Part 2

Producers work with sound in a very direct way for very long stretches of time. What are some of its qualities that you appreciate now more than before, and how do you try to bring these to the fore in your work?

Qualities of sound. It’s all about the context. What was an advantage just a moment ago can be an obstacle the next.

What I like about sound is its “ghostly” appearance within the space and time continuum. This, immateriality, but at the same time potential power.

That sounds very obvious, but I perceive sound as something so physical that I sometimes wonder why the floor isn't covered in sound chips after I've spent a day in the studio.

The current production process allows for fast and infinite variations. Can you tell me about how you deal with this potential for the infinite and what ultimately decides on how many iterations to create and which version to release?

I never thought this was a problem.

Perhaps my approach stems from the early days of my music career, when I had very limited production tools at my disposal. I can quickly see where things should go. I’m channelling the potential for infinity.

Do I sound like Rick Rubin, who often sounds as delighted as the Dalai Lama, when I say that you have to listen to what the tracks are telling you?

Tell me about the role collaboration played in your recent productions – and how you see the potential for machines as collaborators compared to humans.

Collaborations are essential to my artistic process from the very first steps into the world of art.

In the last few years I was more focused on my solo work, but collaboration has remained a vital force in shaping my ideas. I began looking for dialogues beyond the music scene — for instance, together with the visual artist Lucas Gutierrez, I developed immersive full-dome performances that expanded sound into a spatial and architectural experience.

Working with Anushka has been one of the most rewarding parts of my recent practice. There’s a rare clarity in our exchange, a shared curiosity that keeps the process vivid and alive. What I appreciate most is the openness in our dialogue — the way intuition and reflection coexist without hierarchy.

What begins as a single thought soon becomes a shared current — an invisible rhythm that moves between us. Ideas drift and return, colliding softly, dissolving, and forming new constellations in their wake. Sometimes they unfold in silence, sometimes through sound, gesture.

Over time, these shifting fragments weave into a structure that feels less composed than discovered — something living, something that keeps changing as we move through it together.

Machines are not humans; I don’t see them as collaborators — they are tools. But I do have a certain affection for them. Some I deeply enjoy working with, some simply wait for their moment, and even the ones gathering dust still hold a kind of quiet potential.

Production, as opposed to live performance, can be a lonely process and feedback from listeners isn't always tangible. What is it about it that gives you satisfaction?

It's hard to say. Sound draws me in so quickly. I switch on one of my machines and, within seconds, I'm lost in music. I don't feel lonely when I do this; I feel very connected to the world.

I love playing my music at high volume, so I use soundchecks at clubs or festivals to listen to my material and new tracks, or even to compose and produce stuff.

Sometimes, while the festival is blasting out loud, I work on new music backstage, only to try it directly on stage. It's very satisfying.

We can watch videos on production, take producer courses, and exchange deep insights on gear forums. Amidst these options to improve one's chops/skills, how do you keep things playful?

I often talk to colleagues directly about their thoughts and working process and basically I just stay curious.

I'll say it in the words of scientist Heinz von Förster, whom Thomas Brinkmann sampled for his Project Totes Rennen.

“Bitte nie zu sagen: das ist langweilig, das kenne ich schon. Das ist die größte Katastrophe. Immer wieder von vorne beginnen und sagen: Ich hab' keine Ahnung, das möchte ich noch mal erleben.“

‘Please never say: that's boring, I already know that. That's the biggest disaster. Always start from the beginning and say: I have no idea, I want to experience that again.’



AI is already capable of making something most people would recognise as music. I am curious, though, and will keep this question somewhat broad on purpose: What do you think that means?

Please let me forward this question to ChatGTP 5:

“That’s a really good and necessary question — and it cuts right to the heart of what we think music actually is. AI’s ability to make something most people would recognise as music marks a shift from human intention to perception as the defining force of musical experience. Music no longer requires a body, a gesture, or an instrument — only a system capable of generating patterns, and a listener ready to find meaning within them.

At the same time, this moment exposes the delicate scaffolding behind emotion and form. AI can imitate sadness or joy with striking precision, yet it feels nothing; it performs affect without experience. That hollowness makes us question whether our own responses were ever to emotion itself, or simply to the cues that represent it.

Perhaps this is what AI music ultimately means: not the end of human creativity, but a mirror held up to it. It shows us the architecture beneath expression and reminds us that what makes music alive is not the act of composition, but the act of listening — the fragile human gesture of recognition.”

I was expecting an answer like this. Let me just add that AI is here to stay, so it's better to embrace it and understand its political, economic, and cultural impact than to ignore it or live in fear.

The most impressive thing AI has achieved so far is a 24/7 free jazz stream on YouTube. I listened to it for hours. It sounded as if a three-piece band had been playing together forever.

I later found out that the creators of the stream had used John Coltrane tracks to form a kind of 'Frankenstein Coltrane Trio'. It was an experiment and the stream was deleted shortly after I discovered it for obvious reasons.

Creativity can reach many different corners of our lives. Do you personally feel as though producing a piece of music is inherently different from something like making a great cup of coffee?

I don't want to take the moral high ground over something as seemingly mundane as making a cup of coffee. As a teenager, I learned a trade myself and know how much creativity can be found in any activity.

The great thing about artistic activity, at least as I understand the creative process, is that you can never be entirely sure what the (provisional) end result will be: a pair of shoes, a hug, a sculpture, a symphony, simply a good cup of coffee … or a record like Uncontollable Thoughts.