Ali Murray’s project, The Lonely Bell, creates sonic drifts where time becomes illusory, and melodies stretch into oblivion. His latest album, Time Lost, leans further into that space. Restraint bears out immersive soundscapes where countless tiny aural moments coalesce into entire galaxies of sound. Glassine piano progressions form prismatic shapes. Horns remember everything. Synths become a blanket. Moving arrangements distill into singular silhouettes, reimagined as tones of embrace and remembrance. Murray’s work is texturally rich and sonically beautiful, timeless in its construction, but the emotional resonance runs deeper. The music acknowledges what cannot be recovered, what slips away despite our attention. It feels okay to be lost in here.
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What are some of your earliest sound memories? Were there particular sonic textures from the landscape where you grew up that shaped how you hear music?
As far as music goes, one of my earliest memories was hearing Roxette blaring from the speakers of my parents’ car while I was zoned out in the backseat – watching the bleak moorland whizzing by, totally chilled and entranced by these cold, melancholic Euro-pop melodies…
Regarding sonic textures – wind and water are the natural sounds that accompany you wherever you go here on the Isle of Lewis. They’re the inevitable and omnipresent aural backdrop to everything you do. I’m sure there’s always been an intrinsic relationship between the natural sounds of my island upbringing and all the music I’ve absorbed (and created) throughout my life, but I don’t think it’s something I can explain…
When did you first start making music? What drew you to it initially, and how has that relationship changed over the fifteen years you’ve been recording?
I wrote a terrible punk song when I was about 8 years old, but aside from that – I was in my mid-teens when I really started trying to write and construct serious music. I wanted to be a songwriter/musician ever since I was a young child, but I didn’t start properly pursuing my passion until I was a teenager. I played and sang in various punk/metal bands, but I always found it stressful and difficult working with other people whose personalities, attitudes, motivations, and aspirations didn’t align with my own, so I just decided to go solo and do my own thing, which I’ve been doing ever since…
I’m pretty shy and awkward by nature, and I’m not an eloquent/articulate speaker, so music has always been a way of conveying and communicating feelings and emotions that I otherwise struggle to express. Over all my years of recording, I guess I’ve become more comfortable and “at peace” with myself, and what I’m trying to do. My recording equipment and musical gear are almost embarrassingly minimalistic, as are my skills as a producer, but I think I’ve become better at making the most of my simple setup and utilizing the concept of “freedom in limitation”.
You’ve been making music under your own name for fifteen years, but The Lonely Bell seems to occupy different territory. When did you first feel pulled toward purely ambient work, and what does that project allow you to explore that songwriting doesn’t?
I began composing ambient work under the moniker The Lonely Bell back in 2015. It wasn’t a big, preplanned decision or anything; I mainly wanted to see if I could do it, and ended up composing and releasing my self-titled debut album. While doing so, I discovered that I really loved the way good ambient/drone music could be so haunting and evocative, and beautiful, without the need for words or showy musicality. I loved all the intricate emotions it could make me feel. I was also really intrigued by these soundscapes in which (at least on a surface level) there was not much happening, and the whole thing was extremely repetitive, yet somehow deeply immersive and mesmerizing. Human emotions can be so incredibly complex, vague, and murky, and can be difficult to express in words. Ambient music is an ideal vehicle for sonically tapping into these strange and confusing feelings that seem to haunt our lives…
You’ve got a new album, Time Lost, out now on Oscarson. That title really sets a particular tone. What does that phrase mean to you, and how did it become the anchor for this record?
Time Lost is a phrase that seems to capture and summarise a lot of the existential sadness I felt while working on the compositions for that album. It came from a deep dissatisfaction within myself, and the hopeless desire to have done certain things differently in my life, if I only knew how precious my time on this earth was. I felt that the tracks on this album somehow tapped into my feelings of worry and mourning regarding the passage of time, and the tragedy of our existence… but at the same time I like to think there’s hope and redemption in there, and a quiet inner determination to make up for all the lost time….
Dominic Castelli’s description of Time Lost opens with “Regret is the first instrument.” That’s a hell of a starting point. Do you think of emotional states as actual sonic material when you’re composing? How does something like regret translate into frequency or texture?
Regret is an emotion I’ve definitely struggled with throughout my life, as I mentioned in my previous answer, so it was interesting to me that Dominic picked up on that in the music. I can’t explain in words how regret translates into frequency or texture, but I think it’s something that the human ear somehow recognises. It’s something you can feel in the way the various sounds are performed and expressed. I honestly don’t actively think about my emotional state when I’m composing, but I’m often astounded (and baffled) by how often I recognize the way I feel or what I’m thinking about within a soundscape I’m working on.
The album description mentions “the resonance that follows decay.” Are you actively listening for what happens after a note ends, or is that something you shape in the production process?
Overall, I’d say that the long resonant tones, timbres, and frequencies in my work are a mixture of natural and manipulated “shaped” sounds. I tend to be in a meditative trance-like state when I’m performing and recording, so I’m definitely not listening closely to all these resonances, but I’m fascinated when I hear them played back to me during the production/mixing process. That’s the stage where I hone in on the finer details contained within a piece of music.
Field recordings appear throughout Time Lost, humming faintly at the edges. What are you recording, and how do you choose what makes it into the final pieces? Are these sounds from Lewis, or do you gather them elsewhere?
Most of my field recordings were gathered around different parts of the island, or just around my home premises. Occasionally, I’ll use a sound sample from elsewhere, but most field recordings that I end up incorporating into my music evoke the atmosphere of a certain place I’ve been at a specific moment in time. I love the art of interweaving/intertwining musical sounds with non-musical sounds to create unique sonic environments.
Your previous album, Time Beyond the Edges, involved collaborations with ambient musicians from all over the world, while Time Lost feels intensely solitary. What shifts for you creatively when you’re working alone versus in dialogue with other artists?
I wouldn’t say there’s a huge difference in the way I feel working on a project alone, as opposed with working in conjunction with other artists. I find the whole creative process to be a lonesome and isolated pursuit, either way. I suppose the main difference is when I’m working all alone I can be completely self-absorbed, and not put any thought into how the project is going to be received by others… whilst working on a collaboration means that someone else’s ears are going to hear what I’m composing in its raw incomplete form, which can be a bit uncomfortable at times, and forces me to be a bit more considerate and self-conscious in my creative approach. I mostly prefer working alone, but I do occasionally enjoy working with others. I love hearing my musical ideas being developed in ways that I’d never think of doing myself…
How did those collaborations come together for Time Beyond the Edges? Were you seeking out specific artists, or did the connections happen organically?
I had the seed of an idea for this album germinating in my head for a few months prior to beginning work on it. When the time finally came, I ended up creating a bunch of skeletal forms of promising song ideas, and as I was working away at them, I would naturally think of a specific artist whose style and musicality I felt would mesh well with my own. I already knew a couple of the contributing artists, or had interacted with them online at some point, but most of them required me blindly reaching out to them via email and asking if they’d be interested. I was really thrilled and fortunate that most of them got back to me, saying yes, and they ended up being lovely people to work with. These artists transformed and elevated each of the tracks into something much better than they originally were. I was already a fan of everyone involved, so it was a huge honour to work with them.
The Isle of Lewis comes up repeatedly in descriptions of your work. Cold, windswept, isolated. How much of that physical reality seeps into the music itself? Can you hear the geography in the sound, or is that something listeners project onto it?
It’s never my intention to incorporate the sound of Lewis into my musical work, but sometimes I do hear it – whether it’s the atmosphere of the place infiltrating the entire sound from within, or just haunting the edges of the narrative, in a subtle ghostly kind of way… but then there are other times I don’t hear it at all, but listeners tell me that they can hear or feel the vibe of this place in my music. But overall I would definitely say that I do hear the environment I live in penetrating its way into the soundscapes I create…
Speaking of the Isle of Lewis, you recorded everything at home there. What does working in that kind of isolation do to the creative process? Are there limitations that actually help the work, or do you feel constrained by what’s available to you?
The Isle of Lewis has always had a huge influence on my musical creativity. I never consciously write about this place, and to be honest, most artists and songwriters that have attempted to do so have been terrible… but the barren landscapes, the sullen atmospheres, the harsh weather and sheer isolation of the island have always inspired my work – whether I’ve wanted it to or not.
The artistic limitations that come with living in a place like this are equally constraining and liberating. It depends on what you want as a musical artist. If you want to establish yourself as a live musician or an active band – you’d need to move somewhere else, as there’s no music scene, gig circuits or support system for musical artists here… but for independent solitary artists (such as myself) that have no desire to play live, and don’t need to work with others – there’s a strange freedom in creating music here. No one is looking out for you, and therefore no one cares… so it forces you to hunker down and hone your craft. Obviously, modern technology and the internet are crucial for me to do what I do in a place like this…
And lastly, to close as always… What are some of your favorite sounds in the world?
I know I referred to this already in the opening question, but two of my favourite sounds have always been wind and water, both of which we get a lot of here on Lewis, haha… I’ve always been captivated by the natural beauty and dark, haunting ambience of these sounds, and the wide spectrum of various tones and frequencies to be heard within them. I love the sounds and atmospheres that are created by the blowing wind – everything from the fierce howling gales that rattle the buildings, to the cold blustery winds that blow through the fences, to the soft soothing whispers of tranquil summer breezes that gently rustle the grass…
Like most people who were born and raised on an island, I have a natural affinity for bodies of water. I spend a lot of time walking along beaches, coastlines, and rivers, and I love sitting down in quiet places and allowing myself to get mesmerized by the complex range of frequencies that running water produces. I also love drones (both musical and non-musical), empty room tones, weather sounds, and beautiful birdsong.
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