Ask Sasi Shalom what he does and prepare for a long answer. Pianist, composer, producer and synthesist all apply. So do years spent writing music for television and radio. His new album, Nedyaj, brings those roles together under his own name and places his music back at the centre of the conversation.

The record arrives with an exceptional cast from contemporary jazz, although Shalom has little need to borrow authority from famous collaborators. His own history stretches across acoustic piano, electronic keyboards, composition and production, shaped by a lifelong fascination with the freedom of fusion. Nedyaj belongs to an artist who has accumulated decades of experience and still approaches the next idea with genuine appetite. Another album is already approaching, which makes this a particularly active moment in Shalom’s career. One project has begun finding its audience while the next is waiting for its introduction. We spoke with Sasi Shalom between those two releases.

Hi Sasi, it’s a pleasure to have you with us. Nedyaj gives listeners plenty to admire technically: dense harmony, shifting rhythms, bold keyboard colours and exceptional players. I’m interested in the person inside all that craft. Where on the album do you hear yourself most exposed?

First, I’d like to thank you for listening to my music and for taking such a deep interest in the process behind creating it. I worked on Nedyaj on and off for years before I felt that my musical vision had become organic enough—and honest enough—to tell my story. At a time when so much music is being released in shorter forms, I deliberately chose to let each composition unfold and take the listener on a journey.

No matter how complex the harmony, rhythms, arrangements, or production may become, I always try to have a strong, lyrical melody at the heart of every composition. If you strip away the arrangements and production, I think it’s those melodies that leave me most exposed. They reveal the emotional core of the music and, in many ways, the core of who I am. 

You are both pianist and producer on Nedyaj, which means the same pair of ears has to surrender to a performance and judge it. Tell me about a take where those two instincts disagreed. Which one won?

This is a great question. In the past, when I was working within a band format, I sometimes found that the egos of talented musicians—including my own—could interfere with the bigger picture, which is always about serving the composition. That is one of the things I love most about producing my own music. On Nedyaj, the producer and arranger in me always has the final say over the pianist. I may become attached to a performance or an idea, but if it doesn’t serve the composition as a whole, I’m willing to let it go.

A good example is “Good Night, Moon.” I originally recorded a long piano solo that I really enjoyed, but as the producer, I eventually realized that the piece was stronger without it, so I removed it altogether. Something similar happened on “Monkey.” I originally had a much busier vocoder/keyboard solo, but eventually stripped it down and turned it into more of a conversation between the soprano saxophone and the vocoder. Simplifying it created more space and ultimately made the musical dialogue much more effective.

I’m also fortunate to work with world-class musicians who are mature enough that they don’t need to prove anything to anyone. That creates an environment where ego takes a back seat and every decision can be made for one reason: to make the music as strong as it can be.

So when the pianist and the producer disagree, the producer wins.

Fusion rewards close attention, yet melody often becomes the part people carry home. Which phrase from Nedyaj would you be happiest to hear someone humming the next morning?

There are a few that come to mind. In the title track, “Nedyaj,” I especially love the melody in the section just before the saxophone solo. It’s a relatively simple motif that repeats through different variations before finally resolving. There’s something very satisfying about the way it develops while still remaining recognizable, and I’d be very happy to hear someone humming that the next morning.

The bass and piano intro to “Monkey” is another good example. It’s a very distinct melodic line, and despite everything that happens rhythmically and harmonically around it, that line gives the piece an identity almost immediately.

Then there’s “Good Night, Moon,” where the repetitive orchestral rhythmic figure almost functions as a melody of its own. It would probably be the hardest of the three to sing, but I’ve actually heard listeners attempt to hum it—which, to me, is one of the greatest compliments a composer can receive.

Ultimately, I love complexity, but I never want it to come at the expense of something memorable. If a listener wakes up the next morning with even one of those phrases still in their head, then the melody has done its job.

The written page establishes form and harmony; the rhythm section decides how the music moves through the body. Which composition changed character most dramatically after the players returned their parts, and did you reshape your own performance in response?

The character of the compositions always remained very close to my original versions. I leave space for each musician’s personal interpretation, but always within the framework of my overall vision for the piece.

What often changed wasn’t the composition itself, but the energy and movement within it. The players brought their own rhythmic personalities and nuances, and I would naturally respond to that in my own performance. So rather than reshaping the music around what they played, it became more of a conversation—the original character remained intact, but the interaction between us gave it another dimension.

Producing an album means living with thousands of small choices. Which apparently minor decision now seems essential to Nedyaj’s identity?

One of the small decisions that became essential to Nedyaj’s identity was knowing when not to add something. With this kind of music, especially when you are surrounded by musicians capable of playing almost anything, there is always the temptation to add another layer, another solo, or another idea.

I found that some of the most important production choices were actually about removing things and leaving space. Those decisions may seem minor individually, but collectively they gave the album clarity and allowed the melodies, arrangements, and personalities of the musicians to come through.

After decades of working with exceptional musicians, virtuosity must become almost the entry price. What makes you trust someone musically before they play a single dazzling phrase?

I love working with musicians with whom I have a personal history. In many cases, I already have specific musicians in mind while I’m composing because I know their musical personalities and can imagine how they will bring the music to life.

Virtuosity is important, of course, but for me trust comes from something deeper—being familiar not only with someone’s musicianship, but also with their humanity. That familiarity creates a level of communication and trust that makes all the difference in the world.

Family sits close to your music, and that closeness usually brings a different kind of honesty from professional praise. Who at home gives you the response you listen to most carefully, and what have they noticed in your work before you saw it yourself?

My wife is probably the person whose response I listen to most carefully. She is not a musician, which is actually very valuable to me because she responds to the music instinctively rather than technically. She hears the entire process—from the earliest rough ideas, through the development of the arrangement, and eventually to the interaction with each musician.

When I’m working on a new composition, I usually leave the studio door open. I always know I may have found a strong melody when I hear her humming it somewhere in the house. Sometimes that tells me more than any technical analysis could. Because she has lived with the music through every stage, her response gives me a very honest sense of what is actually connecting and what stays with the listener.

Home has meant Israel and New York, while your ear was formed by several musical cultures. Away from genre labels, which rhythm, interval or melodic turn carries the meaning of home for you immediately?

I have always been drawn to minor keys, both melodically and harmonically. For me, they carry an emotional depth that I find much harder to achieve in major keys. Modal melodies and harmonies are also a big part of my musical language, and I love exploring the colors and emotions they can create.

Perhaps that is where the different musical cultures that have shaped me come together most naturally. I’m always looking for an organic connection between jazz and elements of Middle Eastern and world music, rather than consciously separating them into genres. A certain minor or modal melodic turn can immediately feel like home to me because it connects naturally to the musical language I’ve absorbed throughout my life.

Five albums, television, film, advertising, jazz, production – after all that, where do you still enjoy being a beginner?

I still enjoy being a beginner whenever I’m surprised—when something unexpected happens musically and suddenly opens a door I hadn’t considered. It could be a sound I haven’t heard before, a new rhythm, an unfamiliar harmonic progression, or something I discover while listening to one of the classical or jazz masters.

Those moments bring a renewed sense of curiosity to the process of writing and producing and often send me in a direction I would find it hard to discover otherwise.

Let’s end somewhere beyond the completed follow-up album. What musical situation still gives you productive nerves – the kind that signals genuine curiosity – and how close are you to pursuing it?

Recently, I decided to tackle a few classical piano compositions that are very challenging for me, with the hope of being ready to perform them in the near future.

There is the technical challenge, but also the challenge of interpretation within the classical framework. I have studied and practiced classical music throughout my life, but approaching it with the intention of performing it is something I haven’t really done before. It puts me in unfamiliar territory, and that combination of discipline, vulnerability, and discovery is very exhilarating to me.

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