BICEP’s music occupies a strange space between euphoria and melancholy, where the dancefloor becomes somewhere to lose yourself, reflect on the past and feel connected to the people around you.
It was St Patrick’s Day, March 17th, 2022. I’d be lying if I said I remembered much about that evening. I was out with everyone from my year in a small town in Ireland called Sligo. We were partying hard.
I was sitting out the back of a now-retired pub, on the cold concrete in my green satin dress. Beside me was an old school friend. I didn’t know it then, but that was where I’d first learn about BICEP.
My mate was so enthusiastic about telling me who these guys were, and I was just as keen to listen. Maybe it was the fact we were on a buzz, but I couldn’t help smiling as he spoke about the duo.
I’d of course heard their famous track, ‘Glue’, but I knew very little about their live shows or the artists themselves.
He told me about seeing them live. How he’d found himself at the back of the crowd, bawling his eyes out while the music played. He was dancing, crying, smiling. All at once. Filled with pure euphoria and, I guess, hope.
Of everything that happened that St Patrick’s Day, that’s what I remember.
It stayed with me. I needed to know who BICEP were, and how their music could create such a strangely beautiful experience. My curiosity started that night.
Now, I won’t lie to you. I didn’t start listening to BICEP the next day. Or even the next year. It wasn’t until February 7th, 2025.
I was scrolling through Instagram when I came across a post BICEP had shared from their performance at Laneway Festival in Auckland. The sound coming out of my phone had blessed my ears. I was enchanted. I couldn’t stop listening.
There was just one problem. I had absolutely no idea what the song was.
Naturally, I tried Shazaming it first. Nothing. I searched their Spotify. Nothing. I hunted through YouTube clips. Still nothing.
Then I had an idea.
The comments.
There were only 15 at the time, but I read every single one until, finally, there it was. The song ID. It was like I’d found treasure.
‘Thom Yorke – Dawn Chorus [BICEP Edit]’.
I frantically opened SoundCloud, typed in the name, took a deep breath, and there it was.
Like any normal person who’d just discovered a song they couldn’t live without, I made sure I could listen to it absolutely everywhere.
From waking up in the morning to driving home after work to winding down in the evening, I had that song playing.
This was where my actual journey as a BICEP fan began. And, evidently, where my journey into making electronic music began too.
The effect that song, and many more that followed, had on me was so profound. It was almost like a drug. Except this was something I desperately wanted to learn how to create myself.
That same year, I managed to see Matt and Andy DJ twice, at All Together Now and Emerge. I was prepared for both. I’d studied their music, felt their sound, and longed to experience it for myself.
But there was still something I wanted to understand.
How could two people make music that made you want to completely lose yourself on a dance floor, while somehow making you feel more connected to yourself than ever?
I’ve spent the past year listening to BICEP. I’ve absorbed their albums, singles, projects and EPs on long drives, late nights, sunny days and mellow evenings.
From their debut album, Bicep, to the memorable Isles (Deluxe), their Arctic-inspired audiovisual project TAKKUUK, through to CHROMA and, more recently, their upcoming album SLUG.
One thing I’ve noticed is that, despite how much their music has evolved, they’ve never really lost their sound. It’s as though they’ve remained true to themselves with every track they’ve put out.
Their atmospheric pads, spiky arpeggios, crunching drums, expanding basslines and haunting vocals all come together to create something that feels strangely organic. Natural, even.
And I think part of that comes down to imperfection.
In a world where electronic music can be manipulated and polished down to the smallest detail, there’s something about BICEP’s productions that feels beautifully imperfect. To me, it makes their music more vulnerable. More human. And perhaps, in some way, easier to connect with.
The way BICEP approach making music is, in my opinion, slightly unconventional. They don’t always rely on the typical effects and arrangements we’ve come to associate with dance music. The big risers, dramatic transitions or predictable build-ups and drops.
Instead, they seem to let the sounds speak for themselves.
There’s space to hear each individual instrument, yet somehow, everything remains beautifully glued together. Nothing feels overcrowded or unnecessarily complicated.
They have this natural way of building tension and creating release, without making it feel forced. I imagine much of that comes down to their arrangements, sound design and the way they mix their tracks.
It’s almost as though they know exactly when to introduce something new, and perhaps more importantly, when to leave something alone.
What I find particularly fascinating about BICEP is how their music can exist just as comfortably on a dance floor as it does through a pair of headphones. When I’m out, I can lose myself in the drums and basslines. But when I’m sitting at home or walking alone, it’s their melodies and chord progressions that really capture my attention.
There’s something melancholic about their harmonies, yet somehow, they’re uplifting at the same time. It’s a strange contradiction, but one that BICEP seem to understand so well. Their music allows you to sit with that sadness without necessarily feeling consumed by it.
The rhythm encourages you to move, while the melodies give you something to feel.
There’s something peculiar about the nostalgia BICEP manage to create. It’s almost as though their music exists somewhere between the past, present and future.
When I listen to their tracks, I find myself reflecting on things that have happened in my life, how I’m feeling in that very moment, and somehow, what lies ahead. There’s a sense of hope in it all. As though the music is reminding me that, whatever has happened or whatever I’m going through, there’s still so much more to come.
Their melodies have a way of creeping up on you. Carrying you somewhere you didn’t expect to go, yet somehow making you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
I find it fascinating hearing Matt and Andy talk about the ideas behind their music. They seem to have this ability to find beauty in things that might otherwise go unnoticed.
Take the title of their upcoming album, SLUG, for example. Most of us would probably picture an ordinary garden slug. But BICEP have spoken about the sea slug, a creature filled with extraordinary colours and textures.
I can’t help but see a connection between that idea and the way their music makes me feel.
Their music doesn’t necessarily take away the difficult emotions or experiences we carry with us. Instead, it seems to transform the way we experience them. Finding something beautiful in what might otherwise feel heavy, uncertain or even ordinary.
Their recent release, ‘Ultra’, featuring Eartheater and Saskia, is a perfect example of this.
The minimalism of the introduction, with Saskia’s vocals sitting right at the forefront, gives you space to reflect. But then come the mesmerising arpeggios, gradually opening up as the filter cutoff opens, and suddenly you’re being carried somewhere else entirely.
It’s almost as though you’re flying through your own timeline, moving between memories, the present and whatever lies ahead.
Then the drums introduce a sense of chaos, but strangely, it’s a comforting kind of chaos. They make you want to dance, while the slow, intimate vocals give you room to reflect. To feel. To accept.
It’s as though the music is telling you that it’s okay for life to feel a little uncertain.
You know, after spending so much time trying to understand what makes BICEP’s music so special, I think it’s quite funny that when I finally saw them live, I wasn’t thinking about any of that.
I was just having the time of my life.
And while most of that night has become a bit of a blur, there’s one particular moment that has stayed with me. It’s actually quite a funny story.
I was watching BICEP’s set at All Together Now when I suddenly realised I desperately needed the toilet. The crowd was absolutely packed, so I pushed my way towards the back and made a run for it.
I was standing in the queue, finally next in line, when I heard something familiar coming from the stage. They were mixing in their edit of ‘Dawn Chorus’.
Fuck it. I can wait.
I turned around and ran straight back into the crowd. And somehow, amongst thousands of people, I managed to find my friends again. To this day, I’ve absolutely no idea how.
But there I was. Arms wrapped around my mates and my sister, completely mesmerised.
I wish I could tell you every detail of that set, but the truth is, I can’t. You know when you’re having such a good time that the whole thing almost turns into a distant memory? That’s what it was like.
I don’t remember every track they played or every moment of the show. But I remember smiling. I remember dancing. I remember shedding a few tears. And I remember how it felt to be standing there with the people I loved.
Three years earlier, I’d sat outside a pub in Sligo, listening to my friend describe crying and dancing at a BICEP show. I couldn’t quite understand how music could make someone feel so much at once.
And there I was, doing exactly the same thing.
I felt.
I belonged.