MOST EPIC DREAM | INTERVIEW + TRACK REVIEW

Most Epic Dream is the solo project of Damian Walters, a producer and songwriter who's built a whole world out of restlessness. Started under a name that once sounded aspirational and now reads as a quiet mission statement, the project has shifted through ambient, electronic pop, post-rock, goth and trip-hop over the last decade without ever losing its shape. What holds it together isn't a genre or a scene, it's an emotional register. Damian writes to work through things, to quiet the noise, to give shape to what would otherwise circle inside his head. The result is music that always sounds recognisably like Most Epic Dream even when it refuses to sit still.

The next chapter is Solitude Vol. 1, an ambient EP that leans deliberately in the opposite direction to everything the current moment demands. It's slow, spacious, written and mixed quickly to preserve a stream of consciousness in its purest form. Alongside it sits "All I Know," the track that arguably captures the emotional, cinematic side of Most Epic Dream at its clearest, with electronic production, live instrumentation and a vocal performance that carries the weight without straining for it. In the interview below Damian talks about writing as a way to stay sane, why silence is another instrument in his kit, how collaboration transforms a song from a private conversation into a shared one, and one of the more honest things anyone has said about originality lately, that it's often just the byproduct of making enough honest work over time.

TRACK REVIEW - All I Know

All I Know feels like walking onto a starship. Ominous and dark, with a huge 808-sounding drum and bass sitting deep in the low end and holding the whole track together.

The vocal melodies are the real trick. They're progressive in the truest sense, always travelling somewhere new, arriving at places you didn't hear coming. That takes real skill, the kind that isn't obvious on a first listen but earns its keep on the second and third. Sparkly synth textures glint above the low end and keep the ear moving, and the "that's all I know" moment lands right where it should. Synth tones are on point across the board, and the whole track carries that rare quality of feeling both spacious and precisely engineered.

Most Epic Dream feels less like a band name and more like a destination. What is the "most epic dream" to you today, and how has that answer changed since you first started the project?

When I started the project, the name was probably more aspirational. It suggested escape, scale and the idea of creating something bigger than everyday life. These days, the dream is simpler. It is being able to keep making honest work, keep evolving and have the music reach people who genuinely connect with it. I am less interested in chasing some grand version of success than I am in building something lasting on my own terms.

Your music often feels cinematic without actually belonging to a film. When you're writing, do you see places and stories in your mind first, or do those worlds only begin to exist once the music is finished?

Usually I begin with a feeling rather than a story. Sometimes I am trying to create a mental space that helps quieten the noise of my struggles with PTSD. Other times, a place, colour, landscape or quality of light emerges as I write, but I rarely start with a clear visual idea.

The music is also a reaction to daily stress, health issues, anxiety, questioning mortality and trying to understand my place in the universe. I do not write music because I want to explain those things. I write because I need to work through them to stay "sane", although sanity is probably a matter of perspective, and I am clearly a little bonkers.

Music gives those thoughts and feelings somewhere to go without forcing me to define them in words. The world of the track reveals itself through the arrangement, and I prefer to leave it open enough for the listener or collaborator to bring their own experiences to it. Most Epic Dream may primarily be my solo project, but it is not a dictatorship.

You've said every release explores a different emotional landscape while still sounding recognisably like Most Epic Dream. What have you discovered about yourself by refusing to stay inside one genre?

I have discovered that I am not particularly interested in genre loyalty. I tend to follow whatever the track needs, whether that means ambient music, electronic pop, post-rock, goth, trip-hop or something harder to categorise.

The consistent part is emotional rather than stylistic. I have also learned that I get restless very quickly if I feel like I am repeating myself. Moving between genres keeps the work interesting, but it also forces me to find out which parts of the music are genuinely mine.

Your upcoming EP Solitude Vol. 1 embraces stillness at a time when artists are constantly told to be louder, faster and more visible. Has solitude become an act of rebellion for you?

In a small way, yes. Everything now seems designed to demand attention immediately, and there is pressure to constantly produce content around the music rather than simply let the music exist.

Solitude Vol. 1 deliberately moves in the opposite direction. It is slow, spacious and not trying to interrupt anyone. I liked the idea of making something that asks the listener to stop for a while rather than keep scrolling, it also was written and mixed very quickly as I wanted to capture that stream of consciousness in it's purest form.

Your music transforms difficult emotions into something strangely beautiful. Do you ever worry that turning pain into art gives it permanence, or does it finally allow you to leave it behind?

I do not think making music removes the pain, but it changes my relationship with it. Once an emotion becomes part of a track, it is no longer just something circling inside my head. It has shape and structure, which makes it easier to understand.

Collaboration changes it again. To me, collaborations are like a spiritual conversation without directions. I deliberately try not to influence a singer's lyrics or melodies too much, because otherwise the song becomes too much of me. I want them to respond honestly to the music and bring their own experiences, instincts and interpretation into it.

That can take the song somewhere I would never have reached alone. Their words can shift the meaning of the original emotion and sometimes make the pain behind it less prominent for me. It stops being entirely mine and becomes something shared.

There is still a record of where the music came from, but I do not see that as giving the pain permanence. It is more like evidence that it was transformed into something else.

Many producers chase technical perfection, yet you've spoken about valuing evolution instead. Can you remember a moment where leaving a flaw in a track actually made it feel more human?

That happens quite often with vocals and small timing imperfections. A technically cleaner take can sometimes lose the character that made the original work. I have learned not to correct every breath, rough edge or slightly unstable moment.

If something carries the right emotion, I would rather keep it than replace it with something technically perfect but less believable. I still care about production quality, but perfection is not always the same thing as connection.

The title Polymorphic suggests constant transformation. Looking back over the last decade, which version of Damian Walters would barely recognise the person making music today?

Probably the version of me who thought I needed permission, better equipment or some kind of external validation before the work could be taken seriously. I used to overthink whether something was good enough or whether it fitted what people expected.

I am much more comfortable now with following an idea and accepting that not every release needs to serve the same purpose. The younger version of me might also be surprised by how productive I have become. I spend less time waiting for certainty and more time finishing things.

There's a strong sense of space throughout your work, almost as though silence is another instrument. What has silence taught you that sound never could?

Silence gives everything around it meaning. A sound feels larger when it has room to arrive and disappear. It has taught me restraint, which does not always come naturally because it is very easy to keep adding layers.

Sometimes the most important production decision is deciding what does not need to be there. Silence also gives the listener room to bring something of themselves into the music rather than having every moment explained to them.

Your influences range from Portishead and Nine Inch Nails to Split Enz, artists who all built unmistakable identities without following trends. Do you think originality comes from trying new things, or from becoming honest enough to stop hiding behind influences?

Probably both, but honesty matters more. Everyone begins by absorbing other artists, and there is nothing wrong with that. The problem comes when you are trying to recreate the surface of someone else's work rather than understanding what you actually respond to in it.

I have probably stopped worrying so much about whether the music is original, and that is one reason I am much more prolific these days. Constantly questioning whether an idea is new enough can become another form of procrastination. I would rather follow the idea, finish the track and trust that my influences, experiences, limitations and instincts will naturally make it sound like me.

Originality is often the result of making enough honest work, rather than something you can force at the beginning.

If someone listened to Most Epic Dream fifty years from now without knowing anything about you, what feeling would you hope remains after every lyric, every synth and every reverb trail has faded away?

I would hope they felt that it was sincere. The music can be dark, reflective or occasionally hopeful, but I would like there to be a sense that it came from a real place rather than being designed to fit a moment or a trend.

If something remains, I hope it is the feeling that somebody was trying to make sense of being alive.

[ PRESS PHOTO - add via Wix editor ]

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