There are albums that announce themselves with a trumpet blast, and then there are albums that seem almost embarrassed to be making any sound at all. "Non Sonett", the latest chapter in the long-running work of the Christian Wallumrød Ensemble, belongs firmly to the latter category. It does not enter the room so much as rearrange the furniture while nobody is looking.

Wallumrød’s music has always possessed an unusual relationship with restraint, but here restraint is not synonymous with minimalism. It is closer to a form of heightened attention. The piano, harmonium and synthesizer, saxophone and recorder, trumpet, baroque trumpet, cello, drums, vibraphone and electronics do not behave like sections in an orchestra competing for territory. They resemble people having an extremely complicated conversation while politely refusing to speak over one another. Humanity may yet be salvageable.

The album’s eight pieces are built from material that has travelled through different contexts before arriving here. Some originated in Wallumrød’s solo work, others in music for dance, while "Newnison" revisits a composition originally written for Trondheim Voices. Three pieces, meanwhile, derive from "Sonett Idiot", the dance production premiered at the Norwegian National Opera and Ballet in 2024. Yet "Non Sonett" never feels like an anthology of leftovers. The ensemble absorbs these fragments and subjects them to its particular chemistry, turning them into something less fixed and considerably more alive. That chemistry is the real protagonist.

Take the opening "New hum old hum". The title already hints at Wallumrød's fondness for contradiction, recurrence and slightly crooked linguistic associations. Musically, the piece seems to hover between an object and its shadow. Notes emerge with enough definition to suggest a melody, only to be displaced by timbre, resonance or silence. The piano can sound almost skeletal, while the surrounding instruments introduce tiny grains of colour. Nothing is quite foreground and nothing is quite background. The hierarchy has been quietly abolished.

This is particularly striking because "Non Sonett" is not afraid of beauty. It simply refuses to make beauty comfortable.

"Tune queen" and "Not new to" demonstrate how effectively the ensemble can turn apparently modest material into something psychologically unstable. A trumpet tone may arrive like a fragment of ceremonial music; a cello resonance can seem to belong to another century; a percussion gesture briefly establishes a pulse before the pulse evaporates. Wallumrød's compositional language has an almost architectural quality, but the building is constantly being altered by the people inhabiting it. One can hear the structure, but one can also hear the musicians thinking inside it.

The presence of electronics is crucial. They do not arrive as some obligatory contemporary-music badge announcing that the year is no longer 1987. Instead, they frequently operate at the margins, extending acoustic sounds, roughening their edges or creating barely perceptible shifts in perspective. At other moments the music opens into denser, more exploratory passages where the distinction between instrument and processing becomes pleasantly unreliable.

This makes "Non Sonett" particularly interesting in relation to Wallumrød's concept of composition. Many of these pieces function less like finished objects than like sets of circumstances. The written material establishes conditions, but the musicians determine what those conditions become. The result is music that can be rigorously composed without sounding over-determined, and spontaneous without ever collapsing into random activity. That balance is exceptionally difficult to achieve.

"Due dove" is a good example of the ensemble's ability to make small intervals and sparse gestures carry disproportionate weight. There is a curious sense of suspended movement, as if the music were perpetually preparing to become something more conventional and then deciding against it. "Newnison" shifts the emphasis toward collective interaction, while "Nonen" seems to inhabit an even stranger territory, where the ensemble's sounds become less like melodic statements and more like physical phenomena: pressure, vibration, breath, friction.

And then there is "Sonett souvenir", which brings the album's relationship with dance into focus. The title suggests memory, but this is not nostalgic music. Memory here behaves more like a distorted reflection: recognisable enough to trigger something, unstable enough to prevent certainty. The ensemble seems to ask what remains of a gesture after the body that originally produced it has disappeared.

The closing "Au bar de la gare" is almost comically brief at just over three minutes, and its very presence feels like a small joke against the solemnity one might otherwise project onto this kind of music. A railway station bar is hardly the sort of grand metaphysical location usually invoked in descriptions of contemporary chamber music. Yet the title brings the album back to ordinary human geography: somewhere people wait, drink, depart, arrive, miss trains and pretend not to be watching the clock.

That may be one of "Non Sonett"'s quiet strengths. Its abstraction never entirely loses contact with lived experience.

The Christian Wallumrød Ensemble has been developing its distinctive language across seven previous albums, with roots in jazz, contemporary composition and folk-derived sensibilities, and the present line-up gives Wallumrød's ideas an extraordinarily responsive physical dimension. The musicians are not merely executing a score. They are interpreting its gaps. And those gaps matter.

There is a temptation, when writing about quiet experimental music, to throw around words like "silence", "space", "stillness" until the prose itself falls asleep. "Non Sonett" deserves better. Its quietness is active. It makes the listener notice the interval between two trumpet notes, the decay of a piano tone, the moment when a percussion sound stops being a rhythm and becomes texture. It turns microscopic changes into events.

The album's title is similarly mischievous. A sonnet traditionally imposes an architecture upon thought: fourteen lines, a defined structure, a limited space in which emotion must somehow behave itself. "Non Sonett" seems to take that idea and gently remove the fence. These pieces have form, but their forms remain permeable. They imply destinations without necessarily travelling there.

There is something distinctly Norwegian about the resulting atmosphere, although not in the postcard sense. No fjords need to be summoned. The northern quality comes instead from the clarity of the sound, the coolness of the spaces between events, and the refusal to decorate what is already sufficiently expressive. Folk traces, early polyphonic associations, contemporary chamber music, improvisation and electronic experimentation coexist without being forced into a family tree.

Ultimately, "Non Sonett" is an album about "how much can happen when very little is imposed". It asks the musicians to listen harder than they play, and asks the listener to do something equally unfashionable: remain present.

No grand crescendo arrives to rescue us. No virtuoso throws furniture through the window. There is simply an accumulation of delicate decisions, each one changing the meaning of what came before. By the end, the music has created a world whose borders are difficult to locate but whose internal logic feels remarkably secure.

In an era in which everything is apparently required to be louder, faster, clearer and immediately legible, "Non Sonett" makes a persuasive case for the opposite. It does not demand attention. It makes attention worthwhile. And perhaps that is the closest thing to a sonnet this album needs: not fourteen lines, but a handful of sounds carefully placed in time, leaving enough room for the listener to finish the sentence.

There is something beautifully old-fashioned about the idea of sending a message into the darkness and hoping somebody, somewhere, receives it. Humanity spent centuries putting words into bottles, scratching prayers into stone and pointing radio telescopes at the sky. Now we have the internet, which means we can broadcast ourselves continuously to everyone and nobody simultaneously. Amp's "Isotropic Beacons" begins from a rather more generous proposition: perhaps the message is already being transmitted. Perhaps the planet itself is the bottle, and everything living on it is leaking signals.

For a band that first appeared in 1991, Amp has accumulated an unusually persistent relationship with this kind of sonic ambiguity. Richard F. Walker, the project's constant presence, has spent more than three decades moving between space rock, dream pop, ambient, electronic music and drone, often treating field recordings and environmental sound not as decoration but as another compositional material. "Isotropic Beacons" consequently feels less like a sudden conceptual departure than another rotation of a very old telescope. The stars have changed. The apparatus has not entirely stopped humming.

The album gathers two previously issued drone pieces, three newer compositions and a series of short field-recording interludes, producing something closer to a transmission log than a conventional album. The Bandcamp edition confirms that "Afterallisdust" had already appeared digitally in 2023, while "Drone In A (Yellow On Blue No.1)" and "Hypnagogic Semaphore" form part of the older material being reconsidered here.

And reconsideration is the important word. "Isotropic Beacons" does not simply assemble old material to make the discographical machinery happy. Its sequencing creates a slow movement between environmental fragments and expansive drones, as if the surrounding world periodically interrupts the transmission to remind us that there is, inconveniently, an actual world outside the speakers.

"Waterdrips In Street Scene 1" is barely more than a minute, but its presence is structurally important. It establishes an acoustic reality before "Afterallisdust" stretches time into something much less measurable. The latter is one of the album's most persuasive pieces: sixteen minutes of patient, luminous drift in which texture gradually replaces event. Nothing particularly dramatic happens, which is precisely why it works. The music does not demand attention; it alters the conditions under which attention occurs.

"Drone In A (Yellow On Blue No.1)" takes a darker route. Its long-form guitar haze has something almost extraterrestrial about it, but not in the cartoonish sense of spaceship noises and heroic synthesizer arpeggios. It feels more like an unidentified signal whose source has become impossible to locate. The guitar is there, yet it seems buried beneath several layers of atmosphere, memory and electrical weather.

Amp has always understood that ambience becomes interesting when it has somewhere slightly uncomfortable to go. "Nightwalk" introduces a muffled, heavier presence beneath the otherwise spacious architecture, and "Hypnagogic Semaphore" occupies the peculiar territory between consciousness and sleep suggested by its title. The track does not depict that state so much as recreate its unstable logic: sounds seem to arrive already half-remembered.

Then there is "I'm So…", which lasts just over half a minute. It is almost comic in its refusal to behave like a proper song, particularly because the truncated title seems to suspend a thought that will never be completed. The field recording embedded there gives the impression of a human presence emerging from the wider sonic environment, briefly transmitting before disappearing again. The same principle returns with the two "Waterdrips In Street Scene" pieces, which function almost like punctuation marks.

The album's other great expanse is "Nightones", a fourteen-minute piece whose relationship with birdsong and running water gives the drone a strangely terrestrial quality. Its gaze may be directed outward, but its materials are stubbornly local: water, voices, streets, birds, guitars, bass frequencies, environmental noise.

This is where the title becomes more than science-fiction ornament. An isotropic beacon would theoretically radiate equally in every direction. Amp's version is less technologically precise and considerably more poetic: sound is sent outward without knowing who might receive it. Birds do it. Insects do it. Human voices do it. Machines do it. Even the apparently insignificant noises of a street become part of the broadcast.

There is something quietly moving about that idea, particularly because Walker's music has never depended upon obvious declarations. His compositions tend to work through accumulation, resonance and atmosphere rather than conventional narrative. The project has been associated with everything from space rock and dream pop to trip-hop and experimental electronics, and its long history includes collaborations with musicians such as David Pearce, Robert Hampson and Matt Elliott. The present album feels like a continuation of that porous identity rather than a retrospective exercise.

Karine Charff's contribution on "Drone In A" is particularly significant in this context. Her voice does not turn the piece into a conventional song; it appears almost as another atmospheric phenomenon, a human signal partially swallowed by the surrounding drone. The digital-only radio edit makes that vocal presence more accessible, but tellingly, the CD version omits the edit. The album therefore retains the longer, more patient form, resisting the contemporary instinct to shave everything down until it becomes convenient enough for a playlist.

Which is probably wise. "Isotropic Beacons" is music for people willing to let a sound remain unresolved. Its best passages don't "build" in the conventional sense. They accumulate, recede, shimmer, darken and occasionally reveal some tiny environmental detail that had been hiding in plain sight. The field recordings are especially effective because they prevent the drones from becoming abstract wallpaper. They tether the album to sidewalks, weather, water and breathing bodies.

There is also a faintly elegiac quality to the whole enterprise. The title proposes transmission, but the album repeatedly reminds us that transmission is never guaranteed. A signal can travel indefinitely without finding an ear. A voice can vanish into static. A message can survive its sender. "Afterallisdust" is almost brutally direct in that respect, its title reducing the grand cosmic fantasy to the oldest material fact imaginable.

Yet the record does not sound pessimistic. Its spaciousness contains a peculiar kind of faith. Not religious faith, necessarily, but faith in persistence: keep broadcasting, keep listening, keep making the noise. The planet is already emitting its signal. We are merely beginning to notice.

"Isotropic Beacons" is therefore less a soundtrack for communicating with extraterrestrials than an argument for paying attention to the extraterrestrial strangeness of ordinary life. The stars are out there, certainly. But so are the water drops, the birds, the passing voices and the mysterious electrical murmurs in the walls. Perhaps the universe has been answering all along. We were simply too busy checking our notifications.

Language has become the background radiation of contemporary life. It leaks from phones, televisions, supermarket queues, podcasts, advertising screens, political speeches, voice notes, notifications and the mouths of people who apparently cannot survive thirty seconds without explaining something to someone. Ben Vida takes this linguistic abundance and performs a curious act of sabotage: he removes much of the obligation for words to "mean" anything, leaving them free to become rhythm, texture, gesture and physical sound.
"Oblivion Seekers" is therefore not really a spoken-word album, although it is made almost entirely of voices. It is closer to a chamber composition in which language has been asked to surrender its passport.

Vida has been exploring this territory for several years, most notably on 2023's "The Beat My Head Hit" with Yarn/Wire, but here the method becomes more intimate and strangely seductive. He is joined by Nina Dante, Christina Vantzou, John Also Bennett and Félicia Atkinson, whose voices are combined with his in carefully coordinated duets. The speakers generally maintain an almost neutral delivery, while their cadences drift, overlap and occasionally lock together with unsettling precision. The effect is neither dialogue nor chorus. It sounds more like one composite organism trying to remember how speech works.

That distinction matters. The voices don't simply "recite" the text. Their timing generates the music. Syllables become percussive events, pauses acquire metric weight, accents become melodic inflections. Meaning is still present, but it has stopped being the boss.

The four extended pieces are built from fragments gathered from ordinary linguistic experience: overheard conversation, phrases encountered while reading, stray impressions and bits of language that remained lodged in Vida's memory. Rather than assembling these fragments into narrative, he allows them to retain their disconnectedness. The result resembles consciousness more closely than literature does: things appear, vanish, recur for no obvious reason and occasionally acquire an importance that makes absolutely no sense to anyone else.

"Be Yr Own Abyss" establishes the grammar with remarkable economy. Voices move together while saxophones provide a slow, wave-like counterweight, creating a peculiar sensation of forward motion without conventional development. The piece can feel almost hypnotic, but there is enough semantic interference in the spoken material to prevent the hypnosis from becoming comfortable. The words keep poking holes in the trance.

"New Distortion Properties" is more skeletal, its instrumental framework giving the voices greater prominence. Here Vida's fascination with speech as a sonic object becomes particularly clear. You can listen for what the sentences mean, naturally, because humans are tragically addicted to meaning. But the more rewarding experience may be to listen to how the phrases bend time, where consonants land, how two voices converge and separate, and how a familiar word can suddenly become almost meaningless when repeated or displaced.

The title track is perhaps the album's most enveloping piece. Vibraphone tones hover above the voices while the ensemble's restrained movement creates something almost ritualistic. There is a faint suggestion of new age music here, but it is new age music after having read too much continental philosophy and developed trust issues. The repetition is soothing without being passive. Something is always slightly shifting.

"Unmake A World" introduces another texture altogether. Guitar and keyboard figures interlock with saxophones and percussion, creating a more intricate instrumental lattice. Henry Fraser's bass gives the album one of its rare moments of genuine dramatic gravity, while Booker Stardrum's percussion adds movement without turning the piece into conventional rhythm music. The musicians include harp, bass flute, violin and multiple saxophones, but the arrangement never feels crowded. Everyone seems to understand that the negative space is doing a considerable amount of work.

This is where Vida's relationship with Robert Ashley becomes particularly relevant. Ashley understood that speech could be simultaneously narrative, musical and spatial, but Vida is less interested in creating an alternative form of opera than in examining the unstable border between language and music. There are also distant echoes of Meredith Monk, spoken-word traditions, hip-hop, The Fall and other practices in which delivery itself becomes compositional material. Recent commentary has likewise situated the album between Ashley's vocal minimalism and more contemporary forms of electronic and chamber music.

Yet "Oblivion Seekers" never feels like an academic exercise. That is one of its greatest strengths. Vida's conceptual machinery is sophisticated, but the music itself remains warm, tactile and surprisingly approachable. The Quietus has noted the marked movement away from the more abrasive technological abstraction of some of his earlier work toward analogue warmth and human presence. Another recent review describes the album as calming and transporting, particularly because the unusual compositional idea is sustained with such careful timing.

That warmth is crucial because there is a darker question lurking underneath the record. If language is everywhere, what happens when it becomes so abundant that meaning begins to collapse under its own weight? We are living through an era in which words are simultaneously more plentiful and less trustworthy than ever. Every sentence can be copied, automated, optimised, generated, translated, shortened, inflated, monetised and fed back to us. The internet has essentially built a machine for turning language into weather.

Vida responds not by abandoning language but by slowing it down. He makes us hear the materiality of the thing itself: breath, consonant, vowel, interval, hesitation, repetition. In doing so, he recovers something that semantic overload tends to conceal. Before a word tells us something, it is a sound made by a body.

That gives "Oblivion Seekers" an unexpectedly political dimension without requiring political rhetoric. The record is concerned with how we construct reality through signs, but it is equally concerned with what survives when those signs become unstable. The voices remain recognisably human even when their semantic content begins to dissolve. There is something quietly reassuring in that.

The album's title carries an appropriate ambiguity. To seek oblivion might mean wanting to disappear, to escape consciousness, to surrender the burden of interpretation. But the record does almost the opposite. It enters the noise of language and strips away some of its authority so that we can pay attention again. And perhaps that is Vida's slyest achievement. "Oblivion Seekers" does not tell us to listen differently. It simply rearranges the conditions under which listening happens.

Words stop behaving like instructions. Voices stop behaving like narrators. Instruments stop behaving like accompaniment. Four pieces become a kind of moving architecture in which everything is permitted to be both meaningful and meaningless at once.

For an album about linguistic excess, it is remarkably disciplined. Nothing screams for attention. Nothing insists on being decoded. It just keeps speaking, softly and persistently, until the familiar machinery of language starts to look strange again.

In a culture that has apparently decided that every thought requires a caption, this is a fairly radical proposition: sometimes a word is most interesting when it has forgotten what it was supposed to say.

There is a particular kind of electronic music that begins by treating machines as instruments and eventually discovers that the machines have opinions. "Gentle Hum", the second collaboration between Baak Günak, aka Ah! Kosmos, and Stefan Goetsch, aka Hainbach, belongs firmly to that slightly uncanny category. The machines are not merely tools here: test equipment, analogue synthesizers, an acoustic fan organ, tape, filters, mixers and assorted electronic detritus become a small ecosystem whose behaviour is observed, encouraged and occasionally provoked. Humanity, having spent the last century inventing increasingly complicated devices, has finally found a productive use for their unwanted noises. Progress, apparently, has a sense of humour.

Following 2023's "Blast of Sirens", the duo has narrowed rather than expanded its focus. The earlier record suggested a laboratory with all the doors open; "Gentle Hum" feels more like entering one particular room after everyone has gone home. Its 14 pieces are generally concise, and their compactness gives the album a curious tension. Sounds appear, acquire a little weight, mutate, and disappear before they can become entirely comfortable. The result is ambient music without the usual promise that nothing much is going to happen.

What makes the record particularly compelling is its treatment of noise as behaviour rather than defect. The hum, hiss, electrical residue and unstable tones are not polished away in pursuit of some imaginary digital perfection. Instead, they become part of the musical grammar. Günak and Goetsch seem less interested in forcing machinery to imitate conventional instruments than in discovering what happens when the machinery is permitted to remain stubbornly itself.

That philosophy produces some beautifully ambiguous moments. The title track opens with a muted electronic pulse whose apparent simplicity conceals a considerable amount of activity underneath. "Ruin" introduces a more fractured rhythmic presence, while "Threaded" and "In a Pattern Like a Shell" work through delicate accumulations in which tiny changes matter more than conventional development. There is something almost microscopic about the listening experience: rather than waiting for a grand event, you find yourself noticing the behaviour of individual sounds, as though examining unfamiliar organisms under glass.

"Apparition" and "As If A Phantom" push this quality further. Their sounds seem to hover between recognisable electronic timbres and something less easily named, producing the sensation of hearing an object from the wrong side of a wall. The latter has already attracted attention for precisely this spectral quality, with its combination of shimmering detail, soft-edged textures and distant, almost environmental resonance. Yet the album rarely relies on darkness alone. "Further Than Sunlight", for instance, introduces a gentler luminosity, while "Pulse of Summer" carries a more organic rhythmic impulse.

One of the album's most effective tricks is its ability to make duration feel elastic. Fourteen pieces occupy roughly 44 minutes, but the transitions between them behave less like conventional song boundaries than changes in atmospheric pressure. The listener is continually moved between states: awake and half-asleep, mechanical and organic, intimate and impersonal. This corresponds closely to Günak's interest in those unstable moments before or after an event, when something is still forming or has only just ceased to exist.

There is also a pleasing contradiction at the centre of the record. The equipment involved is, in many cases, spectacularly technical, but the music itself never feels like a demonstration of technical competence. Hainbach's long-standing fascination with obsolete and unusual electronic apparatus, documented extensively through his educational work, could easily have resulted in gear fetishism. Instead, the machinery is subordinated to listening. Günak brings an equally strong background in sound art, composition, installation and interdisciplinary performance, and the combination produces something more nuanced than an exchange of studio tricks. Their hardware becomes a vocabulary rather than the subject of the sentence.

The occasional piano, processed voice and cello by Yasemin Özler are important precisely because they prevent the album from becoming a closed circuit of electronics. They introduce traces of bodily presence into the circuitry. The acoustic fan organ recorded during the Willem Twee Studios residency adds another beautifully awkward component: an instrument whose physical mechanism seems almost absurdly tangible beside the synthetic textures surrounding it.

"Into the Glare" briefly sharpens the edges, while "Like Sleepwalkers" drifts towards a more spacious, almost cosmic register. "Bindings" is a miniature study in suspension; "Roar" provides one of the album's more forceful interruptions. By the time "Shelter" closes the record, the title begins to make sense in another way. This is not music that offers shelter by removing uncertainty. It offers shelter by making uncertainty inhabitable.

That may be the most successful aspect of "Gentle Hum". It does not romanticise machines, nor does it turn technological noise into dystopian wallpaper. It listens to the residue of technological life and discovers something vulnerable there. The hum becomes evidence of activity, of electricity passing through objects, of systems working imperfectly, of time leaving fingerprints on circuitry.

The result is melancholic without becoming morose, experimental without behaving like an entrance examination, and atmospheric without dissolving into decorative fog. A recent Italian assessment similarly emphasises the album's darker ambient density while noting the moments where its surface opens into acidic, spatial or more luminous territory. Another listener has singled out the title track's emotional quality and tactile analogue treatment, which gets close to the record's peculiar achievement: the electronics somehow feel physically present rather than merely reproduced through speakers.

Perhaps "Gentle Hum" ultimately proposes a modest form of technological animism. Not the silly idea that your synthesizer has a soul because it made an interesting noise, but the more convincing suggestion that machines accumulate histories through use, wear, electricity, interference and human attention. Günak and Goetsch simply refuse to clean those histories away.

And so the album ends not with a revelation, but with a shelter made from residue: a place where hum becomes pulse, malfunction becomes texture, and silence is never quite silent. Humanity has spent an extraordinary amount of money inventing machines capable of making noise. At least these two have the courtesy to listen to what the machines are saying.

There are percussionists who keep time, percussionists who colour it, and then there is Vasco Trilla, who seems increasingly interested in finding out whether time actually needs to be there in the first place.

On "Up North", the Barcelona-based Portuguese-born percussionist travels to Stockholm for a set of encounters with three particularly sympathetic troublemakers: Martin Küchen on saxophone, Vilhelm Bromander on double bass and Alex Zethson on cembalo. The result is four extended pieces that treat percussion less as a rhythmic department than as an unstable laboratory of surfaces, resonances, friction and physical gestures. The first three were recorded in studio in March 2024; the closing piece documents Trilla's solo concert at the former St Paulskyrkan, now Mötesplats Mariatorget.

Trilla has been extraordinarily prolific, with more than a hundred recordings across free improvisation, jazz-rock, progressive music, metal and ambient territories, while his eight solo albums have increasingly concentrated on the possibilities of percussion itself. That background matters because "Up North" doesn't sound like the work of somebody trying to demonstrate how many objects can be hit in sixty minutes. It sounds like somebody who has spent a considerable portion of his life asking what happens after the obvious sound has already been found. The answer is often fascinating.

“Phantom Surge”, the opening ten minutes, begins with Vilhelm Bromander's double bass establishing a low-frequency presence around which Trilla's percussion gradually materialises. The music seems to be listening to itself before deciding what it wants to become. Resonance is more important than pulse; the drum isn't necessarily telling us "when" something happens, but "where" it happens in the acoustic field. This is one of Trilla's particular strengths. A piece can contain an enormous amount of activity without becoming conventionally busy. Wood, skin, metal and unidentified objects appear and disappear inside the texture. Some sounds seem struck, others rubbed, scraped or allowed to vibrate. The distinction between percussion and sound design becomes pleasantly unreliable.

“A Topographical Vessel” brings Zethson's cembalo and Küchen's sopranino saxophone into the picture, and suddenly the album acquires another kind of tension. The harpsichord, with its historically respectable reputation for powdered wigs and people who insist that Bach is a personality test, becomes an oddly effective partner for Trilla's more unruly percussion.

Küchen's sopranino doesn't provide a stable melodic centre either. Its sounds can be piercing, breathy, almost vocal, then suddenly become another layer of acoustic debris. The three musicians don't appear to be constructing a theme and decorating it. They are constantly negotiating the physical properties of the sounds themselves. And this is where "Up North" becomes more than a collection of improvised sessions.

The title might suggest geography, but the album isn't particularly interested in giving us Sweden as a postcard. There are no cinematic Nordic sunsets here, mercifully. Instead, “north” feels like a condition: colder, more spacious, more oblique. Sound seems to arrive through a thinner atmosphere, with silence functioning not as a gap but as another participant.

The nearly nineteen-minute “A Dissolving Landscape” is the album's great centre of gravity. Bromander's bass and Trilla's percussion create an elastic environment in which small gestures accumulate until the whole thing begins to feel almost industrial. There is a remarkable sense of pressure without a conventional climax. The music stretches, thickens, contracts, changes temperature. Then, gradually, Küchen and Trilla are left almost alone.

Their exchange is one of the record's finest passages. The sopranino's cries and the percussion's fractured responses begin as recognisably separate voices before moving toward something much stranger: a composite instrument whose constituent parts are still audible but no longer entirely distinguishable. A recent online discussion of the album similarly notices the way Trilla's acoustic approach can produce an almost industrial or hybrid sonic environment, with resonance and timbre doing much of the compositional work.

The title "A Dissolving Landscape" is consequently apt without being overly programmatic. The landscape isn't disappearing because the musicians are trying to imitate environmental sounds. It dissolves because categories become increasingly difficult to maintain. Bass becomes texture. Percussion becomes atmosphere. Saxophone becomes abrasion. Rhythm becomes pressure.

Then comes the extraordinary “Mötesplats Mariatorget”, almost nineteen minutes of solo Trilla recorded live in the former church. This is where the album's previous three pieces suddenly make more sense.

Without collaborators, Trilla has to construct the entire acoustic ecosystem himself. The church gives him enormous spatial possibilities, but he doesn't simply exploit its reverberation for grandeur. He works with it. Sounds are allowed to bloom, decay and collide at different distances, creating an almost three-dimensional composition.

There is something almost architectural about the performance, but it never feels like architecture imposed upon sound. Rather, the building seems to become part of the instrument.

That is particularly revealing when considered alongside Trilla's broader practice. His solo work has consistently expanded the definition of percussion, incorporating objects and unconventional sound sources rather than treating the drum kit as a fixed technological endpoint. Here, the room itself becomes another object.

And yet "Up North" never lapses into the academic stiffness that sometimes accompanies this kind of vocabulary. There is curiosity everywhere. The musicians sound as if they are genuinely interested in what might happen next, which is a surprisingly radical quality in improvisation. Too many supposedly spontaneous performances sound as though spontaneity has been carefully rehearsed and approved by a committee. These musicians leave the door open.

The production helps. The first three pieces were recorded by Gustav Lindelöw at Studio Spegeln, while the live finale was captured by Johan HÄllgren at Mötesplats Mariatorget; the album was mixed by HÄllgren and mastered by Giuseppe Ielasi. The sonic presentation preserves enough detail for tiny gestures to remain consequential without flattening the larger dynamic contrasts.

There is also an intriguing contrast between Trilla's restless activity and the album's overall patience. Nothing is hurried. Even when the surface becomes dense, the music doesn't behave as though it has somewhere else to be. That patience is perhaps the real meaning of "Up North". Not stillness, exactly. Attention.

The musicians wait for sounds to reveal their consequences. A stroke on an object is not simply an event; it has a tail, a resonance, a spatial footprint. A bass tone alters the acoustic conditions in which the next percussion gesture will be heard. A saxophone phrase changes the apparent density of everything around it. The music is therefore cumulative without being repetitive. It resembles watching four people construct a temporary machine without ever agreeing beforehand what the machine is supposed to do. And perhaps that is why the record feels so convincing. There is no obvious attempt to make improvisation sound profound. It simply trusts the intelligence of listening.
Trilla has accumulated an impressive international network of collaborators and recordings, but "Up North" doesn't feel like a résumé entry. It feels like a conversation with musicians who understand that the most interesting thing they can contribute is not necessarily another statement, but a useful disturbance in somebody else's.

The album begins with a phantom surge and ends in a meeting place. Between those two points, landscapes form and dissolve, instruments lose their borders, and percussion quietly escapes the prison of rhythm. The north, in the end, isn't a destination. It's what happens when the map stops telling you where to go.