Brooklyn-based writer, performer, producer, and recording engineer Dan Fisher has carved out a cinematic, world‑building approach to music that feels less like a collection of songs and more like a fully realised environment. Raised between London and the United States, Fisher’s outsider perspective informs the emotional precision and textured production that define his debut EP, The Domino Accords, a six‑track release that invites listeners into a wide, atmospheric world built from curiosity, reinvention, and a refusal to settle into a single identity.
Working out of Parasol Studios, Fisher produces, records, mixes, and masters everything himself, shaping a tactile sound that favours grain, pressure, and physical detail over polish. Before stepping into his solo project, he completed three international tours as bassist for Sid Simons — an experience that sharpened his instincts and set the stage for the narrative‑driven work he’s now releasing.
With The Domino Accords out in the world, we sat down with Fisher to explore his influences, early musical beginnings, creative process, and what comes next.
The Domino Accords has a strong cinematic quality — almost like a world listeners can step into. What was the initial spark behind this EP, and what atmosphere were you trying to create?
The Domino Accords is one of those rare circumstances where I’m actually happy with the result. You get into this mentality of “the work is never finished” - especially when you're the one producing your own stuff. From the musical side, I was really interested in writing without focusing on traditional song structures, keys, or time signatures. I made a vow to “forget everything I knew”, and see what happens. I was also really into maximalist arrangements, and tried to fit as many musical ideas in as I could. It was a puzzle, and I didn’t know what the final image would be until it was put together. The result, both thematically & musically, is a real Frankenstein. It’s energetic, dark, trippy & sometimes absurd. I think the highs & lows of The Domino Accords make for a really interesting listening journey.
You’ve described your music as behaving “more like cinema than song.” How did that narrative‑driven approach develop, and what draws you to storytelling through sound?
I used to do a lot of visual art - painting, film, animation etc. - and from those experiences, I’m always trying to find ways to blur the lines between artistic mediums. Lyrically, I try to paint a picture with words that strike the visual cortex of the brain as much as the music strikes the auditory cortex. As an exercise when I’m making something new, I’ll write down keywords that evoke sensory reactions to try and get to the root of what I want to portray. For example:
“Mirrors, Ritual, Neon Bright, The Smell of Sawdust, Wet Masquera, Dried Ink, Phantom Limb, Cheap Floor Polish, Cigarettes”.
The story is born out of these waypoints, like a map, and I’m often surprised by the result. I don’t think I really write the “story” (if there is one) - the story exists out there, somewhere, and I’m just lucky enough to write it down. If I didn’t, someone else would, because the song existed before I wrote it.
Music is the oldest form of story telling, a way to both connect through the abstract and the deeply personal. It’s a sacred tradition, and I try to bring that awareness into every writing session.
Your influences range from LCD Soundsystem to Talking Heads — artists known for reinvention and curiosity. Who else has shaped your sonic identity, especially in terms of posture and experimentation?
I’ve been writing music my whole life, pretty much, with some slips over the years. Throughout that journey, I’ve dipped my toes into pretty much every genre. Electronic, Folk, Punk-Rock, Acoustic Fingerstyle, Lo-fi Garage, Surf Rock… hell, even Ambient. I got bored really easily and was always in search of the next thing that would spark my curiosity. For years, I thought it was a weakness. I thought that if I could just get good at one style, then everything else would flow. But, here we are now, and I’m still not nailed down.
Finding artists like Bowie, James Murphy & King Gizzard really helped open my eyes. It was a lightbulb moment where I realized I didn’t have to be just one thing, much to the chagrin of radio/labels. I’m free to be an explorer without a destination. That’s where the good life lies, I think, and it’s incredibly exciting. The moment monotony rears its beige head, I know I need to switch it up. Being independent has its perks.
Growing up between London and the U.S. gave you a unique cultural vantage point. How has that outsider perspective shaped your writing, production, and artistic identity?
It’s true that I moved around a lot. I was exposed to a lot of different beliefs, interests, and even disappointments. I’m grateful for that. It’s hard for me to “settle down”, both literally and creatively, but I think I’ve found people to call home here in Brooklyn. I don’t think it’s influenced my production style. Writing wise, I guess it influences the words I borrow? Some of my lyrics are quite unconventional. I think any form of travel - by choice or otherwise - is good for the soul. It helps you understand that there’s always more than one side to a story, which helps me as an artist see things more holistically.
Before going solo, you toured internationally as Sid Simons’ bassist. What did those experiences teach you, and how did they prepare you for launching your own project?
Man, that was a great time. Touring can be tough, but at the end of the day, you're just getting in a van with your best friends, driving around and playing music. It’s an adventure for sure. It taught me a lot about what it takes to pull off a gauntlet tour, how to bring your best to the stage no matter what, and how to use individual strengths to help the group. There’s so much behind the scenes stuff that the audience never sees, so I feel a lot more prepared for the future. Also, learning how to take better photos didn’t hurt.
The Europe leg was especially grueling - I think it was 24 shows in 25 days? - something like that. Some countries were a bit of a blur, but once you push past a certain comfort level, a second wind kicks in and then it’s over before you know it. I’m very thankful to Sid & the band. Best summer of my life, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
You handle everything yourself — producing, recording, mixing, and mastering at Parasol Studios. What does complete creative control allow you to achieve that collaboration might not?
First and foremost it’s convenient. If you’ve got the studio setup, the liveroom, the mics and whatnot, why not use them? I’m really comfortable in my own environment, which leads to being looser and experimenting more. There’s also the side to it that recording/producing/mixing/mastering my own stuff is really a practice of going mad. If I subjected my bandmates to listening to the same riff for hours on end they’d probably form an angry mob with pitchforks outside the studio doors. It’s easier to get in the flow state without worrying about other people’s comfort/boredom. Part of it is an exercise in control, probably, which isn’t the healthiest. I get obsessive.
All this is not to say that there’s zero collaboration. I find it really valuable to get another set of ears on something after you’ve listened to it a bajillion times. Fresh perspectives from my colleagues both inside & outside of the studio have helped me a ton when I’m stuck like a skipping vinyl. I prefer to do the gruntwork myself, though, as I really get to know the songs inside and out.
Your singles explore very different emotional territories — from the prophecy themes of “Anasia” to the generational weight of “Little Falls.” How do you decide where each song needs to go sonically and emotionally?
The simple answer is that I don’t decide. There’s always a beginning - a lyric, a guitar riff, a drum groove. It starts like a block of marble, and the more you chisel away at it, the more a sculpture emerges, but the fact is that the sculpture was there the whole time. I let a song become what it wants to be, and try to take myself out of the equation. Maybe it’s spiritual woo-woo, but it’s really the best way I know how to write. It taps into something - source, subconscious, whatever you want to call it - that’s hard to describe, but I think every creative person knows what I’m talking about.
The caveat is that even when practicing this, there’s always a piece of yourself that makes it in. Sometimes the song ends up being super out-there, sometimes it forms into something deeply personal. Sometimes, both.
“Little Falls” draws on your grandfather’s story and generational trauma. How important is personal history in shaping the narratives you build in your music?
It really depends on the song. For “Little Falls”, I was going through a dark period, even if I didn’t know it at the time. I was struggling with feelings that I kept making the same mistakes over and over again. My grandparents passed away some years back, and I guess my grandfather in particular was on my mind, as were his struggles. Often families pass on things that were left unresolved within their own lives. Maybe being human is just a constant cycle of trying to break the cycle.
We’re all different people throughout our lives, and a song is a way of capturing that moment, much like a photograph. I was talking with a friend on the phone the other week about music & art, and I think she put it beautifully. She said that music is “the gift of the sacred mirror”. You capture a snapshot of the person you were, and present it as a gift of self-knowing, so that the listener can see themselves more clearly. It’s beautiful because it’s so temporary.
Your production style favours physical detail — the grain of a guitar, the pressure in a vocal. What attracts you to that tactile, room‑occupying sound?
This is one of my favorite things to talk about. For me, the sonic texture of sound is just as important as the music itself. It’s not just what you say, it’s how you say it. I look to the great experimenters, namely Tchad Blake, Slyvia Massey, Kevin Parker & Shawn Everett. Anything they touch has a unique “sonic signature” that really transports you into a perfectly imperfect world. That’s what I’m trying to carve out for myself. I’m attracted to music that feels like a 3D sound-stage. Like you can hear the whisper of a shaker two feet to your left, while the drums are off in some far away nuclear silo. There’s something about it that gets me going, and I think draws listeners in immediately. Plus, it’s more fun to experiment in the studio than just rehashing the same old recording techniques. Why not turn a pair of headphones into a microphone, use an old 70’s mixing board as a stereo fuzz pedal, or sing balancing on one foot blindfolded? Don’t answer that, I’d rather not know.
With The Domino Accords now released, what’s next for you? Are you already exploring new sonic territories, or is there more to uncover within this universe you’ve created?
For now, I think the door on The Domino Accords is closed. I said what I set out to say, and spent a good amount of time in that world. Maybe I’ll revisit that sonic territory in the future, but I’m already exploring other shores. It’s always good to get out of your comfort zone. I’m working on an album, which I don’t want to say too much about. It’ll be different, but still unmistakably “me”.
In the immediate future, I’ll be working on the live performance side of things, visuals & chipping away at new songs behind the scenes. I can’t say when the next batch of songs will come out, but I can promise it won’t be a long wait.
A huge thank you to Dan Fisher for taking the time to sit down with me and share the stories, instincts, and creative impulses behind The Domino Accords. It’s always a privilege to speak with an artist so deeply committed to world‑building, curiosity, and craft, and we wish him every success as he continues shaping whatever comes next.
Keep up to date with all of Dan’s musical movements via his socials — new releases, studio glimpses, live dates, and everything in between. And if you get the chance to catch him live, wherever that may be, do it. You can thank me later.
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