“This isn’t background music. It demands thoughtfulness, reflection, and movement. In Decolmuseum, sound becomes activism — memory as protest, noise as healing, art as reclamation.”
Combining contemporary music, folk metal, and Indonesian keroncong style, cellist and composer Alfian Emir Adytia (Emir Cello)‘s latest album Decolmuseum is a mesmerising and high-octane listen; seething against the Netherlands’ history of colonial violence in Indonesia, through a backbone of traditional classical training and a love of heavy metal. Rooted in his Javanese and Minangkabau roots while living as a diaspora in Europe, Emir’s work offers a unique perspective on both historical and contemporary cultural kaleidoscope, blending seamlessly the East and West as well as breaking its border at the same time.
Alfian Emir Adytia is an Indonesian performing artist, composer and conductor based in the Netherlands. Emir’s presence both on stage and behind the score is a captivating blend of bodily ecstasy and spiritual transcendence, creating an immersive and transformative experience for the audience. Emir studied at the Yogyakarta High School of Music, Indonesian Institute of the Arts Yogyakarta, and the Royal Conservatoire of The Hague; his accolades include prizes at the Calefax Composers Competition in Amsterdam (2022), the Bartók World Competition for Composition in Budapest (2022), and a feature in Spitfire Audio LABS Community Playlist in London.
Following the release of Decolmuseum, we asked Emir to take us through the first two tracks of the album, challenging imperial cultural narratives while connecting musical disciplines and traditions…
Decolmuseum: A Sonic Reckoning of Colonial Trauma
In 2019, I graduated from the classical music department of The Royal Conservatoire of The Hague, carrying a cello and luggage: packed with the skills of a conservatory-trained musician, prepared for the narrow windows of opportunity for a non-European orchestral cellist, chamber musician, and solo artist in the Netherlands’ classical music scene. The last professional orchestra audition I attended before the world changed was in Brussels. Over 80 cellists gathered, warming up with the same music in a shared space — a mesmerising chorus of preparation and ambition. Amid this cacophony, I felt a strange calm. I parked my cello case in a safe corner, stepped outside for a kretek cigarette, and quietly decided: once I returned to The Hague, I would “leave this world.” Not life itself, but the rigid world of orchestral auditions and the impossible dream of a touring non-white soloist.
I left Brussels with joy, carrying not disappointment but clarity. And then, the world shifted.
When Covid-19 arrived, it did more than disrupt routines — it reshaped my identity as a musician. Auditions ceased, and new policies excluded non-EU musicians like me from even the slim chances that remained. Suddenly, my “9.5/10 with distinction” diploma from a prestigious European conservatory seemed absurdly futile. Survival became a more immediate concern, and in the silence of those isolated months, I finally embraced the decision I had flirted with in Brussels: I would leave “this world.”
But leaving one world means entering another. I began to explore paths that felt more like home: electronic music, keroncong music, progressive rock on cello, guitar, and voice; writing songs; creating videos and visual art. These new pursuits were a liberation — a breaking of the chains of perfectionism.
In the freedom of this revolutionary period, I found myself reconnecting with the history of my homeland, Indonesia. Collaborations emerged, crossing disciplines I had never ventured into before. Writers, filmmakers, dancers, visual artists, and scholars entered my orbit, shaping projects that intertwined music, history, and storytelling. One of the first, a DIY music-film project called ‘Di Antara’, raised funds for Covid-19 relief in my hometown, Yogyakarta. From there, doors opened. Opportunities to engage with post-colonial themes became a new focus, sparked by King Willem-Alexander’s 2020 apology for the excessive violence committed by the Dutch side during the Indonesian War Of Independence (1945-1949) — a gesture whose timeline and sincerity left me pondering.
The stark contrasts between how colonial history is taught in the Netherlands and in Indonesia deepened my curiosity. Words like “trade” replaced “slavery,” and “police action” sanitised “military aggression.” These linguistic subtleties opened both my outer and inner eyes. I traded Popper’s Hohe Schule des Violoncello-Spiels for Ricklefs’ History of Modern Indonesia, and Schoenberg’s Theory of Harmony for Vlekke’s Nusantara. What began as a personal exploration became a calling, as I wove these narratives into music, art, and collaborative performances.
In Amsterdam’s De Nieuwe Kerk, during the exhibition De Grote Indonesië (The Great Indonesia), I found myself face-to-face with a moment of transcendence. There, hanging on a quiet wall, was an original sketch of Prince Diponegoro — a figure I had only known through reproductions in books and screens. Seeing the sketch in person felt like stepping into another dimension. The noise of the exhibition faded; my pupils dilated as if listening to an unspoken wejangan; a spiritual whisper. That moment became the gateway to a series of profound encounters in spaces heavy with colonial memory: performing in a recreated Dutch East India Company (Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie, or V.O.C.) meeting room in Amsterdam, ritualistic acts on V.O.C-plein1 in Delfshaven, and reciting Sunan Kalijaga’s prayers in a former shipyard.
Decolmuseum emerged not as a definitive historical account, but as an artistic and spiritual exploration of the colonial past and its enduring shadows on the edge of our fingertips today. It examines post-colonial struggles: Indonesia’s battle with inferiority complexes and nepotism, the Netherlands’ romanticisation of its colonial era, and worldwide entrenched hypercapitalism syndrome. The album delves into these themes, exploring their resonance in today’s digital world: from broken healthcare systems, insurance companies, child abuse on social media, fake life-coach healing gurus, ongoing illegal land occupations.
Decolmuseum
This track tells a deeply emotional story of betrayal, exploitation, and the lasting trauma of historical injustice. With stark, uncompromising language, I expose the brutal realities of oppression and the generational scars left by greed and violence.
I open with the lines: “They came to kill / They kill to steal” — a grim, unfiltered indictment of colonial conquest. These words paint a harrowing picture: communities devastated not for what they did, but simply because they stood in the way. The repetition drives home the deliberate, systemic nature of these invasions. Later, “They turned our home to hell” captures the emotional wreckage — how safe spaces were violently transformed into scenes of trauma. “They broke their own pledge” calls out the betrayal of treaties and broken promises. When followed by “And now they make us pay,” it shifts to the aftermath — the economic, psychological, and cultural toll still borne by those colonised. Generations left to rebuild from ruin.
Musically, the album begins with a looping, minimalist piano motif, layered with glitchy sonic textures derived from the piano’s raw acoustic material. This gradually builds into a dense soundscape of processed piano, keroncong instruments (cak and cuk), synthesizers, electric bass, amplified cello, and vocals. The result is a rich, uneasy tension between tradition and deconstruction.
As the vocals cycle through, keroncong instruments begin to surface. First the cuk, introducing a rhythmic kotekan motif, then the cak with its interlocking patterns. As the arrangement intensifies, it moves through engkel and dobel styles, building toward a climax. The clean keroncong over a fragmented Steinway piano becomes a sonic act of reclamation—cultural identity reclaimed from imperial distortion.
When I sing “ancestors’ blood and pain,” I am not only honouring the suffering of the past, but also the resilience of those who endured and resisted. These aren’t simply laments — they are acts of remembrance and defiance.
At the song’s peak, the energy suddenly drops — just pizzicato cello and piano, fragile and exposed. But the silence is brief. Wild, headbanging cello riffs crash in, joined by heavy drums in a cathartic shift toward metal. No longer restrained, the cello becomes a weapon — shredding melody into raw, defiant sound. Folk-inspired vocalisations rise above the chaos in the final section, haunting and proud, echoing the unresolved weight of colonial trauma.
The closing cry — “Why?”, repeated again and again — is both plea and provocation. It asks for justice. It voices shared grief. It confronts the inhumanity of violence, and it demands that listeners examine their role in either perpetuating or dismantling systemic oppression.
At its core, Decolmuseum is not just a track — it’s a confrontation. A raw, urgent commentary on cycles of historical exploitation and the enduring power of resistance. It doesn’t offer comfort; it offers clarity. It asks us to remember, reflect, and resist. Because until we understand the “why”, history will keep repeating itself.
The Fall of a Confused Empire
This track reflects the complex, bittersweet relationship between Indonesia and the Netherlands — one that began with betrayal, systemic oppression, and an ongoing struggle for justice. The Dutch East India Company (Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie, or V.O.C.), established in 1602, was a powerful force in the colonization of Nusantara (now Indonesia) until its dissolution in 1799. With a monopoly on Dutch trade in Asia, the V.O.C. blended commercial interests with quasi-governmental powers, establishing its dominance through trade, diplomacy, and military conquest.
Lyrically, I confront historical betrayals, exploitation, and the resilience of the oppressed. I challenge listeners to reflect on the cycles of colonialism and the hypocrisy of those who claim to bring “progress” while perpetuating harm.
The track opens with a cello riff, soon joined by drums and electric bass. The rhythm — seven sixteenth-notes, evoking the sound of a machine gun — sets a tone of aggression and suffocation. Modulations in the chord progressions heighten the tension, creating an atmosphere of narrowing space and impending conflict.
I begin with: “We unlatched doors for your pack, with sincere salutations.” This metaphor of opening doors symbolizes the welcoming gesture of my people, offering trust and goodwill. But betrayal quickly follows: “You betrayed your promise, you kidnapped our parents, corrupted our jouissance, where is your damn heart?” The term “jouissance”, borrowed from French, captures the joy and fulfillment that was stolen. The rhetorical question, “Where is your damn heart?” isn’t just anger — it’s a demand for humanity from those who showed none.
In the refrain, “Go try your best, to govern our existence, but you can’t escape our hidden force,” I speak to the unbreakable resilience of the oppressed. No matter how much they try to dominate, there is a strength within us they cannot suppress. The raw dismissal of “get the fuck out of here” exposes the deep anger and defiance borne from enduring systemic injustice.
In the second verse, I address the ongoing nature of colonial exploitation: “The corporation did fall, it doesn’t mean torture is klaar.” “Klaar” (Dutch for “finished”) is a deliberate choice — oppression doesn’t end with the collapse of colonial structures. I list the countless ways colonizers sought to control: “civilise us, modernise us, cultivate us, moderate us, exploit us, execute us, dominate us, orchestrate us, falsify us, propagate us, fabricate us.” Each verb paints a picture of systemic dehumanisation and the continuous erasure of our identity.
Then comes the line: “Then suddenly, you publish a book of lies!” This represents the ultimate betrayal — not just through exploitation, but by rewriting history to justify the crimes. It’s an attempt to silence the oppressed and manipulate future generations into accepting a false narrative.
The final refrain calls out the greed of the oppressors: “Go try your best, make fortune out of distress, but don’t forget your return-fate!” It’s a reminder that no one escapes justice forever. The concept of “return-fate” evokes the idea of karma — a reckoning for the harm they’ve caused.
The interlude explodes with heavy metal-inspired cellos, bass, and drums, amplified by a falsetto scream on the edge of my vocal range. This chaotic burst of energy gives way to a majestic choral section, where a nine-person choir sings in a Javanese pelog mode — a melodic structure familiar to those who know traditional Javanese folk music. The fusion of Western choral grandeur and Javanese keroncong creates a powerful sonic clash, symbolizing the collision of two cultures: one triumphant, the other suppressed.
This clash serves as a reminder: empires built on suffering eventually crumble. Oppressors may believe they’re untouchable, but history has a way of delivering justice.
At its core, this track is a call to remember, resist, and reclaim. It’s an unflinching acknowledgment of historical truths and a challenge to the systems of power that continue to exploit and dehumanize. Through raw intensity, I strip away any pretenses, forcing listeners to confront the harsh realities of oppression.
More than a song of pain, The Fall Of A Confused Empire is a testament to resilience. It reminds us that while history leaves scars, it also gives us the strength to resist. My words demand justice, accountability, and the preservation of truth in the face of lies. By confronting these truths, I invite listeners to stand with us in resistance and work toward a future where suffering and exploitation no longer have a place.
When making this album, it has subconsciously decolonised me from my inferiority complexes. It has liberated me from the fear of not fitting into a certain box. My life and practice as a cellist and composer ever since has evolved into a new realm of unlimited possibilities. I do not worry anymore if there’s no Dvorak Cello Concerto or Brahms Sonata in my setlist. I am not bothered when “experts” say my cello vibrato is “excessively romantic”. I don’t have anything to prove with music. I am communicating through music.
Decolmuseum is more than an album — it’s a multi‑media trilogy. Following the limited‑edition LP, I’ll release a photo‑essay book combining photography, collage, and deep dives into each of the ten tracks and a cassette consisting of alternative versions. This isn’t background music. It demands thoughtfulness, reflection, and movement. In Decolmuseum, sound becomes activism — memory as protest, noise as healing, art as reclamation.
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Stream and download Decolmuseum at the links below:
- https://emircello.bandcamp.com/album/decolmuseum
- https://open.spotify.com/album/13bmWzMvuYIqJPNKbZJH0I
- https://www.discogs.com/release/34296712-Alfian-Emir-Adytia-Decolmuseum
Follow Alfian Emir Adytia’s work at:
Footnotes:
- A warehouse used by the V.O.C. to keep colonial holdings. ↩︎
