Music as medicine: interview with Andert Tysma

Still catching his breath from a bike ride to the studio, we meet Andert Tysma a little later than planned. The pianist and composer from the far north of the Netherlands has spent the past few years working in both the Netherlands and Berlin, and recently settled in Amsterdam, where—besides music—he also practices as a general practitioner. A remarkable combination that immediately raises a lot of questions, but more on that later.

With a background in jazz and modern production techniques, Tysma creates sonic landscapes that blend traditional instrumentation with contemporary textures and atmospheres. As we can already read in his biography, his work is marked by a strong sense of melody and a focus on creating immersive and introspective listening experiences, constantly pushing the boundaries of his own art.

“Back to the studio,” I begin, curious about his late arrival. “I read in other interviews that you’re usually very disciplined and start at 7 a.m. sharp,” I joke.

“Where on earth did you read that?” he laughs.

“As always, in preparing for an interview I dig around online to see what’s already been said,” I explain. “But it sounds like a pretty solid routine?”

“Well, these days that routine is a bit less tight. Back then I was sharing a studio that was only available from 7 a.m. to noon. So I’d be up at 5 and get to work early. It actually worked really well—I feel most creative in the mornings”, he says.

“I can absolutely relate to that,” I tell him. As our conversation gets going, I admit I had little prior material to go on; despite his impressive resume, there aren’t many interviews with him. I ask if that’s a conscious choice.

“No, it is definitely not,” he says. “I sometimes feel that my music seems to be in some kind of niche that has more listeners abroad than here in The Netherlands. Everyone who listens to it finds it beautiful though, but I think it levitates more with audiences from France, Germany or the UK. So, Dutch press will hopefully find me soon.”

“It’s strange how those things work, isn’t it? Because your resume says you’ve performed with Yann Tiersen at the Barbican Centre, and recorded at Nils Frahm’s Funkhaus studio. Are you maybe more active abroad than at home?”

“Not necessarily,” he says. “I do a lot of different things and work extensively in Berlin. I also lived there for four years and built a strong network. And then sometimes opportunities just appear out of nowhere—like the concert with Yann Tiersen. Long story short, my father was working on an island in Brittany where Yann lives and where he met him. He played him my music, Yann loved it, and the rest is history.”

“What are the odds. But I’m curious—what originally drew you to move to Berlin?”

“That was more of a gut decision,” he begins. “But it’s worth mentioning that I wasn’t really focused on my own music before I took that step. I actually started out as a bassist and played as a session musician for people like Bea1991, Sven Hammond, and Thomas Azier. I enjoyed that, but I was looking for the next step in my career. At first I thought that meant doing even more session work, but I soon realized I wanted to improve as a producer. I was recording bass parts for Thomas Azier myself, and it turned out to be a lot harder than I thought. Out of frustration, I began learning more about music production. That’s when things started to roll, and I discovered a new fascination for electronic and neo-classical music.”

“Back to your question. I’d always dreamed of living abroad for a while, and I knew some people in Berlin. The city had always attracted me, so all of a sudden I thought, ‘why not—let’s just try this.’”

“It sounds like you just made that decision overnight,” I laugh.

“It sounds easy the way I’m telling it now, but yeah, I think that’s how it actually happened. Berlin is home to so many artists I admire, and I had the idea that maybe I’d connect with some of them. Being in the right place definitely makes it easier to stay open to opportunities and build relationships with other musicians.”

“So why did you end up moving back to the Netherlands?”

“Well,” he continues, “a relationship that didn’t work out, and also a feeling of loneliness. Moving to Amsterdam turned out to be a good choice in the end. I also practise my profession as a doctor there”

“Well”,I say, “that’s a nice bridge to your medical career, actually. You first studied at the conservatory but dropped out to study medicine. Was that a deliberate decision?”

“In hindsight, yes. I actually didn’t enjoy the conservatory at all. As the name suggests—‘to conserve’—it didn’t feel like the most creative place. I didn’t really connect with the dogmatic approach to music. Eventually, I realized that helping people get better might actually be something I’d enjoy.”

“Looking back now, this is just how things turned out—and the big advantage is that I don’t have to make artistic compromises because I have a stable income from my work as a general practitioner. That gives me huge creative freedom.”

“Speaking of creative freedom… I read that it took you a while before you dared to make your own music. How did you overcome that?”

“My dad definitely played a big role there. But I also kept pushing myself to keep creating because I felt like I had something to express. But gaining confidence is a gradual process. I used to think I wasn’t meant to write music—that I wasn’t good enough. That kind of self-imposed limitation is killing for your creativity. What does ‘not good enough’ even mean?”

I add, “maybe it’s that perfectionism we all wrestle with?”

“Yeah—or whatever ‘good’ even means. Perfection is so arbitrary, and I’ve long since realized that’s not what it’s about. I think when you’re able to strip things back, more interesting things can reveal themselves. And on the other hand, not being afraid—just daring a little. Sure, I’m critical of myself and want things to sound a certain way, but I’m not obsessing over perfection. I don’t think that’s where the real power of music lies.”

Curious about his sources of inspiration, I ask about his childhood. As a kid, he was struck by house music, especially piano riffs. “I read that you vaguely remember what you heard back then, but that it still causes a deep physical reaction you try to incorporate in your own music. What did you mean by that?”

“Yeah, that deep reaction actually happens more with classical music. Certain harmonies and tonal colors hit me in a very emotional, nostalgic way. As for incorporating that into my music—it’s hard to give you a concrete answer.”

“Isn’t it just that, you’ve listened to something so much that it echoes in your own work?”

“Well, it’s more like the colors of all those genres. I was talking about this in another interview. I said that I’ve listened to so many different types of music, and you might not hear them directly in what I make—but those influences are absolutely there. They’re processed in my mind and come out differently. At least, that’s how it feels to me.”

“A tough question,” I say. “If I asked myself the same question, I wouldn’t know how to answer either.” Inspiration has to come from somewhere—but how you translate it into your own music is a story of its own.

Andert adds: “That’s the interesting part, I think. I love listening to other artists. If I hear something that makes me think ‘wow, this is amazing,’ I’ll sometimes try to put my own twist on it. And it becomes something completely different—because it’s not written by Ravel or Thom Yorke anymore. It’s yours. You can’t really steal music in that sense.”

“Speaking of composing. In your Spotify bio, you write that you’re exploring the connection between sound and healing. What does that look like?”

“That’s a good question,” says Andert. “I’d really love to bring together the worlds of music and medical science in some way. That’s been quite a journey—and as a doctor I’m realizing more and more how music positively affects people who are dealing with certain symptoms. Of course, soothing music won’t cure someone on the ER or the operating table—but look at it this way. In my office, 60 to 70 percent of complaints are stress-related, consciously or not. And current protocols quickly prescribe painkillers or other medications that often don’t address the root of the problem.”

“I think music can really help people navigate the challenges of life or better manage stress. I’m currently working on a project with Iranian composer Setareh Nafisi where we do live performances and invite people to reflect on what’s going on in their lives at that moment.”

“Which is some kind of healing, then?”

“Healing is kind of a cringey word—it quickly sounds esoteric. But still, it offers a chance to move through your own processes and reflect on what you’re struggling with.”

“Doesn’t that clash with the laws and science of medicine?”

“You could say that. If someone comes into my office with stress, I’m supposed to prescribe a recipe that temporarily lowers it. But once the drug wears off, the stress returns. It feels like a band-aid. Of course this doesn’t apply to every case, but I think in these situations, music can be a powerful tool to help people reconnect with their inner selves and their emotions. And I think that’s where the real solutions lie—not in some medicines.”

“Have you already seen that effect in people?”

“Absolutely. And I hear that from people who listen to my music too.”

I tell Andert about my own experience. “It’s kind of magical, isn’t it? When I’m stressed, I sit down at the piano for an hour and it just disappears.”

He nods: “Yeah, that sounds familiar. And I think that’s such an important message to share with people—to show what music can do. In a general practitioner’s office, everything is reduced to a ten-minute consultation followed by a prescription. But my advice would be: take an hour, listen to music, really let it move through you. Just see what happens.”

“If you had to choose, would you keep combining both worlds?”

“That’s a hard one.” I’ve been asked that before and I still find it hard to imagine a life without either. If I were only doing music, I think I’d miss being a doctor. I actually enjoy it a lot and it feels important. You’re confronted with the most vulnerable and intimate parts of people’s lives. On the other hand, I also feel this childlike joy when I get to make music again. I love creating. Maybe the combination is exactly right the way it is.”

Although I’d love to explore that further, there are still a few things I want to ask. “To follow up on that—what do you hope your music communicates to listeners?”

“That people are able to connect with themselves, open their hearts, and allow themselves to be vulnerable and feel love.” Andert adds, “Through making my own music, I’ve also been able to open my heart and be more vulnerable. I’m incredibly grateful for that. I’d love to share that with others. I think that kind of exchange can be really inspiring—for both the artist and the audience.”

As we slowly wrap up, I ask about his dreams and ambitions. “What’s still on your list?”

“I mostly play solo now, partly for budget reasons. But I’m a huge fan of Steve Reich, and when I see his concerts, I really get the urge to work with larger set-ups—an ensemble or multiple pianists. I think that would really elevate the music live.”

“Final question—any new music coming soon?”

“Yes, definitely! I’m currently working on my third album, made in collaboration with a former member of Depeche Mode who lives in London. Right now, we’re actively looking for the right label.”

“And what kind of music will it be?”

“It’ll be an IDM album—Intelligent Dance Music—in the direction of Aphex Twin and Rival Consoles. So it’s going to be a bit more experimental and electronic, and I’ve collaborated with some exciting artists like cello player Ernst Reijseger and saxophone player Maarten Hogenhuis.”

As I say goodbye to Andert, it’s clear he’s someone who follows his own path deliberately. Whether it’s his medical practice or his music, he approaches both worlds with the same care and depth. What stands out is how thoughtfully he navigates his choices, and how important it is for him to preserve space for creativity and growth. His story shows that combining different passions isn’t just possible—it can be a strength. A conversation that sticks—not because of big claims, but because of the quiet conviction with which he walks his own road.

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