In her hard drive and in her mind, both relic and revenant. This is the caoineag ballerina. This is Bianca Scout.

There’s too much out there—too many good things I will never experience. Names and faces that have surfaced and slipped away, flitting through different points in my life like half-remembered dreams. Some leave a mark; others dissolve before they can take shape. Time moves forward regardless, scattering memories like loose photographs in a box—their edges and contents still discernible, yet frayed with age.

But some things return. A melody you thought you’d forgotten, resurfacing years later in an unexpected place. A name you’ve seen before, in passing, reappearing again and again, like a pattern you can’t quite trace. And now, in this moment, the scattered pieces align—I find myself here, in conversation with Bianca Scout.

To define Bianca Scout’s multidisciplinary endeavours is to attempt to pin down something in constant motion. Her work, fluid in form yet meticulous in intent, feels like the weaving of frayed threads into intricate tapestries—chaotic at a glance, yet revealing quiet precision upon closer inspection. It is the sound of wandering thoughts colliding mid-air; the restless drift between dream states; the discipline of an architect designing worlds that blur the lines between memory, music, and movement. Rather than confining it to words, it feels more fitting to let it unfold in metaphor.

Picture this: being a child left alone in a room without supervision, your parents' muffled arguments bleeding through the walls. Worn VHS tapes containing copies of Queen + Béjart: Ballet for Life hum softly in the background, their warped images corrupted with flickering, mistakenly dubbed-over entrails of late ’90s/early 2000s MTV music videos—the final echoes of its last years of quality broadcasts before inevitable decline. PS1 discs and N64 cartridges, their cases long since cracked or missing, lie scattered across the floor in disarray. Lullaby books and toys on shelves above your head, caught between innocence, youth, and naivety—and something far heavier, tenser, and bleaker.

Season to taste and let it settle all together, and you get something that feels like Bianca’s world. It’s fevered with memories you can’t distinguish from dreams, laced with a kind of reality that burns itself into your mind—searing and inescapable. It lingers, teaching the art of patience, holding you at bay before slowly rewarding you with sonic ornaments and visual intricacies: hyperreal and fleeting. A Northern English, pagan-like figure rooted in folk tradition, yet seamlessly woven into the fabric of contemporary pop culture.

With grey skies softened by glittering clouds, Bianca sits outside on a bench in London, caught in the quiet in-between of creation and reflection. “I'm just finishing a musical project with a film director,” she says. “We worked on a short film festival, and now we're putting together an album to accompany it—songs I composed for the film, alongside beautiful demos, rough off-cuts, mystical explorations that didn’t quite make it into the final cut. But coming back to them now, after some space, I realise how beautiful they are in their own right.”

Though London is a temporary stop, Bianca now calls Glasgow home. Her thoughts drift as she speaks, the process of articulating them a meandering one. “I know what I'm like when I'm trying to think,” she admits. “My brain starts going off in different directions.” The hesitation of a video call lingers—the slight unease of speaking into the digital void. Instead, she focuses on what is tangible—the slow sway of the trees outside, the sky shifting in mood like an unfinished brushstroke: restless and shimmering between moments of stillness.

The following are fragments of time in two different places, rearranged to give order to an hour-and-a-half call we had together—discussing everything and nothing, all separate and everything at the same time.

[Déandrah]
Bianca Scout, dream weaver, sonic seamstress, and an enthusiast of promoting the aesthetics of the body's architecture—these are some ways I would describe you. But today, with your work constantly evolving and exploring multidisciplinary practices, who is the Bianca Scout of today, in your own words?

[Bianca Scout]
Why is the first thing that comes to mind... I’m a cat? No, wait—I’m a rodent.

[Déandrah]
What kind of rodent? Underground, or scurrying within the walls, listening to people's conversations?

[Bianca Scout]
Listening to what people are saying today, because I forgot my headphones. I was in that kind of reflective mood—that’s how fate dictated I be present today.

A lot of my inspiration comes from odd sounds, the little frequencies between them. Like the way the wind sweeps through, or how the sounds of two cars playing music seem to harmonise or clash unexpectedly.

[Déandrah]: That’s part of why I enjoy living in a foreign country—when you’re half inside the conversation and half outside, every small sound feels amplified. Sometimes it's nice to tune everything out and embrace being the alien.

[Bianca Scout]
I get that.

The alien becomes the observer…

But it’s also about being a new person in a new place. I think it’s crucial to listen to what's happening around you—to be aware of your environment, wherever you are. Even if you're just passing through. I needed to take my headphones off today, to feel and hear what is actually going on, in what seems mundane. It’s about being a responsible human in the world, experiencing the world in real-time. Even when it’s uncomfortable, you are a part of it. But I’ll admit, sometimes I’m not always that sensitive. I’m not always tuned in to that—I’m on my phone, listening to music, playing a game. But in terms of who I am today, I’m still just the same. I’m just me, and I’m always growing. I know myself, but also don’t. There’s so much more to learn. But I’m just a girl. It doesn’t need to be any more profound than that.

[Déandrah]
Is Bianca Scout actually your given birth name?

[Bianca Scout]
The Scout part is. I had a cracked version of Ableton, and I needed to credit the first song I ever made. I needed a name and started questioning, “Who is this? What is this?” The first thing that came into my head was this big “B”, and I also liked the idea of the sound of the name Bianca—like an anchor. Bianca is easy for me to pronounce, which gives a nice contradiction to Scout, which I actually find a bit difficult to say sometimes. But it suits me.

Bianca is also the health trainer in Pokémon, and I need to be more healthy. Lol.

[Déandrah]
I think that's fitting, considering the type of music you make—it’s very soft at its core, but rough around the edges at times. Do you feel that this identity allows you to showcase different facets of your personality—perhaps through your music or on stage? Does it let you explore parts of yourself that were hard to surface before?

[Bianca Scout]
We have so many different sides, and I love getting to know them. How can we access them all? What do we do when we do? Thinking of the sides as ‘characters’ came years later… and it’s like becoming an idea of a world, and you can use these characters as vessels for your spirit to play in it. Though Bianca Scout isn’t an intentional character like that—I don’t perform ‘Bianca Scout’. It’s more like... what is the little boat inside you?

Even now, I’m not doing exactly what I was then, but I still feel that urge to explore. Just the other day, I thought, “I want to climb a mountain—and I’m not going to make it for something, not for work, not for anything ‘creative’, like I’ve done in the past.” But it always seems to happen anyway, that I end up rolling about in the heather, climbing between rocks in some sexy lingerie and a wig—and it gets filmed.

The action of archiving where we are at that time—the unfolding of something new. Later, finding out how it deepened a character’s story. So now I think I can’t help it. I really love it. When I first started dancing, it felt like I totally understood this way of expressing—rather than through words. Dance allows you to communicate without speech. Sometimes, that meant using gestures; other times, it was about embodying something completely abstract—like becoming a rock, a tree, or a table.

Dance is its own language, and another way to frame and process feelings.

Then, when I started to make music, it was a huge revelation. I had never written songs in the traditional sense, but I started recording my voice, experimenting with composition and sound. Suddenly, I could see myself in a new way—understanding what I meant, what I felt, and what I was trying to express by listening to what was created through recorded improvisation. It wasn’t just about lyrics or singing; it was about how the sound was shaped, how I used the materials around me, how everything came together. That period, around the age of 21, was a turning point in communication. It was like realising, “Oh, this is what I mean when I say this or feel that.”

[Déandrah]
To add to what you’re saying—for me, it’s the idea of capturing a moment in time and preserving it eternally in sound. Kind of like photography: taking a picture and immortalising that moment forever. When I listen to the progression of your discography, I can really hear that. There are distinct elements throughout your music that reflect different points in your life—the evolution of Bianca Scout over the years.

[Bianca Scout]
Aye! And I think that’s one of the most beautiful things about any artist—whether you’re listening to them, watching them, or experiencing their work in some way. No one stays the same. Of course, at your core, you are who you are, and certain things will always remain, but you’re constantly evolving. You’re not static—you’re not the same person you were before.

[Déandrah]
You're just now mentioning the idea of communication that you can evoke through contemporary dance, or your background in ballet. Music is also another form of communication. However, I think you show an effortless ability to blend these two practices. Over the years, have you noticed anything that the dance world could learn from how musicians communicate—and vice versa?

[Bianca Scout]
I’ve noticed that a lot of trained dancers don’t necessarily end up pursuing dance professionally. And it’s not just that they shift into music; many go into completely different fields—like social or care-based work. But I think what remains with them, regardless of where they go, is this deep sensitivity—an understanding of movement, emotion, and meaning that stays ingrained in how they interact with the world.

There’s also something really interesting about dancers who transition into composing. When you’ve spent years dancing to music, experiencing it physically, it almost becomes second nature to approach music from a choreographic perspective. For me, composing and movement are completely intertwined. When I first started making music, I didn’t consciously think about this, but even early on, people would tell me, “I can tell you’re a dancer.” And I remember thinking, “What? That’s wild. What do you mean?”

They’d say, “You’re not just making music—you’re creating something choreographic, like a score for movement.” And looking back now, I can see what they meant.

Ultimately, I don’t see dance and music as separate things. They’re in constant dialogue, always influencing each other. They hold each other, depend on each other—almost like they’re in love. They’re two sides of the same creative force.

I have a lot of respect for the dedication it takes to refine one discipline in its so-called ‘simplest’ form. But simplicity is deceptive—the more you immerse yourself in something that appears simple, the more you realise how far from the truth that is.

Others, though, thrive by exploring multiple mediums. Whether it’s two things, seven things, or twenty, creativity moves fluidly across different forms. It’s all interconnected—it just depends on the lens you choose, or can’t help but look through.

Whatever it is you do, you don’t have to feel confined to a single discipline.

[Déandrah]:
I mean, your music definitely intertwines through different domains. Your music videos, for example, don’t just accompany the sound— they frame it, give it a visual context. They don’t feel like separate entities; rather, they exist together in harmony.

That said, I had a question about your approach to composition. Given your deep background in ballet—an art form often structured around symphonic music—do you think your music-making subconsciously (or even intentionally) borrows from a symphonic structure? Because when I listen to your work, I almost picture you in your studio as a conductor—orchestrating everything, deciding: OK, synth pads, louder. Vocals, come in now. It feels like you’re directing different musical elements in and out, almost like a symphony orchestra. Does that resonate with you?

[Bianca Scout]
Oh, I really love that! Haha. That’s a funny image of me doing that—it makes me feel... I don’t know. It’s refreshing to see yourself through someone else’s lens. Which is why I think I've made so many music videos with Elena Isolini. I love the lens she looks through when it comes to story, image, movement. I love what she sees in my songs, and I love working with her. But I don’t really see myself as a composer, or even a choreographer, you know? It’s more about messages—about the script of what’s happening, whether that’s in the world, in a feeling, in an intention, or even just the context of sound, space, or structure.

Ballet music can be so devastatingly dramatic. I love contemporary and experimental dance, but I also have a deep fondness for the tragic dynamics of classical ballet music. Stuff like Prokofiev is so intense. And when I listen to it, I want to contort my body in a silent sob, and I’m like miming a ballerina rather than actually being one. Because to be a ballerina is like being an athlete. It’s brutal on the body. Ballet dancers’ bodies get wrecked. I have this phrase—“graceful agony.” That’s what I think a ballerina is. It’s this contradiction: enduring extreme pain but making it look effortless. There’s something almost comical about the deeply stoic movements. Yet this idea that you should just hold it in, suffer in silence. Like, don’t show the pain—just keep going.

And, of course, to access ballet you’ve had to have a certain amount of money, and for people it is a choice to train—but I have a lot to say about the institutions that shape it. There can be so much psychological damage inflicted on people at any level of artistic discipline. So when I make things, alone or with others, I don’t want it to feel like that at all. But I also don’t want to ignore it—it’s about understanding its language, and then responding in the way that feels right to you.

[Déandrah]
Absolutely. There’s this false idea that happiness is the only valid state of mind, when in reality, it can’t exist without sadness, without anger. Those emotions are just as real, just as human. But stepping back for a second—are you familiar with Freddie Mercury?

[Bianca Scout]
That’s so funny you mention him! Just today, I was telling a friend, “The music you're writing is like a rhapsody.” And she was like, “What’s a rhapsody?” So we Googled it. And of course, I mentioned Queen—how they wrote rhapsodies!

[Déandrah]
Exactly. He tried to bring ballet into a more mainstream space by fusing it with progressive and glam rock. Bohemian Rhapsody is practically a rock opera. In your case, was there a conscious decision to use electronic music instead of rock to support dance and movement?

[Bianca Scout]
Honestly, I don’t really resonate with the idea that rock music is defined by the kind of instruments you play or how it’s recorded. For me, it’s about the frequency it’s operating on.

Making music that’s classed as electronic happened simply because of where I was at the time. I never set out to make a specific kind of music. I was just looping my voice and completely immersed. It just felt like home.

[Déandrah]
So that’s when you became a ‘musical rodent,’ burrowing away, making things nonstop?

[Bianca Scout]
Exactly! I was just in my room, obsessed. Those first moments are so vivid in my memory, because it was like something just landed. But now, I also love jamming with people, playing live, slamming on the bass, screaming, heavy guitars, metal, double pedals. I listened to so much Lamb of God as a teenager. I can’t wait to bring that energy into my performances.

[Déandrah]
Your presence on stage—through makeup, fashion, and physicality—is striking. Off stage, something I love about your videos is how you transform with each one, whether it's your hair, makeup, or clothes. What do you hope to achieve with that? Do you want people to see you in a certain way, or do you prefer to present yourself and let people interpret it however they wish? Is your artistic expression open to interpretation, or do you prefer to convey something specific?

[Bianca Scout]
It's a mix of both, really. You can have your convictions, but you can't choose how people interpret you. It’s about what feels right in the moment—whether that’s the dress I wear or how my hair is styled. It’s just how I’m feeling at that particular time. I'm not focused on what I’m ‘trying’ to convey, but I’ve made the choice to step on stage or share something. I might feel a little unsure at times, but I’m okay with that. It’s not like I’ve perfected one thing. But I don't get why that's a big deal. I don’t need to be recognised by my look, or even remembered. It’s not about making people notice me.

[Déandrah]
Does daring to try all these different outfits come from your performance background? Is it because, on stage, you're sometimes required to wear things you’re not totally keen on?

[Bianca Scout]
Pretty much my whole life, I’ve been wearing something that resonates with how I feel.

For me, dressing up isn’t about conforming to a look; it’s about creating and playing with the representation of an embodiment. So this can be about you, or not. Or both. Either way, performing can feel so fun because of the outfits—whether I’ve put much thought into them or not.

But with my recent Pattern Damage tour, I did end up wearing something I hated growing up: white ballet tights and slipper shoes. I’ve always avoided ballet classes that made you wear those, because I hated the feel of tights and the rigid style.

But for that performance, it felt right. It was kind of a deliberate choice to wear something I didn’t like, as a form of expression of what Pattern Damage feels like.

[Déandrah]
You mentioned the codification of ballet—how it’s rooted in very strict traditions. Given your intense background in ballet, do you balance what you've learned from formal lessons with what you've discovered on your own, or do you try to unlearn your background to find your own creative voice?

[Bianca Scout]
I find myself much more drawn to movements without stylised training—raw and unrefined—than to seeing or demonstrating something completely technically correct.

In 2018, I was asked to teach some ballet classes within the performance investigation platform Movement Possession, and this led to the birth of Daughter Mary, where we use ballet technique as a tool for more experimental choreography.

There is no need to have had any prior experience or technique in contemporary or classical dance to join. It’s not about making people into ballerinas—the interest lies in expression and personality, not perfection.

The only ‘strict’ part of my teaching was making sure people didn’t hurt themselves—like keeping your knees over your toes for alignment when bending and jumping—and working with them on how to make it work for their own body. This is when the move into choreography comes naturally.

[Déandrah]
And through imitation, your own essence comes into the work. You don’t want to just replicate; you want to innovate, right?

[Bianca Scout]
I just really love scoring and shaping a piece. We each have our own stories and histories that we bring into it, but there’s also this framework we work within that takes on its own shape... It’s about sharing that story, collaborating, and creating something together.

[Déandrah]
Going back to what we were talking about—interpreting your vision through electronic music. We happen to both share a love for video games. For me, I realised in my mid-twenties that a big part of what drew me to electronic music was the influence of Nintendo 64 and PS1-era games. Titles like The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time and Metal Gear Solid had a huge impact on me, as they did on so many others. I was so obsessed with them that I’d let the menu screens loop, sitting in front of the TV, just to absorb the sounds.

You mentioned that Silent Hill, especially its soundtrack, holds a special place in your heart. How did that affect you?

[Bianca Scout]
Silent Hill stuck with me because when I first saw the film at 13, it was unlike anything I had seen before. I’d been watching a lot of horror, but Silent Hill felt different. The sounds, specifically, were unlike the soundtracks I had heard before—it was much more unsettling. I still remember the moment I heard the sound of “Laura Plays the Piano”…

When I actually played the game, though, it was much more terrifying. Honestly, I think the sounds created for video games and films are some of the best music ever made. And of course, the storyline is just as important. The music is part of that story, changing depending on where you are in the game or what room you're in—and that shifts the entire atmosphere. It’s high art, really. Lol.

It’s the entire world. Like, the wind, a pebble falling, the specific sounds of a river or water…

There is something about the texture of Silent Hill in those sounds that I really connected with. It’s hard to explain, but when I make my own music, if I come across a sound with a similar texture or frequency, it brings me a sense of comfort. It’s like a familiar sonic world that I can relax into.
[Déandrah]: Specifically in Silent Hill 1, I really appreciated how certain details don’t immediately register, but years later, you recognise their significance. For example, when you're running through the street, there's this fog that obscures the view. It was actually a clever solution because the developers didn’t have the budget to create detailed environments, so they used the fog to save on memory and processing power—allowing them, in turn, to focus more on the soundtrack. I feel like that sense of something familiar, yet distant, resonates with your music as well—it’s both close and out of reach at the same time.

[Bianca Scout]
I feel that a lot, actually. It’s the sense of being understood, yet distant—almost like you're right there, but not fully. That feeling of being on the edge of something familiar.

[Déandrah]
I also know that you're working on a PlayStation game. How's that going?

[Bianca Scout]
It’s one of those projects where everything needs to be done at the right pace. Right now, there are so many exciting opportunities in my life—working with people I admire, travelling, all that good stuff—that the more personal projects tend to get put in the “not urgent” pile. But it’s still there. I have all these folders—sounds for specific rooms, footsteps, dialogue, character journeys—it’s all stored on my hard drive and in my mind. It feels like writing a book. The people who create worlds like that—the time and dedication they put into it—is incredible.

For me to finish this game, I’d have to put everything else on hold and focus on it exclusively. I’d love to do that soon, but for now, it’s a work in progress. It’s like the idea is brewing, like kimchi fermenting. I don’t want to rush it.

[Déandrah]
Unrelated, but someone commented on your latest album on Bandcamp, saying it’s "nice music to make art to." How does that make you feel? Do you feel similarly about your own music—as in, do you see your work as something that can inspire other creative disciplines? Do you also find inspiration beyond the aforementioned art forms?

[Bianca Scout]
Yeah, that comment really stuck out to me. It’s incredible to realise that something I created resonates with someone in such an intimate way—especially when it can support their own creative process. I think that connection is what makes it so beautiful, because I understand how meaningful it is to be working on your own project, and all the music, films, people and books etc. that you’re digesting while you’re making it.

For me, music has always been something that provides a sense of energy—almost like a support system. I listen to a lot of ambient, ASMR… atmospheric music—things that help you get in the zone, like the soft background tunes you hear on YouTube when people are working. I love imagining that my music could be part of that experience for someone.

In fact, back in 2019, I made some music specifically with the idea of it being something people could listen to while studying or working. I played it for some kids at a school—testing to see if it helped them focus. It was a fun experiment, and I love that my music could fit into that world where it's specifically created to support concentration and creativity.

Ultimately, I think it’s important to just make what you love. Don’t be afraid to make something that’s truly yours, because that’s how you create something meaningful.

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Saturday March 7th 2026

Saturday March 7th 2026

Music festival for possible futures by OOST & VERA.

Music festival for possible futures by OOST & VERA.

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