The experience of sound happens in a fleeting moment and can endure as a lasting impression. In this interview, experimental musician Fangyi Liu reflects on his creative journey from early encounters with unconventional techniques to his evolving practice of sound recording, composition and improvisation. The interview is presented in two chapters-- in Part I, Fangyi shares about his approach to collecting sounds and making albums, and in Part II, we deep dive into his performative explorations with sound and space.

When I first encountered experimental music, it was quite a shock.

One of my earliest experiences of experimental music was attending a performance by artist Alice Hui-Sheng Chang. Her powerful singing techniques extended beyond traditional vocalization methods by using vocal registers beyond the norm. The moment she produced sound, it felt as if the air had condensed and was then pierced by her voice. I was utterly shocked, thinking, So humans can make such sounds...After the show, I decided to buy her record and listened to it several times. The initial shock gradually transformed into appreciation and deeper connection to the music.

Later on, as I continued to search online for similar works to listen to, my first instinct was to start making something myself. I began by purchasing a relatively inexpensive synthesizer, the KORG Kaossilator. Its XY-coordinate control interface allowed me to manipulate and play sounds from its library with touch gestures. However, I quickly realized that it didn’t align with my needs or personality.

What really got me started in creating was buying a digital recorder. Once I had it, I felt compelled to record sounds wherever I went. Early on, I experimented with recording in my family’s bathroom. I recorded one track of playing with the bathtub and another of running water from the shower head. During these sessions, I’d play with elements at hand, like the shower head, water buckets, towel rack, and explore what sounds could be produced by water in this space.

While I wasn’t necessarily aiming for specific results, since I was making sounds, I thought I might as well let there be some variations. Of course, some of the sounds I recorded were based on prior experience. After all, with the many showers I had taken in that bathroom, I had a general idea of what sounds water in the bathtub could make. These recordings I made in my family’s bathroom eventually developed into my second album, Bathroom Meteorology released in 2015.

As a child, I loved rewinding cassette tapes to hear sound in reverse.

In making the first track of Bathroom Meteorology, I duplicated a recording, reversed its double and placed the two copies on top of each other. You can hear a reversed “thud” at the end of the track, which was originally the sound of myself striking the plastic bathtub. With the sound in reverse, it starts quietly, grows into a low-frequency sound, and suddenly erupts into a thud.

Reversed sound is a unique experience as it defies the natural acoustics of our world. In everyday life, I often hear sounds that resemble synthesizers, like birdsongs or the hum of electrical equipment, but a mechanically reversed sound does not naturally exist in everyday life.

In addition to my fascination with reversal, previous exposure to visual arts may have also been one of my influences when making this album. Visual symmetry, flipping or mirroring shapes, and overlapping layers -- to me, these common visual experiences can also be applied to the structure and development of sound.


For me, to record is an act of improvisation.

In many of my earlier works, I would record myself improvising with found objects, then edit in large sections. Oftentimes, I would also incorporate other recordings of sounds from my daily life; I have a habit of collecting materials, and when working on a piece, I would go through these recordings to find what I might need or use. Over time, I’ve since expanded to include more complex processes of arrangements.

From the moment of recording, I consciously select what sounds to capture. Later, when composing, I often preserve the improvisational essence of the original recording rather than deconstructing it. In the process of recording, there are many possibilities, and decisions are made based on aesthetic choices. The way sound takes shape, the factors that influence it, and even feelings in that moment all become key elements or conditions for documenting the present.


While broadly speaking, my everyday recordings may be referred to as ‘field recordings,’ I am aware that the term ‘field recordings’ belongs to a specific lineage of sound creation.

Anthropological or ecological field recordings tend to place greater emphasis on the source of the recorded sounds, serving the needs of academic research or preservation. In creative work, highlighting where a sound comes from—or what kind of sonic origins it is connected to—depends on the purpose of the piece and what the artist intends to emphasize.

In my own creative narrative, I don’t necessarily need to fully convey or preserve the original context of a sound’s source. Moreover, I tend to resist the idea that the sounds I record should be tied to their origins, as I see this as a potential limitation in artistic creation. This also relates to an individual’s creative habits. I record very often, but to be honest, I’m terrible at organizing my files.

Many times, after recording, I don’t specifically document where a particular sound came from. Sometimes, when I revisit recordings long after they’ve been made, I can vaguely recall when and where they were recorded and what they might have been related to. But this usually only happens when I’m digging through materials for a project and trying to piece together the time and place of those recordings.


A recording holds my unknown memory, even if the specific details of its origin are forgotten.

From the lineage of musique concrète artists, I prefer the work of Luc Ferrari. His iconic work titled Presque Rien ("Almost Nothing”) features the everyday sounds of a French fishing village. When listening to it, you may find it difficult to identify how exactly he employed the techniques of musique concrète. For Ferrari, musique concrète could preserve the original context of a sound while also allowing it to be appreciated purely for its sonic qualities.

Similarly, when I incorporate a sound into my work, I might make some subtle modifications, but I strive to retain its original state because it often makes the piece more interesting. When listening to field recordings, a sound can simultaneously serve as the audible trace of a specific source and be appreciated solely for its developments as sound.

Last year, I exhibited a multimedia installation The Recording is My Unknown Memory at Alien Art Center, Kaohsiung. When I was invited to create this new work, the curator asked for something that reflected a deeply personal and emotional side of the artist. They even framed it as a "letter to someone you love." It’s rare for a curatorial team to give such a direct thematic prompt.

While working on the project, I went through family photo albums. I saw childhood pictures—of places I went with my mom or photos with my dad—but I couldn’t recall the actual moments when those photos were taken. I was looking at the images but had no memory of them. I had forgotten those moments, but the photos remained. My mom told me that the child in the images was me, so I accepted that as truth. The record exists, I see it, and I acknowledge it. My mom would even add extra context or stories about what was happening in the photos.

Often, a recording can evoke a memory, even if you can’t quite place it no matter how hard you try. But I’ve come to terms with how it is —When I recorded it, it was tied to a specific source and the context of its creation. When I’m making art, connections are re-constructed in new ways. Memory, captured as a record—whether in photographs or sound—can be revisited, replayed, listened to, supplemented, or even reimagined. This process continues even if the specific details of origins are forgotten.






(Update: 2025-02-24)

︎ Fangyi Liu
Fangyi Liu lives in Kaohsiung. He focuses on freestyle musical and tonal improvisation. Additionally, he remixes and edits field recordings as demonstration works. Liu's work highlights two major points. The first is about the human voice. The act of pronouncing sounds from different races and cultures encompasses not only language but also pre-linguistic sounds, distortions, and language lapses. Even unestablished pronunciations can convey signals or context to listeners. The second point is about environmental sound or soundscapes. People are constantly surrounded by sounds from both living and nonliving things. His major projects address the issues of sensing and recognizing environmental sounds. Liu employs various materials and methods to explore these two topics.

He also created a Facebook group called Cochlea to introduce musicians from different fields to new audiences. He has organized several performances to promote new audio experiences.

︎ 劉芳一
現居高雄。他特別著迷於各式物件的聲學細節，並習慣於日常搜集聲音，進行即興演奏或聲音拼貼，構成意義含糊的敘事。其作品形式包括作曲、裝置和演出。現為“三半規管”及高雄實驗音樂團體“Beniyaben”成員，同時擔任高雄聲音聆聽推廣單位《耳蝸》的管理人與實驗音樂會《耳集》的策劃者。

劉芳一曾擔任《伊人》（2015）、《此岸：一個家族故事》（2020）、《宿舍》（2021）等影片的聲音設計，並參與演出TIDF《虛舟記》擴延電影配樂、台東美術館聲音藝術節、KLEX吉隆坡實驗電影錄像音樂節、台北藝術節、斯德哥爾摩藝穗節、另翼之聲：台灣當代噪音、即興、前衛音樂等活動。他的展覽經歷包括麻豆大地藝術季、金馬賓館、台灣雙年展等。