Ian is a composer, sound designer, analogue synthesizer obsessive, and the founder of the DiN ambient music label. But more than that, he’s someone who has stayed curious long enough for that curiosity to compound.
What followed was a conversation about sound, solitude, work, technology, and the strange ways a life takes shape when you keep saying yes to what genuinely fascinates you.
Space, Place, and the Importance of Room to Think
Ian has spent most of his life in North East England, close to the coast, the countryside, and a sense of physical space. We talked early on about why that mattered — not romantically, but practically.
Cities are energising, but they’re also extractive. They demand attention, money, and psychological bandwidth. For Ian, having literal space to walk, think, and notice things wasn’t a lifestyle preference — it was part of how he stayed sane and creative.
“If your eyes are open, you will see something new. There’ll be a little gift from nature every time you go out.”
That mindset — noticing without chasing — comes up again and again in Ian’s work. Whether it’s birds, sound, or ideas, he’s never been interested in collecting trophies. He’s interested in paying attention.
Childhood, Curiosity, and Learning to Be Alone
Ian grew up as an only child, introverted, fascinated by astronomy, birdwatching, Lego, and building things quietly on his own. What struck me wasn’t the specifics of the hobbies, but the pattern: curiosity plus solitude.
Lego, in particular, became a surprisingly deep metaphor for how Ian thinks.
We talked about how building things piece by piece teaches you to see systems — not just objects. You learn how parts relate, how structures emerge, and how everything can be taken apart and rebuilt.
“You picture something in your head, and then you have to figure out how to do it.”
That sentence could describe modular synthesis, composition, sound design, or life itself.
Art, Science, and the Wrong Reasons to Choose a Path
Before music, Ian studied biochemistry. He was good at science. He was also deeply drawn to art — visual, abstract, imaginative. Like many people of his generation, he was strongly advised to choose the “sensible” option.
Art was framed as indulgent. Science was framed as employable.
What stayed with me was how clearly Ian remembered which teachers mattered to him decades later — and which ones didn’t.
He couldn’t remember the names of his science teachers.
He could remember his art teacher’s name instantly.
That tells you something.
The Accident That Changed Everything
The turning point came not through ambition, but accident.
While studying at university, Ian discovered an open-access arts workshop — a place anyone could walk into, no credentials required. Upstairs, almost hidden, was a sound studio filled with VCS3 synthesizers and tape machines.
Ian walked in, heard the sounds, and something clicked.
“That’s art. Composing doesn’t have to be notes on a page. It can literally be pure sound.”
Within a month, he’d packed away his visual art tools and never looked back.
No master plan. No five-year vision. Just a clear internal signal: this matters.
Learning by Doing (and Doing It Badly at First)
Ian is completely self-taught. No formal music education. No synthesis courses. No engineering background.
He learned by turning things on, breaking them, listening carefully, and trying again.
Echo wasn’t a concept — it was a discovery.
Tuning wasn’t theory — it was necessity.
“Whether it’s good or not doesn’t matter. It exists now, and it didn’t exist this morning.”
That joy — unfiltered, unstrategic — is something many creatives lose too early. Ian kept it alive by staying close to the process, not the outcome.
Work, Energy, and the Reality of Supporting a Life
For years, Ian worked jobs he hated. Lab work. Routine. Office politics. Drained energy.
This part of the conversation mattered to me, because it’s where idealism often breaks down. Ian didn’t romanticise it. He didn’t pretend there was an easy answer.
He talked about responsibility. About providing. About enduring periods of life that don’t align with who you are.
But he also talked about compartmentalisation — a skill many creatives never develop.
“I could put the nonsense in a box and shut it under the stairs.”
Not everyone can do that. But without some version of it, creative work gets swallowed by emotional exhaustion.
Akai, Technology, and Being in the Right Place at the Right Time
Ian’s years working with Akai weren’t just a job — they were an education in technology, people, and timing.
He wasn’t a salesman in the traditional sense. He was someone who deeply understood the tools and genuinely believed in them. That authenticity mattered.
More importantly, it led to connections — and connections led to opportunities in sound design and library music long before those paths were obvious or fashionable.
Library Music and the Power of Accumulation
One of the most important parts of Ian’s career — and one of the least glamorous — was library music.
Hundreds of short tracks. Specific briefs. Clear constraints. Little ego.
But over time, those tracks stacked.
“They all earn a bit. And it all adds up.”
This wasn’t about chasing prestige. It was about building a foundation sturdy enough to stand on.
For many artists, this is the missing piece: the willingness to play the long, unromantic game without losing curiosity or integrity.
Sound Design and Composition Are the Same Thing
One idea Ian kept returning to is that sound design and composition aren’t separate disciplines. They’re not two different jobs — they’re points on the same continuum.
When you choose a scale, you’re already shaping emotion. When you shape a texture, you’re already composing. When you decide how a sound evolves over time, where it sits, how it breathes, and when it disappears, you’re making musical decisions — whether or not there are “notes” involved.
“Sound design in music and composition is the same thing for me. There isn’t a line.”
That line only appears when we need it to — usually for workflow, education, or job titles. In practice, especially in electronic and experimental music, it dissolves very quickly.
This way of thinking feels increasingly relevant now, as tools become more powerful and genres blur. The modern composer isn’t just arranging notes on a staff — they’re sculpting time, texture, and space. And in that context, sound itself becomes the composition, not something that gets added afterward.
Aging, Perspective, and Giving Fewer Fucks (In a Good Way)
There’s a quiet confidence that comes through when someone has lived with their decisions long enough to stop second-guessing them. Not bravado. Not certainty. Just a kind of settled honesty.
Ian talked about aging not as decline, but as clarity. About how, over time, the noise falls away — other people’s expectations, the need to impress, the constant comparison.
“You stop giving a fuck. You know what you like. You know your tribe.”
That isn’t cynicism or withdrawal. It’s calibration. A narrowing of focus toward what actually matters, and away from everything that doesn’t. The energy that once went into worrying about belonging gets redirected into making the work itself better.
For artists, this might be one of the hardest lessons to learn — and one of the most valuable. It doesn’t come from optimisation or strategy. It comes from staying in the game long enough to realise that approval is fleeting, but alignment lasts.
And once that shift happens, the work tends to get quieter, truer, and strangely more powerful.
The Long Game
This conversation wasn’t about hacks, trends, or shortcuts.
It was about staying open. Staying curious. Letting work accumulate. Trusting that a life built from small, honest pieces can become something meaningful over time.
Ian didn’t follow a plan.
He followed sound.
And somehow, that was enough.
Want the Full Episode?
🔴 Youtube: https://youtu.be/HyvC63PI0GY
🟢 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/episode/3nnBYeoUps8lH5v7dk3ja1?si=6-jbjDO7SYG_SqVKqnQ53Q
🟣 Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/following-sound-not-a-plan-ian-boddy-on-creativity/id1528017679?i=1000744977610
