a heavy sound for a lighter future: inside divide and dissolve's insatiable"
takaiya reed speaks on sound without borders, the politics of hope, and why radical change starts by feeling deeply.
A few weeks ago, I spoke with Takaiya Reed of Divide and Dissolve, ahead of the release of their new record Insatiable, out later this month. I’ve long been fascinated by how their music — mostly instrumental — manages to speak so loudly, rarely saying a word. Through layers of doom, darkness, and distortion, Reed channels vivid, palpable emotion: anger, light, joy, and broader political visions of hope, dreaming, and urgency.
Though often described as doom metal, their music resists easy labels — almost purposely. Reed doesn’t ascribe themselves to any genre; they didn’t even grow up listening to metal. And that’s part of what makes their work so compelling. It isn’t born from a loyalty to style or tradition, but from a deeper, intuitive musical understanding of what feels necessary, vital, and alive.
On Insatiable, Reed reimagines love as a political and social force, while diagnosing loneliness not just as a symptom, but as a weapon of destruction and dissonance. Much of this thinking came to them in a dream. The ultimate sentiment that runs through the record is one of hope — even when hope feels impossible, and even if change doesn’t happen within their lifetime.
Read our interview below.
Takaiya Reed believes in the impossible.
Speaking ahead of Divide and Dissolve’s new record Insatiable, Reed describes a world that feels "pushed to the brink of existence." And yet, they don’t speak from a place of despair. Instead, they offer a steady, almost radical insistence on love as a serious, tangible force. “It can create hope, joy, sustainable systems,” they explain. “It can end genocide. It can stop racism. It can humanise people who've never been humanised before.”
Music has been a constant in Reed’s life. Some of their earliest memories are of playing piano, moving on to saxophone and later, guitar. They credit their father, a classically trained musician, for giving them the foundations they still rely on today. "He decided to share that knowledge with me," Reed says. "I feel really grateful for that."
That classical training wasn't just about mastering technique; it opened a portal into a way of thinking about music that is fluid, expansive, and unbound by genre. "I can play any type of music — maybe not always well — but I can give it a good go," Reed laughs. "I enjoy being malleable in my expression."
It’s a spirit of openness that runs through all of Reed’s work. Although the heavy, distorted textures of Divide and Dissolve’s sound are often associated with metal and hardcore, Reed says their relationship to those genres is coincidental at best. "When I started playing guitar, that’s just what came out," they explain. "I haven’t really listened to much metal — and I don't think I’m ever going to start."
What they are drawn to is something deeper: weight, slowness, the physicality of sound. Genre labels don’t trouble them. "It sounds cool. It is cool," Reed says casually. "I just never set out to be part of any genre — sometimes you just arrive somewhere."
This idea of arriving without forcing, of allowing things to unfold, also shapes their relationship to politics. Reed didn’t set out to make “political music” in the way the industry sometimes demands. Instead, the call came from somewhere more internal, even mystical. "I had a dream," they say. "It told me: you have to say what’s really in your heart."
For Reed, that meant naming Black liberation, Indigenous sovereignty, and freedom as central to their work. "I want the ancestors to be happy," they say simply. "If the world wasn’t how it is, I wouldn’t feel the need. But it’s intense out there. We all have a drop to add to the ocean."
One of the most striking things about Divide and Dissolve’s music is how much it communicates without words. The language of sound — nonverbal, emotional, forceful — does the work. "Most communication is nonverbal," Reed says. "With my music, people can just understand what I’m trying to say — if they sit there and allow themselves to feel."
But sometimes, words are necessary. On the track "Grief," Reed’s voice cuts through the density of the sound, fragile but unwavering. Using vocals felt vulnerable, they admit — like picking up a brand-new instrument. "When you start playing an instrument, sometimes you’re kind of bad at it. But then you get better," they say, laughing lightly. "I just wanted to talk about grief, because it doesn’t get processed enough. People use violence to process it. That has to stop."
Insatiable is an album shaped by the overwhelming pressures of the present — but it refuses to surrender to them. "Anything is possible," Reed says. "The situation feels dire. But when you implement love seriously, it can shift everything."
At the heart of the record is a radical rejection of the idea that the systems we live under are fixed. Reed returns often to the memory of enslaved people and the impossibility they overcame. "Generations lived enslaved," they say. "To free your mind first, and then your body — that’s what made it end."
They describe change not as sudden revolution, but as a slow, layered unfolding: psychological shifts aligning with physical shifts, the impossible becoming inevitable. "That's how radical change happens — when permanence is questioned, and then disintegrates," Reed says. "And that’s what's required for us to live."
In a world that demands immediate results, Reed’s relationship to time is striking. They reject the idea of linear progress, embracing a vision of time that bends, loops, and folds. "Time isn't linear," they say. "I just have to be patient and understand that the things I want might not happen in my lifetime — and I’m okay with that."
There is no bitterness in this acceptance. Instead, there is a profound sense of continuity, of belonging to something larger than one lifetime. "It feels like an agreement," Reed explains. "They did it for us. We do it for them."
That cyclical, relational understanding of time is deeply rooted in Reed’s own identity. "I'm Black and Cherokee," they say. "It's already merged." They speak about forming friendships, building movements, weaving timelines together through collective will. "We want the same thing, and we’re working toward it with our whole being."
Loneliness, they suggest, is another form of violence — another way to keep people isolated, disconnected from each other and from their power. "Loneliness is devastating," Reed says. "A bunch of my friends were talking about feeling lonely. This pain needs to be acknowledged."
But the answer to loneliness, like the answer to so many other forms of harm, is collective care. "Sometimes people just need a hand — here’s an arm, grab it, pull yourself out," Reed says. "Working together makes things easier, more tolerable."
When asked if Insatiable is a form of activism, Reed shrugs. They aren't interested in labels. "I think of it as the record I wrote — and I’m really proud of it," they say. "I tried really hard, and I hope people enjoy it. You just put a record out there and hope for the best."
What they hope listeners take away from the record is simple, but expansive. "I hope they feel connected to other people in a way that feels really good for them," Reed says. "And I hope more love is integrated into the world."
And finally, almost as an afterthought, they add: "I hope they have a beautiful day."
Divide and Dissolve’s Insatiable is a heavy record, but not in the way heaviness is usually measured. It is weighty with love, with possibility, with the willingness to believe that even the most entrenched violence can be undone.
Takaiya Reed does not pretend that the work is easy. They simply show, again and again, that the impossible has happened before — and it can happen again.
Divide and Dissolve’s Insatiable is out April 18th via Bella Union.