening? Do you listen with your eyes open or closed?

I often envision music as architecture. It's like fluid timelines or 3D landscapes. Like buildings or spaces with a certain hardness or softness. It can feel like a narrow corridor or a large stone hall.

You can change perspective along the way, step in and out of spaces. Sometimes, you're centered on the floor, while other times it feels like running.

I usually listen with my eyes closed, except when I'm listening to the news; for that, I keep my eyes open.

What were your very first steps in music like and how would you rate the gains made through experience - can one train/learn being an artist?

My first steps have been to sing with my family, my sisters in particular. We created three-part arrangements of everything from Spice Girls to classic Danish songs. And then I learned to play the flute at the local music school.

Music was something I did without thinking much. It was only in the late teenage years that I began to acquire an artist's mindset – the simultaneously critical and creative aspect. So yes, I believe it's something one can learn or open up to, like so many other things.

But I also believe that some people experience the artist's life as a possibility to a greater extent because of the environment they grew up in, the ease of breaking cultural and linguistic codes, or simply because they have a resourceful background.

According to scientific studies, we make our deepest and most incisive musical experiences between the ages of 13-16. What did music mean to you at that age and what’s changed since then?

Music seemed to be able to reflect the increasing world-weariness that I didn't have words for during those years. But I also truly discovered music as a form of cultural capital, an identity marker that could either include or exclude you from social circles. Pink Floyd was considered cool in one place and uncool in another. I was quite confused.

Despite that, my curiosity was almost insatiable, and I listened to Radiohead and Lauryn Hill and all sorts of other music with my older siblings in our little red Nissan Micra when we drove from our small village to the slightly larger town to attend concerts.

My siblings always took me under their wings, and it meant everything at that time.

What, would you say, are the key ideas behind your approach to music and what motivates you to create?

I have a fairly broad approach to music, I believe. I borrow artistic techniques from literature and visual art and draw inspiration from popular culture and obscure ideas. For me, there is potential in working with songs that, to put it a bit simplistically, have a broader appeal than poems on paper.

I'm drawn to exploring something complex through a simple form of expression. Creating something intuitively understandable without simplifying the substance. That motivates me.

To quote a question by the great Bruce Duffie: When you come up with a musical idea, have you created the idea or have you discovered the idea?

I would probably be inclined to say that I have discovered the idea, without calling myself a Platonist.

I perceive the creative person as someone who discovers new connections within material that already exists.

Paul Simon said “the way that I listen to my own records is not for the chords or the lyrics - my first impression is of the overall sound.” What's your own take on that and how would you define your personal sound?

The experience of an overall sound is what one hopes will occur, the idea that a work extends beyond its individual components. You can also have an idea so complete that any attempt to materialize it feels like an approximation.

I think I lean more towards the idea that the sensory material itself should be able to express a form of wholeness. I listen to my recordings with others during the process and ask them to share their experiences of the overall sound. It can be incredibly difficult to be your own best listener, and it is perhaps often through others' listening that I best understand my sound.

I find that my perspective on the relationship between text and sound allows me to think almost dramaturgically about composing. At that point, I sometimes feel like I stand out a bit.

But in many ways, I still feel like I've just started writing, so in a way, it's too early for me to define a personal sound, if even possible at all.

Sound, song, and rhythm are all around us, from animal noises to the waves of the ocean. What, if any, are some of the most moving experiences you've had with these non-human-made sounds? In how far would you describe them as “musical”?

I love the sound of the wind rustling through pine trees and the rich sound just beneath the water's surface. It's often moving for me to listen to places that aren't drowned out by human-made noises.

I remember a camping trip in a remote mountain valley where the soundscape changed dramatically after sunset. All sorts of animals emerged from their dens, and the entire forest floor came to life. I experienced that as a kind of music.

From very deep/high/loud/quiet sounds to very long/short/simple/complex compositions - are there extremes in music you feel drawn to and what response do they elicit?

Musical extremes interest me because they distinctively separate themselves from the everyday space. I like to exaggerate the constructed aspects in a composition.

On my album Mother Tongue, I have worked with contrasts to create a sense of distortion, something slightly out of proportion. Subtle sounds reveal their strength over time, in the way they slowly lead to silence. It's as if the energy condenses.

Conversely, powerful sounds can unleash a kind of controlled madness. But it's the dynamic between them that makes the extremes effective.

Could you describe your creative process on the basis of one of your pieces, live performances or albums that's particularly dear to you, please?

I often work intensively on a project, move on to another, and then return with a fresh perspective.

With the Mother Tongue album, I felt the need to deconstruct my own ideas about what a song could be. I had written a lot of texts - poems, essays, notes - and one day I put them together into one long document. Then I began experimenting with the musical aspects of the texts as compositions.

The embedded ideas about things like tonality, shifts in perspective, and tempo gave rise to new forms and ideas for ways to orchestrate. Along the way, a suite of songs emerged that I began to work with as an album.

Do you conduct “experiments” or make use of scientific insights when you're making music?

I'm quite methodical, so the experimental approach suits me well. I also draw inspiration from science, even if it may not necessarily be audible in my work.

However, for me, there's not much of a gap between the scientist's and the artist's approach to the world. Both wonder about the status quo and set out to investigate it with the desire to bring something new.

For example, I find it fascinating how the work "The Dawn of Everything" [by David Graeber, and David Wengrows - 15Q] shakes up our entrenched ideas about past societies through new archaeological findings. It can loosen up our understanding of the present and point towards new paths forward.

How does the way you make music reflect the way you live your life? Can we learn lessons about life by understanding music on a deeper level?

Most days, I approach my music in a rather office-like manner, as a series of tasks I sit down to accomplish. For me, this structured rhythm is necessary to encompass the complexity of the work.

In a way, I hope that the care and attention I give to my music are reflected in my way of life, in how I take care of my loved ones and my surroundings. However, I probably often lose myself in my work and in myself. Work-life balance is a daily practice. Understanding music at a deeper level, I believe, is about the ability to listen. And listening is about giving full attention to something outside of oneself. It requires presence and curiosity.

So yes, in its own not so quantifiable way, I believe music can teach us something about life - when I listen more deeply, the world feels bigger and richer.

Do you feel as though writing or performing a piece of music is inherently different from something like making a great cup of coffee? What do you express through music that you couldn't or wouldn't in more 'mundane' tasks?

The feeling of creating something may not necessarily be different, but the object behaves differently. You can't drink a piece of music or use it to shield against the cold like clothing or a building.

Perhaps music is more like a kind of time travel. I can transport myself out of the world, establish connections to something that exists in the imagination. Time can be scaled up and down, stretched out and compressed.

Every time I listen to "Albedo 0.39" by Vangelis, I choke up. But the lyrics are made up of nothing but numbers and values. Do you, too, have a song or piece of music that affects you in a way that you can't explain?

I was moved when I saw a YouTube recording of a massive college brass band playing a cover of Adele's "Hello."



If you could make a wish for the future – what are developments in music you would like to see and hear?

I look forward to hearing more artists from around the world who renew and carry forward the wealth of musical traditions that we have yet to hear about in the West.

It could also be exciting to have more types of ensembles, in addition to symphony orchestras, for various types of musicians and composers to write for.