In the song “Sound Machine” from poet Raymond Antrobus and percussionist Evelyn Glennie’s new album, “Aloud,” Antrobus remembers being scared as a kid when he accidentally broke his father’s stereo.
Antrobus remembers reciting, with dramatic pauses, “Destroying the low frequencies, ruining the atmosphere and his inspiration-making Dad lose his temper and punish me.” He continues, “But it wasn’t my fault. The things he built were fragile and easily broken, and we kept drifting apart. Still, I admired Dad’s skill with his hands, even though he couldn’t fix my hearing loss. I still feel his influence.”
Antrobus and Glennie are highly skilled Deaf artists who uniquely blend music and poetry. Glennie, a Scottish artist and the first Deaf person to win a Grammy, developed a remarkable style through orchestral performances, solo work, and collaborations with artists like Bjork and filmmaker Danny Boyle (at the London Olympics). Her music is experimental and powerful, feeling both raw and deeply impactful.
Antrobus rose to international recognition with his 2018 poetry book, “The Perseverance.” He followed this success with his moving memoir, “The Quiet Ear,” which explores how his deafness shaped his identity as a Jamaican-British person and led him to discover a vibrant history of Deaf art and literature.
Their newest album, “Aloud,” created with producer Ian Brennan, continues a collaborative streak for Glennie and Antrobus. Remarkably, they recorded the entire album in one continuous take, without any prior practice or even knowing what the other would play.
In an interview with The Times, the pair discussed how being deaf influences their perspective on music and how society can better support artists of all abilities – or create barriers for them.
Music
Jacob Rock is deeply autistic and doesn’t speak, but with the help of technology that converts text to speech and his father’s love of music, he was able to share the music he imagined in his head by performing on stage.
I’ve always been fascinated by how they first figured out how to work together. They both come from worlds of creativity – music and words – but their lives and experiences leading up to this collaboration were so different. I wonder what those initial talks were like, trying to bridge those gaps and find common ground?
I was curious about the project, so I bought some of Raymond’s books – even his lovely children’s book, “Can Bears Ski?” – to get a sense of his writing style. We both started with a completely open mind, letting the collaboration develop organically, which is how my work with Björk also unfolded years ago.
Raymond selected his poems in the moment, and I sat on the floor with a few small, expressive instruments nearby. It was important that we could see each other’s faces, as our visual connection was key. I aimed to listen and create music that directly responded to what he said and how he moved.
The project thrived on its unplanned nature. We didn’t need fancy equipment, a recording studio, or a detailed plan-we just wanted to see what we could create. Success would be great, but even if things didn’t work out perfectly, we knew we’d still have a valuable and enjoyable day collaborating.
Before working on this project, I hadn’t met Evelyn Glennie, but I remember seeing a TV documentary about her when I was 13 or 14. It featured her teaching percussion to another deaf student, and it was the first time I’d really seen a deaf person highlighted in the media. That documentary stuck with me, and it was the beginning of my awareness of her work.
Spoken-word poetry has become increasingly popular, with artists like Gil Scott-Heron, Kae Tempest, and Warsan Shire even featuring on Beyoncé’s album “Lemonade.” What collaborations between spoken-word artists and others have you found particularly impactful or meaningful?
I definitely agree about the artists you named. Mike Skinner from The Streets comes to mind, actually. I always felt he was more of a spoken-word performer than a traditional rapper. There’s a lot of great overlap between poetry and music – Saul Williams is a good example. And then you have the dub poets like Linton Kwesi Johnson, Mutabaruka, Jean “Binta” Breeze, and Benjamin Zephaniah. My dad, who was a hobbyist DJ, introduced me to them. He had their recordings on tape and vinyl and would often play their poems during his sets.
I recall my dad recording a Linton Kwesi Johnson poem with music, and he’d sometimes play back a recording of my own voice alongside it. I was very young, probably two or three, and just babbling. I’d been diagnosed with delayed speech or something called “selective mutism” by early childhood nurses. I think my dad was simply encouraging me to speak and have fun while doing it.
It’s unusual, because you often hear about parents mourning when their children don’t reach certain developmental stages, or grieving the future they imagined for a child with a disability. But my father did something different – he used my voice, took pieces of it, and turned them into music and poetry.
I’ve never tried blending spoken poetry with music before, and I’m not familiar with other artists who do. Because I have a hearing impairment, I haven’t listened to much music in the past. I experience sound more physically – through vibrations and feeling it – rather than just hearing a recording.
That freedom let me react completely in the moment to Raymond – to how he spoke, moved, and the pace of our interaction. I didn’t try to copy anything I’d done before, and that unfamiliarity actually helped. It kept the experience new and uniquely my own.
Music
It was a heartbreaking coincidence that the Palisades and Eaton fires destroyed two neighborhoods known for their important role in Los Angeles’ music scene.
This recording was done entirely spontaneously, with no practice and each track captured in one take. How do you communicate musically with each other?
Glennie explained that the unique thing about this collaboration was that she and Raymond hadn’t met before. Despite never having worked together, they connected instantly, and that lack of prior relationship actually allowed for a very open and genuine exchange.
Since we filmed everything in one continuous shot, we really had to pay attention to each other and trust our instincts. There was no room for mistakes or retakes – we just had to be open and react to what was happening in the moment. For me, musical improvisation isn’t just about the notes; it’s about feeling the energy, connection, and flow. Working with Raymond, I found myself responding to everything about his delivery – not just the rhythm of his speech, but also the emotions behind his words and the pauses between them.
We weren’t trying to force a specific outcome; instead, we focused on creating an environment where we could both be authentic and trust that something meaningful would develop naturally. My musical decisions felt intuitive. I didn’t want to simply highlight or embellish his poetry, but rather to have a conversation with it, almost as if providing a complementary voice. The uncertainty of what would happen next kept the process fresh and prevented us from falling into predictable patterns, pushing us to react purely in the moment. This is where the most exciting things happened – instances where the music seemed to perfectly capture the essence of his words, or where a pause spoke volumes. These moments weren’t pre-planned, but they felt perfectly right when they occurred. That’s the magic of true improvisation: it can’t be recreated, only lived through.
The biggest surprise was actually hearing the final result. We weren’t sure if the recording would even work when we started – it felt like we were experimenting in the dark. I think it succeeded because Ian gave both of us the freedom to focus on our own skills and what we’re passionate about, without getting bogged down in overthinking things.
How does sharing the experience of deafness with other musicians shape your approach to music differently than collaborating with hearing artists?
As a critic, I was particularly struck by the connection between Glennie and her collaborator, Raymond. It wasn’t about explaining things; they just *understood* each other. Having both experienced deafness, they shared an intuitive awareness of rhythm and performance-a sensitivity to vibration, body language, and visual cues. It’s a musicality built on *feeling* rather than simply hearing, and it created a truly remarkable synergy on stage. It wasn’t a lack of hearing that defined their music, but a different, deeply embodied way of experiencing it.
For both of us, sound goes beyond just hearing. We experience it physically, visually, and mentally – through the vibrations in the floor, our breathing, and our overall presence. This completely changes how we interact. We didn’t rely on spoken words or planned signals; instead, we connected by sensing each other’s energy in the moment. While anyone can experience this kind of connection, it’s particularly profound for Deaf or hard-of-hearing artists because adapting to different sensory experiences is a natural part of their daily lives.
When you don’t depend on traditional hearing, your ability to truly listen expands. You start noticing subtle details – pauses, body language, tiny facial expressions, and the way movement creates rhythm. This increased awareness helped us connect on a deeply intuitive and physical level. We weren’t striving for flawlessness, but for genuine connection, and that’s what mattered most.
Evelyn and I share a connection on several levels. We both wear hearing aids, depend on lip-reading, and have learned to cope with those challenges. But beyond that, I think our connection as individuals – our personalities – was just as crucial to our relationship and the chemistry we have.
We both embrace our deafness and recognize the difficulties that come with it. I was particularly struck by something Evelyn said in an interview: it’s important for people to understand that Deaf individuals *do* experience music. She explained that denying Deaf people access to music is like taking away their happiness. I really connected with that idea, and I think it’s a powerful point.
Evelyn, what personal insights into your shared life and worldview are reflected in Raymond’s poems?
As a movie lover, I’m always searching for stories that really *feel* something, and I find Raymond’s poetry does exactly that. It’s not showy or loud, but it draws you in with its honesty and the way he expresses himself. What really gets to me is how he writes about experiences – especially around deafness, figuring out who you are, and just connecting with others – that people often don’t talk about or truly understand. Reading his work, I’ve had moments where he’s put into words feelings I’ve always had but never knew how to express. His latest book, “The Quiet Ear,” is especially powerful, and I’m actually collaborating with him on a short event in London soon, which I’m really excited about!
His poetry is remarkable in its own right. Its strength isn’t due to his deafness, but to his exceptional talent and profound understanding of rhythm, silence, and emotion. He writes with the intuition of a musician, combined with a rich awareness of history, culture, and the art of writing. His insights aren’t derived from oversimplifying life’s complexities, but from embracing their inherent layers and contradictions.
Working with Raymond, I realized how much we have in common – a shared ability to truly listen, understand unspoken meanings, and pick up on subtle cues. I also greatly appreciated how his unique viewpoint pushed me to grow, broadened my horizons, and helped me explore new emotional depths. That’s the power of great art: it reflects who we are, while also changing us.
Raymond, when you first encountered Evelyn’s work, how did did her playing affect you?
I love watching Evelyn perform. Her playing is incredibly physical and has a unique energy. She uses a wide range of sounds, and it reminds me of learning to pronounce difficult sounds – even if I can’t fully hear them myself, I have to learn the physical way to make them. I see something similar with Evelyn as a percussionist. For example, when she plays the chimes or uses soft brush strokes, it’s not just about the quiet sounds. I realize she’s creating a vibration, and even though it’s subtle, you can still *feel* it physically.
I approach language and poetic technique much like Evelyn approaches her instruments. She can create sounds she wouldn’t be able to perceive on her own, and I often use sounds in my poetry that I wouldn’t normally hear without assistance.
Honestly, Evelyn’s playing just blows me away. The sounds she gets are unlike anything I’ve ever heard. I’m fascinated by how she seems to *feel* the music physically – it’s not just about hearing the percussion, but experiencing it with her whole body. It really makes you rethink what percussion can even *do*, you know? It’s a totally different level of understanding.
I experience music as something I feel in my body – a physical, immersive sensation – even before I actually *hear* it. I feel the vibrations – through my skin, bones, and even my breathing – and that changes the way I connect with and play instruments.
As a film fanatic, I’ve always been fascinated by sound design, and when I really *listen* to percussion, it’s so much more than just keeping time. It’s not about the beat, it’s about *how* it feels – the texture, the warmth, how close or far away it seems. Each hit of a drum isn’t just a sound, it’s a ripple moving through the air, playing with the space around it and even how it feels in your chest. To really appreciate it, you need to be incredibly sensitive to the smallest details – how the sound fades, how it echoes, the quiet spaces *between* the hits. It’s like discovering a hidden world built on vibrations and resonance, and I love getting lost in it.
Working with Raymond, we connected through the way sound felt as much as how it sounded. His poetry has a natural rhythm, but it also carries a powerful emotional and sonic impact – I felt it like a heartbeat, even when there was no sound. Because we both understood sound beyond just hearing it, we were able to connect in a very intuitive and natural way.
This way of thinking has completely changed how I see my instruments. I no longer think of them as simple tools, but as vibrant, living parts of myself and the world around me. Each instrument-a cymbal, a guiro, a waterphone-has its own unique sound waiting to be brought out, not forced into a specific role. When you truly listen with your whole being, you realize that percussion isn’t just the rhythmic foundation of music; it’s the emotional core, the life force, and the expressive movement. It’s the place where sound and silence connect.
Music
As Coachella approaches, many international performers are worried about obtaining visas and the potential impact of stricter policies on free expression implemented during the Trump administration.
Raymond, “Sound Machine” beautifully captures a child’s mix of fear and admiration for their father, portraying the father’s professional music equipment as a symbol of his strength. Did your own childhood experiences differ from those of the child in the film, creating any friction? And how has your view of your father’s point of view evolved as you’ve gotten older?
Becoming a parent has really shifted my perspective. I now see things from a parent’s point of view, rather than as a son, which gives me a more mature understanding. This has made me appreciate things I didn’t before, like the fact that my dad was present in my life, even if it didn’t always feel like it. He provided me with a lot of things that made me feel loved and connected, and I’m trying to pass those on to my own son. At the same time, I’m also striving to be a more present and supportive father than my dad was able to be for me.
My son is an individual with his own unique path. Unlike me, he isn’t deaf and is developing quickly. He’s only four, but he’s already hitting developmental milestones much earlier than I did, like walking early and having strong speech skills.
My dad was a real music lover – he always had music playing and even built his own stereo system. He really cultivated a unique sound, and I still have a lot of his old tapes. I’ve been sharing some of that music, like reggae and rocksteady, with my son, hoping to pass on that musical heritage.
Your song, “MBE,” seems to reference the royal honors you’ve both been given. How did it feel to receive that recognition, especially as Deaf artists? It’s a significant moment for representation, but considering the history of the institution, I imagine there were also complicated emotions involved.
It’s complicated. I definitely consider myself against imperialism and the whole idea of empire. However, I also recognize that institutions like that hold a lot of power, and I’m aware of the ways I’m connected to it. So, I try to navigate that reality and focus on how I can use that power responsibly. I don’t think titles should be handed out lightly; they should carry significance.
The phrase “Say yes but don’t take it so serious” really resonates with me, because it perfectly captures the complicated feelings that come with receiving recognition for your work. It’s wonderful to be honored, and it can really help raise visibility and offer representation. For Raymond and me, as Deaf artists, this is especially meaningful. It shows that the contributions of disabled artists aren’t just an afterthought – they’re central, important, and deserve to be celebrated.
The monarchy and the British honors system have a complex history. While I’m truly thankful to receive this honor, I also think it’s important to consider its background and what it represents.
For me, the real value of this recognition isn’t the award itself, but what we do with the opportunity it gives us. It’s not a finish line, but a challenge to continue exploring, learning, and making art and culture more inclusive. Raymond and I created this album simply because we were curious and wanted to grow, not to prove anything to anyone. We were open to new ideas, willing to take risks, and dedicated to truly hearing each other.
Music
A longtime collaborator of Ornette Coleman and a key figure in free jazz lost nearly everything in the Eaton fire, but thankfully his music and drive to create survived. He believes that having that inner spirit is essential for living in Los Angeles.
Evelyn, you’re a unique figure as the only Deaf artist to win Grammys. How does the music industry generally misunderstand deafness and its connection to experiencing music? And what would be the most effective ways for music education programs to include and support Deaf students?
Many people, both in the music world and in general, mistakenly believe that deafness means a person can’t enjoy or connect with music, or that their experience of sound is limited. But being Deaf simply means experiencing sound differently – and that difference can be incredibly powerful. I feel music through vibrations, movement, and how sound resonates in a space. While my ears don’t process sound like hearing ears, I’m fully immersed when I create music. My deafness isn’t a barrier – it’s actually what enhances my musical connection.
Often, how we judge musical talent focuses on technical skill or how music is traditionally experienced, which overlooks many other valid ways to understand and express it. I believe we need to rethink access to music – not just by making adjustments for existing systems, but by seeing it as a chance to be truly creative. If we stop thinking of deafness as a barrier, we can unlock completely new possibilities for art, teamwork, and how we perceive the world.
I envision a music education that prioritizes deep listening – engaging with music through the entire body, not just the ears. Learning should be hands-on and visual, letting students experience sound through movement, connect pitch to things they can see or feel, and express themselves fully. We need to completely rethink music exams and auditions to include skills like improvisation and understanding how sound works in different spaces. These crucial elements are often overlooked. Importantly, we must actively include Deaf and hard-of-hearing individuals not just as audience members, but as central creators – composers, performers, and innovators. I also believe it’s vital for music students and those studying hearing to work together to gain a richer understanding of the difference between simply hearing and truly listening.
Truly appreciating music through all its forms-including how Deaf and hard-of-hearing artists experience it-doesn’t just include more people, it actually makes music richer, more genuine, and more vibrant for everyone.
It’s a difficult time for governments that aren’t supporting people with disabilities. This lack of support is unfair, and society loses valuable contributions when it doesn’t embrace and nurture diverse abilities. In what ways do these partnerships offer a challenge to that harmful perspective?
I really hope this collaboration and project encourages others to be creative. Specifically, I’d love to see it inspire people working for disability justice, as well as poets and musicians who might want to work together. Ultimately, I hope it motivates more people to explore poetry or learn to play percussion.
It’s common to see poetry and drumming at political protests, and this project really fits with the idea of fighting for justice, expressing yourself, and standing up for what you believe in. It encourages all of that, and I’m excited to share it, hoping others will be too.
I agree that governments are increasingly showing a harsh indifference towards people they consider troublesome or a drain on resources. It’s not just the immediate suffering caused by this neglect that’s heartbreaking, but also the incredible talent and potential being wasted because these individuals don’t meet a limited idea of what’s considered useful or typical.
Making something new, especially a completely spontaneous and heartfelt album like this, feels like a subtle act of defiance against the odds. It’s a declaration that we are here, we create, and our voices deserve to be heard – not by fitting in, but by staying true to ourselves. Working with Raymond wasn’t about ignoring our differences or pretending they didn’t exist. It was about celebrating them, truly listening to each other, and allowing each of our unique perspectives to shine.
When we don’t appreciate and include diverse perspectives, we limit our ability to innovate, understand others, and grow as a society. Creating art that celebrates deafness – not as a limitation, but as a unique strength – is a powerful act. It questions traditional notions of creativity, suggesting that it doesn’t need to conform to specific expectations. It highlights the importance of subtlety, silence, and allowing things to unfold at their own pace.
Look, art isn’t going to *fix* deep-rooted problems on its own, but it can give us a glimpse of what *could* be – a powerful reminder of the beauty and worth in every single person. What really struck me was seeing Raymond and myself, coming from totally different worlds, just *listen* to each other. It wasn’t just a performance; it felt profoundly human. And honestly, in a world that often feels broken, that kind of connection feels like a radical act of hope – a quiet rebellion, if you will.
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2025-09-19 21:35