Architectures and Sonic Grammars: The Brutalist

Today we’re going to talk about a soundtrack that I had stored in the deeeeeepest part of me… and I think the way the recent podcast topics have unfolded finally makes this the right time to bring it up.

The Brutalist was acclaimed by several awards, including last year’s Oscars.It got a lot of attention during the awards season — but let’s see why all the hype.

Composed by Daniel Blumberg, The Brutalist brings us a very interesting score in many ways.To me, it feels more like an 81-minute experimental music concert — and honestly, you need stamina to get through it, haha, I’m telling you.

From the reviews I read while preparing this episode, opinions were quite divided — though most leaned toward dislike.

Now, as someone who has been intimately involved in experimental music-making processes, I can tell you that musicians’ minds really work like that…They come up with things that make you question the limits of imagination.But my only response to that is a line from La La Land’s “Audition” scene:

“A bit of madness is key.” And I believe it — and always will. But let’s take a closer look.

Get comfortable, because as always, I invite you to think outside the box.

The film The Brutalist itself was conceived in multiple frames, and its musical process is deeply interesting for two main reasons:first, because the composer was literally on set with the actors;and second, because we can say this is a “homemade” album.

But I want to start by pointing out its three overtures — Ship, Lazlo, and Bus. Within these three pieces, we find the emotional spectrum that runs throughout the film.Through them, those who usually listen to and categorize this kind of music would already feel “satisfied.” But what’s really interesting is catching the traces that appear later (even if many say they get lost).These pieces are brilliant — I love them, especially Ship, where the prepared piano and brass already hint that what’s coming is both corrosive and glorious.

Some people say the music “disappears” and leaves no trace by the end of the film…but as I often recommend here, it’s much richer to listen to music from other angles — sometimes, it’s silence that speaks.

From this soundtrack and these overtures, what stands out to me is how clearly they sketch the emotional geographies within the film — like theatre scenes.

In some moments, the characters’ and the camera’s movements are coordinated with and from the music. Literally, Blumberg was on set orchestrating it. That’s the first powerful element: Daniel may not have conducted an orchestra for the film, but he orchestrated its frames. Because film music isn’t always an orchestra — sometimes, it’s the sound that weaves, assembles, and articulates the movement of its landscapes.

Let’s remember: the film tells the story of an architect in the “new America” after World War II — in other words, a brutalist style that shades every artistic element. The music faithfully mirrors this, but through sound: an architecture that evokes the same characteristics of the style —robust notes from the brass section, born from dissonances marked by percussion.It’s like the density and toughness of human façades that actually shelter visceral, often irrational emotions shaping human processes.

Daniel Blumberg literally opened the piano, placed various objects between the strings — and that’s how we got the raw sound in Ship that carries throughout the album.Here, in the “discourse of method,” the grammar changes and the sensations are revitalized. In other words, the technique isn’t decorative — it’s the pen that traces the experience of watching and listening to the film.

Thus, in a movie that already imprints itself on history, these resources modify the very reading of the historical process — because this “pen” carries other inks.The dialogue Blumberg maintains between brass and percussion outlines a minimalist yet powerful infrastructure — more inventive, more human.

Another peculiarity lies in the way the music was recorded — and I think it’s worth talking about the composer himself here.

As I always share in this space: the subjectivity of the one holding the pen is inseparable from the results we receive as listeners.And here, I’ll allow myself a small assumption.

When I first saw Daniel, I saw an introverted musician in his purest form.I don’t mean that as a judgment, but rather as a piece of the puzzle — something to reflect on when thinking about composition, where identity, consumption, and circulation intertwine.

What comes to mind when I see a musician like that is the interruption of habit — the opening of margins,an expansion across the maps of the possible.A bit like the previous episode, but from another angle.

Daniel didn’t compose in a big studio or with large orchestras.He worked with musicians he trusted, and after several sessions in the comfort of their studios and rehearsal rooms, the score for The Brutalist emerged.

I find it almost funny that in many interviews, people have asked him — in a flattering tone —

“How did you do it without a budget?” If you ask me (and hopefully I’ll confirm this when I talk to him soon),I’d bet anything that he was far more comfortable creating this way.

So, what does that tell us?For me, it says that it’s often in the most private places that institutions search for the seeds of expansion.Not that they’re evil monopolies — but that through these dissonant subjectivities, they expand the cracks that can redefine the collective.And perhaps, through that, redefine the maps of their own sensibilities.

The Brutalist reminds us that the experimental is a manifesto:that music — even with few resources, minimalist grammars, or eccentric methods — can intervene in the meaning of images and build structures as powerful as the buildings of brutalism itself. And right there — that’s where the true greatness of music lies.

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