Some artists chase relevance. Bernie Sirelson chases something else entirely — a 22-minute track named after a kosmische legend who passed in 2022, released into a year when most people can’t survive a song past the second chorus. That’s either a bold creative risk or the most honest thing an independent artist can do in 2026, and after talking to him, I genuinely think it’s the second one.

This is a composer who studied at CSUN, who worked through Bach, Xenakis, Reich, and Subotnick before ever touching a modular synth. Someone who grew up on Genesis, Yes, and Henry Cow, and somehow ended up sculpting electronic soundscapes that feel less like songs and more like states of consciousness you wander into. He calls his process “sculpting” — adding and subtracting until the music tells him what it wants to be, sometimes ditching the original idea entirely. His new release, “Embracing Uncertainty,” was born out of the pandemic — not as a metaphor, but as an actual practice he developed to function inside a world that stopped making sense. We talked about Klaus Schulze, about Kandinsky and Mondrian, about Fibonacci sequences buried inside melody, about losing his closest collaborator, and about whether you need to be tripping to actually understand his music.

Hey Bernie, thanks for taking the time to chat with me. There’s something almost provocative about releasing an album in 2025 with a 22-minute track named after Klaus Schulze. Right now, listener attention is fragmented to the point of absurdity. Yet you’re going in the opposite direction. Is this an act of resistance against contemporary music consumption culture, or rather an attempt to create an alternative space, a parallel reality for those willing to slow down?

When Klaus Shulze died on April 26^th, 2022, I was inspired to write something that would honor his legacy. Not to sound like him, but to be inspired by his music and his approach. This was the first time, and so far, only time, that I’ve been inspired to on-the-spot create something in particular. My intention was to take from his minimalism, slow development, and his sonic richness. Most of my music tends to the longer side- I think it can take a little while for us to settle in to a mood, or a space. I was surprised when it took 22 minutes to accomplish the task though. It’s not a conscious reaction to the contemporary consumption culture, and I don’t overtly reject it. I’m creating experiences and I’m in no rush to end the experience. More specifically, as a composer, I’m very aware of the flow of a piece, and phrases, sections and whole works have a balance to them, and there is a right time for them to end. And finally, if someone has a short attention span, maybe these will help lengthen it, or maybe it’s just not for them.

I like short pieces as well. I love the Minute Men. And, while “like” is not always applicable when talking about appreciating The Residents music, their “Commercial Album” has always intrigued me. I don’t write for a specific audience. The music itself determines how long it will be.

You use the term “sculpted sound” to describe your approach. When you work with modular synthesis and electronic textures, are you also “removing” something—excessive frequencies, redundancy, obviousness? Or is sculpting for you more of a process of layering and deformation, creating something from nothing?

Hah! Good question. Both. The simple answer is, “YES.” I’m a sculptor as in clay, not as in stone. Although I do like the Michelangelo story of finding just the right rock and then finding David inside. I find a good texture, melody, rhythm, or… and start adding and subtracting. It’s all based on what I hear- what’s missing, what’s too much. Many times, my final work doesn’t even include the original idea.

The album definitely sounds like a cinematic universe. But cinema usually has a narrative, cause-and-effect relationships, dramaturgy with exposition and resolution. Your music, especially in the kosmische tradition, seems to reject classical dramaturgy in favor of something more cyclical, drifting, ambient. So what exactly is the “film” unfolding in your head when you create these tracks? Is it abstract experimental avant-garde in the spirit of early Tarkovsky, or do you still see some kind of plots, characters there, even if they exist only as emotional archetypes?

You’ll find a lot of tension/release, or expectation/fulfilled. And many other contrasts. Maybe entirely understated, or overstated, and it might take a long time to set up the tension and then resolve. It’s not always harmonic or rhythmic. Sometimes, I couldn’t even tell you what really happened, but I can point it out where it happens. As far as the abstract nature of my music, I relate it more to the abstractions of Kandinsky or Piet Mondrian- only in retrospect however. But honestly, I don’t spend a lot of thought on this. If I’m doing anything intentional, I’m attempting to recreate the amorphous and sometimes blended reality that one experiences when tripping. I don’t have a pre-existing “reel” going while I compose. And overall, a piece has to have balance. That’s one of the main things I’ve taken from Classical Music- the need for balance. It has to end at the right place. And this has to go just long enough before that happens.

The title “Embracing Uncertainty Part I” immediately raises the question: where’s the line between an honest artistic statement about accepting chaos and a marketing strategy that already sets up expectations for a sequel? I’m not accusing you of cynical calculation—I’m genuinely interested in how an independent artist in 2026 balances between sincere creative impulse and the necessity of thinking about a “franchise,” about sequels, about how to maintain audience attention between releases. When did you realize this would be Part I? Was it the original concept, or did you end up with so much music that you decided to split it into parts?

Very simple answer… I recorded enough music since the lockdown to fill two disks. Part 2 is also on Bandcamp. However, now that I got disks pressed, I chose one CD’s worth of music, and it’s no longer “part 1”, it’s now just “Embracing Uncertainty” and when I’m ready to have the rest pressed, I’ll have to name it something else. And as far as the title, “Embracing Uncertainty” is the practice I developed in the face of the pandemic. I believe that we still don’t know the consequences for human civilization that are unfolding as a result of our global lockdown, of our awareness of our fragility, and of the fragility of the system. Furthermore, I’m pretty sure that life, the Universe and everything is uncertain to some degree by its very nature. And that the striving FOR certainty is a waste of time and energy- and sanity. I compose in the space of no certainty. My other project, Telescope, was entirely improvised. Improv has zero certainty- that’s what makes it so delicious! The only difference in my composing is that I have an “undo key” and I can save work for later.

You work as a composer, piano teacher, and creativity coach. Does your teaching experience help you become a more disciplined composer, or conversely—does it hinder you, forcing you to over-analyze?

Heh- neither. My studies at the university (CSUN) in composition, theory, instrumentation and the rest of it, plus all the electronics, synth techniques, as well as studying the composers, from Bach through to Xenakis, Reich and Subotnik- all of that informs my composition. I grew up listening to Genesis, Yes, Henry Cow, and an encyclopedia of Progressive, Folk and Experimental music. I abstract from all of those. But we don’t need another 4 -part fugue like The Master, Bach did (god bless you if you want to do it though.). But some of the things that make a masterful fugue work so brilliantly and satisfyingly have to do with texture, density, rhythmic development, melodic interplay, and yes, maybe even a little bit of tonality and harmony. Of course, Bach’s logical and masterful sculpting of the parts is utterly fantastic as well. But, as I said above, we don’t really need another fugue in Baroque style, or a 9^th Symphony. 

The creativity coach aspect is related (and spills a little bit over into the piano teaching), in that there are times I need to “coach” myself. Mostly to get to work, apply the time management skills I teach my students, and remember to keep experimenting and not judging. (Walk the talk, so to speak.) The most powerful thing that stops us is usually our own view of things. That’s where I come in as a coach, and if I’m smart about it, to look at myself from the same perspective as I see my clients. Please note however, these conversations don’t occur in a vacuum. You have to have people around you that see you, and talk to you, from an empowering perspective. Coaching is never just two people. The coached must go out and try it in real life. I know several people that collect equipment. They know way more about it than I do. But…. Is there any music coming out of their studio? If your going to create music, you should create music,

“Pi Day” opens the album at 10:48. The number π appears in music constantly: in overtones, in wave ratios, in the physics of sound itself. Xenakis worked with stochastic processes, spectral music is built on frequency analysis. When you titled the track “Pi Day,” was it an intuitive metaphor about infinity and irresolution? Or did you embed mathematical principles into the structure itself? 

I believe you’re thinking of the Fibonacci series. (I just looked it up, just to be sure.) I began composing “Pi Day” on March 14th (3/14). That’s the entire source of the title. I have, however used the Fibonacci series several times in pieces, where I would map many aspects of the music on to the series (1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21…). Rhythms, harmonies, melodies. Maybe I got down to the level of the harmonic spectrum when I was using the Fairlight… Hard to remember that far back. But now that you mention it, it may be time to take that on again.

Kosmische Musik of the ’70s emerged in the very specific context of post-war Germany. Now it’s 2026, and we’re in a different crisis—ecological, political, existential. When you turn to kosmische aesthetics, are you trying to achieve the same thing—escape into the future, into possibility? Or is your relationship to this genre more nostalgic, archival?

I hate to admit it- I used the term quite naively. My relationship is definitely more nostalgic and archival. I discovered the term fairly recently, and as it described a lot of the music that I call my influences, I got excited and grabbed hold of it. Clearly, I’ll be digging deeper into the term and its context. But if it reflects a future- and possibility- based aesthetic, then I’m in. No escape though. We’ve got to deal with what’s in front of us, and if I can allow it to, some of the energy of the times will make it into my music. And certainly not all of my music fits in that category.

“Pseudo-World #1″—an intriguing title for the final track. Is this a reference to Baudrillard and hyperreality, to worlds of simulacra? Or a more personal metaphor about how we construct alternative realities through art, music, imagination? And why specifically “#1″—does this imply that multiple pseudo-worlds exist, catalogued and numbered?

There is a Pseudo-World #2 (to be on my next CD). I’m a big fan of Peter Gabriel’s “Real World” label, bringing music to us from every corner of the world. I think this piece is reminiscent of some of his work, don’t you? I’m not that deep regarding the influences on my music- it really is just a matter of sculpting sound, realizing what I’m hearing in my mind (or wherever it is that we hear things), and THEN, applying a title to it. I do, however enjoy studying physics, alternate realities, cosmology, etc. It just doesn’t have a direct influence on my music in the way one might expect.

You position yourself as a completely independent, artist-driven musician in 2025. Bandcamp, streaming, direct relationships with audiences. On one hand, it’s romantic—an artist free from label compromises and industry pressures. On the other hand, it means you’re simultaneously composer, producer, distributor, marketer, SMM manager, accountant. When Brian Eno worked on ambient albums in the ’70s, he could focus solely on the music. You’re forced to juggle ten roles at once. How does this affect the music itself?

It actually has no impact on the music. It does have a great impact on who gets to hear it. Up until recently, I had the attitude that if “they” wanted to, they would find me. Now, I’m committed to reaching as many people as possible with my rather obscure-sounding music. So, I get to learn about all of those other aspects of the business. And I’ve hired a marketing angel to help. But if I allow that to have an influence on my music, then I wouldn’t be being authentic. And I don’t know that I’m capable of being inauthentic in my work. 

Since I’m mostly retired, and my own boss, I can dedicate a lot of time to my art. The thing that impacted me the most recently is the loss of my best friend and collaborator (for the Telescope project). I didn’t realize how much I always looked forward to showing him the latest sounds I was making. I never composed to impress him- but he was the first string to tell me if something was as effective as I was thinking. And without that listening there. I was temporarily stymied. As soon as I noticed it, I completed it. Now, I’m working on my next piece.

Final question—about time and perception. You create music for “deep listening, reflection, and altered perception.” Psychedelic rock of the ’60s, ambient of the ’70s, trance of the ’90s—all these genres also claimed to alter perception, often with the help of certain substances. Does your music also require a certain state of consciousness for full appreciation? Does the listener need to prepare themselves in some way.

Yes, but not necessarily by taking drugs, although certain ones are quite nice for the listening experience. But plenty of people have enjoyed it without an externally caused altered state. I do recommend (micro-manage?) that people listen with headphones or a good hifi. But does one need to be on drugs to appreciate all four parts of a four-part fugue simultaneously? (Well, maybe…). No- my music is intended to provide the altered state. The imprint on my CD says, “It might not make you dance, but it will make you think you’re tripping.”

You know, the whole subject of altered states and art is way too big to do it justice here. Van Gogh’s paintings are really psychedelic, and maybe he was just tripping on his inner mentality. And Terrence McKenna’s theories suggest that we might have developed language (and singing?) as a result of tripping on magic mushrooms in prehistoric times. I am, as Jimi Hendrix said, “Experienced,” but I never compose while I’m tripping. It’s too hard to deal with the linearity and logic of the computer in that state. But what I see and hear when I’m tripping has many times influenced the music that shows up subsequently.

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