Tone Glow 192: Amanda Mur

An interview with the Spanish artist about flamencology, mysticism, and her debut album 'Neu Om'

Amanda Mur

Photos by Pablo de Pastors

Amanda Mur (b. 1996) is a pianist, vocalist, and composer based in Madrid. In her work, the Cantabria-born musician stretches between worlds, blurring the lines between contemporary classical, folk musics, and electronic styles, drawing from time spent on dancefloors and in conservatories. Her debut record, Neu Om (2025), lives at the center of that Venn diagram; it tangles up histories and stuffs her keyboards with ghosts, imagining folk and classical music as haunted and disoriented, and presenting new-school techno as a decidedly baggy-eyed endeavor. Michael McKinney spoke with Mur on April 22nd, 2025 via Zoom to discuss her relationship to composition, sidestepping sin, flamencology, and mysticism.

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Michael McKinney: How’s your day been? I realize it’s early evening for you. What’d you get up to?

Amanda Mur: Well, I’m composing a score for an ensemble, so I’m concentrating on that. I said, “I must rest for two minutes and then I can concentrate on the interview.” But you can start.

We’re already going (laughter). Are you able to share who you’re composing for, or what that work is?

Yes! It’s for piano, cuarteto de cuerdas—string quartet—and percussion. It’s for the Auditorio Nacional of Madrid.

You’ve worked with them before.

Yes (laughs).

What’s your relationship to composition as a practice? When did you come to that as a way of making music?

It’s a different process, of course. For example, with Neu Om (2025), it was my first time as a producer. Before, I always composed with paper at home, in silence—I’m not always with the piano (points back towards upright piano). This time, I have a piano so I compose there, but for the other parts it’s just me sitting at my desk, imagining the sound I want to write without the sound. It’s a particular process.

You studied piano and voice, classically, from a pretty young age.

Yes. I studied at a professional conservatory for voice and piano, and then I came to Madrid to study composition—a Bachelor’s degree.

Talk to me about growing up in Cantabria. What’s some of the first art that you remember really connecting with?

It was definitely music as I sang since I was little. My mother is a painter and she does jewelry. This ring is—(puts hand to the camera, showing off a ring on her right hand).

Beautiful! Is that her work?

Yes! (laughs).

I love that. That’s super fun.

So maybe it was the plastic arts—the first art I saw. Ah! Dance. Dance, too. I wanted to be a dancer, and an actress. I did theater when I was 8 or 9. So, yes—theater and the plastic arts, maybe (laughs).

Did you have any interest in pursuing physical crafts such as jewelry, or were you mostly interested in movement and music from the start?

I have a bit of nostalgia for it, but I have little desire to work with my hands. I did some little rings with the silver my mom had in her working area. When I work with electronics, for example, I feel this question in some way [of working with my hands]. When I’m reflecting on my compositions—written on sheet music—it’s more difficult; it’s a more intellectual thing. But when I’m listening to what I’m composing in real time, it’s material, too. But I understand what you’re saying. I feel nostalgia for that question of working with materials.

When you refer to working with electronics in that context, what are you referring to? Is this a question of live electronics—of things you work with your hands?

Both. I have synthesizers, of course, but I’m speaking about software. But the voice is ethereal: there is nothing more ethereal than the voice. So it’s both.

I’m curious: what dance were you drawn towards when you were younger?

In the album or in general?

Your call.

I think about electronic cumbia; I think about flamenco. The rhythm of flamenco is very present in my work. What else? Techno, of course, with the boom-boom (pumps fist as though listening to a four-four kick) beat. I think of rhythm as a form of connection. If you have listened to Neu Om, there are a lot of contrasts. In some moments, you have textural ambience—it’s soft and calm. Then it changes, and we find a rhythm—an energetic rhythm from techno or flamenco or whatever you want. For example, in “Mutante,” maybe the rhythm is more present from the beginning. Then there’s an amalgama beat—you know, taka-ta-taka-taka (snapping). Electronics are there, but it’s a folkloric rhythm. The question is complicated to explain. I don’t think in blocks in music; I think in decimals. I don’t think, “I have fado and flamenco and I’ll mix them.” No. I have a lot of influences and experiences; they are in my mind, and I can filter them and do something with that. I don’t question the genre (laughs).

One of the things that draws me to the record is that it reads as really fluent in a lot of different spaces. It’s obvious you’ve spent a lot of time listening to fado, flamenco, modern classical, techno, etc., and you’re putting those together in a way that’s intuitive. Because of that, I’m curious—what’s your relationship to electronic music as a dance tradition? Fado is around the house when you’re growing up; you find your way towards classical music by playing it. How’d you find your way towards electronics?

Well, going to concerts! Going to the disco! (laughter).

Tell me about that.

We are in a globalized society, so I have all of that in my routine. I think about, for example, Ela Minus. I love her. I have not her language or her way of singing, but I choose some elements of hers that I love, and I appropriate them for my own work. I do that with all the languages. There are elements of dance music because I listen to artists who use that.

Sidebar: How’d you connect with Joker?

Ah! (laughs) Okay, okay. I follow Marina Herlop. He mixed and mastered an album of hers. I listened to that, and I liked his way of mixing and mastering so much, so I said to the label: “We must work with Joker.” (laughs) “Now.” (laughter).

Did you notice your relationship to piano and voice change as you professionalized—from home to conservatory to now?

Hm. (pauses, laughs). Good question. The relationship hasn’t changed much. Maybe my—¿Cómo lo digo? Lo digo en español. [“How do I say it? I’ll say it in Spanish.”] (laughs).

Speak all the Spanish you need.

Complicado. Como al lado criticó—que con respecto a como... [“It’s complicated. With respect to criticism...”] What is virtuosity in a piano or a singer? It’s to do a high note everywhere in the song; in the piano, it’s doing octavas, like [Sergei] Rachmaninoff. That is virtuosity. I don’t feel it any more. I was obsessed with Rachmaninoff. I played a lot of Rachmaninoff; I loved Romanticism. And now, I’m in a very, very, very different place of feeling—something more mystical than Romanticism (laughs). I didn’t understand minimalism, for example, and now I’m very minimalist. In some way, not in the minimalism of [Steve] Reich or other composers. But you know what I mean—less is more (laughs).

When did you start noticing that shift towards minimalism?

I had a teacher—in contemporary music, not minimalism. He taught me a lot about composing without having two sounds. You must work with the timbre, with the color, with other questions, with tempo. I forgot harmony, and with just one note, I started to work, and I found some questions that were very interesting for a composer. I started to understand minimalism. [Giacinto] Scelsi taught me that—a composer who composed works for strings with one sound.

I’m curious about this move from Romanticism towards more minimal sounds—or, perhaps, sacred sounds.

Yes.

How do you find your way towards sacred music?

We speak about “mystical,” not “sacred.” It’s not religion; for me, it’s not the same thing. For example, Hildegard von Bingen and the tantra—the latter doesn’t find sin in body pleasure. With Catholicism, it’s another story. So I prefer to speak about mysticism (laughs). Because, between cultures, there are different thoughts about that. Maybe I need the concept of ritual or mysticism because, I feel, nowadays, we have a lack of hope with all the questions in the world—environmentally, politically, socially. So mysticism is a way of contrast between serenity and catharsis. Hope is related to freedom of expression, no? If you dare to express your feelings, you hope someone will understand that feeling, so you have hope in some way. I think, in my case, to express something big—“hondo,” diriamos en Español [“‘hondo,’ we would say in Spanish”]—I have to put in the balance this contrast: of textural, ambient, relaxed serenatas, and (snaps) rhythm and catharsis. For me, that is so mystical. It's a dialogue of energies; it’s a dialogue between surprise and calm; the intellectual part and the most emotional part.

Is that mysticism something you find, or is it something you bring out? How do you find it in your process?

(laughs). The thought of the sound. The sound without any other narrative. If you listen to the samponha—an early instrument used in “Canto a los migrantes”—there’s also other sounds, like—ach! How can I say it? Like ballenas, the sounds of the whales. It’s the sea! (laughs). You listen to that, and there is a voice above that, chanting a canto Gregoriano. Maybe I think in nature more of the process of composing. This question of organic process—the question of contrast is organic. Nothing is static. This question of changes—that is nature.

If I’m understanding you correctly, you’re saying that contrast is an inherent part of making something that reaches towards mysticism. Is that fair?

Yes.

Then talk to me about the compositional process behind the record. How did you approach putting it together?

We started the journey with “Maithuna,” which is a catharsis of the body; it’s about that question of Hildegard von Bingen and body pleasure. There is a reference, in the intro, to Zarathustra. Not in the harmony—but, I thought, in the structure. In the tension. I did a concert and I changed the order, so I have some doubts about the order (laughs). “Vapah” is fado and techno, it speaks about maternity and the non-desire of maternity. We continue in this question of body feeling. There is a poetic narrative in the album; we find, again, the question of two tracks with movement and one track of pause. The mystical question is there—in the micro and the macro.

If you’re comfortable answering this, to what extent is the record’s narrative true?

It’s true. Always it’s true (laughs). I can’t lie with poetry. I can with music, but not with poetry. So I decided to make my own lyrics. Maybe it’s not explicit; it’s poetic. So I want someone to make their own reflection about the lyrics, but it’s true. It’s biographical.

How did it feel to do that? You’re singing about some pretty heavy stuff here.

Yes. I feel well. I made my catharsis (laughs). I lost my voice when “Mutante” was released, on the 13th of February. I didn’t know why, but my psychologist said to me that it was the catharsis: the liberation of something I had retained.

Is part of why you made this record wanting that catharsis?

Yes. My crisis of the 30s, maybe (laughter). It was very organic; I needed it. The pandemic years were very difficult for this question of controlled emotions. But the 30s crisis is not a joke; it’s true. My mind is changing, and maybe I don’t mind if I express something that, for example, my father doesn’t like. “Vamos a bajar el sol para ponerlo entre mis pechos, beberás la luz y arderá tu lengua en mi vientre.” [“We will bring down the sun to place it between my breasts, you will drink the light and your tongue will burn in my belly.”] It’s very sexual. It’s poetic, but it’s very sexual. I need that. I need to sing the feelings—to break the wall between good and bad feelings. I feel this, and I put it in your ears, and you decide what is good and what is bad. But I don’t feel the difference between my emotions.

We’ve spoken a decent amount about mysticism, about belief. What role does ritual play in your life now? Has that changed over the course of your life recently?

I feel my next decisions will make a path. It’s important to clear some questions in my mind and in my heart to make the good path. I don’t believe in destiny—I don’t—but I believe in taking your time to decide what you want to decide. It’s not easy. For example, I live in Madrid, and I need nature every day. I feel this question of frenetic time, of ambition, of dah-dah-dah-dah. It’s very hard, now. I need another space that’s more peaceful, As a woman, the question of maternity is difficult, and you have to think about it. There’s changes in the body, in the mind.

Yeah: future is weighing on you, and you know the window is sliding shut.

It’s not dramatic, though. I’m really glad to feel the crisis because I needed the crisis to learn to explore other questions, other feelings, to generate new questions. The crisis is good for me.

What has your crisis generated?

It’s generated an album (laughter). It’s good for me! I need a lot of crisis. No se hablando toda la vida. Estoy descubriendo. Si, si. [“I don’t know how to talk all my life. I’m just finding out. Yes, yes.”] (laughter)

A while back, you made a comment about how you’re interested in “the constant awakening of freshness and novelty.” How do you chase newness?

I love and I hate the word “innovative” (laughs). There is always convention in the language—always. We need convention in order to innovate. But I use the word to explain something new to me—maybe not for others, but new to me, for my language, for my way to understand sound, etc. It’s related to exploring uncomfortable places: places I have not been before. I’m not sure if I answered your question.

What’s the last time your work surprised you? What’s the last time it brought you that newness?

I’ve been very surprised with a project of flamenco and electronics. Jolifanto is the name; ZA! is the group; and Tomas de Perrate is the cantador. You must listen to it. I’m studying flamenco—flamencology. I listen to a lot of flamenco now. Another record that recently surprised me is Sangre Sucia by Ángeles Toledano.

You said you’re studying flamencology. Is this an official university pursuit?

Yes. It’s through a conservatory in Barcelona. It’s musicology—you must investigate the question of the present and the past. Flamencology is the same. It’s the youngest career of the past few years in Spain. Flamenco has that question of what constitutes popular and good music; the oral part of flamenco makes it so difficult to study it, so we must recover the past and study it.

Is recovering the past something you’re interested in explicitly in your work?

Yes (laughs). The roots! There is no time for music. I listen to early music, for example, and I feel it’s more fresh than more modern music. I’m interested in the past because the past is in the present. There is no past; there is no present; there is no time. I feel that. I love Bach, and for me he’s the king of innovation, and he’s dead (laughs). With flamenco, we speak about the 18th, 19th centuries. It’s recent. It’s present, not past.

Talk to me about your relationship to folk music as a tradition. I feel like that ties in here.

Folklore—tradition—is rhythm. When we talk about folklore, we talk about an art which is oral; which is born in a society and has an anonymous author. About the sound and music—if I choose a fragmento of a folklore rhythm, or melody, or harmony, and put it in my discourse, that’s not folklore anymore.

What is it?

Depends on what we find before and after. It’s difficult to put a barrier between folklore and popular music. The barrier is fiction. The barrier is fiction. I tried to do that in the album: I can’t tell you what’s “folk” on the album. Maybe the most characteristic part of the folklore is this question of melodies: a melody which my grandma sang when she was a baby.

Are there things on the record which were carried through your family?

The lyrics are new. But some melodic gestures—yes (laughter).

Amanda Mur’s Neu Om is out now.

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Thank you for reading the 192nd issue of Tone Glow. The barrier is fiction.

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