Part 1

Name: Mai Mai Mai
Nationality: Italian
Occupation: Flutist, composer, performer, improviser
Current release: Mai Mai Mai's new album Karakoz is out via Maple Death. The release also features Alabaster dePlume, Julmud, and Osama Abu Ali.
Global Recommendations: I grew up in Crotone, Calabria: a seaside city with what was then the region's main port, large merchant ships, dirty and noisy, plying a stunning sea with romantic sunsets. It's steeped in ancient cultures (it's the city where Pythagoras founded his school, to name just one of many) and a typical Mediterranean mix, a crossroads of dominations that have succeeded one another over the centuries and which is reflected in smells, flavors, sounds, and architecture. Traveling along the road that runs along the sea, you reach the end of this promontory where the Temple of Hera Lacinia once stood, one of the most important sanctuaries of Magna Graecia, and now only a single column of that temple remains, overlooking the sea at the end of this cape. It's called Capo Colonna, it's a magical place, intense and full of energy, the kind of energy I talked about in this interview and which comes out of my music, or rather, from which my music comes out.  

[Read our Alabaster dePlume interview]

If you enjoyed this Mai Mai Mai interview and would like to know more about her music and upcoming performances, visit him on Instagram, Facebook, and bandcamp. 



When was the first time you noticed you were drawn to darker themes and moods in music, literature or the movies?

It's an attraction that dates back to my adolescence. Looking back now, I think it was a reaction to the sunny climate of the place where I grew up, in southern Italy, in Calabria.

A reaction to that idea of southern Italy as beautiful, warm, and pleasant for seasonal tourists, where one could relax and enjoy a break, living a life like it used to be, simple and authentic. All things, obviously fake, stereotyped, and aestheticized (which later exploded with social media).

All this, instead, pushed me toward the darker sides of the south and the Mediterranean, avoiding postcard-perfect places and living far from those stereotypes, embracing the gothic side of the South (truly visceral and deeply rooted): we can call it "Southern (Italian) Gothic" or Mediterranean Gothic.



“Darkness” is, of course, not strictly speaking a term related to sound. What constitutes darkness to you, especially in instrumental terms?

What fascinates me is often the dark side of things, especially when they're known for their bright and clear side.

For example, as I mentioned before regarding Southern Italy: far from being framed by "sun, pizza, and mandolin," for me, it's a land where ancient traditions, rituals, and beliefs lost in ancient times still survive, where paganism mixes with imposed Catholicism and a rush toward modernity and capitalism that has never truly belonged to our culture and therefore creates new mixes and outputs.

Therefore, I'm attracted and I like to discover in things, whether everyday or less common, in music and art as well as in life, places, and times, this dark side thatalways accompanies, perhaps hidden, history and the main narrative.



This is also how I approach the musical tradition that I enjoy reworking so much and that I try to bring back to life in our present, and not kept in a museum case, like a mummy, dead and embalmed, only to be gazed upon.

How would you describe the physical sensation and possible attraction of being exposed to darkness in music?

For me, darkness represents a moment of reflection, meditation, a nocturnal mood that is enveloping, calm yet intense.

Closing your eyes to detach yourself from your surroundings and focus your gaze on yourself. Or keeping it focused on something external but without being distracted by anything else.

So in music, I seek out these sounds that represent this feeling, when I want the listener to be enveloped in this kind of darkness.



Does your interest in darker musical themes extend into extra-musical fields such as fashion, or politics?

Sadly, I see that the political direction of practically the entire world at the moment is really too dark ... and in any case they are going in the wrong direction.

Of all the dark things I might like, this is definitely not one of them.

What were some of the first performances or releases when you became active in exploring truly dark places in your music yourself?

The Mai Mai Mai project began as a journey primarily within myself, into my past, to explore roots and traditions: traditions that are part of southern Italy and the Mediterranean. It was always conceived as a dark journey, and often, more than metaphorical, it's also a real journey.

From my first albums (the so-called "Mediterranean trilogy" consisting of Theta, Delta, and Phi, with Petra as a sort of appendix), there's been a desire to explore this darkness. I adore those often abandoned places in the south, whether they're the collapsed columns of Greek temples, the castles of old fallen rulers, the ruins of medieval churches. They are places that greatly inspire the atmospheres of my records. Music that tells those stories, ancient, future, or never existed.

Then I also happened to perform in such places, and the energy that comes from them is incredible. You understand that the ritual also needs the right place in which to be performed.



I have had a hard time explaining that listening to death metal calms me down. When you're performing a piece with a darker energy, does it tend to fill you with the same energy or feeling – or are there “paradoxical” effects?

I've always had very unusual relaxing listening experiences: music like the dark sounds felt good for meditation. Especially extreme noise, I've always found them perfect for concentrating or relaxing (listening to Wolf Eyes, Merzbow, Prurient, Aaron Dilloway ... or to old Italian composers and their most extreme works, such as Luigi Nono, Egisto Macchi or Gruppo di improvvisazione nuove consonanza).

As I mentioned before, for me, certain types of dark sounds are very introspective and encourage meditation, concentration and thought. It's different when I'm playing and performing.

Back to the "ritual" concept of the live set, in that moment it's as if I were a medium and I feel these spirits wanting to tell their story coming to the surface: it's intense, in a certain sense tiring (after the live show it takes me a while to regain my composure and be able to continue an evening of socializing or watch other concerts), it drains me but fills me at the same time.

[Read our Wolf Eyes interview]
[Read our Merzbow interview]
[Read our Merzbow interview about improvisation]

When it comes to exploring darker themes, what's your approach to writing lyrics? What makes lyrics good in this regard?  

You know, I usually don't really write lyrics. I take existing lyrics, from traditional songs, old work songs, fishermen's song or often sea-related ones, and simply rework them.

Sometimes, however, I use actual traditional "magical" rituals, against the evil eye (like in "D'oro e d'argento") or tied to spiritual moments of the rural world.

Working with this type of material, the result is often dense, intense, and dark in its own way.



Tell me about the creative process for Karakoz, please.

On the one hand, the process remains the classic one of approaching traditional, folk, and ethnic music. I do it in different ways: recording in the studio with musicians, traveling with a Zoom microphone for field recordings, or working with sound archives and pre-recorded material.

Once I've gathered everything, I begin to shape and mold the material in a more personal and contemporary way, seeking out my own sounds that allow me to best express what's inside me, even though they are always contaminated by these collaborations, which are a fundamental part of the creative process.

With this album, Karakoz, although the approach is identical, it has changed significantly: this time it was a real journey: six weeks in Palestine, between Bethlehem and Ramallah, where I spent time in the studio with local musicians, toured those lands making field recordings, and had the opportunity to listen to and get material from the sound archive of the Popular Art Center in Ramallah, studying and exploring the sounds of traditional music, songs, and instruments.

These personal relationships and collaborations, these sharings with people and places are the basic material that then led to the album and to how we can now listen to Karakoz.