Danish singer, songwriter, and producer Bianca Nisha recently released her second album Blood&Sugar, which represents a deepening of the sonic universe she’s been quietly shaping since her reinvention as a solo artist. Built around her signature triad of piano, cello and voice, the record moves with a rare duality, where fragility meets power and Nordic melancholy expands into cinematic alt-pop luminosity. Across the album, strings pulse like electronics, vocals slip from intimate whispers to open-ended tones, and each song straddles a dichotomy between pleasure and pain. It’s a sound born not only from craft but from resilience. After an accident forced her away from electronic production, the artist rediscovered music through softness by playing gently at the piano, singing quietly, returning to the cellos that shaped her earliest work. For On The Record, Bianca Nisha leads us through the emotional, textural and atmospheric soundscape of this expansive new album.
Welcome to Unrecorded! For those who aren’t already familiar with Bianca Nisha, can you introduce yourself?
I’m a Danish singer, songwriter, and producer, and I’ve been part of the Danish music scene for many years. I started out leading my own nine-women’s orchestra featuring strings, choir, and percussion. With that ensemble, I released two albums and performed at venues such as the Danish National Radio House, Tivoli, and Spot Festival.
Later, I co-founded the electro-pop duo Lucaléy, with which I wrote the official theme song for Copenhagen Pride. We performed it for 40,000 people at Copenhagen City Hall Square and secured a publishing deal in New York.
In 2018, however, I was in an accident and suffered a severe concussion. I couldn’t work on a computer or make electro-pop for a long time. But I couldn’t live without making music, so I discovered that I could sit at the piano and sing and play very softly – and that’s how Bianca Nisha began. What started as the art of the possible turned into something I truly loved. I also found myself returning to writing for cellos again, which is how my musical journey began, and it felt very much like coming home – in my own music.
In 2022, I released my first album as Bianca Nisha and began collaborating with paper artist Veronica Hodges, who created stunning large-scale paper art scenography for our performances. Together, we’ve played at venues such as The Court Theatre, Design Museum Denmark, and The Art Museum Ordrupgaard, which has been really special.
In 2025, I’ve released four singles, and now my sophomore album is out.
Congratulations on your album release! There’s an interesting duality in the title, Blood&Sugar, so what does this dichotomy signify for this project?
Thank you! That duality is something that runs through all the music I make as Bianca Nisha. Bianca Nisha literally means White Night, and I’ve always been drawn to the idea that light and darkness coexist – not as opposites, but as two truths held at the same time. We’re capable of carrying deep sorrow and real happiness simultaneously. As I’ve grown older, I’ve realised that very little in life is truly black or white; most things live in the in-between.
That is what I try to express through my music.
On Blood&Sugar I went even deeper into that exploration. I challenged myself to see how far I could stretch the almost dogmatic sound world I’ve built — piano, cellos and airy, layered vocals – while still sounding unmistakably like myself. I wanted each song to hold its own duality, but also for the album as a whole to shift between beauty and grit, intimacy and grandeur. It’s that tension, that meeting point, that feels most true to me.
What felt different in the creation process compared to your debut?
The creation of my debut album was very much about carving out my own sonic identity. I was experimenting my way into a universe built on piano, strings and voice – at first with cello and violin, and eventually realising I needed two cellos to create the depth and texture I was searching for. It was a very intuitive and freeing process, especially after years of working in more electronic and commercially shaped sounds. At the same time, it required a kind of discipline: choosing to stay within a self-defined, almost “dogmatic” palette to make the Bianca Nisha sound feel clear and unmistakable.
With Blood&Sugar the process shifted. I felt grounded in the world I had created on the debut, so the challenge became something else: How far could I stretch that world without breaking it? I wanted to stay true to the core – the piano, the cellos, the airy layered vocals – but I also wanted to widen the emotional and sonic range. That was both exciting and difficult at times, because pushing the boundaries while keeping the essence intact is a delicate balance. But that tension ended up shaping the album in a really meaningful way.
While piano, cello and voice remain at the core of your sound, what steps did you make to push your sonic boundaries this time?
On Blood&Sugar I really pushed the role of the cellos. I explored their full range – from raw, almost percussive playing on tracks like Heavy to the shimmering, synth-like arpeggiations on River.
A big shift from the debut is the amount of layering. Instead of one clear cello line per player, I built entire soundscapes from multiple layers using different techniques and subtle processing. It created a much wider palette of grit, warmth and texture.
I also allowed myself to write songs that could stand as “pop songs” at their core – but dressed in this unusual instrumentation. That tension between the familiar and the unexpected became a guiding force throughout the album.
Nordic melancholy is also a particular quality of your sound, so what do you think makes it resonate internationally?
I think Nordic melancholy resonates because it’s both specific and universal. Here in the north, the balance between light and darkness is something we literally live inside – the long winters, the sudden brightness of spring – and that atmosphere naturally seeps into the music. But the emotional core of it isn’t uniquely Nordic. Most people, no matter where they’re from, recognize that blend of beauty and loneliness, clarity and shadow. I think the music taps into something quiet and honest that many listeners are longing for.
Do you write primarily as a vocalist, a pianist or a producer? Or do those identities merge?
They absolutely merge. I usually begin by writing lyrics or sitting at the piano – most songs are born as simple sketches with piano and a lead vocal. But quite early in the process I record them into my DAW and start shaping the production. I tend to hear the arrangements and sonic architecture very clearly in my head even at that early stage.
I never really saw myself as a singer at first – more as a pianist or producer/composer – and singing was simply the tool I used to express the ideas I heard. I’ve never been formally trained, not as a musician or as a producer. I’m a bit of a rogue autodidact – mostly self-taught and guided by curiosity – so I work by experimenting, following instinct, and letting each song show me what it wants to become.
How do you balance the intimate vocal closeness with the wide, atmospheric horizons in your arrangements?
I think that balance feels almost like a necessity for me – it’s the only way to create the atmosphere I’m reaching for. When you write a kind of pop music where strings carry so much weight, there’s always the risk of gilding the lily – of everything becoming too grand, too heavy, or simply redundant.
So I instinctively reach for something to pull in the opposite direction. The intimacy of the vocal – that airy, close-miked softness – becomes the counterweight. It keeps the music human and grounded.
And since my voice naturally leans toward that fragile, intimate space, finding that balance doesn’t feel contrived at all. It’s simply where the songs feel most alive to me.
Has your stage collaboration with visual artist Veronica Hodges influenced your creative process?
My creative process has always been quite intuitive, and the visual ideas usually appear alongside the music. Working with Veronica hasn’t changed the way I write or produce, but it has been inspiring in a different way – to be reminded of other creative processes and other ways of shaping a universe.
Seeing how she builds something tactile and physical out of paper has made me reflect on texture, fragility, and patience in my own work, but more as a gentle echo than a direct influence. It’s simply enriching to be around someone who creates from a different angle, and to let those worlds meet on stage.
Which song was the most challenging to finish? And why?
Without a doubt: River. It almost didn’t make it onto the album. It actually began as a completely different song – different title, different lyrics, different melody. We even recorded the whole thing in that earlier version, but very close to the album deadline I realized it simply wasn’t good enough. I considered cutting it entirely.
But there was something in the arrangement – especially the strings – that I couldn’t let go of. It kept haunting me, so I rewrote the topline twice, trying new lyrics and melodies, and still nothing felt right.
In the end, I made a final attempt, almost as a last-ditch experiment, and suddenly the song revealed itself. It became what River is now – and ironically one of the album tracks that has received the most attention.
Following the release of your album, what will be next on the horizon for you?
In November, we’ll be doing a small release tour in Denmark, once again collaborating with the paper artist. And hopefully, this will be the beginning of many more shows to come.
One of my biggest dreams is to have my music placed in film or television – the cinematic quality of my sound feels naturally aligned with that world, and it’s something I’d truly love to explore further. I also dream of playing abroad. We actually have a few exciting things in the pipeline that I can’t reveal just yet, but I’m really hoping this new album will help open some of those doors.
Listen to title-track ‘Blood&Sugar’ in our Folk This Way playlist.
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