We chat to London born Indian artist Amit Rai Sharma about his journey in music, the challenges involved for independent musicians and the importance of family.
Qu: Hi Amit, you’ve been involved in music for a number of years now, how did you get started?
Hello Fortitude! Thanks for having me. Also, thank you for your review of my first ever solo single ‘Spells and Charms and Broken Homes’. Putting out a 7-minute song that jumps around genres… it felt like a risky move, but your review made breathe a sigh of relief. It made me think, okay, there might be an audience for this. And after having done this for a while now, that’s all I hope for.
So, how did I get started? You know, there isn’t really a particular moment that I could point to, because in some way music has always been a part of my life. And I mean that in a very normal, run-of-the-mill type of way – my family wasn’t musical, but they enjoyed music, it was on in the house, we played music on long trips, and I had piano lessons when I was 9 for a few years. Comparing it to others that I know this feels quite every day.
Around the age of 14, I remember asking my piano teacher if she could teach me guitar, and she said that even though she couldn’t, that I had enough music knowledge to teach myself – so that’s what I did. Emily Burgess was her name, a lovely elderly lady who let me bring in whatever music I wanted to play. She wasn’t concerned with getting me ready for exams or grades, she just cared about getting me to love and enjoy playing music. That feels like it was a less common experience.
Perhaps the most uncommon thing that happened to me musically was that as a baby, my parents would put headphones on me, and I’d sit happily by myself just listening to music. I Didn’t cry, didn’t need attention. The record collection that my dad had included things like Tangerine Dream, Jean Michel Jarre, Kraftwerk – not your typical Indian households music. Go listen to the opening minute of Tangerine Dream’s album ‘Force Majeure’, and then try to imagine an infant with headphones on, listening to that, sitting quietly and contently?!
It’s a cool story and I have to take my parents word for it, because I was so young when they did that. There are photos of me with headphones on when I was that small but I can’t say that I remember it all that much.
When I do think about my earliest ‘musical’ memories, I can recall a feeling that music was quite a personal and exploratory activity for me and that, as soon as I was able, I was always much more interested in making up things rather than learning other people’s music. So, I suppose as long as I’ve been making music, it’s always been an exploration of my own ideas.
There hadn’t been an outwardly musical person in my family – someone who pursued music or art actively before me – on either my mum or dad’s side, though my parents both wanted to pursue more creative jobs. My mum wanted to be a journalist, and she would’ve made an excellent investigative journalist. She’d have been in the mix of challenging scenarios and reported from dangerous areas. My dad wanted to be an architect, and I think he would’ve been quite good in design; he’s got quite a curious mind and aesthetic driven taste. But they both had upbringings in India that were very traditional, and both being good obedient children, put their dreams aside and became… accountants!
It might not seem it, but I think led to me having an environment that allowed for a more exploratory self-education in music. I had parents who wanted to pursue their more creative and investigative sides but were not allowed to, so they really supported my curiosity. On the flip side, they had no idea what that meant in real-world terms. No-one in my family’s circle knew how to go about being a musician; I had no road-map, no examples of what that world looked like. It was just me and an instrument, making things for myself.
That’s all I thought it was ever going to be. I’d watch things like Top Of The Pops, but it never connected that I was also doing something in this world. The idea that music could be a career happened much-much later. But before that, it was like trying to imagine a new colour. I just didn’t know what I didn’t know.
Ultimately, my parents gave me freedom to explore and investigate my curiosity with music, and despite their lack of experience in this field, my mum in particular, just kept the wind in my sails. And it’s kept me going for all this time. Sure, at times I’ve felt as if I haven’t achieved much, but I’m still here, still making music and figuring out how to have it as a career, still largely by myself. No matter how far I go, or don’t, I’ll think I’ll be happy with what I do. And I know that’s all because of my loved ones keeping the wind in my sails.
Qu: The press release mentions an unfortunate situation in regards to your previous band Ex Libras, can you elaborate on what happened?
Ah yes. An unfortunate and somewhat cliché situation. Ex Libras was one of the biggest loves of my life. We were all ‘in for a penny, in for pound’. We built our rehearsal studio in a garden shed, chipped in to get a £300 Dell PC on which we recorded the first record, printed our own CD sleeves – hand cut and tied and bound each LP – did our own artwork and videos, got our own t-shirts printed. It was all super DIY. We did it all again with our follow up EP, and when we played our EP launch gig, we cooked hot-dogs in the venue kitchen for everyone who showed up.
The biggest help at that time were, then, a little-known PR company by the name of ‘A Badge of Friendship’ and it was because of them that we got some great reviews, great features in print and online and radio-plays, and it felt like we were on the verge of breaking through. We got on to a couple of end-of-year buzz lists, had a fan group from Chile, had the record leaked in Russia with thousands of downloads, and even a following in China, and were invited to be part of a post-rock festival there. The stuff you scratch your head and think… how is this happening?!
At the time it felt like we were always treading water but it was steady growth. It was hard work, continual grafting and writing and rehearsing, and we built this from a literal garden shed in Heston, West London. Then… we got what we thought was a proper break for us; we were approached by a proper music manager. The credentials on this guy were legit and we felt like this was the next step for us.
With hindsight I see that we all saw this manager as the person to take us to the next level. I don’t know why we didn’t see it in ourselves. Instead, we justified to ourselves that we could take our foot off of the gas and we gave up a lot of the responsibility for driving Ex Libras forward over to this manager. In doing so we also slowly distanced ourselves from the people who were there in the beginning.
He raised £50k in funding and signed us to a 360 deal, just as these things were being talked about, all for the second record. £50k?! We were over the moon. We didn’t take any of the money ourselves, instead we put it into the record. We recorded the album in a proper studio and it was mixed at Assault & Battery with Alan Moulder doing the executive mix and John Catlin manning the mixing desk. It was all rather nice and felt like progress.
Our manager who knew so-and-so at Sony, and so-and-so at Warners, working with this other big artist doing tours here and there, yet, despite those connections… we weren’t being picked up. The heads of these companies were turning up and saying they liked the record, they liked the live show, but they also said it was their younger A&R people that made the decisions now. It was all rather… odd. We knew we weren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but we had built a following, radio plays from John Kennedy, people were turning up to gigs. So, what was happening?
It may have been just that; that he had been pitching us to people he knew rather than the younger new wave of A&R who were responsible for bringing in new bands at that time, but that was part of who he was. He was a big personality who wanted to speak with the top dog of whoever he was dealing with. We sort of liked that he had that confidence. We certainly didn’t.
The rose tint started to disperse, and we could see that he was often trying to ‘manage’ us and the situations around us – even if he was genuinely doing it for our benefit. If we had bad feedback, I think he softened it. Or if an opportunity fell through it would be told to us in a way that didn’t feel like the complete story. He did this, I believe, because he wanted us to focus on the music and not get our spirits broken by negative feedback. He did this with the best of intentions, and I don’t think these are inherently bad reasons, but… we were a band that had done everything ourselves, we were used to people knocking us back and we always operated in complete transparency with each other. We would’ve appreciated a more direct account of what was going on.
We couldn’t see it immediately, but we eventually realised that us being in the driving seat is what had built momentum and friendships, and we’d given a significant part of that up. So, after what was around 4 years of working with this manager, we decided that we wanted to part ways – and that’s when it got a little cliché. We were suddenly told that we didn’t own our own record and that we were all liable to pay back the £50k, and in this conversation he was sat at the other side of the table rather than on our side as our manager.
Bear in mind we hadn’t taken any of that money as personal pay – we were all still working jobs – and as far as we were concerned the money had gone on the record. We didn’t have any issue with it being recouped against the record, but another very old school thing had happened as well. Every time we were taken out for a meal by our manager, it was charged back to us. When the round was on us it was out of our own pocket, but whenever he said “don’t worry, I’ve got this one…” it was still us?! All of the drinks and meals we had since we got together with this manager was coming out of that £50k as well.
It was hard not to take it as something underhanded. But with distance and time I can see that this was all very normal and usual behaviour from anyone who operated in the record industry at the time that he did. He was old school, and this is what happened then. But for us, this is what we would read in music biographies and hear in news articles! One thing was clear though, that in this very important way, we came from very different worlds. We spent a couple more years dealing with things through lawyers. It wasn’t always nice, but it never got ugly. The saddest part was that it felt like; if Ex Libras was a car, then a tyre had been punctured, and now it was limping to a slow stop, and then it was just abandoned.
By the end of it, life outside the band had moved on in significant ways. The guys got houses and started families. I played briefly with another band ‘Caralis’, but my heart was quite broken. There are things that happened that I’d share over a pint, but it wouldn’t do anyone any good to share them via this interview. I learned a lot from that experience, and learned what I can tolerate, and what I look for, when it comes to working with people in any capacity.
For the longest time I didn’t want anything to do with music or the music industry, at least not that part of the industry. I just wanted to go back to writing – for me – and keeping it low-key. Around that time, I began taking my sound art practice seriously and worked on alternative projects a bit more. I look back with fondness and with hope. Ex Libras is very special for me – it gave me a way to reach and touch some deep and raw energy, and being in a band with the guys, Ross and Kieran, was one of the best times I’ve had in music. We invented a 3-way handshake don’t you know.
Qu: The music industry is a very demanding environment. Can you offer any advice to up-and-coming artists?
The first thing I learned was understanding that creativity – whatever the form – is fundamentally an expression, and without creative acts, there would be no industry to speak of. That’s the way the river runs. Everything, industry included, comes from creative expressions.
The second thing I eventually learned is that the “industry” isn’t a single place. It’s many places. Some will suit you better than others. So it’s worth asking: what kind of creative are you, and where do you want to be? Do you want to be in an orchestra or a covers band? Write songs or perform them? Play live or do session work? Do you want recognition, stability, both? If you know what you actually want, you can move much more efficiently – because you’re no longer knocking on every door at random. You’re knocking on specific doors. And that makes a big difference.
The third thing: Don’t stress over trying to define or curate what you do. Early on, I limited myself quite a bit by thinking I needed to explain or justify my varied interests; like I owed people an explanation. It was like dressing up to get into a club and being uncomfortable in clothes that weren’t really me, never stopping to ask if this was a place I actually wanted to be in?
Now I realise that it is much more important for me to explore the complete width of my curiosity, because nothing makes me happier than making the things that I want to make. Following my curiosity has led to varied projects: experimental electronica (under Aux Volta – hopefully released later this year), conceptual sound-art bordering on documentary (under my own name), and Thleep.Earth, exploring what structural aspects of sound can help induce states of rest.
My reason for doing, my entire reason for being(!), is to be driven by my own sense of creativity, not to try and twist what I do to fit others definitions or expectations. Once I stopped trying to fit into one shape, I realised I didn’t need permission to do the work I care about – and to hell with anyone telling me otherwise. That’s really it; to know who you are, why you do what you do, and to not fence yourself in with definitions.
Having worked in music and sound art for a while now, another fundamental component is to do with resilience. When I started out, this wasn’t discussed much. These days it’s a more common part of the conversation – and I have my own theories as to why that’s shifted – but I think at the heart of it is a growing openness in the arts, more conversations around wellbeing, more empathy.
But back then, struggling in the industry felt lonely. Having bandmates, partners in rhythm-and-rhyme, helped, but outside that, it felt like it was hard to talk about difficulties without fearing some degree of professional consequences.
Creativity can be vulnerable, you’re putting a part of yourself out there. Critique, whether direct (reviews, comments) or indirect (low engagement, indifference), can feel personal. A rejection of your work can feel like a rejection of you. Every criticism lands like a spotlight on some insecurity you were already carrying. That’s why resilience matters. You need to hold your ground, stay soft without falling apart.
Today’s environment adds new pressure: the curated highs of social media, people ‘performing’ their positivity or pain, it pushes things into extremes: it’s a lot of “look at me” or “poor me”, and that can warp the sense of self – either inflating ego or eroding confidence. The only things I know that help protect against that are three-fold. The first two I’ve already touched on;
(a) Knowing yourself. In a stoic sense. Know what you can and can’t control. (b) Actively building your resilience. Learn to recover from losses, criticism, disappointment – whatever form it comes in.
The third one is more specific to help ground yourself in reality more securely;
(c) Understanding how the people around you give feedback. Choose who you go to, and for what. Family, friends, strangers – they all reflect different things back at you.
In my early band days I was making heavier stuff – music my parents found quite challenging to relate to. They were used to people singing, not screaming. So, their feedback, understandably, wasn’t always the most affirming. And it hurt. So I just stopped going to them for feedback because in my mind ‘they didn’t get it’ and so, why would I choose to hear things that would make me feel bad?
But that wasn’t the right approach. Over time I realised feedback is better seen as a barometer for that person’s taste. I’d dismissed it too easily. Now, even if it’s not their genre, I pay attention to what anyone thinks, because it tells me how my music is landing for them, in the context of the music they know and love. That’s useful. It gives me more information. Helps me understand where my work sits in the broader picture. It helps me have a more rounded view of myself.
One last thing that still needs saying: the creative industry still treats artists as the last to be paid. There’s no standard path, no guaranteed return, and that lack of clarity creates situations where people can present opportunities that look good but aren’t.
We really have to keep talking about that. Everyone profits before the artist. I don’t have a neat solution, but I think it’s essential that each of us finds a way to make what we do sustainable. That might mean a second job. It might mean funding, or financial help from someone close to you. But you have to ask: what’s going to keep me going?
It’s silly when you think about it – the industry depends on creatives making work, but it doesn’t offer a fair deal in return. Public funding is framed as this generous act, but really it’s compensating for the fact that the industry isn’t structured in the artists favour. And whilst public funding is vital, it’s shrinking, and the number of artists keeps growing. No matter how you look at it, it’s not a sustainable system.
But yet, it persists. What keeps the boat afloat, as I see it, is community supporting new music and the arts. So the last bit of advice to artists is to be of benefit to your community. Support other artists and, in whatever way you can, give back by taking part in community events. Use your art or expression to be of service and uplift those around you.
If I could leave up-and-coming artists with one thought, it’d be this: Now more than ever, we need even more voices that challenge and disrupt. The world doesn’t need more safe, familiar, paint-by-numbers work. What we need is originality – artists making exactly what they want to make, without compromise. So don’t compromise when it comes to your art! And the best way to protect yourself is by becoming self-sustainable – if you can’t be bought, you can do whatever you want, and that’s how it should be; you making exactly what you want to make, without compromise.
Qu: You’ve started to release your own solo work. Can you tell us a little about the project and how it differs from your previous work?
This project is very much about looping. Back in 2004/2005, I bought the Boss RC-20XL and it opened up a new live musical language for me, but I was never keen on using it the way I’d often see it get used: recording four chords or a beat to sing over. That felt limiting and not especially interesting. Instead, I wanted to build non-rhythmic layers and textures I could punch in and out of, something that could shape crescendos and create more dynamic, harmonic backgrounds.
A lot of this early experimentation was asking myself things like: How can I make loops that don’t lock into a fixed song structure? Or how can looping serve dynamic movement rather than just repetition? That thinking eventually led me to explore polymetric ideas – melodies and rhythms repeating at different lengths to create a more woven, evolving sonic texture and aesthetic.
It’s not that I think four-chord songs or four-bar beats are bad. A lot of loop pedal users are strong singer-songwriters or instrumentalists, laying down traditional song structures (ABABCB) to support their voice or playing. That just wasn’t within my ability. To this day I don’t think much of my own voice relative to the singers out there, nor am I an especially skilful guitar player.
My interest had always been in instrumental music. So from the start, I wasn’t trying to write songs, I was trying to build sound. And that’s the foundation of this project. It’s an archive of my journey with the loop pedal. The entire album Bnju is built from those loops, and those loops were created live by striking and playing my guitar through reverbs and delays to create my own sonic aesthetics.
Over time, through playing in bands, I got more confident in singing and writing and these private loop-based experiments gradually shaped into something closer to songs if only loosely; some pieces started to have passages that sort of resembled verses and choruses.
Coming from a sound art background, I’ve always tried to embed quiet conceptual gestures in the work. One example is a track called The Rev That My Hard-Drive Skipped, where all the layers drift apart over time, like loops falling out of sync – as if a hard drive is skipping.
This is also my first full scale production. I engineered, recorded, mixed, and produced everything. Even the samples on the record are homemade, taken from my archive of voice notes and sound art recording and documentary work. So, this might be the densest, most autobiographical project I’ve put out. Even though to me, it all still feels like a series of private experiments with a loop-pedal, for no-one but me, it’s a pretty wide insight into my musical world.
Qu: The first single was the brilliant ‘Spells & Charms & Broken Homes’ and you’ve followed up with latest cut, ‘Pieces’. Can you tell us a little about the tracks?
That’s very flattering. I appreciate you saying so!
‘Spells and Charms and Broken Homes’ is inspired by my parents’ arranged marriage and eventual separation when I was around 15. At that time there weren’t visible arguments, so looking back, I realise how much they shielded me and my brother from their stresses and pain. Their marriage had been arranged when my mum was 19 and my dad 21. They only met once, for about 30 minutes – didn’t even look at each other – before it was decided they would marry. A courthouse wedding, a couple of cooking pots and £50 as wedding gifts, and they were told to start a life.
My mum and dad are both kind, sociable people who might’ve been great friends had things been different. But as husband and wife, they were incompatible, and though they were never unkind to each other, I can only imagine how stifling it must have been. I remember the day my dad left the house; I noticed there were 3 toothbrushes on the bathroom sink instead of 4 – in that image I knew life had changed and felt a sadness in the pit of me. I also quietly felt this odd sense of relief because I knew they’d be better, happier, people apart than together. Technically, they’ve never divorced. That kind of official break still feels impossible for them under the weight of tradition. Or maybe now it’s the headache of the admin.
The fallout affected them in unexpected ways. My mum was shunned by her family for “bringing shame,” and we went a few years without really seeing family we’d grown up with. It taught me how powerful and harmful appearances can be in families that prize image above empathy. That’s what the song is about; the unseen internal breakdown of a marriage, whilst others around are still ‘dancing’ as if everything is ok.
The second single, ‘Pieces’, is inspired by the events of my grandmothers decline through dementia. It was a long decline with signs as early as 15 years prior to her passing. The whole family dealt with it in very different ways, and whilst I’m working on another project to do with specifically this – how tradition and hierarchy can complicate care, even within the home – this song is written from the imagined perspective of someone losing their memory and slipping away against their will.
The lyrics in the song are, in part, taken from specific moments my mum and I had with her – one time she suddenly became scared of a strange older lady in the room who kept looking at her. She was frightened and asked my mum who that lady was. It was my grandmothers own reflection in the mirror, but she didn’t recognise herself because in her mind, at that moment, she imaged herself as much younger.
People who have experienced a loved one declining cognitively in this way will know that pain of seeing someone you love not recognise you any more. One thing that we all held on to as a family was that she still had an amazing ability to cheer up and glow whenever young people, especially children, were in the room. The voice recording at the end of the song that talks about this is taken from an interview I did with my mum about her mothers dementia.
The lyrics for both of these songs were some of the last to be written for the album. I had holding lyrics – a rough idea of melody and some phrases that I liked for both songs early on – but the songs felt quite aimless and abstract. This didn’t really bother me so much because these songs were pretty much only performed for me. When I moved towards having this as a formal output, I knew I wanted to try find something meaningful to write about, for each song to have some sort of focus, but I didn’t know how to go about it – or perhaps I was scared about trying something personal. Either way, it ended up being a very big shift for me to decide to use biographical events as the context to build the lyrics around, and I’m glad I did because now the songs have a certain weight and meaning to me and I’ve learned a lot more about my songwriting style as a result.
These were really risky and unconventional choices for singles, but I’m glad they’ve led the introduction to me and this solo work. I have Paul, from A Badge of Friendship, to thank for suggesting these big curveballs as singles. We joked that no matter what response we got, these would be fun choices where we’d learn something – hopefully avoiding them being ‘valuable lessons’!
Qu: The through line of both singles is family. Has your family life had a big influence on your creative output?
Would you believe that this happened quite unexpectedly? I tend to keep my creative life apart from my social life. The distance isn’t entirely intentional, it’s just that as a person, I’m highly curious, so when I meet up with friends and family I naturally ask more questions of others; I like to know what my friends and family are doing, how they’ve been, what they’re thinking about. It means that I don’t often give myself a chance to share what’s happening in my own life.
Am I doing it on purpose to avoid talking about myself? Maybe a little. I’ve been pursuing music and creativity for a long time now, and sometimes I’d go through stretches of time where nothing progressed and there wasn’t much I could talk about, especially when my friends and family were all moving quite nicely through life; getting promotions, going on holidays, getting married, having children, buying cars and houses. At times it felt like I couldn’t contribute to the conversation, and other times it was just easier to talk about anything other than me.
My brother has had the most insight into my musical world. I’d say he’s probably more naturally musical – he’s got this great RnB singing voice, great rhythm, an eclectic taste in music, he looks so natural when he dances; even when being silly, and being my younger brother he’s grown up listening to my music and my tastes too. We go to gigs together, listen to music together, often give each other recommendations we think the other might like. He’s even contributed to small bits of lyrics for some of the Ex Libras stuff. If he suggests something, I’d listen with open ears.
Aside from him, no-one within my family really knew my world. But they’ve all been well meaning and have wanted to help. The older generation of my family; I’ve lost count of the number of times someone has suggested I go on x-factor, Britains Got Talent, or do covers on YouTube. When I was younger, comments like that would make me retreat further away. With the benefit of time and distance I’ve learned to see it for what it really was; care.
In this way I think my family has been an influence. Largely an indirect influence, but that’s been so important. That they support me, that they come to gigs, that they listen to my music – these things really matter. I’ll get the occasional message saying how much they enjoyed listening to what I’ve put out, or that they’re proud of me. If exchanging that type of support would mean I’d get career advancement…. I wouldn’t take it. They believe in me and even though they’d love to see me be much more popular and successful, they’ve always got my back.
That security means that I can create from a place that is much more stable, and that means a great deal to me.
Qu: We notice a lot of stylistic crossovers from electronica to post-rock. How have you been influenced by specific bands or genre, or is it a more organic thing when writing new music?
I’m glad it’s noticeable, and I hope it’s enjoyable too! I’ve definitely wondered whether moving across styles might make the album feel less cohesive – but something Jacob Collier said (paraphrasing), he said “your voice is your most unique instrument”, it resonated with me and made me think about how my vocal could be a thread that unifies the music. It gave me the push I needed to stop hiding my voice. I started leaning into it even though I don’t feel like I’m a strong singer. Side note: recording my vocals was agony the whole way through.
In terms of influences, post- and prog-rock leaves the biggest marks – less because of genre, more because of intensity. I’ve seen heavy bands like Slipknot, Deftones, and RATM live, but seeing post-rock bands like Explosions in the Sky or 65daysofstatic hit entirely differently. There was a kind of transcendence in that dynamic power – and this was instrumental. Same with local seminal band Meet Me in St Louis, and also Oceansize – these were bands that didn’t conform, and they carved out expansive, unpredictable sound worlds. Sledgehammers of sound and energy that didn’t fit any specific mould.
At the same time, I’ve also been pulled toward minimalism and intimacy. I obsessed over Erik Satie’s idea of furniture music, and the surgical precision of Murcof’s electronics – they offered this cerebral introspection and had a quiet, but equally expansive depth that existed between the notes. I see these extremes – post-rock width and minimalist stillness and repetition – as the two poles I try to navigate between. When it comes to making music, no matter the genre, my primary focus is time and dynamics. These matter far more to me than virtuosity.
Important note that David Huron’s book ‘Sweet Anticipation’ simultaneously pulled together so many different stands of these ideas, and blew everything apart. If you want to take a peek into ‘why’ we as humans like music, or why music makes us feel certain things, this book is opening that door. Whilst not a direct influence, perhaps the single most important influence on how I think about making and arranging music.
The production side of the record also gave room for influences to come through. Initially, these songs were live improvisations – me with a guitar, a microphone, a reverb pedal, a delay pedal, and a loop pedal. And I wanted the recordings to reflect the live experience exactly, but I quickly realised that listening to a live-looping performance is not as interesting as seeing it. That visual component, of seeing someone build, is so very important and it immediately felt too repetitive on record without it. So, over time I let the studio bring out new dimensions while trying to stay as true to the initial impulses of the songs. A track like “Pieces” needed to keep that runaway-train rhythm, because that’s how it came about in the live setting, but now I could also find room to add little electronic flourishes that were nods to other sound worlds and ideas that I enjoyed.
The ending of ‘Spells and Charms…’ was something I’d not figured out. When playing it at home to myself I’d just loop some chords endlessly, letting them blur through delays until it collapsed into noise. Even on my computer, the pre-production version literally had a note saying “ending…?”. The ending came about because of visions I began having of a music video that traced the arc of an arranged marriage: A full on Indian wedding, everyone dancing and celebrating, while the couple remained distant – eyes down, never quite connecting.
In the final imagined sequence of the video, I imagined the camera circling the room, cutting between vibrant wedding dancing and a montage of the couple – first silent, then arguing, then turned away from each other – each full rotation of the camera moves between a scene of the couple’s marriage breaking down and a scene of the celebration and dancing ongoing – just back and forth between these. That vision helped inspire the ending musically. It came to me like a fever-dream, this almost Bonobo-esque rhythmic sampling, this polymetric synth line, sounds breaking down and distorting… and once it all came together it felt like that idea of ‘dancing’, whilst all else is collapsing, really hit home.
The territory of the studio environment is also new for this work. For these songs I’m used to noodling and improvising and then refining in the live context only – maybe recording a full take on my phone every now and then. So when I decided to properly record these songs I consciously took influence from the people who also mixed and produced and engineered records; people like Chris Sheldon, Jacob Collier (again), Nigel Godrich, Simon Green (Bonobo), J. Swinscoe (Cinematic Orchestra), Ben Frost, as well as an untold number of independent musicians that make their own work. I really got into the weeds, listening and trying to reverse-imagineer / figure out how they made things sound the way they did. Ultimately I wanted it to learn how to express how it all sounded in my head, and I knew I wouldn’t get that if I handed it over to someone else to mix, at least not for this first record, not for these songs that mean so very much to me.
How all these influences have come together has also been somewhat of a series of surprises for me. Through it all I’m most proud of how the record holds onto that looped, saturated feel; the slightly crushed edges from the old Boss RC-20XL. And I’m glad I got over my own insecurities and anxieties about my voice because it was true that for me that it became the instrument that bound the record together.
Qu: The singles are taken from forthcoming album Bnju which was in the making for almost 20 years, why was that?
Historically I’ve preferred being a collaborator and working with other people. My favourite type of creative act is when I’m responding or reacting to external stimuli; to other music, film, theatre, dance, or even a concept from someone else. I know I prefer this because it surprises me more and pushes me to make things in ways I wouldn’t otherwise make.
In contrast, my solo work often feels like experiments or research. I sit by myself and try to make less predictable creative choices. And… I fail. Because I can’t escape it feeling like an obvious choice, so it isn’t always as exciting as working with others. Because of that, I’ve not had much experience of writing and completing my own songs. Sounds weird but it’s true. Most of my solo output exists on hard drives – true story.
This project has been somewhat daunting. Without others around me I feel incredibly naked. In a sense, this project is me coming to terms with what I am able to make and what I’m capable of sounding like. That’s part of why it has taken a long time. I’ve had to deal with a lot of internal conflicts and anxieties to even record these songs.
In some ways that is true of a lot of my own work, but for this record specifically, there are two other major components that led to it taking this long, 1) that I never intended for these songs to exist as a public output, and 2) I kept allowing life to get in the way.
And the 20-year timeline goes a little like this:
My time was taken up with bands, and when I would come home after a rehearsal or after a gig, my gear would be packed up. There was only a cheap nylon strong guitar (probably from Argos) that was around the house. That’s what these songs were all written on, and it was never seen as a serious song writing to me.
I got the loop pedal towards the end of the first band I was in – an alt-rock trio called ‘Stasi’. I started using it to add layers of sound into the band – making us sound bigger than just a three-piece. Because we all ended up at different universities I had time to mess around with the loop pedal in a solo context (around 2004/2005). Stasi sadly came to an end and I played one show where the bones of at least two of the songs on Bnju first got some air. Not too long after after that ‘Ex Libras’ started up and we spent the first 6-months building a rehearsal studio, so I would just kept playing around with stuff at home, for no-one other than me.
Ex Libras soon took up the full picture and the solo material was pushed to the bottom of the bag. Still writing motifs and things at home but nothing serious.
In 2010 Ex Libras followed up our debut album with an EP called ‘Cuts’, an acoustic and looping record – very much to do with me bringing my live looping approach to the other guys and us figuring out how to rework our own material in this method. The guys really embraced that as part of our sound. I was still coming up with ideas at home on that Argos acoustic, but that’s all they ever were ‘ideas’.
And then, Ex Libras comes to a halt – I’m heartbroken and jaded, and very much want nothing to do with music so I throw myself into doing a post-grad in Psychology and focus on an art practice. It’s now 2014/2015 and my pedals are gathering dust. I still keep on writing on this guitar because it was just something to have in my hands at home. Despite my own low opinion of my playing and singing, the activity had become as necessary for me as breathing. I start to record things at home, but barely finish anything. After the rejections and experiences I’d already been through I certainly didn’t want to entertain any hopes that people would want to listen to my music.
3-4 years go by with not much activity at all.
In 2018, a charity gig gets organised by a family friend, Iain Fenwick. His gig, ‘Roosterville’, was raising money for Macmillan Cancer Research. Iain asked if Ex Libras would be interested in playing. For whatever reason, the guys couldn’t do it. Iain asked if I’d be up for playing solo, I said yes, but, internally had no idea what I’d do. I spent some time pulling together scraps of music I’d been working on. At the time my uncle was diagnosed with brain cancer and then he passed, and I wrote something new. A song that would eventually become ‘To The Bitter End’ (which is on the record Bnju).
So, I turn up to play. The gig is in a pub in St. Margarets called the Ailsa Tavern. I’m on early, play through my set, pack down and think not much of it. The response that I got from the gig took me by surprise. People who didn’t know me told me I’d done a good job, asked if I was playing anywhere else, but I told them no, that I was only playing because Iain asked me to and it wasn’t likely that I’d play again any time soon.
In my heart I was completely ok with that, but Iain was not. He cornered me after the gig and told me that he was putting me on next year and if I didn’t play it’d damage his integrity (or words to that effect). He also told me that I had to record these songs. He was so effusive that it put a crack in this hard shell that had formed inside. Let’s call this moment 1.
It is important to stress how much internal conflict I had about doing this solo music seriously. I had reached a point in my life where I was finding out who I was without music. I almost gave up on music altogether. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but knew I didn’t want to chase it in the way I had been doing so up until that point.
One day I was having a conversation with my mum about general life stuff. We got into an argument, as is sometimes the case when trying to defend the pursuit of a creative life, but this time was different. She said she didn’t mind the arguments because when I defended myself, she could see how passionate I was about music, but this time it seemed like the fire had gone out inside me. That was another deep knock against the hard shell inside. Let’s call this moment 2.
That winter I felt incredibly deflated. Nothing felt right. I wasn’t really into recording the solo stuff and I felt like I had lost at life. I now had my wife in the picture and the weight of everything I hadn’t achieved really started to feel suffocating. I was operating fine outwardly but I was truly broken. I reached a point where, without a trigger, I would just cry myself to sleep. It took a little while for me to pluck up the courage to talk to my wife about it, and she put aside all other responsibilities and took care of me and helped lift me out. This is moment 3.
These three moments, these three people, are why the record exists at all.
Around 2019-ish, I decided to give it another go, but on my own terms. No fixed agenda other than to make the most interesting versions of the songs as I could. I still didn’t talk about it with people. Nobody was asking for this was, so it remained a private project and low priority. I did play a couple more gigs with Iain’s help and it gave me a space to figure out the songs and finish lyrics. Plus, the live show was getting better, and this really helped me confidently record parts here and there.
Then covid happened. I had time to work on little parts of the record and with everything set up, and time on my hands, I ended up working on the live show a bit more. Sadly, during covid my wife’s grandmother passed away in Taiwan and we couldn’t get over there. As soon as lockdowns ceased and flight travel resumed, we went to Taiwan, and a decision was made to relocate there.
It was a big move, and it was happening just as things were starting to pick up musically for me with the solo gigs and support. One gig in particular, I was approached by the music publisher Jack Russell Music after the gig, and other people there wanted to help me put out this elusive record, even offering to finance a vinyl run, should I ever get around to finishing it. People were interested, just as I was leaving.
Life is funny that way.
In mid-2023 we moved to Taiwan, and I knew I had to finish the record. In September I set up some speakers in a spare room at my in-law’s house and I spent the entire month finishing the record. After it was done, I sent it out to trusted ears to get feedback. Some of these supporters were going to pass it around to friends they knew within the industry and told me to sit back and wait and see what would come of it. But again, no takers.
By the end of that year I started to have familiar anxieties and insecurities. If these people didn’t like it enough, then why would anyone else? I couldn’t see a way forward. Then, in mid-2024 I decided, to hell with it. No-one wants to put it out, so I’ll put it out myself.
And I reached out to people – it needed mastering, so I reached out to Crown Lane Studios for mastering, because Bill Sherrington there does incredibly sensitive mastering. It needed artwork, so I reached out to Kieran Cook, a young artist who had recently graduated from Norwich University and he did the artwork for the record. And it needed someone to help the songs reach people, so I got back in touch with Paul from A Badge Of Friendship to see if he’d be up for doing PR for the record.
And that’s why it took 20-years.
Things aren’t ideal, I’m half a world away in Taiwan unable to push the record with live shows in London. But here we are, two singles in, and it all feels fun! I feel a lot lighter too.
This record has come about through twenty years of life and pressure. It’s made its way out under such complicated circumstances and with very little serious attention given to it. I have no expectations for this record. If even two people that I don’t know hear it, and like it, I’ll be pleased.
Qu: Bnju will be out later in the year, what can music lovers expect from the record?
Arguably the hardest question for me to answer, but I’ll have a go.
Music lovers can expect to hear a record made by someone who loves sounds – I’ve spent time sprinkling lots of playful sonic oddities that I hope will reveal themselves after multiple listens. I guess I have tried to make a record that has that quality; that each time you listen, it reveals something new.
Music lovers can also expect a fairly cinematic experience, as the songs do journey – it’s the type of album you’d listen to with headphones whilst leaning up against the window of a moving train or sitting in the backseat of a car whilst driving along the motorway, watching scenery change. It’s also good for listening to whilst going for a walk in a park. It’s a record that I hope music lovers will want to spend time wandering with, to make a part of their lives.
It’s almost easier to say what not to expect… I think it’d be really challenging to find a nice 10- to 30-second snippet that works well for social media. You’d also be hard-pressed to come up with a viral dance to any moment on the record.
If the record were a relationship, it’d be a serious relationship rather than a fling. But if it was a fling maybe it’d be one you’d think about for a long while, even if you’d forgotten the name.
Hopefully it’s also one of those records that if you meet someone else who’s heard it and likes it, you know you’d have something important, and indescribable, in common with that person.
If this record were a house party, it’d be a house party with close friends – maybe a barbecue going on outside, relaxed, reminiscing, inside jokes, defences dropped.
And if this record was a person, it’d be a friend. The type of friend who’s there when you need them, who would listen to you, no judgement. Just that shoulder to lean on, maybe tell you a bad joke to make you smile.
And I say that because I’ve neglected this record often, I’ve put it down / belittled it often. I’ve treated it worse than I’ve treated anything else I’ve done. I’ve given up on it, I’ve told myself it’s no good, that no-one will listen, that no-one will care. I’ve done whatever I could do to excuse myself from finishing this record.
It took me a long time to see it for what it is and now, no matter what, I think it’s great and I’m thankful, despite how I’ve treated it, that it never left me.
‘Pieces is out now, album ‘Bnju’ is released later this year.