Eli Keszler doesn’t just write music; he builds worlds. The New York-based composer, percussionist, and multidisciplinary artist returns with a self-titled album that feels like a descent into a fractured dreamscape. Released via Luckyme, the record marks a bold step into song-driven territory, blending noir jazz, abstract electronics, whispered vocals, and cinematic textures into a deeply personal soundscape.
Known for his boundary-defying work with everyone from Oneohtrix Point Never and Skrillex to scoring films and staging installations at MoMA PS1 and the Whitney, Keszler's new album is his most vulnerable and expansive yet, an exploration of transformation, loss, and the quiet drama of emotional interiors. We caught up with the artist to talk about embracing sincerity, working with Sofie Royer and Sam Gendel, and what it means to ‘live inside’ music in an age of distraction.
This is your sixth solo full-length release. What made this the right moment to release a self-titled album, and does it feel like the truest expression of your sound to date?
I think it’s been more than that, but yes, it does. I finally faced myself in a way I hadn’t before. It’s the most exposed I’ve ever been in my music, and I grew a lot from it.
This is your second release with Luckyme. What drew you to release with the label, and how did the collaboration come about?
Dom asked me to speak about working together and we connected on a bunch of different levels. It’s a label with a rare combination of ingredients, and I’m very grateful to be working with them.
Your work often blurs the lines between sound design, composition, and visual art. Did you approach this album differently in terms of concept or process?
I often get asked this, and I think the real truth is that the only way to authentically work across mediums is to believe they are all the same: different expressions of a single impulse. If the impulse is pure and the expression is authentic, you just follow it wherever it leads and execute. Music best expresses feeling and colour, so that’s what I focus on when I’m making it. I understand the story, the project, the aim, and take it from there.
You’ve worked with artists across a wide spectrum: Oneohtrix Point Never, Skrillex, Laurel Halo, and scored films like Olmo Schnabel's Pet Shop Days (2023), Lotfy Nathan’s Harka (2022), and Dasha Nekrasova’s The Scary of Sixty-First (2021). How do you shift your mindset between scoring, collaboration, and solo work?
It’s really about what I said above. These are just different expressions. In film, I submit to the story — I pay really close attention to the director. I listen, but I also really listen to the film itself and what it wants to say. I think about how I can help the film become the best version of itself, and surprise everyone in the process. I try and take real chances and see what happens.
This album features contributions from Sofie Royer and Sam Gendel. How did their involvement come about, and how did they shape the album’s emotional palette?
I wanted to work with a female vocalist because I had a specific sound in my head I couldn’t shake. I’d heard Sofie’s music, I know her, and I immediately thought: her voice has a texture and colour that would contrast beautifully with this music. I wanted to bring out a darker shade that I hear in her voice that I hadn’t heard in her records.
Sam and I have been threatening to make a record together for a while, but the timing has never quite worked out, this year I hope. I could hear his sound over this album and just wanted to let him go off. And he did, as usual, with his kind of breezy musicality.
Heji Shin’s photography has a striking, visceral quality. What drew you to working with her on the visual elements of the campaign?
Heji is a dear friend of mine. We had talked about doing something together, and since this record does feel like the purest expression I’ve made, I wanted to put a portrait on the cover. Heji said, of course, which I’m grateful for. And here we are.
There’s a tactile, almost physical quality to your percussion. How do you translate that energy into recorded form without losing its immediacy?
I think the answer is: you don’t. But that’s recorded music in general, so you have to work with that limitation. Morton Feldman has a piece called Three Voices for a live singer and two pre-recorded versions of the same singer. He described it as “an alive sound with two dead sounds.” I like that descriptor. You do gain a kind of detail that’s unique to recording; a micro sound world can be amplified, or an odd part of an instrument can become the focus. That’s how I try to approach it. You have to embrace the power of recording and be ok with losing some realism.
There’s a contrast between earnestness and restraint in your writing. How do you walk that tightrope without tipping into melodrama or irony?
I’m glad that this dualism comes across. I’ve struggled with the irony-laden millennial culture I grew up with. I never connected to it. I’ve always appreciated sincerity, earnestness, emotion… also brutal humor and directness. It’s not irony or melodrama, that’s the problem. It’s when they become the default posture of a culture or an artist, and everything becomes camp and loses its meaning. Melodrama is the over-identification with feelings; irony is the lack of identification with meaning. I think of David Lynch, Douglas Sirk, or in music, Scott Walker, or even romantics like Bruckner as using melodrama but to their own ends. I’d say this album uses melodrama but does something with it. It tries to speak darker truths, with deep sincerity and humour. That’s what I’m more and more drawn to. In a culture that often feels devoid of meaning and suspicious of sincerity, almost viewing it as a disease, there’s something radical about leaning into it.
Who or what were you listening to most while making the album? Were there any unexpected influences?
I was listening to a lot of late Romantic music like Mahler, Bruckner, and Beethoven, while also diving into dub — Mad Professor, King Tubby, Wackies records. I was also revisiting a lot of ’90s production styles like Portishead, Tricky, stuff like that. I wanted to see what would happen if all of those influences collided with my own style and writing. The record really clicked after seeing Lost Highway again in theatres. I realised that all of these languages could exist under one roof. After that, the album came together.
The opening and closing tracks (Wild Wild West and Drip Drip Drip) seem to bookend the album with deeply personal themes. How did these songs come together, and what do they signify for you emotionally?
It would be difficult, and maybe not right, for me to try and sum things up emotionally. But I will say this album is about loss, love, beauty, violence. The lyrics evoke all sorts of archetypal themes. Wild Wild West is about freedom and what it means to be free in a world where we’re all tethered by technology and the ever-presence of civilization. Drip Drip Drip is about the end of life, based on the last words my father spoke.
You said, “The world doesn’t feel so static anymore.” Do you see this album as a reflection of cultural volatility, or a more personal transformation?
I do, yeah. It’s about both to me. But I’d rather let listeners come to their own conclusions.
In the era of short attention spans, your work demands deep listening. What do you hope people take away from spending time with this album?
I hope people live inside the music. Listen to it in all settings of life and see what it does. I think any music really requires listening. A single moment has infinite depth. I hope they explore the record in different ways and in different states.
And lastly, do you have any upcoming projects you’d like to tease?
I think I’ve already said too much.