ISSUE 09
Ólafur Arnalds on How Music and Memory Shaped His Most Personal Record
The composer reflects on unfinished collaborations, the challenge of honouring a friend’s legacy, and the rituals that shaped his new album, “A Dawning.”
The lights cut out mid-conversation. One moment, Ólafur Arnalds is there on screen, gesturing from his hotel room in Barcelona, the next he’s gone - vanishes into digital darkness. It’s a reminder of how fragile these connections are, something that takes on a deeper meaning when you’re talking to someone whose latest work exists as a bridge between life and loss. When he returns apologising and tethering through his phone, there’s something vulnerable about the scramble. Right now, in this flickering connection, he’s wrestling with something far more delicate than technical difficulties.
“This is the hard part,” he says, and you can hear it, that particular weight of speaking for the departed. His latest album, A Dawning, was meant to be a collaboration with Eoin French, known professionally as Talos. Eoin died before it was finished, leaving Arnalds alone with their shared vision and the impossible task of being its sole advocate. “I still constantly have nightmares about kind of doing it all wrong or something,” he admits. “It just comes from this big want to make my friend proud.” Music made by two people, but only one of them can sit here and explain it.
Arnalds has spent his career creating soundscapes, his delicate piano lines weave through strings and electronics, producing sounds that are both intimate and expansive. It’s a far cry from his early days playing in metal bands, a surprising origin for an artist now known for subtlety and restraint. The shift took years, as he gradually found the impact of quieter gestures and the resonance found in understatement.
From creating music for shows such as Defending Jacob, to acclaimed solo albums like re:member and some kind of peace, as well as his genre-bending work with Kiasmos and collaborations with artists such as Nils Frahm, Loreen and Bonobo, Arnalds has established himself as one of the contemporary music’s most distinctive voices. While his television scores brought him to a wider audience, it’s his solo projects and collaborative ventures that reveal the full depth of his artistic vision.
But A Dawning is different. In Eoin’s final week, he invited Arnalds over, and together they carefully shaped every note and arrangement, bringing the album’s vision into focus. When they finished, Eoin gave Arnalds a set of drawings he’d made over the year - artwork that became the album cover, quietly reflecting the sense of refuge and connection that defined their collaboration.
The creative process was beautifully chaotic, too, the track A Dawning, emerged from what Arnalds calls “a complete bullshit process” - writing at Eoin’s house, reworking at home, and sending it back. Eoin’s irreverent response: “I kind of forgot what your chords were, so I just made these chords instead.”
“What are you doing? This makes no sense,” Arnalds remembered thinking. Yet from this miscommunication came something extraordinary. “That’s one of the most powerful pieces of music I’ve ever worked on.”
New meanings keep revealing themselves in the song, even to its co-creator. Different listeners find completely different interpretations in Eoin’s lyrics, each convinced they’ve unlocked its true meaning. “People have such strong connections to the song,” Arnalds shares.
Early on, fan letters described how music soundtracked weddings, funerals, breakups, and even reconciliations. While moving, the emotional weight threatened to overwhelm his creativity. “I learned quite early on that I have to protect myself,” he explained. “It is not fair for someone to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.” “I know what this music means to me, so when you tell me your story, it doesn’t need to contaminate mine. Both stories can exist separately.”
“When you feel butterflies in your stomach, that’s when you should speak. Because it means you have something important to say.”
When we speak about his creative endeavours with other artists, his approach to collaboration values energy over outcomes. And those different personalities each bring a unique chemistry. “The energy in a room when you sit with someone creating is fascinating.” His partnership with Eoin was intuitive, built on years of friendship and musical understanding. They had a shorthand for creative risks and happy accidents. “Sometimes the best music comes from those moments when you’re not trying to be clever - you’re just playing.”
The conversation around technology inevitably entered our chat; it’s part of Ólafur’s legacy. He’s pioneered software use in live performance and made his techniques widely available. Rather than fearing AI, he holds pragmatic views: “Technology is a tool for music making. As long as it remains a tool and not something making the music for us.” Despite tools enabling many to emulate his sound, true replication remains elusive: “I still haven’t found people that sound exactly like me, and that means there’s something more to it than the tools we use.”
The OPIA community he’s built is a global network of artists who share ideas and support each other as they navigate questions about technology and authenticity. For its members, OPIA is both a creative incubator and a reminder that despite what’s going on in the world around us, composing is personal and human. “Music existed for thousands of years before Spotify, and it will exist for thousands of years after. You have to make music because you enjoy making music. That has to be your motivation.”
His advice stems from witnessing the industry’s constant upheaval - streaming, social media, tech - each shift bringing anxieties about artistic survival. However, Ólafur focuses on what remains constant: the human need for music, emotional connection, and the beauty in chaos.
Outside of the studio, Arnalds is just as intentional about balance, and he’s learned to carve out space for routines and movement. Whether that’s a morning ritual or a commitment to physical activity, even while touring. These practices, he says, are essential for maintaining the clarity and energy that fuel his creativity. It’s a discipline that allows him to meet the demands of his art without losing sight of his own well-being.
As our conversation wraps up and his tour with Kiasmos continues, we talk through the rest of the album. It’s a space for quiet reflection, inviting listeners to pause and find their own meaning. More than anything, it stands as a piece of art, complete with Eoin’s own drawings, that lets his creative imprint live on forever.
Speaking with Ólafur is a genuinely touching and sentimental experience, and his openness about grief, friendship, and creativity is a reminder of how rarely we stop to truly listen to music, to each other, and to ourselves. And really, when is that ever a bad thing to do?
A DAWNING IS OUT NOW VIA OPIA COMMUNITY / MERCURY KX