There’s something magnetic about watching two artists discover each other in real time, especially when their instruments seem to speak the same mysterious language from the very first note. Matthew Ryals has spent years cultivating an unusual relationship with his modular synthesizer, coaxing sounds from electronic circuits that breathe like wood and resonate like metal. His approach feels less like electronic music and more like acoustic alchemy, where the synthetic becomes organic through patient exploration and deep listening.
When Ryals found himself sharing a bill with Milan-based violist Federica Furlani (effe effe) at the intimate Exalge cultural center, neither artist knew what would emerge from their first encounter. What resulted was Exalge, a live recording that captures the raw electricity of musical minds meeting, where Ryals’ acoustic-electronics and Furlani’s extended viola techniques create a dialogue of morphing identities.
Exalge is out now on Infrequent Seams.
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What’s your earliest memory of being stopped in your tracks by a sound… Not necessarily music, but something that made you realize sound could be a doorway?
I think the first time sound really overtook me was probably through music. I have a memory of listening intensely to Pink Floyd on the floor at a friend’s house when I was around 12. It was the first time I entered a kind of trance-like state, visualizing colors and network-like patterns; this still happens sometimes. But honestly, I felt intense emotions from music from the earliest age I can remember. I started building a collection of tapes and CDs when I was about 7. The big shift came around 10 years old when I started hearing progressive metal, psychedelic, and grunge. This was some of the first music to reach me in rural Arkansas that had a deep impact.
Was there a particular moment when you shifted from consuming music to feeling compelled to generate it? What was missing from what you were hearing that you needed to create yourself?
As soon as I heard music that resonated with me, I wanted to create it myself. I think this was the same with my close friends because we started a band when we were about ten and none of us had instruments yet. My parents put a guitar on layaway at a shop about an hour away from where I grew up, that I received for my 11th birthday. Not long after, I quit playing basketball because I needed to focus on songwriting and the band haha.
In the beginning, I don’t think it was about something missing in the music I was hearing; I just really wanted to be a part of it. A few years later, I did start to have that feeling something was missing. I think it was rooted in me wanting music to always have an intention. I didn’t like music that felt extra or superfluous. I wanted it to be elaborate while still being powerfully communicative.
What was your first attempt at creating something that felt like your own sound rather than mimicking something you’d heard? Do you remember the impulse that drove that?
There were little moments along the way, but a noticeable shift happened in late 2019. This was the time period that led to Voltage Scores and impromptus in isolation. I was listening to a lot of free jazz at home and attending improvised music concerts in New York. I felt compelled to improvise with my own instrument, the modular synthesizer, so I began studying my modules very diligently, experimenting as much as I could with the synth, practicing, making recordings, and reading manuals as a nightcap.
It actually took a detour, though, when I stumbled into generative processes and became fascinated with self-playing, self-generating systems. That was the first time I felt like I was making music entirely for myself, absolutely free to follow my nose wherever it led. It was a deeply transformative and inspired period that resulted in those two albums, which are a blend of generative processes, improvisation, and live recording without editing or overdubbing later.
What led you to modular synthesis specifically? Was it a gradual migration from other electronic instruments, or did something about the modular approach immediately make sense to you?
I kind of think of my musical life in three chapters. The first was growing up playing guitar and singing in bands. The second was studying classical guitar through college and grad school. The third began after graduating, when I shifted into electronic music.
At the start of that chapter, I had just finished at CIM and was ready to move in a different direction for a variety of reasons. I thought I might try my hand at composing contemporary classical music with the nylon-stringed guitar, and I was writing songs and singing again. At that time, I was listening to more electronic music with really distinctive production, so I started experimenting with electronics myself. I quickly discovered that I enjoyed working with the computer, and not touching an instrument after all those years of intense practice in music school. I got into sampling and started making entire tracks out of one or two fragments of a sample, along with some drum hits. That naturally led to exploring soft synths, and around that time, I started hearing artists like Luke Abbott and James Holden of Border Community, who were working with modular synths to create this very handmade, expressive music.
When I thought about getting into synthesis, I wasn’t excited by picking up a classic vintage polysynth. What appealed to me was the idea of building something gradually, shaping it to my needs, and exploring the possibilities of voltage control. That’s what led me to the modular.
Looking back at your earliest modular experiments versus your current work, what surprised you about how your voice developed? Were there sounds you thought you wanted to make that you ended up abandoning?
At first, I leaned toward a more melodic, almost dance-oriented direction, influenced by some of the artists I mentioned earlier. After that, I explored songwriting with vocals. Some of that material was released on a “mixtape” and a string of singles, respectively. At the time, I really enjoyed working in the medium of song, but it quickly started to feel not entirely like my own voice. That’s when I began improvising more with the modular and got pulled into generative processes, which opened up a whole new path for me.
Modular synthesizers can be overwhelming instruments with infinite possibilities and complex signal paths. How do you find intimacy within that complexity?
For me, it all comes down to spending a lot of time with the instrument, experimenting, searching, and making plenty of sounds and music that I don’t actually like! It’s about the discovery and expansion of material that become part of my vocabulary. These are sounds as well as synthesizer techniques that I find interesting, ripe for potential, resonating, and simply fun to explore.
You describe your modular work as developing an ‘acoustic’ palette. What does it feel like in real time when synthetic sounds cross that threshold into something that breathes like wood or metal?
I’m most drawn to sounds that don’t sound like a synthesizer. I’m chasing sounds that feel like organic matter, texture, material, and this includes the sounds of acoustic techniques such as slap tonguing, key clicks, and multiphonics. Simultaneously, I’m interested in very raw, electric sound and constructing electrical environments in real time.
In the moment, when it crosses that threshold you mentioned, I get pulled in to explore that material to uncover what’s hidden in there. I want to spend some time with it, and sometimes synthetically transform it into more eccentric shapes and colors.
You’ve created what sounds like a conceptual feedback loop: synthesizers sounding like acoustic instruments that sound like synthesizers. When you’re performing, are you conscious of chasing that recursion, or does it emerge from somewhere less deliberate?
I’m not thinking about that directly while playing. But it’s true that in my work, I’m often trying to make electrical sounds less stable, more acoustic or physical, or I’m pushing acoustic sounds into more synthetic morphologies. This is a significant part of my vocabulary.
Exalge documents a first meeting with Federica Furlani (effe effe). How do you recognize the moment when improvisation shifts from two separate voices into something unified? Is there a physical sensation when that convergence happens?
Sometimes you’re deliberately playing in opposition, or one voice supports the other in a solo/accompaniment dynamic where the two voices are distinct. Other times, there is convergence, creating a unified sound or even imitation. Of course, obvious imitation and call-and-response can feel trite, but convergence can be very rewarding to explore as an improviser. Both musicians are exploring the same texture, but each brings their own approach and instrumentation, so the result is something uniquely combined.
There is a sensation when the voices converge. It feels like an invitation to dig in and rummage around, where a deep intention and care for each detail takes hold. You’re shaping something together that relies on the other. It feels intense, in a good way.
Federica’s sound becomes progressively more deconstructed across tracks 3-5. Were you following her into abstraction, or were you both being pulled by something in the room itself?
We were both reacting to each other moment by moment, in the pursuit of discovery together.
This performance happened at Exalge, a cultural center in Milan. How does the acoustic space shape what emerges from electronic instruments?
Exalge is an intimate space, and we positioned the audience in the round. Federica and I were facing each other with the audience all around us, some very close. Even though it’s a place with a cafe, the audience was virtually silent the entire show, listening very carefully. The room itself isn’t particularly special acoustically; it’s just a nice dry space, which I like. The focused intensity of the audience brought about a collective, deep listening experience for all of us that night.
In other locations, though, where the space really affects the sound, with perhaps a clear reverb, it’s definitely going to change the way I play. I don’t use digital delays or reverbs these days, so if a room has a natural reverb, I like to interact with it directly. I might crescendo into the space and let the reverb tail off, or accent a sound to fire it off across the space. It’s similar to how an acoustic musician adapts to a hall. I also get to layer sounds and let the room contribute to the textures: standing waves, frequency boosts or cuts, resonant tones I can tap into, even vibrating parts of the structure. The space becomes a compositional element of the moment, but it really helps to have a proper sound check to learn about the space.
And to close, as always, what are some of your favorite sounds in the world?
The insects upstate at Art Omi. The sounds of Mexico City. Certain New York subway stations have extra beeps, clicks, and drones, giving them a unique soundprint. Storms back in rural Arkansas. The silence in the middle of a show, holding that stillness for a moment.
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