I’ve been listening to Yamila’s Noor on repeat, and I keep returning to how the strings feel like they’re breathing alongside her voice and electronics. There’s a lushness here that surrounds something dense and deeply felt at the center. Echo Collective heightens what Yamila expresses in such a symbiotic way that small moments become enormous, nearly ceremonial. She writes sophisticated music but presents it so openly that everyone feels invited into these big questions rendered in sonic form.
Noor emerged from time Yamila spent in an ecologist community, where she practiced a kind of listening that extends beyond human perception, learning from animals, and reducing acoustic noise to let unheard voices surface. Her work with choreographers makes sense here, too, because this music wants us to move, even if it’s subtle. It’s not something to just consume and move on from. It’s a dwelling place for us to exist within in a way that our overstimulated lives rarely allow.
Noor is OUT NOW on Umor Rex.
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What are some of your earliest sound memories from childhood?
My father played the guitar; he has played it a lot since I was born. He always tells me that I learned to speak by singing.
Was there a particular moment when you realized sound could be a medium for your creative expression?
Music has always been my primary means of expression; I have recordings of the first songs I invented when I was five years old. For me, music was a way to play, something to have fun with, especially before I started studying at the conservatory.
Tell me about the decision to go to an ecologist community. What were you seeking or needing at that time?
Seeing that there are people who think like me, about the need to make a transition towards a less consumerist model, and more in harmony with nature, the need to listen, to have fewer stimuli, and to go slower.
You mention trying to forget the human. That’s a profound idea. What prompted that desire, and what did that process feel like?
The ideas of Donna Haraway and Vinciane Despret have inspired me to think that one way out of this current crisis is to imitate animals. They are able to live on this planet without destroying it, and for that reason alone, I think we can understand that they are much more intelligent than we are. That’s why I believe observing the animal world is key. For example, it’s very fashionable in cities now to have dogs, which I think is great, but I think that instead of expecting dogs to live like us, with their beds and canned food, we should learn to live more like them and think more about watching the pigeons through the window than having a phone screen in our faces all day.
The idea of reducing acoustic noise to allow unheard voices to emerge is striking. How did you discover that approach?
I’ve practiced many types of meditation. On a trip to Taiwan, at a Buddhist nunnery, I was taught to meditate by listening to the sounds outside and inside me—a practice very similar to that of Pauline Oliveros in her Deep Listening meditations. When you practice frequently, you soon realize how overloaded we are with sounds and how necessary it is to reduce this overload from time to time in order to think differently and have new ideas.
When you think about music as interspecies dialogue, what does that communication actually sound or feel like?
Since ancient times, humans have used music to soothe or care for animals. There’s a beautiful book called “Of Songs and Animals” by Carolina Arabia that compiles these songs. For example, there were songs sung to cows while they were being milked; it was a way of thanking them for giving us milk. Today, we live in a system where the exploitation of people and animals is taken for granted. We think it’s normal for a cow to dedicate its entire life solely to producing milk for human consumption, and we don’t even thank it for this. I wanted to return to the idea of this original music that arose to create a balance between what you receive and what you give—music as a form of exchange: you give me your milk, and I sing you a song. It’s also clear that communication exists between animals and humans. For example, the other day I was talking to a goat; I made a noise, and she responded. I’m sure there can be very complex communication between animals and humans, but we’re too busy looking at our number of followers on Instagram.
What changed in your practice between your first album, Visions, and this new work?
I don’t think much, or at least I don’t know if I’m aware of any personal changes when it comes to making music. The most obvious change from one album to another is that in Noor, I have the opportunity to work with a string trio (Echo Collective), which is fantastic.
Noor feels like a continuation but also a departure. What did you learn from making Visions that informed this album?
At Noor, I had exchanges with more people, with Echo Collective, with Pierre Slinckx. I think being able to talk to people about music is always a positive thing.
Working with Echo Collective must have opened particular sonic possibilities. What drew you to work with them specifically?
I really like Echo Collective’s approach to textures, something that is fundamental for me; they are very delicate with sound, and their listening is very attentive.
You’ve also worked with dance companies and choreographers. How has that shaped your understanding of rhythm and musicality?
Absolutely. I can’t conceive of music without thinking about the body. I make music because I want the body that listens to it to be transformed. It doesn’t have to be a dancer’s body; it can be any body. But without a doubt, my work with dance has had, and continues to have, a great influence on how I conceive of sound.
Can you talk about creating sonic landscapes that feel inhabitable rather than just listened to?
It has to do with what I was saying about the body, with a listening that isn’t cerebral, something that transcends the rational and touches our skin, that stays to inhabit our body, that music in front of which we find ourselves without realizing it, tapping our toes or getting goosebumps, that is the music that inhabits us. That’s always my goal when making music: to move the body, even if it’s in a very gentle way; it doesn’t have to be anything abrupt or dramatic.
What does it mean to listen beyond the human? How has your listening practice changed through making this work?
This relates to what I was saying earlier about music created for animals. Just as we create music for them, we could also think that they create music for themselves. It’s known that some birds sing for no other purpose than to sing, that is, to make music. I think it’s interesting to imagine how animals can create music; these ideas were certainly a source of inspiration for this album.
Listening has always been an anchor in my life. When I’ve been down and didn’t know what to hold on to, I’ve always clung to listening. It’s a great tool for connecting with the present, returning to my body, and letting go of my mind for a while. This has been part of this album, and it will continue to be.
And to close, as always… What are some of your favorite sounds in the world?
I’d say any sound can be the most beautiful in the world if you have the ability to hear it without your mind interfering. I think the most beautiful sound will be the one that can be heard without the mind taking over, something I haven’t yet managed to achieve.
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