Dinkis (@gabrieleisdinkis) introduces “Necessary Love” as a full-length project built as a continuous arc, where each track feeds into the next without clear separation. The album, which we reviewed in depth last week, moves through themes of connection, absence, identity, and memory, using electronic production as a framework for a more narrative-driven work. From “Il Dolore Invisibile” through “Mia Luna,” the record traces a sequence of emotional states, with each piece contributing to a larger structure rather than functioning as an isolated moment.
The approach reflects a shift toward long-form thinking, where pacing, track order, and tonal consistency carry as much importance as individual compositions.
That direction aligns closely with how Dinkis describes his creative process. His answers center on internal motivation, patience, and the decision to move away from more conventional club-focused output in favor of something more personal. He speaks about stepping back from releasing music until the work could be realized in a more physical and intentional way, and about using albums as a format to hold ideas that require more space.
With “Necessary Love,” that intent is quite clear, and this conversation provides even more detailed context for how those decisions took shape and what continues to drive his work.
Interview With Dinkis
What’s the moment that first made you take making music seriously?
There was a moment when I realized music could speak in shadows, in the spaces between words.
I was laying down fragments of my life, tiny stories, and suddenly a few notes, or just a title, were enough to make someone feel the weight of it. That’s when I understood that what I carried inside couldn’t stay hidden. I needed to let it breathe. Since then, I’ve been chasing that level of honesty. I haven’t reached it yet, but that chase is why I now craft albums instead of singles.
Each track becomes a thread in a larger tapestry, a story meant to be listened to, slowly, like turning pages in a book.
When you’re not releasing anything, what keeps you going?
Sometimes I step back, sometimes I let silence stretch for months. About a year ago, I promised myself I wouldn’t release anything until I could turn my sketches into something alive, played by real hands, in a room that could hold their sound. But even in the quiet, I couldn’t stop the pull. The moment I touched the first note of the new album, the need to speak became urgent.
One song led to the next, and suddenly I had a map of thoughts, a new world in sound, waiting to be heard.
What kind of track would you still make if no one ever heard it?
It would be a track whispered to myself, a confession in sound, words only I could trace.
There’s a strange freedom in that, writing a map that no one else can read. But I’m not ready to bare everything. For now, I prefer to leave doors open for the listener, letting them wander into the corners I hint at, piecing together the story in their own way.
Has your “why” changed over time? How do you keep that honest?
I have changed. The way I move through the world, the lens I see through, they’ve shifted. But the music remains a mirror. I can’t play or write what isn’t me, it would crumble under its own weight. So I follow the traces I recognize, the quiet instincts that tell me which notes to touch and which to leave untouched.
That’s my compass.
Do you ever question the value of what you’re doing? What pulls you back in?
Always.
Every track feels like a question, every sound a risk. The ideas I carry in my head often glimmer in ways I can’t quite capture. Translating them into something tangible, something that hums like I imagined, is hard, sometimes impossibly so. Yet I can’t step away. The pull comes from the unfinished map inside me, the part that refuses to be silent.
What’s a creative decision you’ve made that had zero payoff, but still felt right?
Ten years ago, I left the path I was on. I was making club music, and my tracks were spinning in festivals across the globe.
Then I stopped. When I returned, I couldn’t go back, I needed a different sound, a different skin for my stories. Maybe I could have stayed on that path and climbed higher, but I would have been someone else. Today, the music I make lets me move through my own cracks, my own shadows. It didn’t make the world notice me, but it let me notice myself.
How do you personally define fulfillment in your work?
There’s no tidy word for it. It comes when I let the sound lead, when I follow the thread of what feels alive, not perfect. I like textures that are rough, minimal, a little raw, things that hum with life in their own way.
The real magic happens when all the pieces fall into place, when a tracklist unfolds like a path through a secret landscape, and I realize I’ve made a space where the story can be truly heard.
The post Dinkis on Storytelling, Process, and the Album “Necessary Love” appeared first on Magnetic Magazine.