Imagine yourself stepping up the stairs of an airplane. A small smile resting on your lips. In just a moment, the journey begins. This time, it’s not only a drift through space, but also through time – through memories, places, and the fragments of lives lived before our own. With her new album, Malu Pierini has created more than a sequence of songs. Libera Me becomes a passage through her personal history, her family story, and the invisible threads that connect past and present. “The album exists across generations, in more than one time and place at once.”
Libera Me will be released on January 30 – a record worth waiting for. Today, we premiere the single “Pourquoi”, accompanied by a beautifully cinematic video – bathed in warm, golden tones, carrying the nostalgia and melancholy of a French film, suspended somewhere between dream and reality.
Malu Pierini is an artist who moves gently between worlds: intimate yet universal, reflective without ever feeling heavy. Her music is rooted in atmosphere and storytelling – inviting the listener to step inside. “It felt like the songs already knew what they were about before I did.”
For this interview, we spoke with Malu about family histories and repetition, love’s blind spots, the weight of memory, and how small choices can resonate across generations.
photography by Julie Montauk
Malu, your upcoming album Libera Me is something truly stunning. It feels precious and deeply intimate. How long did you work on this debut album?
It’s been about two years. I had decided early on that I wanted to make an album – but my co-creator, Nicholas Kincaid, and I didn’t yet know what kind of album it was. We had to start writing and recording before it revealed itself. In that sense, the record found its own direction along the way, and we followed it.
As you’ve said yourself, it feels “like opening a family photo archive.” At what point did you realise this wasn’t just music anymore, but a way of understanding where you come from?
It happened slowly – almost without me deciding it. We didn’t start with a clear plan about where the music would end up, and honestly, it felt a little unfamiliar for me at first to write about my origins and my family history. But at the same time it became incredibly natural – like the songs already knew what they were about before I did. Suddenly I didn’t have to overthink meaning or message – the stories surfaced on their own. I began placing myself in my grandparents’ shoes, trying to see the world through their eyes – while also looking at them through mine. I think that creates a kind of timelessness: the album exists across generations, in more than one time and place at once.
The album begins on a flight to Corsica, with a stewardess’ voice welcoming us. Why was it important for you that the listener doesn’t just hear the story — but physically enters it?
The moment I get an idea for a song, my mind immediately goes to the wider concept: images, atmosphere, the world around it. For me, an album should feel like a journey – not just a collection of tracks. Starting with the flight was very intentional – like opening a door. It guides the listener into the space of the record – through time, memory, places – so you’re not only listening to the story, you’re travelling inside it.
“The album exists across generations, in more than one time and place at once.”
Your grandfather Bernard appears as an almost invisible main character throughout the album. When you were writing the song Bernard, did you feel closer to him in a way? (smiles)
Yes, 100 percent. I’ve been told my whole life that I resemble him in both appearance and personality. My sister and I had a special bond with our grandfather – but it was also a bond with very few words. My French wasn’t fully fluent as a child, and he developed dementia while I was still young, so there were so many things I never got to ask him – so many stories I never heard him tell in his own voice. When Nicholas recorded the piano for “Bernard,” I had tears in my eyes. It almost felt like my grandfather was in the room with us.
We are premiering “Pourquoi” from the album today. The video turned out so beautifully — you can really feel the nostalgia, the melancholy, mixed with the beauty of Paris. Can you tell us a bit about the idea behind it?
“Pourquoi” is inspired by my grandmother’s story: a young dancer who ran away from Copenhagen with a dancing troupe, arrived in Paris with stage lights in her eyes, and fell into a love that felt like fate – until it didn’t. I wrote it from my perspective, looking at her life while recognising parts of my own.
The video translates that emotional story into something physical. We play with time and mood by cutting between rain and sunshine, warmth and cold – as if the weather itself can’t decide. That contrast mirrors the love she stepped into: intense, unpredictable, sometimes glowing, sometimes disappearing. Paris becomes both dream and reality, shifting from scene to scene.
The song tells the story of a young dancer who goes to Paris, carried by stage lights and an intense love — and slowly realises that life didn’t turn out the way she dreamed it would. This kind of disillusionment feels very timeless, something that exists both then and now. Do you think that recognising this reality can still help us move forward?
I think heartbreak is inevitable when you’re a person who loves deeply – and heartbreak can take many forms: love, family, friendships, even dreams. Sometimes we only understand it in retrospect – how far away we travelled from ourselves because we were blinded by a romance or an idea of what life would look like. But accepting that reality is different – that a dream didn’t turn out the way we imagined – is often the only way forward.
“Accepting that reality is different from the dream is often the only way forward.”
The question “why?” runs through the entire album. Is it a question you’re still asking — or have you found an answer to it by now?
I’m still asking “why,” but I think I’ve stopped expecting a clean answer. For me it’s less about solving something, and more about noticing patterns – in family stories, in love, in the way we repeat things without meaning to.
If the album gave me anything, it’s clarity: some things don’t resolve, but they can be understood – and that understanding changes how you carry them.
Libera Me translates to “set me free.” Right now, I sometimes feel like we are never fully free — that we stumble from one thing into the next. Do you think true freedom is still possible?
I love that question, because I also think freedom isn’t a permanent state. We’re always pulled by responsibilities, expectations, the noise of the world – and by our own histories. For me, “Libera Me” is both personal and symbolic. It’s also the title of an old church hymn honouring the dead – a prayer. So “set me free” can mean many things: free from fear, from old stories, from repeating the same wounds. Maybe true freedom isn’t “never being bound.” Maybe it’s having moments where you return to yourself – where you breathe, choose, and feel connected to what matters. Music gives me that.
There’s a strong cinematic quality in your sound, and also in everything you release visually. Your Instagram, for example, feels like a carefully curated visual world. Do you think in images when you write music? (smiles)
Absolutely. I have a Pinterest board for each song on the album. It helps me visualise the emotional world I want the song to live inside. I often think in images first, and that shapes my lyrics – the colours, the scenes, the textures. I also see the project as a whole universe, so it’s important to me that the music and the visuals speak the same language. That’s how I can truly invite the listener in – when everything connects.
“I often think in images first — colours, scenes, textures — and that shapes my lyrics.”
You recorded sounds from Corsica — rain, bells, cicadas, home videos. How did you come up with the idea of weaving these into the album?
Because the songs are rooted in real places, I wanted them to carry a little more of that world. When I was in Corsica and in France, I started recording everyday sounds – rain, church bells, cicadas – almost like collecting texture. It was a way of giving the songs their environment, so the listener doesn’t only hear about these places but actually senses them inside the music.
You once said: “We all come from somewhere. Our smiles, our humour, our dreams are not only our own, but an echo of those who came before us.” It’s a beautiful thought — and probably carries a lot of truth. Which dream do you still want to live for yourself?
Music has always been my dream – before I even understood what that meant. I still want to live that dream fully: to keep creating worlds people can step into, and to build a life where I can tell stories through sound, words, and visuals – honestly, and without making myself smaller than I am.
Looking at old family photos can sometimes feel like looking into a mirror you didn’t expect. Was there something you discovered about yourself during this process that surprised you?
As a kid I was always creating – singing, playing piano, recording, painting, sewing, decorating. But I didn’t really connect that instinct to the people who came before me until I made this album. I studied business for five years while doing music on the side, and sometimes choosing the creative path has felt like something I had to justify – like it wasn’t the “smart” choice.
Working on Libera Me changed that – it made me feel the connection in a deeper way: I come from a line of cabaret, dancers and painters, and suddenly my own urge to create felt less random and more rooted. In a way, it validated something deep inside me. Studying the people who came before you can show you how much of them still lives in you. This process made me understand myself better – not only what I love, but why I love it.
Finally, if Libera Me were a movie rather than an album — who would the main character be?
I think it would be a woman moving through time – part narrator, part descendant, part dreamer. In some scenes she would be my grandmother stepping into Paris. In others she would be me, looking back. The main character would be that bridge between generations – the one who listens, remembers, and transforms the story into her own.
Check out Pourquoi here: malupierini.lnk.to/Pourquoi
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