Even if us as an audience aren’t really aware, artists are constantly creating and making stuff — only not all of it ends up seeing the light of day. Many need to stay sharp and creative, to have a dynamic creative process in order to get things out of their chest. That’s something that Tekamolo is familiar with. The anonymous artist has created his debut album, titled Best tunes for your answering machine, a little bit like that. “I write a lot of music — I just don’t release all of it,” he tells us in this interview.
Based in Berlin (his moniker is a nod to German grammar), the artist has made this album characterised by the use of mantras and repetition, and a stripped-back production. “I wanted to try leaving only the essence of the songs — the things that feel important to me,” Tekamolo comments. “I can assure you that the last thing I thought about while recording them was style. I was singing these songs to myself and trying to do it in the most natural way possible.” In this interview, we get to know the artist and discuss spirituality, being pressured by industry standards, and beauty.
Hey Tekamolo, it’s a pleasure to speak with you. Doing a quick search, I found that TeKaMoLo is “short for the German words temporal, kausal, modal, and lokal. The rule basically says what the order and structure of a German sentence usually is.” Is there any relationship between German grammar and your pseudonym?
Yeah! Totally. I live in Berlin now and study German, so it’s my way of paying tribute to this country. Besides, Tekamolo fits well with the concept of this project. My music is about losing yourself in time and space. I want the listener to experience that feeling of losing their own sense of self.
In a world obsessed with celebrity culture and equating fame with success, having a private identity is a bold, unexpected move. What do you like about being anonymous? What do you think it offers to you in terms of audience perception, creativity, and also personal relief (from events, expectations, etc.)?
I want to stay anonymous because I think it’s the most honest approach. I want people to listen to my music without expectations or prejudice. We live in a world where we are constantly forced to sell ourselves (mostly on social media); I don’t want that. I just want to make music because that’s what I feel and love. And I think anonymity allows people to connect with the music more easily — nothing distracts them.
But you aren’t always this private; if I’m not wrong, you have another artistic moniker for which you’re widely known. Do you fear that if people know your ‘other’ identity, they’ll judge the Tekamolo project differently? Or that one personality will affect the other somehow?
I think that’s just human nature. We like to categorise things. We want to put everything and everyone into a specific box and expect them to stay there forever. But I change, and I want to make different kinds of music. To be honest, I don’t want to disappoint people. But at the same time, I don’t want to be a crowd-pleaser. I just want to create music and share it with those who are truly interested.
“My music is about losing yourself in time and space. I want the listener to experience that feeling of losing their own sense of self.”
You’re debuting with the album best tunes for your answering machine — such a funny name! Could you tell us how this LP came to be?
About twenty years ago, I read somewhere that Devendra Banhart recorded his first album using an answering machine. He just called his friend’s house and sang his songs to nobody. This image stuck with me for years. I think it’s really poetic because it means these songs are meant for no one. If you’re forced to record your music on an answering machine, it might mean that the person you’re singing to doesn’t want to talk to you.
But the album’s name can also be understood in a completely different way — these could be the songs you hear when you call someone, broadcasting the feelings of the person you’re trying to reach. This person might be desperate, but there’s a small hope that, eventually, someone will call and listen.
But the album’s name can also be understood in a completely different way — these could be the songs you hear when you call someone, broadcasting the feelings of the person you’re trying to reach. This person might be desperate, but there’s a small hope that, eventually, someone will call and listen.
You describe the tracks as “skeletons of songs,” “wounded mantra-songs,” and also as “dreams that never had the chance to be dreamed.” I find this so poetic. What was the creative process of assembling these type of songs like? What was the approach?
Thank you. I constantly feel that music has too many layers, that the most important thing is hidden behind an endless pile of sounds, words, and meanings. Perhaps this is influenced by the incredible possibilities of modern software and instruments. Music is getting thicker, louder, and, as a result, more intrusive. That’s why I wanted to try leaving only the essence of the songs — the things that feel important to me.
I wrote these songs quite quickly, as if something inside me had built up and was bursting to get out. It was a very natural process: it might sound cliché, but I recorded these songs simply because I couldn’t not record them. And that is the best feeling in the world. The main reason to make music and perhaps the only truly worthwhile reason.
I wrote these songs quite quickly, as if something inside me had built up and was bursting to get out. It was a very natural process: it might sound cliché, but I recorded these songs simply because I couldn’t not record them. And that is the best feeling in the world. The main reason to make music and perhaps the only truly worthwhile reason.
When you’re creating (be it writing lyrics anywhere or producing in the studio), do you do anything to tap into a specific mood? Or do you need anything special (complete silence, a cup of coffee, white noise in the background) to concentrate and work?
The most ordinary things: I try to avoid noise and walk a lot. I also go on solo bike trips for a few days. I ride through the forest on my bike and sing. Honestly, I think this is what we fear the most — being alone with ourselves. Maybe that’s why I value this state so much.
The songs in the record are more a stylistic exercise than a profound exploration of the self, stripping the artist’s ego away. You say that they “are not sung to the world, nor to anyone tangible, but solely to oneself and to the unseen.” Have you felt a sort of incomparable freedom when making them? No expectations means you can do whatever you want, I guess.
It’s hard for me to judge how these songs are perceived. But I can assure you that the last thing I thought about while recording them was style. I was singing these songs to myself and trying to do it in the most natural way possible. And if your only listener is yourself, then, of course, you don’t try to fool yourself. There’s just no point in it. So you simply sing and play. And whatever happens, happens. I know this sounds like ordinary musician marketing nonsense. ‘I just did what the song asked for, blah blah blah.’ But that’s truly how I felt. And maybe that’s the most valuable thing about this record for me. This is an album for no one!
When listening to them, there’s clearly a sense of void, of loneliness, of being left alone in this world. Is this feeling something you strived for?
This is what I felt and tried to convey through music — despair and hope. And these songs also have a bit of the morning birdsong, the roar of a raging wind, and the rasp of a wounded animal.
Some might argue the audience could feel alienated with this. But music, like any other art form, is a tool to make us feel and provoke, to expand our world and help us broaden our horizons. Do you see Best tunes for your answering machine as something that contributes to that?
I hope this album shows the listener the world in all its complexity and beauty. I believe that beauty emerges everywhere — you just need time and patience. You need to look closely at the world around you, to watch and not turn away. With music, though, it’s a little different: I hope that in this record, there are at least a few moments when the listener will want to close their eyes instead.
“Music is getting thicker, louder, and, as a result, more intrusive. That’s why I wanted to try leaving only the essence of the songs.”
In Oh No, I loved: “You can be broken, it doesn’t make you useless.” Do you find beauty in broken things or even people?
It’s obvious: we live in a world of strict standards, including beauty. But of course, beauty is everywhere. I believe there’s much more of it in wrinkles, dissonance, yawns, shattered glass, screams, and stifled laughter when you fall off a bike. Basically, in everything that’s usually considered ugly.
These lyrics, plus the approach of producing songs “solely to oneself,” give me strong anti-capitalist, anti-productivist vibes. Am I right?
I definitely wasn’t thinking about that while recording. And I write a lot of music — I just don’t release all of it. So I guess I’m not exactly an anti-productivist. On the other hand, I constantly feel the pressure of the industry — more, faster. And of course, that’s annoying. But then again, all the unsolicited advice from the media telling you to slow down, find your flow, and so on — that’s just as irritating. I guess I just want people to leave me the fuck alone. And at the same time, I want them to listen to me (laughs). We’re all full of contradictions.
In Please, we hear that we are children of God, followed by a speech about religion. What role does spirituality play in the LP in particular, and in your artistry in general?
I am not a religious person, but I suppose you could say that I am spiritual. I just feel it — that humans cannot be reduced to reflexes, neural connections, and everything that science knows about us. Maybe I am an agnostic. I recently found myself in Padua for the first time and saw Giotto’s frescoes. That was a truly spiritual experience — there’s no other way to describe it. And of course, I try to grasp something like that within myself and translate it through music, to the best of my abilities.
There is actually a lot of talking in these songs, in addition to repetitive mantras (“Your love never failed me yet” in Never, or “I will not survive in this gentle world” in World). How important is speech for you in music-making? Is the voice and what it says as important as the sounds and production underlying them?
Yes. Perhaps these words, repeated many times, are important to me. It’s their meaning and how that meaning gets lost through repetition. I wanted them to be songs, even with a minimum of words. It seems to me that repetition, on one hand, erases the meanings of words, but on the other hand, it seems to return them to their original, ‘empty’ form. In J.D. Salinger’s story Teddy, the main character reflects on language. On how the meaning of many words, their sense, and often the words themselves, are imposed on us. We just get used to them.
Here's how he would like to ‘teach’ children at school: “I wouldn’t even tell them an elephant has a trunk. I might show them an elephant, if I had one handy, but I’d let them just walk up to the elephant not knowing anything more about it than the elephant knew about them. The same thing with grass, and other things. I wouldn’t even tell them grass is green. Colours are only names. I mean if you tell them the grass is green, it makes them start expecting the grass to look a certain way – your way – instead of some other way that may be just as good, and may be much better… I don’t know. I’d just make them vomit up every bit of the apple their parents and everybody made them take a bite out of.”
Here's how he would like to ‘teach’ children at school: “I wouldn’t even tell them an elephant has a trunk. I might show them an elephant, if I had one handy, but I’d let them just walk up to the elephant not knowing anything more about it than the elephant knew about them. The same thing with grass, and other things. I wouldn’t even tell them grass is green. Colours are only names. I mean if you tell them the grass is green, it makes them start expecting the grass to look a certain way – your way – instead of some other way that may be just as good, and may be much better… I don’t know. I’d just make them vomit up every bit of the apple their parents and everybody made them take a bite out of.”
The title refers to a machine that, we imagine, talks to us. How do you envision this machine?
I imagine an old, worn-out, and dusty answering machine. A little box with a red light that comes on. Ideally, it has a microcassette inside — do you remember those, almost like toys? And when someone calls, of course, no one picks up the receiver, and the cassette just turns on and starts playing a Tekamolo album.
To finish, I assume you won’t be presenting this project live, are you? Since you want to remain anonymous. But I’m curious, what do you think a Tekamolo live act would look like?
Actually, I dream of performing these songs. I’d probably play in a mask — a simple one. It seems to me that a paper bag over my head would be enough. And minimal lighting on stage. Anonymity really does offer freedom. Under the bag, you can be anyone. And that doesn’t really matter. What I want is for the music itself to matter. For us, together with the listeners, to immerse ourselves in a collective dream. And in a dream, you can be anyone.
