Rudi Zygadlo on Growing Up Listening to Frank Zappa and Trying (And Failing) to Be Offensive

“I read a criticism somewhere that it was inaccessible and inconsistent,” Rudi Zygadlo recalls of his debut album, Great Western Laymen. “Which I resented a little because it suggested the listener lacked imagination and any scope of reference. I realized the problem with being billed loosely as dubstep [was that it] meant being framed incongruously and received confusedly.” Zygadlo must be used to confused receptions by now. The Scottish producer’s debut album, released on Planet Mu in 2010, was certainly in part a product of the dubstep explosion. But precisely how these odd digital pop songs – structurally obtuse, packed with glitchy detail and presided over by Zygadlo’s opulent multi-layered voice – fitted into the post-dubstep narrative? Well, nobody was quite sure.

Some lumped the producer in with fellow Glasgow-based maximalists like Rustie and Hudson Mohawke; a neat comparison, except that Zygadlo had barely communicated with those artists prior to his debut release. Others interpreted his bombastic razor-edged basslines as a sly critique of so-called “wobble” dubstep – but it was clear that Zygadlo had much more than parody in mind. And while, in places, his heavily processed vocals suggested parallels with the robotised pop of Darkstar or James Blake, the swaggering, playful tone of Zygadlo’s songs was a world away from their wintry introspection.

In reality, dubstep was only a small part of the picture – a loose framework on which Zygadlo could hang whatever bizarre musical baubles took his fancy. By his own admission the Dumfries-raised producer “grew up on Frank Zappa,” and he inherited the Californian eccentric’s taste for pairing the stern with the ridiculous, the fiendishly technical with the laughably loose. On Great Western Laymen, golden-era Warp Records rubs shoulders with Catholic mass settings, glam pop with 19th Century Eastern European romantics like Janáček and Martinů. It’s a sensory overload, sure, but an oddly compelling one.

Zygadlo is unapologetic about his magpie-like tendencies. “When you have the whole history of music to contend with, why would you prioritize the stuff released in the last five minutes?” he argues. “I got comically obsessed with an Andean folk music called Huayno for a time.” This sort of omnivorousness is, of course, far from unusual in the internet age. Like much of his generation, Zygadlo is critical of the tendency to be “prejudicial or exclusive” about taste. “This attitude can be heard from anyone in any genre,” he says. “It’s got to be ignored.”

Instead, he gleefully cherry-picks, stirring up a rich musical soup whose ingredients span decades and continents. Luckily, the results are always distinctively, unmistakably Zygadlo. Perhaps that’s down to his voice, a characterful drawl that pivots nimbly between insouciance and sincerity – a far cry from the breathy croon commonly associated with the bedroom singer-producer. But Zygadlo’s fascination with classical music is probably equally to blame. He cites, in passing, “French impressionists, American minimalists [and] Viennese serialists” as inspiration, and many of his songs have an ornate, grandiose edge to them – a quality that sets them apart from much of contemporary electronic music.

Zygadlo’s interest in classical music has grown exponentially in recent years. “Clubbing necessitates MDMA and I've pretty much grown out of that,” he says. “Sit-down events have slowly subjugated my cultural calendar. I have the great fortune of being related to an Albert Hall member, which means free rein at the Proms. I suppose post-Laymen I increasingly failed to keep up to date and with new electronic releases and listened to more and more classical.” This shift in habits is audible in the follow-up to Laymen, last year’s Tragicomedies. Although the album was produced after Zygadlo migrated from Glasgow to Berlin, it shows scant evidence of a techno epiphany. Quite the opposite in fact. Zygadlo’s songwriting is more mature, but also more subdued, often swapping the electro bombast of Laymen for thoughtful arrangements led by acoustic instruments – pianos, strings, horns.

The influence of classical is audible throughout – from the chorale-like harmonies dissolving into squiffy psychedelia in “Kopernikuss” to the scintillating Philip Glass-like piano figures in “An Introduction,” and “Black Rhino”’s fervid, Bartók-esque strings. It’s a striking approach, propelling Zygadlo ever further from dominant currents in contemporary electronic music. It’s also, arguably, a rather solemn one, representing a move away from the gaudy pyrotechnics and comedic flourishes of Laymen. I ask Zygadlo whether he spends a lot of time considering the balance of humor and sincerity in his work. “Actually I couldn't tell you which bits are funny and which bits are not,” he admits. “I think I am becoming more sincere. Which is boring. When more people become involved in your career you start to get a bit more self-conscious about pissing around. I often want to be offensive but lack the fearlessness and eloquence to follow through.”

Still, Zygadlo is certainly not averse to taking risks. He admits to having barely listened to either of his two albums since the release of Tragicomedies. Instead he is preoccupied with his most recent project: Cadavre Exquis, a composition for string quartet which was premiered at an ATP-hosted concert last December, alongside music by respected classical composer (and Moshi Moshi-signed producer) Anna Meredith. Zygadlo describes the piece as “the most interesting thing I have ever created. I really want to get it recorded. However it is very expensive to find a quartet, make them rehearse sufficiently, then have them record it. [I’m] trying to figure it out.” It’s a suitably bold plan from an artist who rarely shies away from the ambitious; an artist from whom, you sense, the best is yet to come.