There’s something rare about discovering an artist like NEEA. Her debut release Enerqì is a quiet jewel — it opens like a film score, drawing you into a cinematic atmosphere that feels both intimate and expansive. The song flows like a dream: soft, silken sound layers gently carry you into a state of stillness. Just as you settle into its calm, the track takes a turn — inviting a looser, jazz-tinted motion that feels both grounded and free.
Accompanying the track is a stunning video, co-directed by Natasha Do Amaral Penninx and Nicky Dutrieux, with cinematography by Maran Gross. With its dreamy staging, it visually extends the language of Enerqì — translating sound into movement, emotion into form. “It starts off soft and floaty, but then the realization hits and we return to earth, switching from dreamy synths to grounded instruments like drums and bass.”
Born and based in Amsterdam, NEEA is not only a singer and songwriter but also a producer with a deep background in sound. She studied Jazz Voice at the Conservatory of Amsterdam and later graduated in Music Production and Studio Engineering at the Abbey Road Institute.
Enerqì is such a beautiful debut from an artist who leaves you wanting to hear more, know more — someone with an incredibly sensitive soul, turning the quiet details of life into art. Throughout our conversation, NEEA speaks with the same gentle power that runs through her music. She reflects on the strength of softness, the importance of slowness in an accelerating world, and her belief that music is a kind of medicine — one that heals through presence, not pressure. “Slowness almost feels like a quiet revolution, and I’m here for it.”
header photo by Mik Bosch/ Miks Files
Neea, happy to have this interview with you and get to know you better. (smiles)
How are you today — and how did you celebrate your debut release?
Thank you! I’m happy to be here too. (smiles)
I’m doing well today. It feels special to finally share something that lived inside me for so long.
I didn’t throw a big party… I celebrated with a few close friends, we went out for drinks at a little bar I love and we played my song over the speakers when it dropped at midnight. I wanted to keep it intimate. And yes, there was some dancing too.
Your song opens like a film score — soft, cinematic, and deeply atmospheric. Did you envision visuals or a specific scene while composing Enerqì?
Funny that you say that. I actually scored Enerqì for a film. A director, now a close friend of mine, asked me to compose music for his new film project.
The dramatic intro was written specifically for the opening credits. What’s interesting is that the combination of the song and the scene I was composing for ended up giving the scene a slightly sarcastic tone. But when I listened back to the music on its own, it carried an entirely different emotional weight. I liked that contrast, so I decided to release it as a standalone piece.
Then the track shifts into a more chilled yet energetic part. How did you build that contrast, and what feeling were you hoping to leave the listener with?
I was following a shift in the scene’s mood. In the context of the song, I wanted to break that dreaminess with a moment of sudden realization, like waking up. It starts off soft and floaty, but then the realization hits and we return to earth, switching from dreamy synths to grounded instruments like drums and bass. I wanted to catch the listener off guard, a subtle surprise.
“I see softness as a strength, both in music and in life. I think it takes a lot of courage to be gentle and vulnerable.”
Enerqì draws on the concept of qi, or life force — what does that energy feel like to you, physically or emotionally, when you’re creating?
To me, qi feels like a quiet current, something that moves through you when you’re aligned. When I’m creating, I can almost feel it physically: like warmth in my chest, or a sense of spaciousness in my body. Sometimes it’s subtle, like a tingling in my hands, or the feeling that something wants to come through me rather than from me.
Emotionally, it feels like clarity. Like a moment where everything is still, but fully alive. That’s when I know I’m creating from the right place: not from pressure, but from presence.
The song is just 2:26 — it feels like it ends too soon, almost like a dream you don’t want to wake up from. How do you decide when a piece of music is complete, especially when it carries so much feeling in so little time?
I think a piece of music is complete the moment you decide to stop touching it. That decision, to let it be, is often the hardest part. I’m actually the worst at this; I love layering sounds and textures, and I easily get lost in the process. But with Enerqì, I knew I had to practice restraint. Sometimes simplicity tells the story more powerfully than complexity.
When I struggle with knowing when something’s done, I remind myself of Duke Ellington’s words: “I don’t need time, I need a deadline.” That mindset helps me zoom out, trust the moment, and move on. Some songs aren’t meant to last long, they just need to feel complete within their own space.
Your voice is filled with so much emotion without ever growing loud — so, when did you first start singing?
I started singing when I was about six. I began in musical theatre classes. I was a theatre kid, always performing. But around the age of ten, I felt a strong pull toward music specifically, and decided to focus fully on that. I took singing lessons, joined choirs and bands, anything that allowed me to explore my voice.
Later, when I was sixteen, I studied Jazz Voice at the young talent department of the Conservatory of Amsterdam, and went on to graduate in Music Production and Studio Engineering at Abbey Road Institute. That’s where I really learned to shape not just my voice, but my sonic world.
“Sometimes simplicity tells the story more powerfully than complexity.”
Femininity plays a key role in your music — I really feel that so much. Soft femininity can be such a strength. Do you see softness as a form of power in your work, and in life more generally, too?
Yes, absolutely. It’s one of my core principles. I see softness as a strength, both in music and in life. I think it takes a lot of courage to be gentle and vulnerable. I admire that in other artists; people who don’t need to raise their voice to be heard.
There’s something so powerful about holding attention through subtlety. It’s refreshing, especially in a world that often rewards loudness. I love playing with that tension: how speaking more slowly, or singing with a lower tone, can actually draw people in even more. It invites intentional listening.
What role does slowness play in your life — and how do you protect it in a world that constantly accelerates?
I try to invite slowness into my life by doing things more intentionally, creating little rituals that help me become present. It’s still a challenge; life moves fast, this industry too.
But I’ve learned that slowness can be something you protect by making decisions from the present moment, instead of rushing toward the future. Even just disconnecting from the digital world helps me return to myself.
Slowness almost feels like a quiet revolution, and I’m here for it.
“A piece of music is complete the moment you decide to stop touching it.”
Your Instagram is still quite minimal, but what’s there is beautiful and leaves us wanting more. Do you feel that social media still plays an important role for artists today?
Thank you! I think social media can be a powerful tool. It gives artists more autonomy, more direct access to their audience, and a fairer chance to grow without needing gatekeepers. You can build something on your own terms.
But at the same time, it’s more saturated than ever. The pressure to constantly post, to be visible all the time, can feel overwhelming. I try to treat it as an extension of my creative world, rather than something I have to keep feeding.
Where do you see yourself in around 10 years?
Hopefully on one of my favorite islands with a home studio tucked away in the woods and my closest friends nearby. Writing albums, making strange sonic experiments. I’d love to be scoring films. But what would make me happiest of all is simply playing my songs for an audience, connecting with as many people as I can.
The most important thing in life is?
To feel deeply, live honestly, and share something real with others. And good olive oil.
Follow NEEA for more:
www.instagram.com/neeasoul
