unpacking creativity, collaboration, and the freedom to evolve: an interview with louis carnell
shapeshifting through sound and self.
Last summer, I had the opportunity to speak with musician and composer Louis Carnell. Many may know him as Visionist, a name under which he garnered significant critical acclaim for his ability to manipulate sound—slicing, splicing, and distorting it into compositions that felt both brutal and beautiful. His debut album, Safe, was a defining moment, positioning him as a progressive force within the world of experimental electronic music. Many attached his work to grime, seeing him as an innovator of the genre’s more abstract possibilities. And while this classification wasn’t wholly inaccurate, it was only part of the story.
Over the years, Carnell expanded his scope far beyond the confines of a single genre. As Visionist, his later works—Valueand A Call to Arms—explored ideas of self-perception, vulnerability, and sonic abstraction, resisting easy categorisation. As his music evolved, so too did his need for a new framework. In 2021, he stepped away from the Visionist moniker, deciding to release music under his own name. The shift was as personal as it was artistic—moving beyond an alias allowed him to fully inhabit his creative practice across multiple mediums, from music to visual art, curation, and performance.
At the core of Carnell’s work is an interrogation of social structures and hierarchy, a thematic throughline that manifests in his latest project, 111. Rather than a conventional album, 111 is an unfolding curatorial statement—an ongoing cycle of 15 single releases featuring a diverse array of collaborators. The project resists linearity, offering listeners an open environment to engage with music without hierarchy, inviting them to explore ideas of commonality, community, and creative exchange.
Carnell’s journey as a Black artist working in experimental spaces has also shaped his perspective. While many musicians are granted the freedom to evolve, Black artists often face rigid classifications and assumptions about their work. His experiences navigating these structures have informed his desire for greater artistic autonomy, a principle that underpins 111.
Through 111, Carnell not only challenges sonic boundaries but also reclaims the freedom to define himself on his own terms. Our conversation explored these tensions—how Black artists navigate alternative spaces, the importance of resisting reductive labels, and how collaboration allows for a deeper, more nuanced creative expression.
Michelle Kambasha
I wanted to speak with you about your creative process, your inspirations, and your recent collaborative album. So, to start, tell me about the Louis Carnell project and when you decided to release music under your own name.
Louis Carnell
I made that decision in 2021 when I consciously moved away from the name "Visionist." There were a few reasons behind it. Creatively, I wanted to broaden the scope of where my music existed—not just in the realm of records but also within dance, film, installations, and other mediums. Using my real name made more sense for that.
On a personal level, my work has always been introspective and deeply personal. Having an alias started to feel like a way of masking or distancing myself from that work, which wasn’t what I wanted anymore. The separation no longer served me, so I chose to remove it.
Externally, I also noticed that Visionist had become a fixed idea for many people—largely because of the early records’ success. While that’s understandable, it made it harder for people to grasp the evolution of my music. The name "Visionist" came with connotations that didn’t align with where I was creatively. The way the media categorised my music, for instance, didn’t always reflect what I was actually doing.
In what way do you feel that happened?
In several ways. One major issue was genre classification. If you actually look at the records I put out under Visionist, there isn’t a single overriding genre. Early on, I was working within underground dance culture, blending different sounds to create something distinct. The term "deconstructed club" was often used at the time, but what I was really doing was pulling from various underground dance subcultures to form my own sound.
However, because of trends and external perceptions, my music was often labeled as "grime." That was frustrating because while grime was part of my musical foundation—I started making grime at 15—my work had evolved significantly beyond that. Some tracks had grime as an influence, but they also incorporated elements of garage, house, footwork, and more. Despite that, the label stuck, and media narratives around Visionist became fixed in a way that didn’t reflect my work’s breadth.
It went so far that I’d create tracks at completely different tempos, and DJs would speed them up to fit the "grime" mold. I remember making a track at 115 BPM and seeing DJs pitch it up to 140 BPM just to make it fit. Friends who weren’t in music would look me up and say, "Oh, it says you're a grime artist, but you don’t make grime." That was frustrating.
I also pushed back against some of the terminology that emerged. For example, terms like "instrumental grime" or "intelligent grime" became popular, and I disliked those labels. A lot of the newer artists associated with those terms were white, and suddenly there was this distinction that felt unnecessary. Why was this version of grime being labeled "intelligent"? What was the implication there? Similarly, why separate "instrumental grime" from grime as a whole? Was it for people who wanted the sound but not the culture? These classifications felt reductive and problematic to me.
Beyond genre, there was also a pushback against me personally. When I released Safe, which was about my struggles with anxiety, I created a sonic representation of what an anxiety attack felt like for me. Yet, because of my public persona—where I was perceived as confident—some people questioned why I would write about anxiety. There was an underlying assumption that vulnerability didn’t fit the narrative of a Black artist, particularly one linked to grime. The expectation was aggression and competitiveness, not introspection and emotional nuance.
Similarly, when I made Value and collaborated with Peter de Potter—who explores strength and vulnerability—some of the discourse around the project focused on my physique rather than the deeper themes of the work. These moments reinforced that, as a Black artist, my work was often viewed through a reductive lens, whether through genre classification or expectations of how I should express myself.
When I made Value and worked with Peter de Potter, whose work explores strength and vulnerability, some discussions focused more on my physique than the themes of the project. It reinforced how often Black artists are viewed through a reductive lens—whether in genre classification or in expectations of how we should express ourselves.
That’s really interesting, especially the idea of media narratives defining your art in ways you don’t control. It must feel quite stifling.
It does, but it also puts you in a strange position. On the one hand, your work is being celebrated, but not necessarily for the reasons you intended. At the same time, you recognize that press coverage is beneficial, so you don’t want to outright reject it. Early on, I found it exciting when my work was compared to film composers I hadn’t heard of—it broadened my perspective. But when I knew exactly where my music sat and the media’s description didn’t match, it became frustrating.
If I had been content to ride the wave and stick with what was working, it wouldn’t have been as stifling. But that wasn’t my journey—I wanted to keep evolving.
It must have been a tough decision to push back against that. Did it feel like a brave move or just a necessary one?
It was necessity. Given my environment, my interests, and how I wanted to engage with music, I had no choice but to change. People often ask why I don’t make music like I used to, but it’s not that I can’t—I still listen to those genres for my own enjoyment. It just doesn’t feel natural for me to make that kind of music anymore.
It reminds me of what André 3000 has been saying—people keep asking him to make a rap album, but he’s just not in that headspace anymore.
Exactly. There were artists I idolised at 16 or 17 who I later had the chance to meet and work with in my mid-20s. But by then, the excitement wasn’t there in the same way. If those opportunities had come earlier, I would have jumped at them. But by 25 or 26, my priorities and interests had shifted. That was a clear sign of where I wanted to go musically.
Do you think that shift comes with maturity and a greater sense of self? When you’re younger, you internalise the art and artists you admire, and your goal becomes to align yourself with them. But as you grow older, you develop a clearer sense of self, not defined by external influences but by a more illuminated version of yourself?
I don’t know if "maturing" is the word, because people can work within a single genre and still be mature. It’s more about personal evolution. For me, my early environment was the club, but I also studied minimalist music in school. Even when I first became Visionist, I always said I wanted to write music for film. It was never just about being a DJ—that was more about my surroundings. My close friends were DJs, so naturally, I was in that world. If I was going out, I was in clubs, and that environment influenced me to make club tracks.
At a certain point, I had success with those tracks and became a DJ, but everything was happening so fast that it felt like the choices were being made for me. Over time, I started to reflect more on my personal needs, including my health. DJing at 4 a.m. and the demands of that lifestyle weren’t great for me. There was a maturity in being honest with myself—stepping back, accepting that certain choices might be harder in the short term, but knowing they’d be better for me in the long run.
And with that in mind, were there any key moments—conversations, pieces of music, personal interactions, or even things you’ve read—that made you realise you wanted to shift direction? I know you’ve been tied to academia and theory, particularly around club culture. Were there any moments that emboldened your decision or revealed a different path?
I wouldn’t say there was one overriding moment, but there were definitely key points. For example, when I wrote Safe, my first Visionist album after I’m Fine, I was experiencing success, but I wasn’t fully able to enjoy it because of my health. That was a turning point.
I also felt like I had done everything I wanted within the minimalist, vocal-manipulation, underground dance culture space. I was happy and content with what I had expressed there, so I naturally wanted to explore sound more. Every time I make a record, I look back into my history with music—what I’ve experienced, what I haven’t yet shown. Writing Safeled me back to sound design, which took me back to my studies in college. Now, I’m singing, which takes me back to how I originally got into music. It’s a constant loop of revisiting and uncovering different aspects of myself.
That’s so interesting—how non-linear the process is. The moments where you think you’re stepping away from something actually bring you back to referencing yourself in unexpected ways.
When I was a young teenager, I loved singing, but I was too shy to do it in front of people. So I started rapping and became an MC—it felt easier and less vulnerable. It was competitive and required a different kind of energy.
Over time, I transitioned from sampling other voices to sampling my own in Value, then writing lyrics in A Call to Arms. That process—of becoming comfortable with my own voice—was gradual. The success I had with instrumental electronic music gave me the confidence to say, "Okay, I’ve achieved this, but there’s still a vulnerability and connection I haven’t been able to give my listeners." That’s where song comes in.
Right now, I’m balancing writing instrumental music and writing songs. I don’t want to be labeled as a "singer"—I’m a musician. I want the freedom to experiment, and I hope I’m given that space.
That makes so much sense. Actually, this reminds me—my boyfriend’s brother has been recording music for years. He’s not a professional, but he’s been making music since he was a kid. The other day, he mentioned that, for the first time, he’s actually happy with how his voice sounds on a recording. It made me wonder—did you go through a similar process? Not just being shy about performing, but also questioning whether your voice was powerful enough, whether it fit your artistic vision, or simply whether you liked its tone?
Oh, definitely. It was strange because moving from writing instrumentals to using my voice meant I had to rely on external validation in a way I never had before. With A Call to Arms, it was the first time where I almost had to trust the accolades of other people. I knew I was hitting the notes, but hearing my own voice was surreal. When people told me it sounded good, I had to let go and trust that.
With instrumental music, I never needed anyone else’s opinion—I just knew when something was right. But when it came to my voice, I had to release control a bit and accept feedback.
That makes so much sense. It reminds me of how people hate the sound of their own speaking voice. I have to listen back to recordings of myself all the time, and at first, I’d cringe. But then I thought—people hear my voice every day, and no one complains! So it can’t be that bad.
As a musician, though, that must be on another level. Once you let go and trust how others perceive your voice, does it open up more creative possibilities?
When I first started singing again, I would sing very high. It was me, but it wasn’t really me—it felt like a way to separate myself from my own voice. Then people would ask, "Why don’t you sing in your natural tone as well?" And I realised that felt more like me, but it was also more vulnerable. Trusting others, I thought, "Okay, if I’m going to do this, I need to really do it."
And from what you said before about seeing art as an opportunity to experiment, I really agree with that. It feels like there’s more appreciation for artists exploring different creative paths. Maybe we don’t give enough credit to audiences—they might have more patience for that journey than we assume. I also feel like, from a transactional standpoint, more artists are putting themselves out there in different forms without as much pushback when they deviate from their expected sound. Do you think audiences are more willing to travel with their favourite artists now?
I think the ultimate goal is to have an audience travel with you. But I also understand that when someone has a deep emotional connection with a record, they naturally want to relive that experience over and over again. If the artist moves away from that sound, the listener may go into a kind of denial about it.
For example, when Burial first showed his face and released something slightly more uplifting, I initially struggled with it. His music had gotten me through so many moments, and a shift felt jarring. But years later, I revisited that record and realised I actually loved it—I had just been stubborn at the time.
I think some artists have incredibly open-minded fan bases, which is an amazing position to be in. But even at the highest levels of pop and rock, there’s always that "favorite album" or "golden era" that fans latch onto. I used to get frustrated when people would tell me they loved my work and then reference a record I made ten years ago. My initial reaction was, "You love my past work, but what about what I’m doing now?" Over time, I reframed it—realising that if someone still connects with something I made a decade ago, that’s powerful. It means my music became a meaningful part of their life, and that’s something to appreciate.
That makes so much sense. When I interviewed Kele from Bloc Party he talked about coming to terms with how much Silent Alarm meant to people. I think artists eventually reach that appreciation—it’s just part of the human experience. Sometimes, you move away from certain artists or genres as you evolve. It’s not that you dislike their new music; you just pivot in a different direction. But that realisation probably makes you appreciate your newer audiences even more.
Yeah, exactly. Now that I’m working under my own name, it feels like I’m recreating those early moments—building a new audience again. But this time, the journey isn’t confined to ten years—it’s for the rest of my life. I now know where I am musically and where I want to be.
It also seems like, by working under your own name, you’ve set the expectation from the start that change and evolution are a fundamental part of your work. So the fans who come along now are already prepared for that journey.
And I think that’s why doing a collaboration record made sense. It allowed me to create a broad spectrum of sound and connect with different artists and ideas.
Leading into that, I wanted to talk about your new collaborative record. You worked with so many exciting artists, all of whom complement your music in unique ways. It feels like a carefully curated scene within this album. Tell me more about what inspired you to take this approach.
There were a few reasons behind it. First, after a long period of working solo, I expanded a bit with A Call to Arms, and this felt like the next step. The isolation of COVID also played a role—I wanted to reconnect with people and create collaboratively again.
But beyond that, this album is a celebration of myself as a collaborative artist. Even if my records were mostly solo in the past, I’ve always worked with others—whether through running record labels, collaborating with visual artists, designing merchandise, or other creative ventures. This album highlights that side of me.
It also allowed me to revisit my roots. When I was first starting out, I wasn’t just focused on my own work—I was actively discovering and supporting new artists through my label. There was no ego about it. This record gave me the chance to tap back into that, to listen and explore again, and to connect with artists I admire—some of whom I’ve known for years but never worked with directly until now.
When I started making albums, I found it difficult to listen to music from my peers because it could interfere with my creative space. But now, I feel more confident in my own journey, so I can engage with others’ music without it clouding my vision. This project was a way to celebrate that newfound openness—to listen, collaborate, and reconnect.
How long did the recording process take, given that you were working with different artists?
From the initial idea, it took about two years. It was the longest project I’ve ever worked on. It was a great experience because collaboration always brings elements that you can’t create on your own. But as a writer and composer, it also presented challenges—I had to ensure that both voices in each collaboration were heard. That’s one of the hardest things about working with others: making space for each artist’s perspective while still maintaining cohesion within the record.
There are tracks where the collaborator’s signature is more prominent than mine, but I saw my role as the connector across the record rather than needing to be overtly present on each track. My focus was on integrating different elements—acoustic instruments, electronic textures—and that experience has given me new tools for my own music going forward. Now, I know how to work alongside a cellist, for example, in a way I hadn’t before.
Some collaborations on the record make immediate sense in the context of your sound, but others—like Laraaji and Lee Ranaldo—are more unexpected. How did you end up working with them?
Reaching out. Simple as that.
Just a straightforward email?
Yeah. With Lee Ranaldo, I was able to meet him in person because he’s a touring artist. I went to a few of his shows when he was in London, at Café OTO, and through those experiences, we built a relationship before collaborating.
With Laraaji, we’ve never met in person. It started with an email, followed by a video call where I introduced myself and my work. I’ve been fortunate to make music that artists I admire also appreciate, and that mutual respect opens doors for collaboration.
That must be really exciting.
Yeah, it was a lot of emails and video calls—getting to know each other before working together.I wouldn’t want to collaborate with someone I haven’t had a conversation with. That applies to visuals as well—if I’m working with a designer, I might love their work, but I also want to feel like I know them at least a little.
Have you performed any of this album live with the artists yet?
Yeah. So, at the moment, the record hasn’t been performed live in its entirety. Last year, I organized events in London and Berlin where some of the artists performed, and I plan to continue that in other cities.
111 isn’t just an album—it’s an ongoing project. It will continue to evolve through different events and performances.
That makes sense—it can unfold into multiple creative directions.
Exactly. The record is out, but that’s just one part of it. Over time, different elements of the project will be revealed. There will be collaborative performances, but not necessarily a full live presentation of the album. Logistics play a big role—this wasn’t a record designed for straightforward live performance, but it has opened up new possibilities.
I’m also exploring other mediums—I’ve designed jewelry that will be released soon, and the table I perform from has three legs, referencing 111. It’s all part of a broader campaign beyond just the music. There might even be another 111 record in the future.