Nine Songs: Yann Tiersen

Since his debut album La Valse des Monstres in 1995, the French Breton musician and composer has built a career on slow, deliberate growth. While perhaps best known for his delicate piano work and melancholic instrumentals famed by Amélie - at least, outside of France, that is - his music has always held something wilder beneath the surface.

“If I look back at my discography, it’s a really slow evolution. There is no big shift,” he reflects. “I came from more noisy stuff when I started, I shifted to acoustic music, and since then, I’ve slowly moved back to more electric and electronic music as well.”

That steady pull toward both past and future is woven through his work. The jagged distortions of Yann Tiersen & Shannon Wright nod to his post-punk beginnings, while the sparse, windswept folk of EUSA captures the rawness of his home. On Kerber, layered electronics hum beneath his melodies, as if testing the waters before total submersion. Intimate yet expansive, Tiersen’s music feels less like reinvention and more like returning to the sounds that have always been waiting.

“I’ve always done records where there are lots of contrasts and different textures,” Tiersen explains, reflecting on the duality of his upcoming album, Rathlin from a Distance | The Liquid Hour. Split into two halves — one deeply reflective and piano-driven, the other drenched in electronic, psychedelic atmospheres — the record is a continuation of his ever-expanding musical journey.

“Before this album, I did Kerber, which was a piano album, and then I did 11 5 18 2 5 18, which was an electronic album. For this one, I wanted to have both and push the two sides a bit further.” The shift between these worlds is not just musical, but also deeply personal and timely. “It was really linked to the news and what was happening at the time,” he adds, noting how the album’s creation was shaped by the political turbulence of the last few years. “It was basically a reaction to the beginning of this worldwide mess.”

Tiersen’s need to balance these contrasting sonic worlds reflects a larger internal dialogue. His music has always been a space where reflection and reaction coexist, with the raw emotions of grief, loss, and introspection providing a foundation for much of his earlier work.

“To me, music was a healing process and a way to deal with death and grief,” he says, discussing the importance of creating after the death of his father.

When some of his most intimate compositions were lifted into the quaint whimsy of Amélie, that conversation was distorted. “It was actually a curse for me because it completely displaced the meaning of what I was doing. It wasn’t sweet.”

Still, he pushes further into that space of self-exploration. “It became something really about introspection, meditation, and finding yourself on the piano part. It’s the first time that I play piano and nothing else on an album," he shares. There’s a tenderness in that restraint, made all the more poignant by the pulsating electronics of “The Liquid Hour,” equally as hypnotic and contemplative. This is an album that feels like the culmination of years of exploration — a blend of inner reflection and external observation, showcasing an artist who continues to evolve, question, and create music that ultimately speaks to him.

And what seems to really be speaking to him is noise. Whether glitchy or punk, hyper-pop or techno, Tiersen remains fascinated by the untamed edges of sound. As he shares his Nine Songs choices, it becomes evident that his own music is not just inspired by these formative sounds — it is finally returning to them.

The restless experimentation, the embrace of noise and momentum, and the refusal to settle all feel like echoes of the songs that have long resonated with him. In these selections, Tiersen invites us to step into his world — and it’s one where music can be reflective but it’s always on the move.