Serag Baddar is a Malta-based composer who describes himself first as a philosopher—and only second as a musician. Writing largely as a hobby, he’s developed a sharp, almost scientific approach to creativity, often championing the idea of “writing for dopamine” as a route to better, more satisfying results. With influences like Opeth and Tool in the DNA, Serag chases originality without sacrificing accessibility, convinced that music can be inviting without sounding like everyone else. What began as a groove-heavy, metal-leaning project has since evolved into a more expansive post-rock world, shaped by the kind of clean, atmospheric passages that heavy bands use to hit even harder. We caught up with Serag to talk about his track “Limerence”—and the thinking, feeling, and craft behind the sound.
Serag, thanks for taking the time to speak with Occhi Magazine. You’ve described yourself as “a philosopher who also happens to be a musician.” What was the first idea (not song) that made you realise music could be a vehicle for thinking—something you could argue through, not just feel through?
Thanks for having me. I never had a first idea that made me realize that. Music is expression, and if you do music the right way you can express anything you want. While I do agree that lyrics are up for interpretation and you can make it mean whatever you want it to mean for you, lyrics do have the original interpretation, the artist’s interpretation, and that can be anything.
When you think back to your introduction to music, what did you misunderstand about it at the start—and how did that misunderstanding shape the earliest version of your taste, discipline, or ambition?
What I misunderstood at the very beginning is that I didn’t understand what it truly means to write and play music for yourself. A lot of people say this, and they don’t listen to their own music because they think it’s arrogant. I think not doing that defeats the purpose of playing and writing for yourself. That’s why when I say write for dopamine, what I mean is write music you want to listen to for yourself recreationally, and that is the truest way to play and write for yourself. There’s nothing arrogant about listening to your own music as long as it comes from a place of passion.
You write music as a hobby, yet your language around it is unusually intentional (methodology, dopamine, accessibility). What’s the moment you first took your own musical instincts seriously enough to build a “practice” around them?
This was around 16 years old when I asked my brother to buy me another guitar because the flying V that I had at the time was uncomfortable to play sitting down. He asked me, “if I buy it for you, would you take it seriously?” and I responded with yes. He bought the guitar for me; it was a black BC Rich Mockingbird, and from that point onwards I made it my mission to improve technically on the guitar by learning heavy metal. One of the riffs from Master of Puppets was the first fast technical riff I’ve learned.
You advocate “writing for dopamine” to achieve high-quality results. Where do you draw the line between chasing a chemical hit and chasing something enduring—how do you know when dopamine is guiding you toward truth versus just toward comfort?
A: Everything we do, we do it for dopamine, so it’s a matter of which kind of chemical hit you go for. Writing and finishing a song gets you that hit; showing your music to others and receiving a positive reaction gets you that hit too; playing live and receiving positive reactions from the crowd gets you more dopamine. The line is drawn when you realize which hits you are going for and which hits are you avoiding. Some require delaying gratification. The best dopamine hit you can write for is the one where the music itself is giving you dopamine; it’s not different from when you enjoy the music from your favourite band. You write material that makes you want to listen to it yourself and enjoy it. That dopamine hit will always be worth chasing after when you’re writing because it helps you produce the best results and doesn’t hurt your social life by chasing it.
Opeth and Tool are huge influences, but you’re also firm about originality within accessibility. What’s one rule you learned from those bands that you now deliberately break to avoid becoming a tribute act in disguise?
A: It’s a bit of a difficult question to answer because one rule I tend to break is a rule I also follow, and that’s to write whatever you want and to have a wide variety of styles to experiment with. However, originality is not the same thing as quality. A song can be original, but it can be poor in quality, while a song that’s not original can still be high in quality. I tend to be careful with this thing called “freedom.” Rules are fine as long as it’s not strict or elitist, and at the end of the day, as I said earlier, this is a rule that I still tend to follow because the main principle still applies. Be as original as you can and experiment with as many things as possible; just be careful not to sacrifice quality for originality because most of the time it’s not worth it. At the end of the day, the goal is to write a great song.
Your project began groove-heavy and metal-driven, then evolved into post-rock inspired by the clean sections of heavier bands. What did you gain emotionally or philosophically by moving the “clean section” from being a contrast to being the core?
I think a sense of identity within my music is what I have gained by moving to post-rock. I have found my own sound, my own original style, and it’s influenced by music I don’t play much anymore. Metal has been such a big part of my life, and I get to take parts of it with me into my post-rock writing.
What do you appreciate about the music world as it actually is and what do you think it consistently gets wrong about how listeners connect with new music?
The music world tends to push repetitive, formulaic music to the front and holds talented bands back because they don’t fit the popular style and image. If listeners keep looking at what’s popping and what’s popular to find new music, their music taste is being dulled because there isn’t much originality in what’s popular nowadays. All the great music this world has to offer is found underground. Even my favourite band Opeth isn’t really much of a huge band when you think about it.
“Limerence” started as a riff you wrote at 15 or 16, then you shelved it for over a decade. What did your teenage self hear in that riff that your adult self only later learned how to execute?
A: The thing about that riff is at the time I was really bad at writing and playing guitar. I tried learning Californication by The Red Hot Chili Peppers by ear, and I ended up writing the riff I have today. It sounds professional; that’s why I was so proud of it. Because as someone who was terrible at his instrument, it was quite a bragging right to have written a riff that sounds as professional as that one; that’s why I shelved it. This is a riff that needs to be worked on when my skill level is higher and when I know what I’m doing with the guitar. It’s the first riff played on the demonstration. It’s pretty nice, man. I’m so happy and proud that I wrote that riff at all, especially at that age. Makes me feel like Dave Mustaine. He wrote the intro’s chord progression to Hangar 18 at the age of 15.
You’ve said one of your favourite things about “Limerence” is that the instruments aren’t simply following each other—each part does something different, yet it forms one piece. When you’re producing, how do you decide what kind of “independence” each instrument earns, and what keeps the whole thing from collapsing into chaos?
It’s difficult to reproduce the kind of compatibility and independence that Limerence displays with its riffs even though I still keep trying to write music like that. Usually what you do is layer one sound over another but rarely are these layers great-sounding on their own to the point where you can write a completely new song with each one of them. There isn’t a specific method on how you decide what works and what doesn’t; you gotta hear it and feel it, and for Limerence I got super lucky that the riffs are as compatible as they are together. There wasn’t a moment where I made such decisions; it happened naturally.
There’s a demonstration you make at the end of the song—what are you trying to prove in that moment: a technical point, a compositional principle, an emotional release, or a philosophical statement? And what do you hope a listener realises because of it?
The demonstration is there to demonstrate the compatibility and independence between riffs that sound good on their own and even better when they are brought in together which is something extremely difficult to pull off. It’s one thing to layer one sound over another and make it work; that’s common. It’s another thing to have every one of those sounds sound very good on their own and then sound even better when you bring them together. The demonstration demonstrates exactly that. The main riff comes first, then the bass comes in, then the main riff stops while the bass keeps playing, and then the second riff comes in with the bass showing immense compatibility between each other, and then finally all the riffs are played together to form the hook.
Looking ahead: if “Limerence” is the song you wanted to hear as a teenager, what’s the song you want to hear as the next version of yourself—and what specific skill, risk, or mindset shift will it require to make it real?
The next song is a song I’m working on at the moment, and I’m finding trouble finishing it, to be honest, because of its electronic elements. The specific skills required to finish this track would be production, which is something I am so bad at haha. I’m going to have to learn more things from the production side to be able to finish this one.
Where can our readers find out more about you?
A: You can go on my website seragbaddar.com or check out my Instagram: Brosephkush.
About Author
