Leon Vynehall has spent a decade expanding what electronic music can express, from the shimmering textures of Rojus to the cinematic depths of Nothing Is Still. On In Daytona Yellow, he takes his biggest leap yet — revealing more of himself than ever before. We speak to Leon about the making of the record, his embrace of vulnerability, and how he’s used instinct, discomfort, and even his own voice to push into uncharted territory. The album is intimate, daring, and unmistakably his.
How does it feel that In Daytona Yellow is complete and about to be released?
Leon Vynehall: It’s an interesting one. I actually finished it at the end of 2024, so I’ve been sitting with it for nearly a year. In that time, I’ve already moved on mentally — not to the next project, but the one after that. While it’s exciting, I also feel like I let it go a long time ago. That makes this release feel different to my other albums.
The record feels more personal than anything you’ve done before. Was there a turning point where you wanted to embrace that vulnerability?
Leon Vynehall: Before this, Rare Forever was me battling my own ego and figuring out what I wanted to say. It was a knee-jerk reaction to Nothing Is Still — a very neoclassical, jazzy leaning record that ended up on all these chill vibes playlists. I thought, “well, that’s not me.” Rare Forever was me trying to show all of the strings to my bow, present myself as diverse and capable of doing lots of things. But my ego sort of took over. I went into the minutia of everything in a way I hadn’t before.
By the time I came to In Daytona Yellow, I was exhausted with that and didn’t want to be led by ego anymore. I’d also been working with other artists, helping them own their vision, and I wanted to bring all that into my own work. The vulnerability side — I’d think, “who the fuck do I think I am doing this?” But the things that made me feel uncomfortable were the things that made me feel good. I knew I was scratching beneath something I needed to scratch, and that discomfort told me I was doing the right thing for me as a human and an artist.
So the process felt more like growth than catharsis?
Leon Vynehall: Yeah, it wasn’t about purging feelings, more about learning something new about myself. I wouldn’t say it was cathartic, but it was satisfying. Now I can carry those lessons into whatever comes next.
How did collaboration work while keeping your own voice?
Leon Vynehall: Whenever a collaborator came in, I’d explain what the record or song was about. There were shared experiences — like, “oh, I feel like that too” — but also the more specific stuff. We didn’t therapize each other; it was more about dialogue. I wrote a lot of the lyrics to begin with, and then we’d refine them together, they’d add a bit, I’d take some out. But the genesis — the idea, the sound, the lyrics — that was always from me. That’s where my voice came through.
You also used your own voice on record for the first time. What was that like?
Leon Vynehall: Like hearing yourself recorded for the first time, constantly. You do get used to it, but I’m not trying to be a singer-songwriter. It was more about certain songs where it would’ve felt disingenuous to have someone else sing. And that’s where the finding power and strength in vulnerability comes from. I wasn’t totally comfortable, I’d never done it before, but if I’m going to show people a side of me I haven’t shown, my voice is the only instrument I’d not used on my own records. If I was really going to put my money where my mouth is, then this was what I had to do.
One lyric that stands out from “New Skin Old Body”: “without a vision absolute, then you are just a strange loop.” What does that mean to you?
Leon Vynehall: For me, I never wanted to keep rehashing the same ideas or doing the same thing twice. My job as an artist is to explore and present new ideas and new versions of myself. If I just kept going back to the same things because I knew they worked, then I’d feel more like an entertainer — and that’s not what I want to do. Of course, there are running threads and sonic signatures in everything I make, but I don’t want to spend my life just writing house and techno bangers.
“Strange loop” comes from Douglas Hofstadter’s book about consciousness and how the psyche observes itself. I was reading that around Rare Forever, thinking a lot about self-perception and how we present ourselves. I wanted to carry that thread into this record.
The album was also inspired by James Turrell’s installation in Japan. What impact did that have?
Leon Vynehall: I went there on my honeymoon with my wife, to an island called Naoshima. It’s very small, maybe 3,000 people, with museums and art spaces. One of Turrell’s works is called Minamidera, which means South Temple. You walk into a pitch-black room with seven or eight other people, holding hands, led to a bench. The guide says, “sit down, and the work will reveal itself.” Slowly, a rectangle of purplish light appears. After 10–15 minutes, the guide comes back and says the work’s been on the whole time — our bodies and eyes had just adapted. The work hadn’t changed, we had.
That had a massive impact on me. I wanted the record to live in that same space: familiar but strange, welcoming but unfamiliar, like a liminal room you’ve never been in before. Even the cover artwork, the distorted face of me, and the black-purple hue of the studio reflect that.
Where do you usually draw inspiration from?
Leon Vynehall: Themes come from life experiences. Leonard Cohen had a massive influence on the writing for this album. I always have a book or something nearby — poetry, short stories — and I write down little phrases or sentences. Musically, inspiration comes from being in the studio with the gear, but also from whatever I’m listening to at the time. Inspiration comes from everywhere, but some days nothing comes at all. Sometimes I just find it really hard to concentrate on anything — especially now my phone has rotted my brain.
Perfection and imperfection run through the album. How do you know when to stop tweaking?
Leon Vynehall: You can always overdo it. For me it’s about trying to capture that first-thought-best-thought energy, then coming back to see if it still feels alive. I’m not someone who writes 50 tracks and picks 10. I’ll usually write 13 or so, and then refine them. You just know when it clicks into place, when the puzzle feels finished.
This year marked a decade since your debut. How does it feel to hit those milestones?
Leon Vynehall: It’s kind of terrifying how fast time goes. Looking back, I can hear the lineage between projects. But I don’t dwell on the past too much. Records are time capsules, though — Rojus takes me back to when I met my wife, and Nothing Is Still was the record that really pivoted my career. They’re reminders of who I was at those points in time.
Have you felt pressure to stay in one lane musically?
Leon Vynehall: Definitely. Early on, people told me to just keep making bangers. I’m glad I didn’t listen. I’ve worked hard to make it so people expect me to evolve each time, while still retaining a sonic signature.
You’ve mentioned you’re already working two projects ahead. What’s next?
Leon Vynehall: This summer, Glastonbury invited me to create an ambient set for their Tree Stage, which became the seed for my next record. It’ll be more experimental and atmospheric, maybe closer to Nothing Is Still. I’d like that out next year. I’ve also just signed on to score my first feature film — something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.
Where do you feel the most exciting things are happening in dance and electronic music right now?
Leon Vynehall: I’m really into some of the twisted, psychedelic techno coming out, and the UK bassy garage stuff too. Club culture is vital — not just economically but culturally. A lot of the UK’s biggest cultural exports stem from British club music. It needs protecting.
What can an album do that a DJ set can’t — and vice versa?
Leon Vynehall: An album is more personal, a pure expression of whatever you’re trying to say. A DJ set is about servicing a moment — your joy, but also the crowd’s. They’re different, but both important.
Finally, the record feels like saying goodbye to a former self. What are you letting go of, and what are you leaning into?
Leon Vynehall: I’m letting go of the part of me that cared too much about perception, the part that told me it wasn’t my place to do something — like using my voice or presenting something in a more songwriting format. I’m welcoming a more open version of myself, one that’s more comfortable with taking a risk in not being understood. We all want to be seen and understood, but that desire can cloud judgment when it comes to artistic choices. I’m leaning into openness, risk, and being okay with the possibility of not being understood all the time.
Pre-order In Daytona Yellow here.