I was editing a project and hit a wall. I had too many tracks layered — granular textures, spoken word, synth pads, a field recording from a bus stop. The session looked like a sonic traffic jam. I soloed one sound, then another, then another. I couldn’t tell what was necessary anymore.
My instinct was to start deleting. Streamline. Minimalize. But I paused. Who said a piece has to be “clean”? And clean by whose standards?
I remembered something a guest lecturer said: “Sonic clarity is a cultural value, not a rule.” That stuck with me. I started reading about “maximalist” composers — people like Iannis Xenakis, who embraced overload as expression. Their work wasn’t confusing. It was intense. And intensity, I realised, can be intentional.
Instead of deleting, I re-listened. I reorganised — moved parts around, gave some sounds space to clash instead of avoiding each other. Suddenly, the chaos started to make sense. Not as noise, but as tension. It felt like trying to think in a crowded room — disorienting, but familiar.
Now, when I make sound, I don’t ask “is this too much?” I ask, “is this emotionally legible?” Sometimes clarity isn’t about fewer elements — it’s about giving everything a reason to exist.
Because maybe the problem wasn’t that my piece had too many sounds — maybe I just wasn’t listening with enough intention.
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