Mark Fell has built a career on challenging musical conventions. Known for his minimalist approach to digital composition, his work straddles the boundary between sound art and electronic music, questioning the very nature of how we listen. From his early experiments in Sheffield’s electronic scene to his influential collaborations and solo projects, Fell’s sonic explorations defy easy categorization.
In this conversation, we discuss his latest project—an environment and synthesis seminar that merges digital soundscapes with the natural world. We also delve into his early influences, his fascination with stripped-down music, and the philosophy that underpins his approach to sound. For Fell, music is not just about composition—it’s about discovery, process, and forming new relationships with both tools and environments.
I spoke with Fell about his journey, the politics of sound, and what it means to truly listen.
One of the things that jumped out at me is your most recent project—you did an environment and synthesis seminar. It struck me as an interesting juxtaposition of digital sound and nature, taking people out there to create and listen. Starting from the present, how did that come about?
The guys who organized it got in touch about three years ago. This was the third year we’ve done it. They organize these residential workshops, and when they invited me, I thought about what I could do. The name kind of came out of nowhere. An important thing was that I did the series with Carl Michael von Hausswolff and my son, Rian Treanor. The three of us led the workshop.
The emphasis of the workshop is the relationship between ourselves and the environment—rethinking it so that we’re not just treating nature as something to pillage and use up. We explore how music and musical practices can be part of that rethinking.
For me, while digital and natural sounds might seem like opposite ends of a spectrum, my approach to digital tools is influenced by a Zen flute player called Fuyo, who wrote about playing the shakuhachi in 1790. He said, “It’s disgraceful if you try to make the flute produce a splendid tone.” I take that to mean that you shouldn’t impose your aesthetic prejudices onto the instrument—you should listen to what the flute is telling you. That philosophy applies to my approach to digital tools as well.
I see my work as a collaborative process with the environment and the tools themselves. It’s not me versus the environment, or me versus the tools. They are not at the service of my will. It’s about forming a relationship with them.
That was the thinking behind the environment and synthesis series. And it turns out to be a really good experience—everyone really enjoys it.
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Were you able to reconcile, through music, what we take from nature?
“Reconcile” might be a strong word, but I think forming different kinds of relationships with the environment using musical practices seems to work.
One of the things we did wasn’t digital at all—we made flutes. On the second day, I told the participants that we were going to make flutes and play them around the lake in the Pyrenees. We didn’t speak—our interaction was purely through body language and sound. That experience changes your sense of place within that context.
Does digital music sound different in nature than in an artificial setting?
That’s an interesting question. I think perception changes depending on where you are. One exercise we did was placing wireless speakers emitting synthetic sounds in the forest at night. Moving them around in complete darkness created a fundamentally different experience than if it had taken place in a gallery or studio.
Just sitting in nature, you enter a different headspace. The sounds of water, the smells of leaves, the whole atmosphere—all of it changes how you engage with the environment. So yes, the context in which you listen changes how you listen.
Going back to your origins and influences—you’re from Rotherham, which stands out as a northern town with a strong digital music presence. What influenced you early on in your music-making?
Actually, I grew up on the outskirts of Sheffield. From the mid-1970s, Sheffield established itself as a center for experimental electronic music. It had a non-academic approach to electronic experimentation, with groups like Cabaret Voltaire, who were active from around 1973.
A lot of people cite Throbbing Gristle as an important precursor, but Cabaret Voltaire was just as active. Sheffield’s electronic scene was quite distinct from Manchester’s—it wasn’t just about party music; it had a weirder, more challenging edge.
The Human League started as an experimental electronic outfit before becoming pop icons. There were also groups like Clock DVA. Sheffield had progressive politics, a strong working-class culture, and a left-wing stance.
I grew up in the early 1980s during Thatcher’s Britain. My community wasn’t “left behind”—it was deliberately torn apart by political agendas. That led me to be politically engaged from a young age, involved in anti-fascism and left-wing activism. At the same time, I discovered electronic music, literature, and film.
Despite coming from a working-class background—none of my family went to university—I found this alternative world of music and ideas. That became my safe space.
Musically, I started with synth-pop—Depeche Mode, Soft Cell—because that’s what was accessible. Then I discovered underground electronic music like Throbbing Gristle, Cabaret Voltaire, and Coil. By the mid-1980s, house and techno arrived in Britain, and they felt like the realization of the promise that early electronic music had hinted at—a psychedelic, out-of-body experience.
Do you remember a specific house track that was your “aha” moment?
There were a lot of classics, but I was particularly influenced by Anthony Shakir. He doesn’t get as much recognition as Derrick May, but his work really stood out to me.
In terms of house music, Mark Kinchin (MK) was a big influence. His stripped-back remixes, like the one he did for Shadee’s Can You Feel It, fascinated me. The way the elements were structured made me want to explore that in my own music.
Your minimalist approach to digital music—did you first explore that in your collaboration with Matt Steele?
Yes. I met Matt in 1989 at art school in Sheffield. His girlfriend at the time was in my class and introduced us because we were both into techno.
After university, we decided to get serious about making music. We had been part of a larger collective, but tensions caused it to fall apart. I was also working with Jez Potter, and we made an album that was quite erratic and chaotic in structure.
With Matt, I wanted to do something different—focus on simple rhythms and chords, stripping everything down. That’s how our project SND started. The hyper-focused approach came out of that shift.
At the time, I didn’t know much about musical minimalism—Cage, Reich, Riley—I had no clue who they were. It wasn’t about being “minimalist”; it was about focusing on the details of sound rather than adding more elements.
What fascinates you about stripped-down music and a minimal approach?
It’s not about creating music—it’s about exploring ingredients. To examine something, you strip away the unnecessary.
I wouldn’t call it scientific, but there’s a parallel to laboratory conditions—you clear away distractions to study something in detail.
The pleasure for me isn’t just in listening—it’s in the exploration. I don’t sit and listen to my music often, but the process of discovery is what drives me.
For someone new to your music, which can be challenging coming from a mainstream background, how would you suggest they approach it?
One of the biggest problems is expectations. If you sit under a tree and listen to leaves rustling, you don’t expect a crescendo. You just experience it.
Music doesn’t always need to be about instant gratification. If someone finds my music boring, it’s not the music—it’s their expectation of how music “should” be.
Difficult experiences can be meaningful. Some of the most important moments in my life were when I didn’t immediately “get” something but stayed with it.
Instead of judging, just listen. Confront the absence of constant stimulation—it might lead to a different kind of engagement.
Interviewer: Marc Landas.
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