From the very first notes of its opening theme, Made in Abyss establishes a world where sound is inseparable from the story. The anime adaptation, directed by Masayuki Kojima and based on Akihito Tsukushi’s manga, plunges viewers into a chasm equal parts wonder and nightmare. While the visual design of Orth, the layered ecosystems, and the monstrous relics of the Abyss are striking, it is the music—composed by Kevin Penkin—that breathes life into the descent. The soundtrack does not merely accompany the action; it constructs an emotional geography, mapping the psychological and cultural contours of a setting where every step downward is a step into the unknown. Understanding how music functions in Made in Abyss reveals a masterclass in auditory world-building, one that elevates the series from a dark fantasy adventure to a deeply resonant sensory experience.

Kevin Penkin and an Unconventional Approach

To appreciate the role of music in Made in Abyss, one must first understand the composer behind it. Australian composer Kevin Penkin was a relatively new name in the anime industry when he took on the project, having previously worked on Norn9 and the short Under the Dog. His approach for the Abyss was to reject the typical orchestral epic fantasy sound. Instead, Penkin blended neo-classical composition with electronic textures, folk instrumentation, and vocal performances that sound as though they emerged from the Abyss itself. He has described the process as creating a “sonic puzzle,” where each piece needed to feel organic and ancient, yet distinctly modern at the same time.

Penkin’s collaboration with a large ensemble of vocalists—including the Australian choir young Adelaide Voices and soloists such as Takeshi Saito and singer-songwriter Myth & Roid—added layers of linguistic ambiguity. Lyrics are frequently sung in invented languages or draw on phonemes that bypass rational comprehension, communicating pure emotion. This decision was deliberate: the Abyss is a place that defies human understanding, and the music had to mirror that alien quality. By using vocals as an instrument rather than a narrative vehicle, Penkin tapped into a universal, pre-verbal awe that aligns perfectly with the series’ themes of curiosity and the sublime.

Thematic Layers: Music as a Map of the Abyss

The Abyss is a vertical world, and the soundtrack mirrors its structure. Each layer of the pit is characterized by a distinct sonic palette, effectively turning the music into an acoustic guide that deepens the viewer’s sense of progression and doom.

The Surface and Orth: Innocence in Brass and Strings

On the surface, the town of Orth clings to the rim of the chasm. Here, the music is warm, adventurous, and filled with a childlike optimism. Tracks like “Made in Abyss,” the show’s main theme, begin with a gentle piano melody that swells into a full orchestral statement. The brass fanfares and string harmonies evoke a sense of exploration, reminiscent of classic adventure films. This musical innocence is crucial because it establishes the baseline from which the story will descend. It reflects Riko’s dreamy determination and Reg’s mechanical wonder, painting Orth as a place of beginnings, not endings.

The First Layer and Beyond: Transition to Wonder and Unease

As Riko and Reg descend past the Abyss’s first layer, the music shifts. The adventurous motifs become interspersed with ambient electronic drones and sparse piano lines. In “Days in the Sun,” a gentle vocal piece hummed with nostalgia, the listener feels the longing for the surface that the cave raiders carry. Yet beneath these melodies, a quiet tension builds. Penkin introduces subtle dissonance and the first hints of the metallic, echoing sound that will dominate the deeper realms. The music is no longer purely optimistic; it is now a companion that knows the dangers ahead but whispers them gently, allowing the characters—and the audience—to keep moving forward.

The Deep Layers and the Curse: Horror in Dissonance and Silence

The fourth layer, the Goblet of Giants, and the fifth layer, the Sea of Corpses, mark a dramatic tonal shift. Here, Penkin’s work ventures into genuine horror. The track “The Rumble of Scientific Triumph,” which underscores Bondrewd’s experiments, combines a military-like snare drum cadence with distorted electronic growls and a childlike humming vocal. The result is a piece that feels like a perversion of innocence, a lullaby sung over a surgical nightmare. Piercing high-frequency tones and sudden silences are employed to simulate the sensory distortion of the Curse of the Abyss, making the viewer physically uncomfortable.

This discomfort is essential for world-building. The Abyss is not just dangerous; it is actively hostile to human biology, reconfiguring the mind and body. Penkin’s use of silence between harsh motifs lets the horror breathe, forcing the audience to sit with the dread rather than be guided through it. In the battle against Bondrewd, the music becomes a scalpel, cutting through the chaos to highlight moments of inhuman determination and tragic sacrifice.

Ilblu and the Village of the Hollows: Culture Forged in Song

The sixth layer, the Capital of the Unreturned, introduces the village of Iruburu (Ilblu). This arc is where the soundtrack’s role as a cultural signpost becomes most explicit. The track “VOH” is a mesmerizing piece driven by deep, ritualistic chanting and percussive breathing. The language is fabricated, but it conveys the sorrow and twisted community of the Narehate. The music here does not simply describe a place; it expresses the psychological state of beings who have sacrificed their humanity. The choral arrangements mimic a communal voice, yet the harmonies are warped, reflecting a society bound together by mutual trauma and the oppressive value system established by Faputa.

Penkin’s use of vocal overdubs and layered drones creates the illusion of a living, breathing underworld. The music for Iruburu feels ancient, as if it has been resonating in the dark for centuries before the protagonists ever arrived. This deepens the lore, suggesting that music is not just an aesthetic layer but an intrinsic part of how these isolated cultures process their existence.

Instrumentation as World-Building Architecture

Beyond thematic mapping, the eclectic instrumentation of the soundtrack builds the world by evoking materials and textures one might expect to find in the Abyss. Penkin utilized instruments rarely heard in anime scoring: the Australian didgeridoo, ethnic woodwinds, hammered dulcimers, and a large array of tuned percussion. The percussive elements often mimic the clatter of relics, the crunch of ancient bones, or the ticking of the mysterious timepieces that litter the ruins.

In tracks such as “Tomorrow,” the melody is carried by a soft piano layered with delicate chimes that sound like memory fragments. The use of electric guitar is sparing but impactful, emerging in moments of defiance as if channeling Reg’s Incinerator cannon. Meanwhile, the recurring vocal piece “Hanezeve Caradhina” (featured prominently during the sunrise departure scene) blends a soaring female voice with an atmospheric electronic backdrop. The song’s title is an invented phrase, yet its emotional content is unmistakably one of farewell and intense longing. Listeners can explore the full soundtrack on Spotify to appreciate how every instrument choice feels plucked from the world itself—nothing sounds like a traditional studio orchestra playing a genre piece.

Openings, Endings, and the Emotional Perimeter

The role of music in Made in Abyss extends to its vocal themes, which function as the emotional perimeter of each installment. The first season’s opening, “Deep in Abyss,” performed by Riko and Reg’s voice actresses, is a lively, determined anthem that plants the seeds of adventure. In contrast, the ending theme “Tabi no Hidarite, Migi no Te” (The Traveler’s Left Hand, Right Hand) is a gentle, melancholy lullaby that pulls the viewer back from the brink, reminding them that these are still children on a fragile journey. Together, they bookend each episode with a promise and a prayer, framing the horrors of the Abyss within a protective emotional shell.

The movie Dawn of the Deep Soul and the second season shift this dynamic. The ending theme “Endless Embrace” by MYTH & ROID is a haunting electronic ballad that speaks to the inescapable nature of the Abyss’s curse. Its lyrics, when translated, offer a direct conversation between the abyss and the diver. These themes are not mere promotional songs; they are extensions of the narrative, offering insight into characters’ psyches that dialogue alone cannot convey. They also serve as entry points for new viewers, their emotional hooks pulling potential fans into the deeper, instrumental layers of the soundtrack.

Ambient Soundscapes: The Abyss as a Living Entity

An often overlooked dimension of the music is how it blends with and enhances the show’s ambient sound design. Penkin’s score frequently merges with the diegetic sounds of the Abyss—the distant roar of a creature, the slow drip of water, the unearthly hum of the force field at the bottom layer. In the fifth layer’s Ido Front, the subtle use of low-frequency rumbles creates a constant sense of pressure, as if the air itself is thick with the Abyss’s malevolence. This interweaving makes the boundary between the world and its music disappear, forging an environment that feels genuinely alive.

The sound of the Curse, when it strikes, is often marked by a sudden, shrill electronic tone that appears to come from inside the viewer’s own head. This technique transforms music from an external accompaniment into an internal, visceral experience. When Riko is poisoned by the Orb Piercer’s spine in the fourth layer, the score fractures into dissonant piano clusters and fading heartbeats, aligning our sensory experience with her suffering. The Abyss, through its music, becomes a character—a vast, breathing organism that communicates in signals beyond language.

Emotional Storytelling Through Motif and Memory

The true genius of Made in Abyss’s musical world-building lies in its use of motif. Certain melodic fragments recur across episodes, acquiring new meanings as the story darkens. The gentle theme associated with Riko’s mother, Lyza, is first heard as a hopeful beacon. Later, when the truth of Lyza’s fate becomes ambiguous, the same melody is rearranged in a minor key, stripped of its warmth. This transformation turns the motif into a question mark, reflecting the series’ refusal to provide easy answers.

The track “Underground River,” which opens the series, is a masterwork of layered emotional memory. It begins with a low, resonant cello that feels like the voice of the Abyss itself, then introduces a soprano line that floats above the darkness. When this theme returns during critical character deaths—such as Mitty’s—it does not just underscore sadness; it connects that moment to the vast, uncaring expanse of the pit. Music becomes the thread linking personal tragedy to the indifferent cosmic scale of the world.

Penkin’s ability to generate empathy extends to antagonists. Bondrewd’s leitmotif, with its cold, clinical percussion and the disembodied humming of children, forces the audience to confront the monstrous result of obsessive love. The music does not ask us to forgive Bondrewd, but it insists that we understand the warped humanity at his core. This complexity is what elevates the world-building beyond simple dark fantasy into something philosophically rich.

A Soundtrack That Survives Descent

The music of Made in Abyss is a world-building organ in its own right, as essential as the vertical map, the relics, or the curse. Kevin Penkin’s score creates a space where innocence and horror sing in the same breath, where cultural identity is expressed through invented choral works, and where the act of listening becomes part of the adventure. By refusing to treat music as background decoration, the series challenges the viewer to hear the Abyss before they can ever truly see it.

For those seeking to study the craft behind this sonic landscape, resources such as the official music video for “Hanezeve Caradhina” and Kevin Penkin’s Bandcamp provide windows into the composer’s process. The soundtrack endures not because it imitates the world, but because it becomes the world—a resonant, echoing body of work that continues to pull listeners down into its depths long after the screen fades to black.