Architectural Frequencies for Concrete Music / Neuf Voix

An interview with the composer

Polished, yet bearing the dust of time, it occupies space with an imposing sculptural stillness. Composed of many elements, each object carries the power to produce a sound with a soul of its own, one that cuts through everything it touches, be it walls, air, or flesh. Elvio Seta’s work exists in a continuous state of tension: between the modular logic of 1970s synthesizers and a contemporary impulse to craft sound that defies categorization.

His compositions stretch into space, connecting the intangible domain of music with our material dimension through concrete reverberations and the Acousmonium, what he describes as the physical extension of his musical consciousness. Ranging from the alternative notation that defined Secessioni (2023) to his recent shift toward vocal exploration, this interview reflects on his evolving practice and the forthcoming release of his second album, Music for Dimensions (2025).

When did you first begin to understand sound not just as music, but as spatial architecture?

Ever since I first got into electronic music, I started to think of sound not just in musical terms, but in relation to the architecture of the spaces where I performed. Unlike acoustic music, when you’re working with electronic flow, you have the possibility to control the entire sonic impact of your pieces: frequencies, movement, timbre, and more. I believe that, to some extent, anyone who considers themselves an electronic music composer should develop a sensitivity to the architectural aspects of the locations where their music is experienced.

What are you searching for when you cast a sound into three-dimensional space? Having your work such a materic quality, how do you visualize sound during the act of creation?

When I cast a sound into three-dimensional space, I am searching for a physical presence, something that can be felt, not just heard. I am interested in how sound behaves within an environment, how it wraps around bodies, fills voids, or brushes against surfaces. For me, it is almost a form of sculpture. During the creative process, I imagine how a sound might resonate in a specific type of space: how a low frequency might press against the walls, or how a high-pitched tone might cut through the air and remain suspended. It is a dialogue between the abstract and the tangible, between invisible energy and real-world matter.

Your work exists between multiple avant-garde traditions from spectralism to concrete music. How did you manage to tame these radically different vocabularies?

I believe it would have been impossible to do otherwise. The genres you mentioned, spectralism and concrete music, have been my passion for many years and I grew up listening to them. It felt natural to me, in my approach to composition, to try to make everything that attracted me about avant-garde music and compositional experimentation coexist. I see my work as a dialogue between these different vocabularies which represent unique ways of exploring sound and form. It is a way to pay homage to the rich history of experimental music while also pushing my own compositional boundaries. Unfortunately, this current is almost completely gone today and for this reason I feel that keeping these traditions alive in my work has become even more important.

Working with the Acousmonium, how did you decide it needed to become not just a system, but a visual and sonic artwork in itself? In which way does it contribute to project the spatiality of your work? 

My intention is to make my performances more and more a unique 360-degree experience. So, for me, it is important not only to work with sound but also with the visual side. That is why I wanted to create an Acousmonium that is entirely unique and designed purely in my own visual style. I believe this makes the performance more personal and distinctive, something I wish I saw more of in other composers, who too often stick to the same formulas and copy each other, unfortunately. Also, since I have always been passionate about design and architecture, this project has become a way for me to channel that side of myself. I am really enjoying it, and it makes me feel complete.

It’s a machine that you’ve built yourself. Could you highlight some key moments of such a process? 

As I mentioned earlier, I’ve always been passionate about architecture and design. I had already experimented with building unique objects, like my modular synthesizer, which I designed and built entirely myself and used in many of my earlier performances. So the process of designing the aesthetic of the loudspeakers came very naturally. I drew inspiration from architectural forms that fascinate me deeply, especially the organ, which I find to be a very sensual and powerful instrument, both visually and sonically. One key moment in the process was realizing that I wasn’t just building a sound system, but a physical extension of my musical thinking. Every decision about form, material, and layout was driven not only by acoustic needs, but also by the desire to make the identity of sound visible. It’s a process that engages the mind, the hands, and the eyes, and for me, it holds an almost ritualistic value.

Each speaker in the Acousmonium is handcrafted and assigned to specific frequencies. Do you consider these components as independent agents, owning their own soul?

Absolutely yes. An Acousmonium is fascinating to listen to precisely because it brings together the soul and the timbre of different loudspeakers, each with its own particular character. Every speaker has a unique tonal response and creates a different impact on the audience. That individuality is not just technical, it is expressive. To enhance that diversity, I also use amplifiers from different brands and various types and makes of drivers for each speaker. This allows me to achieve the most varied sonic response possible, which is essential to creating a truly immersive and dynamic sound experience. I like to think of each speaker as a voice within a larger ensemble, not just reproducing sound but shaping it, coloring it, giving it direction. In that sense, they do have their own soul, and part of the art lies in knowing how to let them speak, sometimes alone, sometimes in chorus, sometimes in contrast. That is what gives the spatial dimension of the performance its richness and unpredictability.

What do machines like the Synclavier 3200, Buchla 200 and EMS AKS offer you that newer interfaces don’t? What fascinates you most about analogue synthesis?

The main difference between these vintage machines and the ones produced today lies in the quality of their sound response. It all depends on the components they were built with: back in the ’70s and ’80s, the parts generating the sound were of a significantly higher quality compared to modern ones, which mostly use mass-produced chips, often made in China or elsewhere. With these vintage machines, you get a truly unique and satisfying sound that is hard to replicate with today’s digital instruments or synthesizers. Moreover, I believe the approach to sound manipulation with which these devices were designed by old-school technicians was much more interesting, authentic, and enjoyable than what we see today. For me, this makes the whole experience much more alive and inspiring.

Alternative notation appears often in your work. Do you see it as a language of liberation?

Only partially. In fact, alternative notation, as developed by the great experimental composers of the twentieth century, is full of rules to follow and does not necessarily make the work freer. The sonic palette available is certainly broader than the traditional tonal system based on seven notes, but it all depends on the type of composition you want to create. For example, if you choose to compose a twelve-tone piece, creativity can actually be more limited than in traditional composition. In short, freedom and experimentation vary depending on the approach and compositional goals. What I personally find most stimulating when using alternative notation is not so much the notation itself, but the sonic timbre it can generate, especially when mixing different compositional techniques.

Your performances unfold in imposing architectural contexts. How do these spaces affect your compositional thinking? How much agency is given to them? Do you compose with their ghosts in mind?

The architectural spaces where my performances take place play a fundamental role in my compositional process. Each venue has its own unique atmosphere, acoustics, history, and a presence that deeply influences how I imagine and shape the sound. I give these spaces a great deal of agency because I believe their voice helps shape the overall sonic experience. It is not just about adapting to the acoustics but about engaging in a dialogue with the architecture itself, allowing the materials, shapes, and dimensions of the space to interact with the music.

If one could walk through your music as if through architecture, what kind of structure would it be? Do you have any specific space in mind?

Absolutely yes. My music mirrors the Brion Memorial. Its brutalist architecture, with its raw concrete forms, creates a striking framework where geometric shapes intertwine with varied patterns of repetition and contrasting elements. Even though everything is so diverse, it all remains perfectly within the brutalist style. This fusion of diversity and cohesion captures the essence of my sound. That space stands as one of the most vivid visual metaphors for the way I compose.

Apart from the architecture, when you sculpt a sound, do you think about how it’ll land on bodies—where it’ll bruise, how it’ll vibrate? Are you trying to create immersion or disorientation? Or maybe immersion through disorientation?

I definitely strive to create a deep sense of immersion. Disorientation may arise for some listeners, but it comes naturally from the very nature of the music itself, which stands apart from the more familiar ambient genre often associated with spatialization. My work aligns more closely with the unsettling approach of composers like Stockhausen, whose music challenges perceptions and defies easy categorization. It is this tension between immersion and unease that gives my sound its unpredictable character. However, when it comes to the relationship with architecture, I always seek immersion and a complete sensory connection with the space.

The album Secessioni carries an air of detachment and revolt against the past. What were you trying to break away from?

In that album, the sense of detachment is primarily aimed at

today’s approach to experimental music. Much of what is labeled as “experimental” now feels superficial to me—often just minimal gestures or repeated chords presented as innovation. The ease of access to digital tools has led many to adopt this label without a deep connection to the compositional craft, which creates a lot of confusion around what true experimentation means. With Secessioni, I wanted to take a different direction and return to a more serious exploration of composition, particularly through notation, which today is often neglected. But the detachment I was interested in also concerned the past. I wanted to free these compositional techniques from the rigid categories they were once confined to in the 20th century, where each approach had to belong to a specific genre or school. In Secessioni, those previously compartmentalized techniques coexist within a single composition. Another key experiment was in how I assigned roles to instruments. Contrary to tradition, both past and present, I gave the experimental notation to the acoustic instruments, while the electronic ones supported the harmonic and tonal foundation of the piece. There were many layers of experimentation and deliberate breaks from convention in that work. It took me a year and a half to compose that album, and every decision was made to challenge assumptions, both old and new.

Even your third record, Music for Dimensions, set to be released in September, features soundscapes rich in contrast, seemingly driven by a continuous sense of tension. In your latest opus, how does your concrete music navigate between the opposing poles of past and present?

In this album, the approach was radically different. I focused less on compositional technique and more on experimentation and sound manipulation. I worked extensively with concrete sounds, particularly recordings of objects and voices, treating them as raw material and shaping them using both analog and digital techniques to expand their timbral possibilities. These concrete elements were deliberately placed alongside abstract soundscapes that feel alien and sonically unplaceable, impossible to imagine occurring in nature. The contrast between the two creates a dynamic interplay between reality and imagination, presence and illusion. In Music for Dimensions, I wanted to explore how these opposing sonic worlds could not only coexist but enhance each other, producing a layered and immersive experience. The emphasis here is on texture, space, and perception, less about narrative progression, and more about the physical and emotional sensation of sound itself.

With their silver polished surfaces, the two limited-edition formats of Music for Dimensions reflect the material presence of the acousmonium. While you’ve captured its physicality in such objects, how did you preserve the spatial layering and the concrete textures of your music, in the digital sound of streaming platforms?

For a special version to be released digitally, the album will also be released in binaural format, allowing listeners to experience something much closer to a live spatialization simply by using headphones. Binaural audio simulates 360-degree spatialization, recreating a sense of depth and direction that mirrors the immersive qualities of the live setup. It’s a way to preserve not just the music itself, but its spatial life and physical dimension, even in the context of digital streaming.

Compared to your previous work, this release reveals an even more mystical attitude, particularly through the use of vocalisations, which creates a striking contrast with the abstract timbres and unconventional harmonies. Which is the urgency behind this unexpected direction?

Great question. I have always found experimental compositions using the human voice to be incredibly compelling and evocative. The voice is unique because it reaches the listener more immediately, after all, it is an instrument we all carry within us and experience daily, unlike any other musical instrument. Incorporating the voice into my work was a way to introduce that familiar, emotional element to balance the stark and often challenging nature of my compositions. This contrast, I imagined, would create a more direct and intimate dialogue with the audience, making the listening experience both more immediate and profound. Furthermore, in my opinion, the voice also helps give a sense of form and entity to the sound that moves through space during my live performances. With the voice, listeners imagine more quickly the sound as a finite, living presence.

Architectural Frequencies for Concrete Music / Neuf Voix

Credits
Artist: Elvio Seta (Neuf Voix) / @neuf_voix
Interview: Giulia Piceni / @giuliaapiceni
Editor: Maria Abramenko / @mariabramenko
Junior Editor: Annalisa Fabbrucci / @annalisafabbrucci

You may also like

Soundscapes vol.160 / Schicktanz

Music | Soundscapes
Schicktanz, a leading figure in Berlin's techno scene, invites you to explore a playlist that embodies his deep connection to the genre. Discovering his passion through dance, he has since evolved into a DJ, producer, and the innovative mind behind Raveletics.

System Olympia / In Search of Lost Time

Music | Soundscapes
In conversation with System Olympia before she releases her LP “Racing Heart”. We talked about romanticism, sensuality and the importance of telling a story. Through her music, her radio shows at NTS and her private monthly parties “Love Language, she lets us get into her universe. A universe where mystery and pleasure are always present, and everyone is invited.

Keep her in the closet

Photography | Exclusive
A photographic project where photographer Sarah Brik united with two other queer female artists, to play around with loud, raw, unapologetic femme expression, which is not generally accepted/safe to express in the streets of Tbilisi. Therefore the series finds itself kept in a private yet still conservative space, where she is finally set free to rage.
Soft hostilityThe Wounds of Becoming