“I think often, the material I’m working with is already imperfect. You’re sort of trying to strive for some ideal “thing” — but really, what you’re left with is the reality of your own ability, your own imagination, your own shortcomings.”
Lara Agar
Lara Agar is a British composer, violinist, and improviser. Hailing from Suffolk, Lara’s work is rooted in experimental and collaborative music making with a “homegrown” approach, interested in the accidental, the found, indeterminacy, messiness of stuff, and going with mistakes. Lara’s music has been released on October House Records (Solstice, 2023), and performed by ensembles such as Explore Ensemble, Juliet Fraser and Mark Knoop, orkest de ereprijs, Exaudi, Plus-Minus Ensemble, and Quatuor Bozzini; she has received dance commissions for Sadler’s Wells/Dance East and National Dance Company Wales, and was nominated for an Ivor Novello Award in 2022. Lara studied at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama with Cassandra Miller, Laurence Crane, and Paul Newland, and was a Junior Fellow at the Guildhall from 2019-20; she was also a LSO Panufnik Composer 2022-23, and has been commissioned by the London Symphony Orchestra for their 2024-25 season. Lara founded experimental concert series Tantrum, with its first two concerts taking place at IKLECTIK in London in 2023.
Lara’s debut EP Solstice was released on October House Records in October 2023; following the EP’s release, we sat down with Lara in Clapham, and chatted about listening, warping sounds, obscuring sound sources, embracing imperfection, the closure of IKLECTIK, and more…
–
Zyggy/PRXLUDES: What were your earliest musical experiences? How did you first get involved with making music?
Lara Agar: My musical background started out as playing violin. I had a very dedicated [violin] teacher. I loved violin — I saw it on TV as a three year old, and I thought that it was cool. -laughs- I always wanted to learn, but my mum didn’t let me start until I was older, because she thought I would be too young. So I always had this thing [with music] of “oh, I really wanna do that.” I always felt more comfortable anytime there was an improvising situation. I was quite slow with sight-reading; it wasn’t until I’d been at uni for three years that I actually could sight-read. Until then, I always struggled — and then I’d suddenly feel at home when there was a more “free” situation. I [also] used to play piano for fun — I used to muck around on that. And it kind of went from there.
My mum was managing a singer-songwriter [at the same time]. She used to go to recording sessions, and I used to occasionally play a bit of violin when I was 13, 14. So I had this classical teaching, and then this other kind of influence. We used to joke that I’m the nerdy daughter who was really into classical [music], and my mum was off with bands being way cooler than me. -laughs- There was this time where I was like “I wanna go down to London for a gig with my friends”, and my mum was like “You can’t go to a gig in London on your own! What even is the gig?” — and it [was] a string quartet at the Wigmore Hall! Like, oh my god, my daughter’s such a nerd… -laughs-
So you’ve had quite a pluralistic upbringing — were your first explorations in composition informed by improvisation, or working with bands?
I think it was through improvisation — but also, I used to write little things down. Initially I was not so much inspired by contemporary music, but all the stuff I was playing. A lot of the string repertoire — especially string orchestra [music] — and it started from there. I was always into the experience of what it felt like to play; how things felt, that kind of side of it. And I felt that was quite intuitive.
I never really thought [composition] was something I was allowed to do, or then be able to do, until I went to uni. I went to the University of Manchester, and I did a music degree; I never knew what I really wanted to do, but I knew that I was really loving music. I spent some time moving away from classical stuff — I played less for a whole year, and did other stuff, and then I totally missed it and went back to it. But in that time, I wrote a string quartet for [a] visiting quartet called Quatuor Danel, from Belgium. I think I was 20. They played this quartet, and I was like “wow, this is incredible…!” — and then I thought okay, this is what I wanna do.
What was it about the experience of working with Quatuor Danel that affirmed your pursuing composition?
That [feeling] of having these ideas played back to me. It just sounded incredible. They’re a brilliant quartet, and they elevated everything; I could never do that on my own. This sharing, collaborating with musicians who bring a whole extra element to your work, is really amazing.
In terms of how your compositional voice developed — were there any particular formative experiences during your studies?
I think going to Guildhall was a really influential and important time for me. The community at Guildhall is really awesome. At the time I was there, I really loved it. I started out studying with Paul Newland. We used to just listen to stuff in the lessons, and that was really awesome; I think I felt like “what should I be listening to” — I don’t have this knowledge, I maybe have gaps here and there — and he said “just listen to what you like”. That kind of idea that you can be into what you want to be into, was a really big shift.
Of course — like receiving that permission to listen to what you like, regardless of style, kind of helps unlock that creativity.
Until that point, I think I’d really been coming from a players’ point of view. I used to like to write what felt good to me, as a performer. I think that I didn’t have an objective view on the whole picture. When I first went to Guildhall, I didn’t actually play any violin for a whole year. I think I remember taking it out [of] the case once or twice — two occasions. That was actually really important, because I stepped back from this idea of whether I’m enjoying playing to it — rather, am I interested in what I’m listening to? Am I hearing the whole thing? That was really cool, because then I got this outside perspective on everything. I had to take myself off from that comfort [zone] in order to think differently.
Now, I try and incorporate both a bit more. I then really missed that — I felt really disconnected from what I was writing. I missed that physicality that you get as a player; that immediate connection. But it was really good at breaking away from those tropes that you automatically fall into.
I get that completely — when I’m writing, I deliberately try and avoid writing “on” an instrument, because it’s so easy to fall into the same patterns.
It falls around your technique. As a player, you [can] go “oh, that’s really nice to play” — doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s interesting as a compositional work (for me). I think then, crafting music specifically — giving it its own identity, trying to find a new world — I had to step away from the instrument for that.
Much of your compositional work nowadays revolves around electronics — particularly samples and found sounds. Tell me a bit about how this side of your practice developed?
Yeah! The electronics came practically for a couple of reasons. The first was [that] I was doing a lot with dance. A lot of the time, I just needed material, and I didn’t necessarily have access to musicians. It was a way of getting sounds into a rehearsal room, and trying stuff out. I was already into found sounds, and field recording; but in lockdown, when none of us were able to meet — which had been so integral to making music together — electronics then became a way to continue making stuff, that I could do on my own. I guess I started combining them with acoustic [sounds] after.
I always liked the immediacy of working straight with recordings. It’s a really different tool. You can see exactly what it is that your paintbrush, if you like, is doing. I think that potentially comes from a lack of patience… -laughs- I just want to get stuck into stuff — and you can get stuff off your chest a bit.
Your most recent EP Solstice, that was released last year on October House Records, features these kinds of manipulations of found sounds. I understand parts of your record were performed by Christian Drew?
All of those tracks were written around the same time — and that was in June of 2020. I called it ‘Solstice’ because most of those [tracks] were written on that summer solstice day — or around those days. And then I worked on them slowly, mixing and editing/cutting, reorganising what I had. Christian and I studied together at Guildhall, and had this idea in lockdown [of doing] something with both our instruments, because everything’s shut down. A few of the tracks are from that — I specifically wrote some pieces for violin and accordion — and then some of them are for strings only. I’ve always loved string orchestras — it’s my total, absolute favourite medium. So one of the [tracks] is a demo for a string orchestra piece, which I never found a string orchestra to play.
As well as being written at the same time — were these tracks also conceptually connected?
It kind of all seemed to go around the same time; so they seem to all fit together. Coming back home as an adult, reflecting on what it was like to grow up on the east coast of Suffolk — which is a really lovely part of the world. [It] has these big open skies, sandy tracks everywhere. It’s really an homage to Suffolk, and also using the instrument again, reconnecting with the “player” side, but from a more objective perspective. Combining those two elements. Super nostalgic basically.
How did you treat and manipulate the found sounds and string/accordion textures that make up the album?
I was into this idea of having loads of versions of the same thing — but had then been totally manipulated away from what they originally started as. I just made loads of versions by putting the whole [track] through software, mucking around, being playful with it. Just exploring and seeing what would happen. The album is a selection of a few chosen variations on that; there’s loads that didn’t make it on.
Tell me a bit more about warping and manipulating found sounds — is that something that’s central to your practice with electronics more generally?
I definitely feel like I’m exploring something new; warping what might sound like quite an ordinary palette into something else. It’s more like a tool to create a new sound, something different. Starting with a field recording, or a recording of myself playing violin — whatever it is — is just a basis to try and get something else out of it. I quite like when you can’t necessarily hear what the original sound source was. Sometimes it’s arbitrary, sometimes it’s really meaningful; but you might not necessarily have any idea what it was, and that’s fine. It’s a means to finding something [where] I think “that’s interesting, that has a particular feeling that I like — let’s stay in that.”
You’ve mentioned that many of your musical interests revolve around ideas of imperfection. Do you see these ideas of warping sound and imperfection as related?
Yes, in a way! Imperfection, and obscuring the original source… I think often, the material I’m working with is already imperfect. You’re sort of trying to strive for some ideal “thing” — but really, what you’re left with is the reality of your own ability, your own imagination, your own shortcomings. Then, it’s a case of really looking at what that is — and trying to work out how to deal with it in a way that generates its own life, its own sentiment. Its own energy, its own essence.
So this old (but still prevalent) idea of a composer imposing their formally “god-given” idea onto the paper… I think I take more of an approach of a guest. You generate the material, perfect or not, you see what it’s given [to] you, where it needs to go.
I get that completely — an approach where you’re not necessarily needing complete control.
You’re more facilitating the space for things to coexist, and coincide. The thing is that you have to find [material] that has substance, that wants to go; and it’s allowing that to do its thing. I use a lot of indetermination; setting things off which juxtapose each other, or have some kind of tension.
How you’re talking about this kind of indetermination reminds me of your Ivors-nominated piece ‘This Unquiet Autumn’ — which you wrote for Juliet Fraser in 2021. Tell me a bit about how that piece came about…
Juliet [Fraser] gave me a book by Rachel Carson, who was [a] biological scientist and creative writer — and managed to marry these two fields together in a really remarkable way in the 50s. [She] had this amazing overview of the microcosmic world of the sea; the minute and detailed myriad of life enmeshing, and how it’s all interconnected. At the same time, [she] was speaking out against the use of pesticides and chemicals, and was really silenced by that. I wanted to bring those two elements together.
How did you treat the manipulation of text in the piece — and where did the textual sources come from?
When I’m composing, I try and think about experience rather than narrative. I think it’s [about] creating this “space” that you sit in for a while. [The piece] has this harsh electronic opening which doesn’t sound particularly “comfortable” — but it sits there for a while, and then the voice is within that.
I didn’t want [the text] to be “telling” you to do anything. I think a way of obscuring the text is that you break it down, and it becomes more than just the meaning of the words, more about the sounds. It’s there, inherently, but not at the forefront of what you necessarily hear. There are these beautiful phrases that I initially took from her book, Under the Sea Wind, and I selected a few words, quotes, [and] snippets here and there. She [Carson] has this lovely story about this prematurely born fish. I really loved that this fish was “unfinished”; she described it as “unready”, floating through [the] sea. And then I actually had to rewrite the text; we had permission for it to be performed, but not to be recorded. So I then rewrote my own “version” of what I felt like it was about.
Tell me more about how you’ve approached text — how have you managed to both portray and obfuscate meaning? I remember there’s a piece you wrote for the Festival of Laurence Crane…
Yeah — ‘Ham’. That was written in a different process, because it was written for friends of mine. We had some time to workshop it in a really casual setting. The piece kind of came together in the room; it’s all parts — [there’s] no score — I would give people different parts, and see “okay, what happens if you all play that at the same time, what happens if we stop you for a bit, what happens if this and this and this…”, and it just kind of clicked. I was really happy.
The music is essentially a gift to this monkey called Ham — who was sent into space. I thought that must be an incredibly stressful and traumatic journey. He crash-landed and was left for three hours in a pod; and when he was rescued, a lot of the press, and the media said “Oh look, he’s smiling! He must have enjoyed it” — and all the animal rights activists said “Hang on, this is not a sign of happiness — this is a sign of distress.” So a quote from them1 is the only lyric. It’s portrayed as this quite light, a little bit aloof thing — but at the heart of it is a message.
There’s a kind of experiential juxtaposition there, right? When you obscure text, or material, it’s serving to amplify the message, even if it feels more aloof.
I think that I take inspiration from outside sources — but I don’t think they need to be overtly there when you listen to it. You can dig for it; they’re sort of hidden there, I guess, rather than put at the forefront. It’s sort of painting an object that sits there, and then comes with whatever it comes with — if that makes sense.
How important is it that audiences are able to discover these messages — as you’ve made the compositional decision to include them? What are you trying to portray, experientially, through obfuscation?
The experiential is about sitting with something as more of a feeling, rather than a thought. If you ever get those feelings where, for like ten seconds, [you experience] this certain light, or comment, or something all colliding — and you have a particular feeling: what if that feeling was stretched? What if it was expanded, and you stayed in that split second for a long time? Music can do this thing where with stasis, you can stay in a world — unlike visual arts, where you can look at a painting, but then you can choose to look away at any moment. I think the reason for including obscured text is [in] honouring where the thought initially came from, but not necessarily demanding that it be read as such.
Like when you remove the stimulus from the experience of a feeling?
And you’re left with a shell, or an outline — a ghost of it. And then it becomes something else, you’re not imposing what you think about it. It’s come from something, and it’s become something else. And it’s gone, it’s off, it’s out of your hands. I always think that’s interesting, when you feel like it doesn’t quite belong to you; you put these elements together, and it [becomes] its own thing.
With pieces like ‘Ham’ — what role does indeterminate notation play within your practice?
[We] spoke about this idea of imperfection. I think what indeterminacy does is allow you to set things off together, that maybe juxtapose. Maybe the order of these collisions don’t quite matter. But the overall experience, and the overall sound world, the overall embodiment of this combination makes something particular. A narrow window of freedom.
I always find this kind of a fine line; I’ve had experiences where it’s been way too “free”, and there’s no point and you have to rein it in. It’s allowing for this layering to happen, quite freely; but it’s important that it has its own identity, so it’s not the same as just asking players to improvise.
Tell me a bit about what you’ve got coming up. I know you’ve recently been commissioned by the London Symphony Orchestra — how have you approached writing for orchestra?
More recently — and with ‘Solstice’ — [I] have started having moments where people play together. You do get a lot from that. There’s something with an orchestra — when you have 80 people in a room — there’s some emotion when everyone plays at the same time, just in the co-ordination of it. That’s what’s remarkable about an orchestra. So some of the things that I lost, with the more indeterminate works — where they’re very indeterminate — you miss that togetherness, I guess. I did use [indeterminacy] in the creation of the work — and I edited it, and chose which parts I wanted to use. But I still will come back to this things of putting things together, and seeing what happens; seeing if it does something [for me].
Are there any other projects you have coming up that you’re particularly excited about?
I have just finished an album, Fields Become Sky, which was a total collaboration with Louis d’Heudieres. He now lives in Hamburg; but we both grew up in East Anglia. It’s got violins, synths, and voice; it’s an exploration of the old kingdom of the Anglo-Saxons. We used a lot of Old English. We explored that in a really fun way. So I’m really excited about [it]; and we’re gonna perform it in Germany this year, as well as in the UK (TBC!).
Other than that, I’m currently working on a new commission from the LSO, which is an utter dream, and am just starting a new piece for the wonderful Explore Ensemble at the Aldeburgh Festival this June. It’s such an honour to write for them as they are fantastic musicians, and I love their repertoire so it’s great to be included in that. The project takes me back to Suffolk again which I’m very happy about too.
Finally: alongside your compositional practice, you’ve also spent the past year putting together experimental music series Tantrum in London — tell me a bit about how you started this concert series?
Yeah! I thought [about] when you leave college — being a student is amazing, because you’re allowed to take these risks, and try stuff out. I definitely tried things at Guildhall that didn’t work, and I learned a huge amount from that. When you leave, you have to “prove” something — and if you get a commission, you want to put your best foot forward. I really want Tantrum to be a place that can be [about] making stuff really fast, or trying something in a different way: “I’ve always wanted to do something with video”, or “I’ve come from a design background and I really want to compose a piece”. Bringing different art works together, different collaborations. Having it as a platform for people, where [things] can be a work-in-progress. I really want it to be for artists to do what they want to do, without imposing too much of my own ideas.
[When] I started Tantrum, there was a lot of going to listen to quiet music — amazing durational stuff, which I totally love, and has influenced me in a big way. I always wanted Tantrum to be like a kickback; noise that we’re allowed to have as toddlers, but we’re not really allowed to have as adults. It doesn’t need to be that the whole event is even necessarily a “loud”, or chaotic thing. It’s sort of like this permission. I don’t give anyone a brief, other than: use this as a place to try something new.
I think — more than I expected — it felt like an important platform. A few concert series that used to run have stopped running, a few people have moved abroad; I think that maybe there’s a space for it. It’s not trying to be “like” anything else — there’s already such a rich, diverse activity [in London], and it wants to complement and add to that. Support each other.
You’ve had two concerts so far at IKLECTIK — a London art space which is sadly facing eviction this year… How has the experience of managing those concerts with IKLECTIK informed where you’ll be taking Tantrum in the future?
We’ve been lucky to start the series with some fantastic people, so I’m really excited to build on it over the next year.
As for where Tantrum goes in the future, I’m not yet sure although have a few options. IKLECTIK are really the reason this has been able to start up. I love the inclusive and friendly environment. This is partially down to Ed and Isa who run it being so wonderful, and the location itself… We’ll have to see where we end up, but it will be hard to find somewhere as special. Like a lot of people in our community, we’re really gonna miss it. IKLECTIK have given us such a wonderful start, which I’ll always be grateful for, and hope to carry their ethos forward.
–
Lara Agar’s debut EP Solstice is currently out on October House Records – you can buy the record at:
Learn more about Lara and her practice at the following links:
References/Links:
- Rachel Carson, Under the Sea Wind: A Naturalist’s Picture of Ocean Life (Simon & Schuster, 1941)
Footnotes:
- “he had a smile on his face — but,” said the experts, “that’s a sign of great distress, that’s a sign of great distress” ↩︎
