Daedelus Wants to Add More Chaos

When you're getting ready for a tour, do you vary the setlist from night to night? How improvisational is it?
That's always been my goal, to be as present as possible. Not in the sense that I'm going to change my worldview, but that I'm going to come to the audience and where their expectations are at. I listen to what the soundsystem is telling me and the way it's communicating back and forth.

But I've also played Low End so many times—it must be my 25th or 30th time there—that I have a lot of my own expectations that I have to overcome. Because it's not like the audience stays the same there. It's constantly changing.

At least four or five different micro-scenes have come and gone in those ten years.
At least. Everything from the initial beat scene guys, then dubstep and trap, to wherever we're at now. A lot of the time is the place where I can be as luxuriant as possible. It may be a total failure, but this is the place where I can really just try stuff.

In terms of sequencing your sets, I know you use the Monome . But are you bringing along any live instruments as well? Or is everything running through the Monome?
In this case, the robots run fairly independently, which I really appreciate because then I can add more chaos. The Monome is very much dependent upon what falls under fingers. If I don't press something it doesn't happen. But with the robots, I kind of wanted something that could almost be another player, that's both listening at times yet also woefully ignorant—blindly continuing their mastication of the drums. All of these words just mean that I want to get more people involved.

I've had a few tours where I've had people on visuals or other band members. Earlier this year I was touring with a band called Kneebody, and it was a tremendous tour. But it made me appreciate both being an independent artist and having that freedom to choose what I want to do, but the brotherhood of sharing a moment with other people is unbelievable. These robots are an excuse to get more people involved, rather than less. I'm not trying to replace anybody.

I do want to talk about your collaboration with Kneebody. How did that record come about?
I actually went to high school with Ben Wendel. We were in each other's first jazz bands. I was playing double bass at the time—I still bust it out from time to time, but it's really fallen by the wayside. This is partially because when I was in high school, Ben and I, and Terrace Martin too—we were in the same class, which is kind of crazy to think about.

Especially because you are all artists who took a decent amount of time to find your specific sound.
It's funny. I agree, everyone's in their space now. But Terrace was working with Snoop Dogg for years. He was definitely more behind the scenes. Ben was really discovering the jazz scene by way of New York. It really took him leaving LA for his work to reverberate. It's the instant versus the longer scope. Everyone's on that longer scope but it takes that instantaneous moment to really notice it.

The collaboration partially came out of that but also, Kneebody was pursuing an avant-post-jazz thing. It wasn't totally composed, but not really based around solos either. I totally sympathized with that, in not trying to feel the restrictions of a genre or form in the ways you want to express yourself. So we've always been kindred spirits like that, but we had to find a good excuse to really come together. We had this record percolating for a minute, but it took so long to get Brainfeeder to pull the trigger and for us to get the timing right. So much of this world is about timing. I'm really grateful it took so long, though, because even though we're not necessarily breathing the same breath as Kamasi or Thundercat, we're still on that same label. It feels like jazz for people who aren't 70. It feels like rarefied air at this point.

It's amazing how the Kamasi record reminded people that jazz can still be an important thing.
Totally. People are also learning how to enjoy jazz. For a long arc of time, kids found it too obtuse, too indulgent, or too smooth—with very many o's . It garnered no in. There was no gateway drug to further enjoyment. There's a funny parallel to the Kamasi movement with people discovering exotica—kind of orchestral music in a popular form. People like Dorothy Ashby. It had to be forgotten and outside of people's mouths for it to be re-discovered.

Does that give you hope for your legacy? That it can be re-defined with time?
I go through up and down days. I feel really good about things and that people are still breathing air into really old records of mine, and the beat scene in general—that people are still feeling generally enthused. And other days, I'm literally shoveling more shit on the tire fire of vinyl records.

For whatever reason, people will engage for a while, and then they'll have kids and their Hulu back-queue is too big to go see live music anymore, and suddenly they're disengaged and lost out to sea. They remember it with a twinkle in their eye, and that's it. Maybe—just maybe—the new Ciara's or the Frank Ocean's of the world will re-engage them for half a minute, but then it's back to the jock jams. It's a really challenging environment to be enthused and in front of people—slumping into releasing a new record. But why ever do that?

One thing that depresses me a bit is how quickly we can get rid of music that a person dedicated two years of his/her life to making.
It may have been two years to make that record, but you spend an entire lifetime building to the specific moment. I think it's beautiful, though. The ephemeral was built into music culture up until pre-recorded periods. You would go to a show and be moved, and then it was over. That was the extent of it. That's back in this sort of weird way. We just have too much. If you actually ever return to a moment or a song or re-download something, that is such a miracle and an amazing reaction.

Your albums feel very purposeful and are highly intellectual in their creation. You once said that you won't make a record unless it aims to answer a specific question. What question are you trying to tackle with Labyrinths ?
I've done some albums highly defined by very specific themes. The Brainfeeder records I did were elegiac, eulogic, war records that are meditations on violence from a historical perspective. These are really far down the rabbit hole. I love that sort of stuff. It's a great way to make music but not necessarily a great way to engage with an audience. I realize that the audience members are pictures in a museum. They may be dripping with paint but they're mostly fixed. I feel very enthused conversing with an audience.

I'm trying to navigate a territory that feels coherent yet not as obtuse as my earlier stuff. I'm also still trying to find reasons to make a collection of music. There was a moment earlier when Labyrinths was just going to be an EP with some singles. Some day I will engage in that form, but I still find the hour long attention span vital. If I don't do it…It's a stupid thing to do. I'm ready to be the stupid one, to be ridiculous.

When you're writing an album, is it on a computer? Do you play live instruments? Does it begin once you hear a record you want to sample? What's the process like?
It changes every single time. One of the other cross-currents that goes along with the themes we were discussing earlier is in finding a musical voice that seems to make an association. I'm working on a lot of disparate material all the time, so finding something that really coalesces is very helpful. A lot of Labyrinths came from demos made on my laptop—each of which is 75 BPM. All of them are using soft synths in the box. I wanted to live in that space of either being on the road or at home, yet still working. Something foreign from hanging out in the studio all day.

From there, I took it into the studio and blew it out on tons of different instruments. Most of it has been blown out of proportions with the collaborators who are dicing up the situation. And from there, I'll re-mulch the song forms on my own.

The crux of the record really revolved around re-imaging dance forms at 75 BPM. You know, what would juke music sound like at 75 BPM? There are some other BPMs on there—142, 115—but it grew out of that.

What about the collaborators?
The collaborators were all people I had my eyes and ears on for quite a while. People that I had played shows with, or people that I wanted to re-invent myself with. People like Busdriver, who I have worked with countless times.

I love him so much.
He's one of the most creatively generous people. And if you read his Twitter, he can be dark. If you know him in person, he can be dark, too. But when you see him on stage, he's a megaton bomb. There's nobody else like him. He's a complete original. I really sympathize with the fact that he can do anything, especially when you see him live. It's like, "Anything in the universe is possible. I have been affirmed." On records, he doesn't always get the playground—I know he's really exploring self-made beats these days, which is really amazing. I'm just still really influenced by him. That goes for everyone on the record, including the instrumentalists. Not only am I sampling them in a one way communication, but I'm directly receiving manna.

And then directly transforming your music from that?
Yeah. 100 percent.

Teebs, who's on the record is one of my favorite musicians. He has such a specific, texturally rich sound. Was it hard incorporating the sounds of somebody so confident in their style? Were you worried it would overshadow your originality?
He's so specific, but we've collaborated in the past. He's a painter, and I feel very confident—as someone who has occasionally done soundtracks…I just felt like I was doing a soundtrack. But a moving audio picture. That sounds complicated . But like you said, he's a textural musician. I found it easy just to engage with the texture and have his voice integrated into my work.

He's one of those people in LA who's not given enough thrift. He's not talked up enough. He's very seminal for this city, holding it down for a different idea. You talk about Low End and these places that have worship for the beat scene. It's as aggressive as possible sometimes. But then Teebs is in that mix, and it's not all headbanging and stuff.

It must also be fun for you to put on a different hat and play with Teebs. That seems to be how your collaborations work. It's not the featured artists coming into your lane as much as it is you meeting them halfway.
As much as I am taking their output and transforming it into record form, I really think I'm trying to engage with them on their terms. In tying it all back to the grand theme, I'm navigating a space that is both internal and external, communicating back and forth. The confusion of the record industry features highly on this album. Just trying to understand it. But then also just trying to go where the music wants to go.

One of the words that popped out in the record's description was rhizome. Was the Deleuze concept integral to your philosophy behind the album? It makes sense when you view the albums in terms of being a reaction to popular dance forms.
The philosophies are always emergent. Sometimes there's a grand theme that comes way before the record begins and leads it, but Labyrinths was not like that. It changed formats and evolved on its own. It was external, which was nice. It wasn't just my mind trying to project itself astrally, elsewhere. It really felt like something that was happening. In that regard it evolved into a higher consciousness, mostly thanks to the people that got involved.

The "Minotaur" track for instance—with Zeroh—happened very late in the game. I was looking for the right voice for a long time, and the way he evolved it so far made it so much more alive than I ever could have imagined. It fulfilled so many more promises than I could have imagined it would.

What sort of music were you listening to while writing?
Musicians do a lot of self-listening. I was trying to evaluate myself without being too precious about the material. I just listened to a lot of modern music culture.

I play a lot of raves, so I'm listening and engaging in a lot of EDM culture, but I'm feeling more disingenuous each time. I'm 38, I play at raves where there are 18 years old. It's not the age difference, it's very much a difference regarding clarity of experience. If I'm not playing music they already know intimately, they disengage. I can feel them peeling away, because they're not trained to have an unknown experience. They want reinforcement and for their high to be very coddled. If it isn't always paired with like, a trap lord and an EDM drop, you feel them ebbing away. I like the game of it, but I'm not loving the culture of it. So I listen to a lot of A$AP Mob, and a lot of the stuff coming out of Atlanta. There's a lot of stuff bereft of culture and unmoored from the universe, just floating along.

Is it an artistic struggle trying to cater to their experiences?
I'm hired to do that. I don't take it lightly that I'm providing a service. Musicians are providing a real service with speakers and sounds, but also—hopefully—a spiritual experience, too.

It's hard to be spiritual when you're limited by the audience—
Or yourself. I feel like if I just owned that material and loved it with all of my heart, I wouldn't have any gumption about it. I know a lot of musicians who love pop music in a totally genuine way. Even if they're making dark, brooding music, they're willing to listen to a Miley Cyrus record.

I think some of that comes from the irony of our time, though.
Certainly. But I do feel like there is a higher sonic calling. I think part of the reason people disengage when they're older is because, why would you continue listening to music about teenage woe? There's also just the undertow of progression and experience that builds up like a plaque on our bodies. Even stuff that was dark and brooding—if it doesn't change with the times, you're bound to be obscure.

That being said, we all have our opinions to express, and if I had just been there for the party, I would have disengaged a long time ago. But I still feel really engaged with the idea of trying to transmit something very authentic. Even though I enjoy my dress up and my layers of things that are fairly disingenuous—I'm a Southern California kid, but I own that space.

I know people who have mottos and credos and their branding all figured out, but when it comes to sound they have no idea what they're doing. To me, the sound is the only thing that's authentic and the rest is sort of a veneer. I tussle with it myself, certainly.

You've been as integral as anyone in the Low End/beat scene since its inception. But you've always been a little separate from any one crew. Is that intentional? Do you think there's a reason why that is?
I love my friends. I adore the people that are in my life. There are so many people—so many crews and scenes—that constitute LA. I think my really early experiences consisted of being shut out of scenes. Being sort of left field and not part of the conversation. I really wanted to belong, but it also became a sort of, 'If they won't have me, I don't want to be a part of their club.' It's changed. I feel really embraced by Low End and the Brainfeeder crew, but I still feel like settling in will mulch me up. I have something else swimming in my head that I haven't found yet, and I don't know if any of these other people are answers. I probably just don't feel like I belong, so I can't join.

LA has this great gift that there are so many amazing people. But the truth of it is, we're all in our pod lives. We're going to our pod studios in our pod cars. There's a hermitude in this city stronger than I've experienced anywhere else. You're sonically and visually decoupled from the city. You can live without seeing any souls, yet you're always being buffeted by other people. I'm kind of addicted to it. I've thought about moving, trying other cities…But there's such a promise to LA. It keeps me coming back.

No other city could have a Low End Theory. No other city could have a night that's both so weird—

It's also pretty relaxed, though. It can get wild at times, with Odd Future and those sort of hyped events, but there's a calmness to its weekly inevitability.
That's the thing with Odd Future, too. Everyone knew it would be crazy but no one knew it would be that big. Even when Thom Yorke came, he was coming to the mountain. He likes weird juke music. Where else does weird juke music get played? There are so many countless moments where the city surprises and stands out, but there are also so many other times where you're like, "What is this thing?"

What's it like running your own label?
Thus far, the label's total idea has been to release music from artists who haven't really had releases. It's trying to deal with the catch-22 of the scenes. Where people who really deserve attention but aren't getting proper press or radio play—things that tumble from a record—can find a home. But these are artists who deserve such bigger homes than they get with Magical Properties [Darlington's label]. Magical Properties literally exists as a stepping stone to get people to other things. A lot of labels won't consider you unless you're in a media cycle. And how do you get in a media cycle? You have a manager and PR. How do you get those things without money, capital, or a certain place of privilege? And if you're not living in a critical city that's having a moment, it's not going to happen.

It's crazy. I feel like music journalism is actually in a really good place right now. There are a lot of people who have fulfilled the promise of the Internet and have poured into its scenes, and yet it feels like there are still a few publications that control the spin of things. And those publications have their festivals and their feeder systems, and if you're not feeding into the water supply that they're propagating, you don't exist. You're just not part of the narrative right now. What's worse is that those people deciding the narrative are so far away from where the music sits.

We live in a weird moment like that. We're trying to fulfill the promise of music journalism in an open way, but those things aren't happening at the center. They're happening at the fringe. Magical Properties has always existed for that purpose. To do my record there is both a statement about how I feel about that, and wanting to get away from the system.

It must be a point of pride to release your own record on your own label, too.
Absolutely. But at the same time, I appreciate the idea that musicians just want to focus on music all day. I just want think about it all day. I want to eat sounds, just be in that space. Doing that label creates a lot of distractions, though. It's impossible to be totally present with all the communicative possibilities, though. I don't have a branding team. And that is what's most important these days. We live in a society buffeted by all forms. I just wish I had some dude who could just revamp the logo every once in a while.

You're letting fans re-design your album artwork. What went into that idea and decision?
I'm always trying to push forms. I'm always trying to do something that evolves the concept. I had begun to work with these people who are doing tremendous things online. Things that are getting away from the very simple binary around audience participation. This goes into people going beyond audio, something that's more than just leaving a Soundcloud comment. It's a great gesture, but the idea of live remixing and interaction is so much more interesting. I really think album artwork is a format that can get people engaged. At its best, it's like a window you're looking through that changes the color of the world.

When I'm digging through records, I'll come across an album with an interesting cover and that's the change of perspective that gets me to pick it up. I really want to have compelling artwork. The artwork for this record is super futuristic but done with a texture that's kind of wrong. It's all fidgety. The detail is intense. The analogue to my music is complete. On the surface it can be one thing, but when you look closer there are intense details. That's my goal.

To get people engaging with that form—in a way that is playful but can also change where the music could is important too. This company Whitestone is trying to make a platform for interactive experiences. Not just album artwork but VR and AR experiences. All of these companies are pushing VR experiences but they're all pushing from their own platform. It's similar to music. We're all pushing our stuff, but it's all sanctioned by whatever low bit rate Apple is currently pushing.

Anyways, the possibilities for having people playing with my stuff, and then displaying that, is fairly fundamental to music performance as well. I don't think this is the end form. I think my experiment of turning GIFs into album art is rather boring. People will engage with it, but the back end of it is so phenomenal. This format is less about me than showing people how much more is possible. If we don't find ourselves on the continuum of 'why' then there's less reason.

It reminded me of the whole Kanye Life of Pablo thing, where he would be remixing the album after its release. You're such a staunch believer in the album. What do you think about what he did with Pablo ?
It's revolutionary. You see people doing it throughout history. Do you know Bonnard? He was a French artist who was infamous for changing his art to the point that he destroyed it. He had a piece in the Louvre and he would sneak in his paints and adjust it, even as he became more senile and old. He effectively ruined his work when it was once good enough to be in the Louvre.

I think there's a danger—I do believe in first thought, best thought. I've had plenty of examples in my own work where I kept on touching something that should have been left still and you blow it apart so much that it's not there anymore. You've changed the way you hear it and therefore it's gone. I really appreciate that when people hear a record, there's that five second period people give it, it's either going to be lightning bolts or it's going to leave them flat. I want that to be the truth. I want them to really like it.

Remixes are great. But why not just make a new song, record, or take on it? Or better yet, encourage the listener to do that. That's the real transformation. I understand that people think Kanye is a genius. And the classical definition of genius should include Kanye. But when you peel back the layers and see him as—

30 different contributors.
Yes. And vocalists. He's just the man of his times. He's not a timeless man.

I don't think his genius derives from the music he creates but from his ability to extract excellent work from the collaborators he works with.
He's a beautiful mouthpiece. Absolutely adorned. I think he has a lot to say and a lot to offer. But I like the artists that he's worked with more on their own than when they've worked with him. But then again, only he can say some of the things he's said, and I appreciate that.

What sort of music are you listening to these days?
A lot of post-PC music. The Japanese labels that are doing experimental skittery beats. A lot of that is coming up because it's Juke by way of Japan, or Jersey by way of Japan. They're interesting permutations that get permuted even more when they land back here. A lot of Team Supreme guys, as they engage with juke and trap—I'm just fascinated by genre play.

I know great ambient music out there. My ears just gravitate towards the weirdest minimal techno that's made by some dude living at the bottom of Bergheim or something. That's what I'm really listening to right now. It's funny, because it's about as far away from my truth as possible. But we only have so much time. We only have so many coffees to drink and I really want to make them good coffees. I really want to make my music from a vital place.

As I said, I'm a little bit unmoored myself. There's not any one crew I sit with easily. I don't feel I have an identity other than what I've created. And so I'm fascinated by authentic places. I don't mean authenticity in the things that someone adorns themselves with, but something that really speaks. It doesn't have to be something from somebody who comes from a crazy place. Like Otto von Schirach, for instance. He makes crazy bass music out of Miami. He's Cuban and his music is silly and beautiful, but when you meet the dude, he is that guy. He's so fully that guy. There are other people like that who own their space. I'm still searching. I do wonder sometimes if I ever came across genuine success, if that would get me out of the game.

What's genuine success for you?
I achieved my first success, I guess, which was to hear my own song while driving across LA. When that happened I was like, "This is it. Game over. This is the best thing ever." When that happened I set my goalposts way farther after that. Now genuine success is that sort of artistic life that is indulgent. I meet peers who have that 50-yard stare and they're not really present or listening anymore. They're just beams of light. I don't think that's the way I ever want to go. If that's where success leads, maybe that's not the goal.