Julian Loida Crafts a Winter Reverie With “December Dreams (Radio Edit)”
Ethereal textures and emotional depth converge in a collaboration with Don Mitchell that transforms longing into cinematic sound
With his signature blend of cinematic texture and emotional depth, Boston-bred, LA-based composer, percussionist, and producer Julian Loida unveils “December Dreams (Radio Edit)” – a lush, genre-defying winter ballad merging folk, neo-classical, and ambient elements into something wholly unique. Featuring Don Mitchell of Darlingside, the song captures the liminal beauty of longing, reflection, and the hazy calm of winter nights.
For Loida, the process of creation begins in improvisation. “For me, composing comes from improvising and improvising comes from something larger than me moving through me,” he shares. “This piece found its way to me when I was living in a cold, damp basement apartment in Boston. Songs tend to find me when I’m feeling fairly hopeless and stuck spiritually.” Written during a period of emotional upheaval, “December Dreams (Radio Edit)” channels heartbreak, exhaustion, and yearning into a form that feels both expansive and transcendent. Its late-night vibraphone improvisation became a conduit for Loida’s love of cinematic scoring and Afro-Cuban rhythms, interwoven with soft vocals and sweeping brass. “It feels like my love for cinematic music and Afro-Cuban music were melding in a way that on paper sounds very odd, but internally feels deeply true,” he explains.
The song’s roots trace back to December 2018, a moment Loida recalls with both nostalgia and longing. “My music can sound quite joyous, but that’s more often out of a need,” he says. “I find people can create music that’s different from how they actually feel in very interesting ways.” The piece’s evolution over time was shaped by serendipity as much as intent. Experimental vibraphone sessions at Dimension Sound Studios with producer Dan Cardinal led to a pivotal connection when Don Mitchell reached out to express admiration for Loida’s work. This message sparked years of collaboration that enriched the track’s sonic palette. “I’m so grateful for Don’s massive contributions to this song,” Loida says. “We thought a lot about Sufjan Stevens’ album, Chicago, while making this piece and knew we wanted some sounds of brass, which led to me bringing in Tiffany Johns, a true virtuoso who created gorgeous horn and brass parts.”
Crafting the song’s atmosphere required restraint and deliberation. “We wanted to be subtle, dream-like, and leave space for the listener while making something atmospheric, lush, and wide-sounding,” Loida explains. “Even though we could have added tons of percussion, it felt nice to produce with restraint and not add things just because we could.” This careful approach allows each element – vibraphone, banjo, brass, and voice – to resonate fully, creating a sense of space and intimacy rarely achieved in contemporary recording.
Called “one of the Boston music scene’s most valuable players” by The Art Fuse, Julian Loida is a composer, percussionist, and producer whose synesthetic perception and musical curiosity have guided him across genres and collaborations. His work spans jazz, folk, and classical traditions, often interweaving visual and emotional textures into sound. Loida’s compositions have appeared in films, dance performances, and art installations, while his performance career has taken him to stages and festivals across North America and Europe, including Spoleto Festival USA, Exit Zero Jazz Festival, and Sweden’s Korrö Festival. His latest album, Giverny (2023), was praised by WBUR for its artistry and innovation.
“December Dreams (Radio Edit)” stands as a singular work in Loida’s discography, a vivid convergence of vibraphone, banjo, brass, and voice. The track captures the emotional hues of winter while evoking warmth, connection, and quiet reflection. It is a reminder of Loida’s ability to transform personal experience into soundscapes that feel both ethereal and grounded, intimate and expansive, and uniquely his own. . . .



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