It’s hard to pin down exactly what FORRM is, and that is entirely by design. Led by Iranian-French multi-disciplinary artist Firouz FarmanFarmaian, the collective doesn’t treat music like a standalone commercial product to be optimised for a streaming algorithm. Instead, it’s just one piece of a much larger, sprawling creative universe that spans canvas painting, film, and physical exhibition. Following their track “JUNKIE WAYZ,” the group is currently preparing to release BOUTIQUE, their upcoming studio album built on raw, live-tracked instrumentation and a fiercely independent ethos.
We caught up with FarmanFarmaian to talk about the friction and philosophy driving the new music. In the conversation below, he opens up about how their new single “PALAZZO” accidentally came together during a live performance inside Venice’s Palazzo Dandolo, the reality of recording film scores on the French Riviera, and why the collective chooses to completely bypass mainstream platforms like Spotify to protect the integrity of their work.
PALAZZO has this beautifully trippy, cinematic vibe to it. When you sat down to write it, what was the actual spark or image in your head? Is it a good blueprint for what we’re going to hear on the rest of the album?
It’s important to note that PALAZZO wasn’t written behind a desk, a computer, or even in a rehearsal studio. It was born out of a live jam session with the band in September 2025, during my installation Voyage in Inexistent Lands at the Palazzo Dandolo in Venice.
On the day of the opening, we improvised around the themes of the exhibition and played for nearly an hour. Towards the end of that session, the riff that would eventually become PALAZZO emerged almost by accident. As we started playing it, people inside the palazzo began dancing, and we immediately felt there was something special there.
I brought the idea back to Bloom Studios in the South of France, just outside Saint-Tropez, where I began developing it with my longtime friend and guitarist Kamyar Rahmani Kia, one of the key members of FORRM. Together we shaped the structure, found the right tempo, and developed a groove that felt full of swagger—something positive, elegant, but also rebellious.
As the music evolved, the lyrics gradually revealed themselves. They became a reflection of what we had experienced in Venice: organizing a contemporary art exhibition, moving from one event to another, blending rock and roll with contemporary art, celebrating, creating, and living completely outside established formats. We have always been interested in cross-disciplinary creation and in breaking down the barriers between artistic worlds rather than staying in a single lane.
In many ways, PALAZZO captures that spirit. It’s about momentum, freedom, friendship, and refusing to fit neatly into predefined boxes. As the song says: “The harder they come, the higher we go.”
As for whether it serves as a blueprint for the rest of BOUTIQUE, I would say yes and no. The album explores many different sonic landscapes and travels in several directions, but they all belong to the same universe. PALAZZO is perhaps the perfect introduction to that journey: it contains the energy, freedom, spontaneity and sense of adventure that run through the entire record, even as the music takes the listener deeper into a psychedelic voyage through a series of ever-shifting sonic landscapes.
You recorded the soundtrack for Season of the Witch live on the French Riviera, which sounds incredibly glamorous but probably had its challenges. What was the energy like in the room that night, and how did playing it live shape the final record?
The story of how this was recorded says a lot about how We Are the Nomads operates, particularly in the way we connect music, film and live performance.
Season of the Witch is my upcoming feature film, currently in pre-production and scheduled to shoot this winter in Essaouira, Morocco. From the outset, we wanted to compose and record a significant part of the soundtrack before cameras even rolled. We don’t see music as something that arrives after the images; we like it to exist beforehand and help shape the world of the film.
Originally, FORRM was supposed to perform in London around the release of Junky Ways, the first single from BOUTIQUE. When those plans, and more specifically our involvement with SXSW London, didn’t materialize as expected, we pivoted and created something of our own.
That led us to Domaine de La Croix in La Croix-Valmer on the French Riviera. Together with an exhibition and a gathering of artists, collectors and friends, we staged a sunset performance overlooking the vineyards and the Mediterranean.
What made the experience special was that the concert sat right in the middle of a two-week creative residency. The entire band had reunited in the South of France, rehearsing and recording material for the film at the same time. The live performance became an invaluable testing ground for the music as it evolved.
The energy that evening was extraordinary. There was no separation between art, music, audience or landscape. Everyone became part of the same experience. Because the material was still evolving, there was a genuine sense of risk and discovery in the air. We were developing the music in real time, then bringing that energy straight back into the studio.
If people want a glimpse into the musical universe we’re creating for Season of the Witch, they can listen to our live rendition of “Season of the Witch,” recorded that evening at Domaine de La Croix. It is available alongside the full Dedication to the Sun live performance, engineered and mixed by Bill Cox, on all major streaming platforms except Spotify, which FORRM currently boycotts. Together, these recordings offer a first window into the psychedelic and cinematic sonic landscapes that will inhabit the film.
Your team mentioned that FORRM purposefully avoids the usual music industry pathways to do your own thing. What frustrates you most about the mainstream music industry right now, and what does actual creative freedom look like for you?
I’ve been frustrated with the mainstream music industry for a very long time. Even before streaming, the economics were already stacked against artists. Labels often took the vast majority of revenues, while musicians were left sharing a small percentage between themselves, sometimes even paying for artwork, promotion and production costs on top of that.
That tension was one of the reasons I eventually stepped away from the industry after my former band Playground released Nightology, produced by Eric Chedeville, who had worked with artists such as Daft Punk and Sébastien Tellier. Watching the pressure of the system contribute to the disintegration of the band forced me to question whether the model itself was healthy for artists.
What frustrates me today is that the promises of the digital era turned out to be largely illusory. We were told that streaming would democratize music, empower creators and create a more direct relationship with audiences. Instead, many artists earn less than ever while being expected to fund their own marketing, promotion and visibility. The more music you make, the more it can sometimes feel like you’re working for someone else’s platform rather than building your own future.
In a previous interview, I used the term “digital tyranny,” and I still stand by it. We’ve created systems that extract enormous value from culture while returning very little to the people who actually create it.
The alternative I found came through contemporary art. As an artist, I was fascinated by the freedom that exists in that world. If you want to create a two-hour piece of music, you can. If you want to invent a new format, you can. If you have the audacity and conviction to pursue an idea, people engage with it on its own terms rather than forcing it into predefined commercial categories.
That philosophy deeply influenced FORRM and We Are the Nomads. We think less like a traditional band and more like an artistic collective. We create films, exhibitions, performances, records and immersive experiences that all feed into one another.
That’s also where the title BOUTIQUE comes from. I believe in building meaningful relationships with a small but dedicated community rather than chasing mass-market exposure. A handful of committed supporters, collectors, listeners and collaborators can be far more valuable than millions of passive clicks.
I have a lot of respect for independent movements that are emerging outside the traditional system, particularly within the psychedelic and jam-band scenes. Artists are finding new ways to connect directly with audiences, maintain ownership and remain creatively free.
For me, creative freedom ultimately means being able to decide the format, the pace, the audience and the purpose of your work. It means making music because you have something to say, not because an algorithm has decided what should be heard.
Or to put it simply: make it local, make it authentic, and perhaps it becomes global.
You work with a lot of international artists and blend different cultures in your music. In a world that feels pretty divided and fractured, how does a band like FORRM help bridge those gaps?
Well, thank you for asking. There has been a lot happening lately, and particularly as an Iranian-French artist whose family was exiled following the Islamic Iranian Revolution of 1979, I’ve been asked quite often to speak about these questions. I’ve recently shared my perspective with the BBC and other platforms, and I always find myself returning to the same idea.
I believe that the true avant-garde today—whether in art, philosophy, music or poetry—exists precisely where cultures meet. Sometimes they meet harmoniously, sometimes they confront one another, but what interests me is the spark that emerges from that encounter. The genie is in the spark.
We shouldn’t be afraid of our differences. On the contrary, we should create spaces where people can sit together, debate, disagree and exchange perspectives openly. A positive agora, if you will. Because it is often through those differences that unexpected ideas emerge, common ground is discovered, and new possibilities are born.
For me, that’s very much what FORRM is about. The band brings together different backgrounds, influences and sensibilities, but rather than trying to erase those differences, we embrace them. We see them as a source of creative energy.
More broadly, I think we’re living through the final convulsions of a world still shaped by old divisions, borders and post-colonial narratives. At the same time, there is a growing yearning for something else—a more planetary consciousness, a common language that doesn’t erase cultures but allows them to coexist in harmony.
I believe the first signs of that future often appear in art and music before they appear anywhere else. Artists, musicians, writers and filmmakers are already creating new forms of dialogue that transcend nationality, ideology and geography. What may seem like isolated cultural exchanges today could well become the foundations of tomorrow’s artistic movements.
So yes, I think FORRM is part of a broader conversation. We are interested in what happens when different worlds meet, and in the possibility that from those encounters might emerge not only great art, but perhaps the early expressions of a more planetary culture.
It feels like there’s a massive revival of psych and experimental music happening at the moment. Why do you think people are craving that raw, trippy sound again? Do you think it’s a reaction against how polished and computerised everything else sounds today?
I think people are definitely craving journeys again rather than content. We’ve spent the last decade living under what I would call the dictatorship of the click, where everything is optimized for speed, attention and immediate consumption. Naturally, a desire for liberation is beginning to emerge from that.
I’ve noticed a lot of signs pointing in that direction. Some people have called 2026 the “analog year.” New apps are appearing whose sole purpose is to help people spend less time on other apps. Vinyl continues to grow, cassette tapes are making a comeback, and even major artists are revisiting physical formats. There seems to be a broader cultural desire to reconnect with tangible experiences and slower forms of engagement.
I think psychedelia is part of that movement. But for me, psychedelia isn’t really a sound—it’s a state of exploration. It’s about allowing ideas to evolve organically, following unexpected paths and embracing uncertainty.
That’s also why I see a close relationship between psychedelic music and contemporary art. When you’re painting abstraction, you’re often following an intuitive process, letting one gesture lead to another, allowing discoveries to emerge along the way. Open-ended psychedelic music functions in a very similar manner.
So yes, I do think we’re witnessing the emergence of a new movement. Personally, I’m a great admirer of what bands like Goose are doing today, as well as the wider community that has grown out of the legacy of pioneers such as the Grateful Dead and Phish. What interests me most is not nostalgia, but the return of experience as a central value.
Ultimately, I think people are looking for something real again. They’re looking for immersion rather than distraction, participation rather than passive consumption, and experiences that leave a lasting imprint rather than disappearing with the next swipe. The resurgence of psychedelia is, in many ways, a response to that desire.
If BOUTIQUE wasn’t an album, but a real physical storefront or building you could actually walk into, what does the front window look like, what’s happening inside, and who is the shopkeeper?
If BOUTIQUE were a real storefront, it would probably sit on the corner of a street in Soho, Montmartre or East London—although I’d like to think it could also exist just around the corner from wherever the person reading this interview happens to live.
The first thing you’d notice would be the flowers. An extravagant display spilling onto the pavement, with none other than Christopher Walken welcoming visitors in a green gardener’s apron and, ideally, one of his legendary dances.
Inside, the shop would be part record store, part contemporary art gallery, part curiosity cabinet and part meeting place. There would be a section devoted to herbs and botanicals from around the world, co-curated by Hans-Ulrich Obrist and Rick Rubin. There would also be a chocolate department—an essential feature—offering fair-trade, traceable chocolates from different origins, presided over by my wife, Mrs. C, who would happily explain where every single chocolate came from before inviting you to taste them.
The record store itself would be home to an old leather sofa, rumoured to have hosted Winston Churchill on more than one occasion. Every now and then, you might find me sitting there, smoking a cigar and enjoying a glass of very, very cold champagne. If you happened to arrive while I was there with the rest of FORRM, we would be more than happy to sign one of our limited-edition tape releases, lovingly produced on Revox tape.
The record label would be overseen by the vociferous Mr. K, whose principal responsibility would be organizing delightfully chaotic listening parties at highly inappropriate hours. Some would begin at breakfast. Others would start at three in the morning. Attendance would be unpredictable, but stories from those evenings would circulate for years.
There would also be a second-hand book corner called The Caravanserai. No books would ever be sold there. Instead, visitors would be invited to leave a book behind and take another one in exchange. The only accepted form of payment would be a small sketch, drawing or note, which would be carefully preserved in a growing archive destined, one day, to become an exhibition of its own. The Caravanserai would be managed by a mysterious gentleman named Mr. Cyrus, instantly recognizable by his enormous fur hat, said to have been discovered somewhere in Tajikistan.
In the basement, hidden beneath the store, you would discover the Dark Cube: an immersive space dedicated to sound, film, textiles and contemporary art. Part installation, part cinema, part dreamscape, it would be the beating heart of the entire place. At its entrance, you would be greeted by a Slovenian gentleman named Dusan, dressed in spectacular 1970s Bordeaux flares, towering flamenco heels, an oversized orange satin shirt dotted with yellow patterns, a dramatically wide collar and an enormous gold chain. He would never explain exactly what happens inside. He would simply smile and invite you to enter.
Behind an enormous nineteenth-century cash register, you might occasionally find the mysterious Mademoiselle de la Roquette. She is rarely there, so you’d be lucky to meet her. But if you did, she would almost certainly give you candy for free.
The shop would be filled with musicians, artists, poets, filmmakers, dreamers and wanderers passing through at all hours.
But naturally, everything would be invitation only.
Because you’re a visual artist and filmmaker too, your brain probably works in colours and textures. If you had to describe the “colour palette” or visual aesthetic of this specific record, what are we dealing with?
I would say fresh purple fuchsia. Still full of turpentine, with large amounts of extra oil on the palette. Please, go ahead and stain yourself.
If BOUTIQUE was the alternative soundtrack to an existing movie or an old cult classic film, which movie do you think it would fit perfectly?
Les Enfants du Paradis by Marcel Carné, from a screenplay by Jacques Prévert. It connects to my early Felliniesque imagination and its sense of theatrical expansion—a caravanserai drifting through the twenty-first century.
Check out PALAZZO on SoundCloud HERE and on YouTube HERE.
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