When it comes to experiencing strong emotions as a listener, which albums, performances, and artists come to mind?
David Bowie’s last album Blackstar gets me every time I listen to it. Especially the song “Lazarus.” To me, he is an immortal artist.
And writing his own obituary - speaking to us from the afterworld with this album - was so brilliant and powerful and heartbreaking.
On the first anniversary of his death, we made a cello cover version of the whole album. Channeling Bowie’s voice with my cello is always an emotional roller coaster for me.
There can be many different kinds of emotions in art – soft, harsh, healing, aggressive, uplifting and many more. Which do you tend to feel drawn to most?
I don’t really think about music and art in those terms. I think you can experience a very wide range of emotions from a great work of art. But it only works if it’s not intentionally meant to do that – music that tries to manipulate emotions always falls flat.
In other words, great music is a kind of discovery, uncovering of a form of truth. It can be very personal, even quirky, sometimes it can be complicated and layered, sometime raw and simple. But the emotions we feel are a physical reaction and can be very subjective. We react emotionally to music based on our own experiences and personal history and the kind of memories and stories and deep visceral response it evokes in us.
Yet, I’m not sure we experience music, or the world around us for that matter, in the same way. When we listen to a piece of music together, how do I know if you hear it the same way I do? How do I know if you see the same colors I do? We have shared language that we all participate in but what I say, and you say, while it sounds the same, might reflect two different experiences.
So, I guess all the emotions that you mentioned are valid for me – except aggressive. I don’t connect to anything that convey aggression. Art, as life, should never be aggressive.
I have had a hard time explaining that listening to death metal calms me down. When you listen to a song or composition, does it tend to fill you with the same emotions – or are there “paradoxical” effects?
Interesting question. I guess it goes back to what I said in the previous question.
Our feelings and experiences are not linear and predictable. How we experience music is inherently subjective.
In as far as it plays a role for the music you like listening to or making, what role do words and the voice of a vocalist play for the transmission of emotions?
I mostly prefer music to be nonverbal. I like the openness of the sound world when it is devoid of language. It feels more liberating to me in terms of where it takes me. Music for me is a form of trance, meditation, ritual.
But sometimes, words are needed, and they work. They create a sort of boundaries and limitations that can lead to a powerful form.
When I think of Janis Joplin, her voice was so raw and visceral and the words she sang were an important part of it. Same is true for Nina Simone and Amy Winehouse.
When it comes to experiencing emotions as as a creator, how would you describe the physical sensation of experiencing them? [Where do you feel them, do you have a visual sensation/representation, is there a sense of release or a build-up of tension etc …]
I am very visual. I see music, not just hear it – images, colors. It’s an organic process. I don’t try to impose anything. I surrender and allow myself to become porous. That’s when I can truly connect.
It’s a fine balance between been led by what surrounds me and leading with intention. It only works when I allow myself to let go. to be vulnerable. Be nothing. It’s like you collapse and become ashes and rebuild every time you create.
When it comes to composing / songwriting, are you finding that spontaneity and just a few takes tend to capture emotions best? Or does honing a piece bring you closer to that goal?
When I make an album, I get very obsessive. I redo every take many times. I have a hard time settling on the “right” one. It is inevitably a compromise. And I don’t like to compromise. I am a perfectionist by nature (and nurture), but I don’t believe in perfection in art. So, I live in that paradox.
I often wish there was a form of recording where you could release a different version of the same album every day. Slightly different. With another color, another dynamic, another intonation. The shades of music are endless.
When you make an album, you must settle on the one moment where you experienced it in a particular manner. That’s why I have a hard time listening to my own albums after I create them.
How much of the emotions of your own music, would you say, are already part of the composition, how much is the result of the recording process?
It’s always a mixture of both. But the music isn’t realized until it is performed/recorded.
The sounds exist; the music exist but it’s inaudible, invisible. When you play, you bring it to life anew every time. And in the process, it is sometimes transformed, and you discover something you didn’t know was there.
When I am truly tuned-in and shed all preconceived notions, when I allow myself to be a vessel, that’s when the transformation happen. And often I am transformed in the process as well.
Those layers of seeing and feeling and experiencing deeply, they add up.
For Salt, what kind of emotions were you looking to get across?
Salt is built on remembrance and defiance. I wasn't thinking in terms of conveying specific emotions so much as creating a space for contemplation around memory and witness.
The album explores that tension between being told to move forward and the need to honor what we've left behind. There's something profound in Lot's wife's act of looking back—I wanted the music to hold that complexity, the ache of severed connections alongside the courage it takes to bear witness. I wanted to make space for those emotions that don’t resolve neatly, looking back—knowing the cost—and doing it anyway.
There is sorrow in it, yes, but also tenderness, awe, and a kind of quiet but powerful rebellion.
How do you capture the emotions you want to get across in the studio?
It's about creating an environment where both intimacy and expansiveness can coexist. The cello needs to feel close enough to be personal but also have the space to become monumental.
We worked with dynamics and space - sometimes the music feels like a whisper, sometimes like a pillar of salt.
What role do factors like volume, effects like distortion, amplification, and production in general for in terms of creating the emotions, energies or impressions you want?
Texture is emotion. Distortion, delay, reverb - they’re like emotional amplifiers. They take the raw material and stretch it into new dimensions.
I often think of production as painting with shadows and light. The production choices support the narrative arc of Salt. We use space and resonance to create that sense of looking back across vast distances. Sometimes I want the cello to feel ancient, otherworldly; other times it's completely raw and present.
The way a cello growls through an amp or dissolves into reverb can speak volumes.
In terms of emotions, what changes when you're performing live on stage, with an audience present, compared to the recording stage?
Everything is more dangerous when you are on stage. The risk of the moment becomes part of the emotion. You’re not just transmitting music - you are sharing it, letting it be altered by the presence of other bodies in the room.
There’s a kind of emotional conductivity that can’t be replicated in a studio. It’s a different kind of ritual. The pace is different. No second chances. No regrets.
It’s a type of explosion that unfolds over a period of a few hours never to be repeated.
How does the presence of the audience and your interaction with it change the emotional impact of the music and how would you describe the creative interaction with listeners during a gig?
The audience brings their own memories, their own experiences of loss and resilience. It’s like a feedback loop. I offer something, and the audience reflects it back - with their energy, breath, stillness.
Sometimes I feel a collective inhale before a moment lands. Sometimes a quiet gasp tells me they’re right there with me. It’s a conversation. A kind of communion.
What kind of feedback have you received from listeners or concert audiences in terms of the experience that your music and/or performances have had on them?
I will let other people describe their reaction to my work … :-)
I hope they are moved in some way. I hope they feel it brings them closer to a peaceful place, and that they, too, feel the urge to create.
We are all creative creatures.
Would you say that you prefer to stay in control to be able to shape the emotions or do you surrender to them and allow the music to take over? Who, ultimately has control during a live performance?
Control is a false comfort. The best performances happen when I am porous enough to be moved with the sound, not by it.
It is not about dominating the emotion but channeling it, trusting it, letting it pass through.
The emotions that music is able to generate can be extremely powerful. How, do you think, can artists make use of this power to bring about change in the world?
By telling the truth. Not the literal truth, but the emotional one - the kind that gets under the skin and stays there. Music can humanize what politics dehumanizes. It can create space for empathy, for memory, for grief.
And I think that matters - especially now. When words fail, music can say: Feel this. Remember this. Don’t look away.
Maya Beiser Interview Image by Abigail Fenton“Music that tries to manipulate emotions always falls flat.”
ON THE RISE
I've sometimes felt as though every piece of music is an exploration of our perception of time. What sparked the idea of focusing on time as the main focus for your new work?
The focus on time in this work emerged quite unconsciously.
What actually happened is that the title came last, after I received an email from John (Benedict ndr) regarding the production timeline. In the middle of that email, those two Latin words appeared, and for me, as an Italian reading them in an English context, they had an almost striking, illuminating effect.
At that point, I went back to the pieces I had written, listening again to how they had been developed and recorded, and also considering the broader time span over which the entire EP had been composed. It became clear to me that Tempo Fugit was the most fitting title to represent the work.
I've been listening to Tangerine Dream's Zeit a lot recently but that album is based on a very specific concept of time, as pioneered in the West bei Parmenides, that time does not, actually, move. What are your own reflections on time?
Time is perhaps the most objective construct that exists in nature, and yet the most paradoxical aspect of it is that it is entirely perceived in a subjective way.
At times, time seems not to pass at all; at other times, it rushes forward, or even feels as if it stops. But this sense of flow, its rhythm, its pace, is not determined by time itself, it is determined by us.
This is precisely why I see it as such a fundamentally objective dimension. It is inescapable, it is constant, and yet our perception transforms something absolutely objective into something deeply subjective.
Time is not just the medium through which music flows, it can also be a musical tool in its own right. How did you work with it for Tempo Fugit?
For this EP, I worked with time in two main ways.
On one hand, there are pieces built around a very clear and explicit temporal reference, a metronome. On the other, there are works that were recorded almost entirely without any fixed time reference. This applies both to the piano pieces and to the electronic ones.
In some tracks, the presence of a grid allows for a very precise perception of construction, almost as if the composition were being built brick by brick. In others, there is a deliberate need to remove any external reference and instead follow what I would describe as an inner sense of time.
These two approaches reflect the way I usually compose, and they are both clearly present and articulated throughout this EP.
Many contemporary composers have tried – or are still trying to make – time transparent by opting for extreme lengths. Your music, however, is quite to the point, on your earlier van Gogh EP even radically so. What is satisfying about concision for you?
I don’t usually approach composition by asking myself how long a piece should be.
When I work on immersive projects, of course, there are specific durations dictated by the storyboard. In those cases, the shorter the piece, the greater the risk of it sounding like a jingle. It becomes more difficult to preserve an emotional depth rather than just leaving behind a catchy motif.
At the same time, I find it very interesting to impose, in a way, constraints of brevity. I have written pieces that last twenty minutes or more, though they are often less suited to streaming platforms, and in some cases they have not even been officially released, as they belong to installations or more experimental contexts.
On the other hand, I also created a collection of one hundred one-minute pieces as part of a creative exercise called “100 days.” The idea was to repeat a creative act every day for one hundred consecutive days. My approach was to sit at the piano, even before having my coffee, and write exactly one minute of music.
Over time, this became a fascinating process. In the beginning, I relied on a timer, constantly checking the clock. But toward the end, I developed an internal sense of that one-minute span. Despite differences in tonality, meter, and tempo, I could almost instinctively feel when to begin and when to end each piece.
That experience taught me that duration is not something I impose from the outside, but something that can be internalized and shaped from within.
I understood that the process on Tempo Fugi was very different from piece to piece, with some finished quickly while others taking a lot of time. What is it about some works, do you feel, that makes them harder to nail down – how would you describe the sensation that something is “done”?
In this case, it was not really about how long it took to finish each piece. The tracks were written at different times, sometimes even years apart.
What happened later, when I listened back to them, was that I felt the need to create a stronger sense of cohesion across the EP. By “cohesion,” I mean introducing elements that could give more consistency to the role each track plays within the overall narrative.
So I revisited older demos that had been sitting in my archive for quite some time, pieces I still considered valid, and approached them almost as a form of rearrangement within the context of the EP. It was not about struggling to complete a piece, but rather about shaping it so that it could fully belong to this specific body of work.
For me, a piece is finished when I feel a strong coherence in the message I want to convey, when every sound has found its place, and when the musical discourse flows naturally and feels complete. It is not something I can define in purely rational terms. It is, above all, a sensation.
Since the process for Tempo Fugit was quite extensive, were there possibly overlaps between tracks composed for this project and the Van Gogh show? If so, how similar do pieces composed at the same time but for different projects tend to be?
There was no overlap. The music for the Van Gogh project we are referring to was written before the pandemic, whereas the material for Tempo Fugit dates back, at most, to about two or three years ago.
If we talk about similarities between pieces, I would distinguish between two different aspects.
From a purely musical perspective, meaning harmony and melody, it is actually more likely for similarities to emerge over time rather than within the same period. When you develop a certain awareness in your musical language, it naturally creates a kind of continuity, almost like a diary of melodic and harmonic ideas that evolves over the years.
On the other hand, pieces written within the same timeframe may resemble each other more from a sound design perspective. For example, if you are exploring a particular instrument, a specific synthesizer, a new effect, or even a certain way of miking the piano, these elements can shape the sonic identity of multiple pieces. Even choices like register or tonality can be influenced by those explorations.
So, if there is a form of resemblance within the same period, it is more likely to emerge from the sound and the tools being used, rather than from the underlying musical writing itself.
The release opens with a piece called “Repetition,” which called to mind a sentence by Ryoko Sekiguchi: “Time doesn’t pass, it returns.” How do you see that yourself – and how do you use repetition and variation in your work?
I see repetition as a beautiful form of communication, where the reiteration of an idea actually allows that idea to emerge more clearly.
The presence of a pattern becomes almost a kind of subtle game with rationality, with perception, with the listener’s intelligence. It invites a process of recognition, almost like solving a riddle.
This is what I find particularly compelling about minimalism. An idea is explored, listened to, gradually exhausted, then transformed, and the cycle begins again.
Since one part of the project seems to have been to use music to capture specific moments in time – how do you see the relationship between the moment and the music created in it? Quite often, sad music gets written in happy times of an artist's life and vice versa, so it seems like a complex relationship.
I agree that it is a complex relationship, and I would even extend it beyond the idea of writing sad music in happy times, or happy music in sad ones, as a way of balancing or compensating.
For me, it also involves the relationship with instruments. My work moves between acoustic instruments, like the piano, and more electronic forms of production, and I often experience this dialogue between emotional states and sound through them.
For instance, I might be drawn to more experimental electronic instruments during a more rational phase, while in a more instinctive or emotional moment I might turn to something structurally more defined, like the piano. In this sense, the contrast or interplay between different emotional states becomes symbiotic with the choice of instruments.
So yes, I would definitely describe this relationship as complex, but also deeply fascinating.
Luca Longobardi Interview Image (c) the artist
“I see repetition as a beautiful form of communication, where the reiteration of an idea actually allows that idea to emerge more clearly.“
