On “Sound Machine,” a track from the new album “Aloud” from poet Raymond Antrobus and percussionist Evelyn Glennie, Antrobus recalls his fear as a child when he knocked over his dad’s stereo.
“Killing the bass, flattening the mood and his muses / Making dad blow his fuses and beat me,” Antrobus recites, pausing for impact. “But it wasn’t my fault / The things he made could be undone so easily / And we would keep losing connection, but praise Dad’s mechanical hands / Even though he couldn’t fix my deafness I still channel him.”
Antrobus and Glennie are two of today’s most accomplished Deaf artists at the flashpoint of music and poetry. The Scottish Glennie — the only Deaf artist to win a Grammy — honed an otherworldly approach to her instruments on symphonic and solo work and collaborations with Bjork and director Danny Boyle at the London Olympics. Her sounds careen and resonate in avant-garde ways that feel primal, even tectonic.
Antrobus found global fame with his 2018 poetry collection “The Perseverance,” and continued with his affecting memoir “The Quiet Ear,” about how his deafness intersected with his Jamaican-British upbringing, and finding an invigorating tradition of d/Deaf literature and art.
“Aloud,” produced by Ian Brennan, is their latest album in a recent series together. Glennie and Antrobus performed “Aloud” in single takes, with no rehearsal or even knowledge of what the other would perform.
The two spoke to The Times (via email) about how deafness shapes new understandings of music, and the ways society can support, or fail, artists with different abilities.
What were the early conversations about how these collaborations would work? You have a shared experience of music and language, but very different backgrounds.
Glennie: The idea intrigued me, so I purchased a few of Raymond’s books, including his beautiful children’s book “Can Bears Ski?” just to get a feel for his voice and rhythm. Neither Raymond nor I came in with any preconceived ideas whatsoever. We both wanted the process to unfold naturally, and that’s exactly what happened. It reminded me a lot of how things evolved when I worked with Björk years ago.
Raymond chose his poems spontaneously on the day, while I was sitting on the floor surrounded by a few small resonant instruments. We made sure we could see each other clearly, as the visual interaction between us was crucial. My challenge was to listen and respond in real time, musically reacting to his words and body language.
The spontaneity was essential to the spirit of the project. There was no big technical setup, no recording studio, no big plan—just a willingness to see what might emerge. If it worked, wonderful. And if it didn’t, well, at the very least we had a meaningful day meeting and creating together.
Antrobus: Before making this record, I didn’t know Evelyn Glennie personally. But I came across her when I was probably around 13 or 14, when she had a documentary on the TV about her teaching percussion to another Deaf student of hers. That was the earliest memory I have of actually seeing a Deaf person being kind of spotlit, in any way. That’s how everything came into my consciousness, and I didn’t forget that documentary.
Spoken-word artists have found popular acclaim, from Gil Scott-Heron to Kae Tempest and Warsan Shire on Beyoncé’s “Lemonade.” What examples of this kind of collaboration have you found moving?
Antrobus: Yes, to the people you’ve mentioned. I think a big one is Mike Skinner from the Streets. Because I think he was calling himself a rapper, when I often heard him as a kind of spoken-word poet. There’s a wealth of kind of poetry/music crossovers that I think work really well, like Saul Williams. Then, you have dub poets — Linton Kwesi Johnson, Mutabaruka, Jean “Binta” Breeze and Benjamin Zephaniah. Those were some of the earliest examples I had from my dad, who was an amateur DJ, and who had some of those records on tape and vinyl, and would incorporate some of the poems in his sets.
I remember my dad had a Linton Kwesi Johnson spoken-word poem over music recorded, and he would sometimes put my voice next to it. I was probably about 2 or 3 then, just trying to blab, because the early nurses I had when I was a kid had said that I had delayed speech or something called “selective mutism.” I think my dad was just trying to get me to make sound, to make speech, and also to have fun with it.
I think that was the opposite of how you often hear of parents kind of grieving when their children don’t meet all of those expected milestones. Or when the child has a disability and the parent grieves the vision of the child that they thought they were gonna have. But my father, instead, just took some of that sound from me and made dubs and poetry from it.
Glennie: I’ve never recorded anything combining the poetic spoken word and music before, and I haven’t been exposed to any examples of this kind of collaboration. I’ve never had a large listening repertoire, largely due to my hearing impairment, so I tend to engage with sound in a very direct, tactile way, through vibration and physical interaction rather than through recorded material.
In a way, that allowed me to approach it with total openness. It was about responding in the moment to Raymond’s voice, body language and rhythm, without trying to emulate or echo anything I had experienced before. Perhaps that sense of unfamiliarity became a strength — it made the experience fresh and personal.
This collaboration was recorded with no rehearsals and improvised in single takes. What’s the process of musical communication between you?
Glennie: What made this collaboration special was precisely the fact that there wasn’t an established working relationship beforehand. Raymond and I had never met prior to the recording day, and yet the connection was immediate. That unfamiliarity, rather than being a barrier, actually became the foundation for a very raw and honest kind of communication.
Because everything was improvised in single takes, we had to listen to each other with total presence and trust. There was no fallback plan — just a willingness to be vulnerable and responsive. For me, musical improvisation is about sensing energy, presence and movement, not just sound. With Raymond, I found myself responding not only to the rhythm and cadence of his voice, but to the emotional delivery of his words, the space between them, the way they hung in the air.
It was more a matter of creating a space where both of us could be fully ourselves, and trusting that something cohesive would emerge from that. My choices were instinctive. I wasn’t aiming to underscore or decorate his poetry but to be in dialogue with it, almost like a second voice. The element of not knowing what was coming next kept everything alive. It forced us out of any habitual patterns and into a space of pure response. And that’s where the surprises happened — moments where the music seemed to catch the words midflight, or where a silence said more than a sound ever could. Those moments weren’t planned, but they felt inevitable when they arrived. That’s the beauty of true improvisation: It cannot be repeated, only experienced.
Antrobus: I guess the surprise, really, was in the reveal. It was in the listening back and being like, “Oh, this really worked!” Because it was an attempt in the dark to see what would manifest. There was a good chance that we’d record this and it wouldn’t work. The reason I think it works is because we were both given the space by Ian and each other to focus on our own individual craft, our own individual passion without overthinking it.
How do your mutual experiences with deafness create a different musical understanding than what you’d have with hearing artists?
Glennie: There’s a kind of unspoken understanding that comes from a shared experience of deafness, one that goes beyond language or conventional musical cues. With Raymond, there was no need to explain certain things — the way we both attune to vibration, body language, visual cues, timing and space was already part of our lived experience. That creates a different kind of musical awareness — one that is rooted in sensing rather than strictly hearing.
I think for both of us, sound isn’t just something that enters through the ears. It’s something we literally feel physically, visually and mentally, through the floor, through breath, through presence. That shifts the dynamic entirely. Our communication wasn’t dependent on verbal instructions or pre-arranged signals; it was about being fully attuned to each other’s energy in the moment. That’s not exclusive to d/Deaf or hard-of-hearing artists, of course, but there’s an added layer of depth when those sensory adjustments are part of your everyday reality.
In a way, not relying on conventional hearing opens up a broader spectrum of listening. You become hyper-aware of nuance — silences, gestures, micro-expressions, rhythm as movement. That heightened sensitivity allowed us to meet in a very intuitive, embodied space. We weren’t chasing perfection — we were chasing presence. And that made all the difference.
Antrobus: Me and Evelyn are both connected in some obvious ways. We both have hearing aids and rely on lip-reading and have had to kind of navigate that. But just connecting as people, as personalities, I think that that was as important, to us and to our chemistry.
I think that both of us are in a place where we both celebrate our deafness, as well as acknowledging the challenges that have come with it. Evelyn once said this thing in an interview awhile ago that really stuck with me, about how important it is for people to understand that Deaf people do have a relationship with music. As opposed to the trope that. “Oh, Deaf people don’t have music.” Therefore, I think she compared it to, like, taking away our joy or the possibility for joy. I love that, and I resonated with that.
Evelyn, how does Raymond’s poetry reveal something intimate about the way of being in the world you share?
I find that Raymond’s poetry holds a quiet force. It doesn’t demand attention, but it commands it through its clarity, vulnerability and truth. What moves me most is how he gives voice to experiences that are often overlooked or misunderstood, particularly around deafness, identity and communication. There were moments when digesting his work, whereby I felt he was articulating something I had never quite found words for myself. This is particularly the case in his most recent publication, “The Quiet Ear,” for which we are collaborating on a brief segment in London soon.
At the same time, his poetry stands entirely on its own. It’s not powerful because he is Deaf; it’s powerful because he is an extraordinary artist with a deep sensitivity to rhythm, silence and emotional weight. He writes with a musician’s instinct, but also with a deep sense of history, culture and craft. His insight doesn’t come from trying to explain or simplify complex experiences but from allowing them to be as layered and contradictory as they truly are.
In collaborating with Raymond, I was struck by how deeply we share a way of being in the world — one that is often about listening beneath the surface, reading between the lines, and sensing what isn’t being said. I was equally moved by how his perspective challenged me, expanded my landscape and invited me into new emotional terrains. That’s what the best art does — it mirrors, and it transforms.
Raymond, when you first encountered Evelyn’s work, how did did her playing affect you?
Something that I really enjoy watching is Evelyn play. Because in itself, it has its own movement, its own very physicality. It’s very in the body. I really enjoy the range of sounds that she plays with. In the same way that there are certain sounds in speech that I don’t hear, but I’ve still had to learn to pronounce them, or say them, or make a certain shape of them, I can imagine and I see that with Evelyn as well, as a percussionist. Because like when she does the chime stroking things or like, the brush strokes, which are the really soft sounds. But when I watch her, I understand that what she’s doing with the brushstroke is she’s making the vibration, even though it’s a soft sound, it still has a feeling, it still has a physical and bodily vibration.
So, I feel like I have a similar kind of relationship to that aesthetic disposition and technique with language — with actual, spoken language — as Evelyn does with the instruments where she is able to play notes and sounds that she wouldn’t hear otherwise, unaided. And in my own poetry, I’m often using sounds in my poems that I can’t hear, unaided.
Evelyn, the tones you conjure are so unlike anything else I’ve heard. How does feeling music as a physical experience, rather than a purely auditory one, create a different understanding of what percussion is capable of?
For me, music has always been a physical, spatial, and emotional experience before it’s an auditory one. I perceive vibration through my body first — literally through skin, bone, breath, pressure — and that completely shifts how I engage with instruments.
This tactile awareness means I don’t think of percussion as just rhythm or attack. I think of it as texture, temperature, proximity and so much more. A single stroke on a drum or woodblock isn’t just a beat or noise but it’s a moving wave of air that interacts with space, silence, and the body. Working this way requires a deep sensitivity to subtlety, to decay, resonance, extremes, and to how sound lives after it’s been struck. It’s about exploring and being curious towards the invisible architecture of resonance.
In my collaboration with Raymond, that physicality of sound became a bridge between us. His poetry carries an innate rhythm, but more than that, it carries emotional and sonic weight which I responded to as a kind of pulse, even in silence. Because we were both attuned to sound beyond its conventional, auditory dimension, we could meet in a shared space that was quite instinctual.
This perspective has continually helped me re-imagine my family of instruments, not as fixed tools, but as living, breathing extensions of my body and the environment. A cymbal, a guiro, a waterphone — they all have voices waiting to be discovered rather than being dictated to. When you open up the body like a huge ear, you start to realize that percussion isn’t just the backbone of music — it’s the soul, breath and gesture. It’s where sound and silence meet.
Raymond, “Sound Machine” is an intimate image of a young child’s fear and awe for his dad, using a heavy-duty piece of music equipment as the source of his power. Was the gap between your experience of the world and his a source of tension growing up? How has your understanding of his perspective changed over time?
Most recently it’s changed because I am now a parent, so I get to see from the perspective of being the parent and not the son — a mature, older kind of overview. And with that, perspective has come to things that I’m grateful for. For example: the fact that my dad was there. He wasn’t “there,” but he was there. Like, I always knew where he was, at least. And there were so many things that he gave me, that helped me feel, kind of, connected and loved that I’m trying to carry on as a dad. But I’m also trying to do better — to be there in ways for my son that my dad wasn’t there for me.
But at the same time, my son has his own story. He’s a different person, he’s got his own journey. He’s not deaf. He’s 4 and already he’s got such good speech and mobility. He walked quite early. So, he’s already met a lot of milestones — developmental milestones— at his age that I didn’t reach until much later on.
But something that my dad gave, as someone who always had music on and built his own sound system, was he literally created his own sound. And I have a lot of my dad’s old tapes. So, I’ve played my son a little bit of reggae and rocksteady, and there’s a heritage of sound that I think I’m passing on.
One track, “MBE,” alludes to the royal honors you’ve both received. What emotions do you have about your work being honored by that institution? It’s important as representation for Deaf artists, and of your achievements. But there must be complex feelings around that institution too?
Antrobus: Yeah, there’s a huge complexity. I do consider myself an anti-imperialist. And I am against the idea of Empire. But I also acknowledge that there’s power in an institution like that. And I realize that there’s a complicity. So, I have an awareness that I just have to move with it, and it’s more about how I use it. Titles are not meant to be an easy thing. It’s meant to have its weight, you know?
Glennie: The line “Say yes but don’t take it so serious” captures a beautifully balanced perspective, and I think it speaks to the quiet complexity many of us feel when institutions recognize our work. Receiving an honor can be significant, especially in terms of visibility and representation. For both Raymond and me, as Deaf artists, it sends a powerful message, that the contribution of disabled voices in the arts is not peripheral, that it is central, meaningful, and worthy of recognition.
The institution of the monarchy, and the British honors system more broadly, carries with it a long and layered legacy. Whilst I’m deeply grateful for the recognition, I also hold that gratitude alongside a sense of reflection.
What matters most to me is what we do with the visibility and responsibilities that these acknowledgments bring. The honor is not an end point — it’s an invitation to keep pushing, questioning, expanding one’s curiosity and access, and broadening the understanding of who belongs in artistic and cultural spaces. Raymond and I didn’t make this record to prove anything or to justify our place. We made it because we were curious, open, willing to step out of our comfort zones, and be committed to listening deeply to each other.
Evelyn, as the only Deaf artist who has won Grammys, how does the music industry misunderstand what deafness is, as far as what it means for a relationship to music? What are best practices (or best hopes) for a music education program with deafness in mind?
Glennie: The music industry, and society more broadly, often carries a narrow view of deafness. There can be the assumption that to be Deaf is to be disconnected from music, or that the experience of sound must be diminished, lesser or incomplete. Deafness means we have a different relationship with sound, and that difference can be extraordinarily rich. I perceive it through vibration, through movement, and through the resonance of space. My ears may not process sound the way others’ do, but every fiber of my being is engaged when I make music. That’s not despite my deafness — it’s because of it.
The industry often measures musicality through technical proficiency or traditional modes of listening, which excludes so many ways of knowing and expressing. In my mind, I feel a reimagining of access is required — not as a set of retrofits or accommodations, but as a creative opportunity. If we stop seeing deafness as a limitation, we begin to open the door to entirely new forms of artistry, collaboration and perception.
In terms of music education, my greatest hope is for a model that begins with listening, not just with the ears, but with the whole self. One that values tactile and visual learning, that allows students to explore sound through movement, pitch through light or texture, and expression through every part of the body. Our music exams/auditions need a complete overhaul in order to embrace improvisation, sound-placement, acoustics, adaptability in sound creation — so many of these elements and ingredients come too late for many. We must invite d/Deaf and hard-of-hearing people not just into the audience, but into the center of the creative process as composers, performers and innovators. Inviting music students and student audiologists to collaborate in gaining a better understanding of what it means to hear in relation to what it means to listen is also essential in my view.
When we embrace diverse sensory experiences of music, we don’t just make room for d/Deaf artists — we deepen the entire art form. We make music more human, more honest and infinitely more alive.
These are ugly times for governments failing to give differently-abled people resources to thrive. It’s cruel, and the world misses out on so much potential for failing to honor and develop difference. How are these collaborations a small resistance to that cruel way of seeing otherness?
Antrobus: I can just hope that the example of the collaboration and the project existing gives energy to more people, in general, to be creative. I hope it gives energy to, like, disability justice causes, as well as poets who want to collaborate with musicians. I hope that it inspires more people to write poetry or to try percussion.
Interestingly, poetry and percussion are things that are often seen and heard during political protests. So, this project is completely aligned with the course for justice and for taking a stand and speaking your truth. It fuels all of that. Those are things that I celebrate, and I hope that others will, too.
Glennie: I agree, there is a growing cruelty in how governments are turning their backs on those they see as inconvenient or burdensome. What is devastating isn’t only the immediate harm caused by that neglect but it’s the extraordinary human potential that is being silenced, overlooked, or dismissed simply because it doesn’t fit a narrow definition of what is “productive” or “normal.”
To create in the face of that backdrop, especially a record like this, which is entirely improvised, deeply embodied and rooted in shared vulnerability, is an act of quiet resistance. It’s a way of saying: We exist, we create and we matter, not because we conform, but because we don’t. The collaboration with Raymond is not about overcoming difference or masking it. It’s about honoring it, listening to it, giving it space and agency.
When society fails to honor difference, it starves itself of innovation, empathy and depth. To make a record that centers deafness not as a deficit, but as a source of artistic richness, is in itself a radical statement. It challenges the idea that creativity must look or sound a certain way. It insists that nuance, space and time have value.
Art cannot solve systemic injustice on its own, but it can offer a different vision — a much needed reminder that there is beauty and dignity in every kind of body and mind. When two people come together, like Raymond and I did, across disciplines and life experiences, to simply listen, something transformative happens. That’s not just a musical act. It’s a human one. In times like these, that’s a form of resistance too.
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