ZÖJ is an extraordinary experimental, cross‑cultural duo that has been exploring the boundaries of sound since 2016, drawing on rich traditions. Gelareh Pour, born in Iran and a master of the kamancheh (a traditional bowed string instrument), began making music at seven and has since won numerous awards. Her deeply rooted practice intertwines with Brian O’Dwyer’s dynamic percussion playing, which responds to and shapes the space—an approach rooted in the idea of sound as a direct connection to the moment and environment.
Their new album, Give Water To Birds, serves as a living document of intimacy—poetry, voice, and the warmth of home—recorded live at Hello Daydreamer on the lands of the Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung people. Supported by guitarist Brett Langsford, the duo offers an album that evokes memories and longing, yet also sudden hope and everyday comfort. It is a musical dialogue between silence and sound, tradition and new experience, between the artists and the listener.
Join me for a conversation with Gelareh and Brian about their approach to improvisation, the importance of recording spaces, and what Give Water To Birds means to them.
Artur Mieczkowski
Artur Mieczkowski: Where did the idea for the name ZÖJ come from and what does it mean to you?
ZÖJ: The name ZÖJ is rooted in Persian. It literally means pair, duo, or couple, which made it feel like a perfect fit for what we are: two artists, two voices, two cultures, blending into one sound. But it’s not just about being a duo in the literal sense. ZÖJ also plays with the deeper idea of duality, east and west, acoustic and electronic, structured and improvised, tradition and experimentation.
To us, the name symbolises a meeting point of two musicians, of entire worlds. It’s about the creative tension that comes from difference, and how powerful things can happen when those differences aren’t smoothed over but actually brought forward and celebrated.
It’s also a bit of a conversation-starter, the umlaut throws people, and that’s intentional. We wanted something that made you stop and ask. So thanks for doing just that.
A. M.: The ZÖJ project was established in 2016, but you have been collaborating since 2012 – how has your artistic relationship evolved since then?
ZÖJ: Our journey began well before ZÖJ had a name.
We first met and collaborated in 2012, and from the beginning, there was a kind of creative magnetism, a deep musical respect and an intuitive connection that’s hard to describe. Back then, we were both working on different projects, but we kept gravitating back toward each other’s sound and ideas. Those early collaborations were exploratory, trying things, responding in real time, learning each other’s languages musically and culturally.
By the time ZÖJ was formally established in 2016, we had already built a strong foundation of trust, risk-taking, and artistic honesty. What changed with ZÖJ was the clarity of purpose, we became more deliberate. It wasn’t just about improvising together anymore; it became about crafting something unique that represented both of us equally, something that could speak across cultures and challenge genre norms.
Since then, our relationship has continued to evolve. We’ve become even more attuned to each other, not just in how we play, but in how we think and create. There’s a lot of unspoken understanding now. We can push each other more. We can also hold space better, for silence, for fragility, for complexity. That’s come from years of making music side by side, but also from sharing life experiences and values.
Ultimately, ZÖJ is the result of over a decade of growing together as artists, friends, and humans.
A. M.: Gelareh, you studied the kamancheh (a traditional Iranian bowed string instrument with four strings and a variable‑tension bow, allowing for great tonal nuances; the name comes from the Persian word meaning “small bow” — ed. note), from the age of seven, immersing yourself in Iranian musical tradition. How does this deeply rooted practice harmonize today with your experimental artistic explorations in ZÖJ?
ZÖJ: The kamancheh is part of my body, it’s been with me since I was seven, and the music of Iran is the first language I learned, even before I knew it consciously as a tradition. Growing up immersed in Iranian classical music meant internalising not just the sound, but the philosophy and emotional depth behind it, the poetry, the space between notes, the way time can stretch and contract within a phrase. That depth never leaves you.
But I don’t see artistic tradition as a cage. For me, it’s a starting point, a foundation that gives me the strength and the freedom to push outward. In ZÖJ, I bring all of that history with me, but I don’t feel the need to present it in a way that conforms to expectation. The kamancheh doesn’t have to stay in its classical role. It can scream, it can whisper, it can interact with electronics, silence, and noise.
What I love about ZÖJ is that it gives me permission, or maybe it expects or even demands, that I reinterpret my roots in a new context. I’m not trying to ‘modernise’ tradition. I’m living it in real time, letting it evolve honestly through collaboration with Brian, through listening, through questioning.
So yes, my practice is deeply rooted, but roots grow in many directions. And for me, they’ve grown toward something raw, personal, and experimental. That’s where the harmony lives.
A.M.: Brian, your drumming style is based on “reaction and response” – what do these interactions look like in ZÖJ improvisations – between you and Gelareh?
ZÖJ: ‘Reaction and response’ is really at the heart of how I play, especially in ZÖJ. I’ve grown away from drumming that is all about laying down a beat and holding it steady, from traditional approaches to the instrument. I’m finding it much more interesting to frame it around listening with full attention and responding honestly, moment to moment. In ZÖJ, that means tuning into everything Gelareh is doing, especially the energy behind the notes, the breath between phrases, the shifts in intensity or mood.
Improvisation in ZÖJ is never random. It’s a conversation. Sometimes it’s like we’re speaking different dialects but finishing each other’s sentences. Gelareh might stretch a melody into something fragile or angular, and I’ll lean into that, maybe I’ll mirror it rhythmically, or undercut it with silence, or contrast it with something disruptive. Other times, she might loop a phrase or lock into something steady, and I’ll use that as a launchpad to build tension or create space.
There’s trust in that process, and risk. We both know we might go somewhere uncomfortable, but that’s where the interesting stuff happens. We’ve developed a kind of radar for each other, so even in the most abstract moments, there’s a thread running between us. The ‘response’ isn’t always literal, it might be emotional, or dynamic, or textural.
What’s exciting is that no two performances are ever the same. The reactions are fresh every time. That’s the point. We’re not trying to control the music, we’re letting it emerge through the way we listen and respond to each other.
A.M.: The album Give Water To Birds naturally features family themes, such as the memory of your daughter’s laughter. How did the presence of a child influence your approach to creating this material and to ZÖJ’s music in general?
ZÖJ: Thank you for picking that up. The line about our daughter’s laughter is actually from a poem read by Gelareh’s father on the album, and it’s a fictional memory, not a direct reflection of our personal lives, as we don’t have children ourselves. But the feeling in that line, the nostalgia, the tenderness, the aching beauty of a fleeting moment, resonates deeply with us and with what Give Water To Birds is trying to hold.
Working with Gelareh’s father on the album brought a sense of lineage and legacy into the music. His voice, his presence, and the poetry he carries link us to a past that isn’t always safe or gentle, but that’s filled with meaning. That poem, like many elements in the album, plays with memory and imagination, with the idea that even something we’ve never experienced personally can still move through us and become part of our emotional landscape.
So while the poem references a child’s laughter, what influenced our creative process was more the idea of family, inherited stories, imagined futures, and the ways personal and cultural memory shape our identities. It allowed us to explore softness, vulnerability, and intergenerational dialogue within ZÖJ, which had a profound impact on how we approached the sound, the pacing, and the emotional tone of the record.
In that sense, the presence of family, whether real, remembered, or poetic, continues to shape how we listen, how we respond, and how we create together.
A.M.: Several guests participated in the recordings (e.g., Brett Langsford – guitar). How do you select collaborators for your project?
ZÖJ: Actually, Give Water To Birds only features one guest, our dear friend and collaborator Brett Langsford on electric guitar. And he’s not just a ‘feature’ on a track or two, he played with us across the entire album and was an equal part in its conception. It wasn’t a case of layering things in later or inviting multiple people to contribute. The three of us entered the room together, and all the music you hear was recorded live, in one continuous session, with vocals on I think two tracks added later.
That context is important, because it reflects how we approach collaboration in ZÖJ. We’re not looking for people to add polish or colour after the fact, we look for artists who can listen deeply, respond in real time, and be present with the same vulnerability and intensity we bring to the work.
Brett has that in spades. He understands our language, even when it’s abstract or emotionally volatile. There’s no ego in the room, just shared trust and a willingness to lean into the unknown. That’s rare, and it’s essential for what ZÖJ is. His playing doesn’t sit on top of the music, it threads through it, shapes it, and challenges it in all the right ways.
So we’re very selective with collaborators, not because we’re closed off, but because ZÖJ is an intimate, living conversation. Anyone who joins that conversation needs to feel like part of the breath. With Brett, that connection was immediate and seamless.
A.M.: The album was recorded live at Hello Daydreamer – how important is the space where you record to you?
ZÖJ: The space where we record is absolutely vital, not just acoustically, but emotionally, spiritually, and environmentally. Give Water To Birds was recorded live at Hello Daydreamer in Romsey, regional Victoria. It’s a beautiful, hand-built studio nestled in exquisite bushland, it’s not isolated, but deeply connected to its surroundings. That connection shaped every note of the album.
From the moment we arrived, we knew the environment would become part of the sound. The studio itself is warm, intimate, and open, allowing the outside world to gently seep in. As we played, we could hear birdsong, wind through the trees, insects, distant rustles, all the subtle and unpredictable rhythms of the bush. And those sounds made their way into the recordings, not as background noise, but as living textures.
We’ve left those natural sounds in place, they’re participants, they shape the record as much as we have. They reflect the duality of space we experienced while recording: the inner space of human expression and emotion, and the outer space of a living, breathing landscape. That duality mirrors what ZÖJ is always exploring, the tension and harmony between contrasting worlds.
So yes, the space matters deeply. Hello Daydreamer held us in a way that allowed us to be open, raw, and present. And the bushland surrounding it didn’t stay outside; it came in, joined the conversation, and became part of the music. We wouldn’t have made the same album anywhere else.
A.M.: Can you tell us about the Australian experimental scene and how it influenced the sound of Give Water To Birds?
ZÖJ: The Australian experimental scene is absolutely thriving, and we feel lucky to be surrounded by so many artists doing bold, boundary-pushing work. But to be honest, what other people are doing doesn’t really have a direct impact on how ZÖJ makes music. Our process is much more internal, it’s a conversation between us, shaped by our personal histories, our emotional states, and the evolving language we’ve built together over time.
That said, we’re definitely inspired by the scene around us, especially in terms of momentum. There’s a strong, DIY spirit in Australia’s experimental music community. People are making things happen on their own terms, building festivals, running small labels, creating intimate spaces for listening and sharing. That energy is infectious. It doesn’t tell us how to create, but it urges us to keep going.
We’ve also noticed a shift in the way experimental music is received in Australia. It’s no longer something that sits off to the side. In fact, it’s started to fold back into genre-based music, artists are bringing experimental approaches into everything from metal and jazz to folk and electronica. There’s less surprise when something feels unconventional now, people almost expect it, and that’s opened up space for more freedom and complexity across the board.
In that context, Give Water To Birds doesn’t sit in reaction to a scene, it sits beside it. We’re not trying to fit into a category or respond to a trend. We’re simply doing what we’ve always done: following the thread between us, listening deeply, and letting the music emerge from that. The fact that there’s a thriving experimental community around us just makes it more possible to share that work, and to keep pushing forward.
A.M.: In one of the songs, there are domestic whispers – is this a deliberate attempt to create a “home theater scene”? Where do you get your inspiration for such details?
ZÖJ: In many ways, nothing we do is deliberate in the traditional sense. There’s very little that’s pre-conceived in ZÖJ. We don’t sit down and plan moments like, ‘Let’s create a home theatre scene here’ or ‘This should be interpreted this way.’ What happens in the music is about presence, real, raw expression in that exact moment. If a whisper emerges, or a fragment of domestic sound, it’s not about constructing a concept. It’s simply what was true in that space, at that time.
We don’t think about the end result while we’re creating. We’re not imagining how it might be received, dissected, or interpreted. The music is the process itself, unfiltered, unpolished, alive. The ‘details’ come from that openness. From allowing whatever needs to be expressed to come through, without judging or shaping it into something palatable or clever.
That said, we’re always interested in how people respond. The fact that something as simple as a whisper can cause discussion or feel theatrical or intimate, that’s fascinating. But it’s a reflection of the listener’s world, not our intention. If anything, we welcome that tension: the gap between pure creation and external perception.
So inspiration doesn’t come from trying to reference or construct meaning. It comes from being deeply present with each other, with the space, with the environment around us. And if the domestic leaks into the performance, it’s because life and art are inseparable for us. What you hear is simply what was.
A.M.: How do you achieve a balance between improvisation (here and now) and the structure of the composition (e.g., guest arrangements, poetry)?
ZÖJ: For us, everything begins with improvisation. That’s our core, the seed of every piece, every record. All our albums are fully improvised in the studio. We don’t go in with pre-written material or fixed structures. We go in with trust in each other, in the space, and in the moment. What emerges becomes the shape of the work.
Once a recording exists, it starts to leave an imprint on us. We absorb its influence, let it sit in our bodies, in our playing. So when we perform that material live, we’re not trying to replicate it, we’re reinterpreting it, responding to its memory and emotional architecture. Each live performance is different because it’s grounded in the moment we’re in, the acoustics of the space, the energy of the audience, our own emotional states, but it’s also anchored in the spirit of what was created in the studio.
That’s how we find the balance: by allowing the recorded work to offer a kind of skeletal shape, but never letting it become a script. The same goes for elements like poetry or guest arrangements. So even when we engage with what might seem like structured elements, they’re born from the same improvisational impulse. That’s what keeps ZÖJ alive and a conversation that never repeats, always shifting, always grounded in now.
A.M.: Gelareh, singing and poetry play a prominent role in ZÖJ – how do you choose the lyrics and authors, such as Siavash Kasraie or Freydoon Moshiri?
ZÖJ: In the studio, I don’t choose poetry in any structured or planned way. I bring a handful of my favourite Persian poetry books, writers like Kasraie, Moshiri, Farokhzad, Ebtehaj, and others, and I flick through them almost at random. It’s instinctive. I’ll land on something, read a few lines quickly, and if it feels like it belongs in the moment, I sing it. Most of the time, it’s the first time I’ve ever read that poem, and always the first time I’ve sung it. What you hear on the record is a first take, a first encounter.
But what’s uncanny, and it strikes me more in reflection than in the moment, is how deeply those poems seem to speak to my own life. Especially on this album. Even though the choices are spontaneous, the words feel like they were waiting for me, like they’ve been following me. With everything happening now, especially the current violence and tension between Iran and Israel, the poetry feels even more immediate, more raw, more painfully real. It’s like these poets, writing decades ago, are holding up a mirror to our present.
That’s what constantly amazes me about Persian poetry, how timeless and piercing it is. Whether it’s love, exile, loss, resistance, or beauty, these poets capture something essential about being human, they help me make sense of what I’m feeling. In ZÖJ, those poems live within the music. They guide me, even as I’m discovering them in real time.
And that’s true on stage too. In fully improvised performances, I bring those same books with me, flick through them live, and find something in the moment. I read, I feel, I sing. It’s somewhat risky I guess, but it’s also incredibly freeing.
A.M.: Is your music, especially on the album Give Water To Birds, primarily a personal journey through emotions and memory? To what extent do the lyrics and sounds remain an intimate, emotional “archeology” of your life?
ZÖJ: Give Water To Birds is, for me, a deeply personal journey. But it’s not one mapped out in advance. The music, the poems, the emotions, they all arrived in the moment, unplanned, unfiltered. And yet, when I listen back, it feels like an emotional archaeology. As if I unknowingly excavated parts of myself I hadn’t fully faced, memories, griefs, longings, questions I hadn’t found the words for or didn’t know how to ask.
Because so much of the process is improvisational, nothing is scripted or strategically expressed. But what emerges is always truthful. When I sing a poem I’ve just discovered it somehow speaks directly to the emotional state I’m in. The words feel like they were written for me, even though they were written decades ago, by someone else, in another life. That kind of resonance is hard to explain. It’s spiritual. Especially now, with everything happening politically, the turmoil between Iran and Israel, the displacement, the fear, these old poems feel more alive than ever. They don’t just reflect my own story, they reflect the collective story I carry with me.
The sounds, too, are shaped by memory and feeling. The breath of the kamancheh, the silence between phrases, the natural sounds of the bush seeping into the studio, they’re all part of an emotional landscape that’s both intimate and expansive. So yes, the music is personal. But not in a self-centred way. It’s personal because it comes from a place of total honesty. And when something is truly honest, it becomes universal.
Give Water To Birds feels like a record of where I’ve travelled, emotionally, culturally, politically, even though I never set out to document any of that. It just came through me. That’s what ZÖJ allows. It’s a space where I can feel, respond, and let memory do its work without having to name everything. It’s my archaeology, but shared.
A.M.: What would you like listeners to take away from Give Water To Birds—what essence, what emotions?
ZÖJ: We don’t begin with an outcome in mind, so we’d never want to tell listeners what to feel. Give Water To Birds wasn’t made to deliver a message, it was made to hold a moment. Many moments, really. And if there’s something we hope people take away, it’s that sense of presence and the invitation to sit with what’s raw, unresolved, fragile, and real.
The album lives in the spaces between things: between cultures, between memory and invention, between sound and silence. It holds joy, grief, dislocation, beauty, stillness, often all at once. It’s not neat. It’s not trying to be. What we hope is that listeners allow themselves to feel whatever rises, not to analyse it, but to be with it.
Maybe for some, it will feel meditative. For others, unsettling. Some may hear echoes of home, while others may feel pulled far from it. That’s okay. The album isn’t trying to resolve those tensions, it’s holding them. Gently, honestly.
If there’s any essence we’d hope lingers, it’s honesty. Vulnerability. The feeling that something unsaid has been said, not with words, but with breath, rhythm, noise, and silence. If a listener walks away feeling slightly more in touch with something inside themselves, something unnamed but deeply felt, then that’s more than enough.
A.M.: Thank you very much for the interview. I wish you the best of luck with your plans.
ZÖJ: Thank you, truly. It’s been a pleasure to sit with these questions and reflect so deeply on what ZÖJ is, and what Give Water To Birds has come to mean to us. We really appreciate the thoughtful space you’ve created for this conversation.
And thank you for your kind wishes, we’ll carry them with us into whatever comes next.