Few artists have mapped the emotional geography of stillness with the consistency of Will Long. Whether working alongside Danielle Baquet during Celer's formative years or continuing the project alone after 2009, Long has turned ambient music into an exercise in perception rather than decoration. His vast discography often feels like an endless diary written in drones and dissolving memories, where each release quietly expands the vocabulary of absence. "Poulaine", originally conceived between 2007 and 2009 as the sonic counterpart to an exhibition of fourteenth-century manuscripts, returns through Room40 not merely as a reissue but as a document from a particularly fertile period in Celer's evolution, restored and contextualized without sacrificing its youthful uncertainty.

The story behind the album is almost as compelling as the music itself. Long recalls long nights spent with Danielle Baquet surrounded by medieval imagery, improvised tape loops, notebooks filled with fragments of poetry, and a hybrid workflow balancing analogue experimentation with digital processing. Rather than treating the manuscripts as historical objects, they approached them like mirrors whose reflections became increasingly distorted with every layer of tape reversal, reverberation and manipulation. It is an approach that now feels surprisingly prophetic. At a time when algorithmic perfection dominates so much contemporary production, "Poulaine" proudly preserves every fingerprint left by experimentation.

The opening "Misinterpreted Renaissance" immediately announces that this is not an exercise in historical reconstruction. Medieval paintings become blurred memories rather than visual references, translated into slow-moving harmonic vapours that seem suspended between chapel acoustics and faulty cassette machines. Throughout the thirteen concise compositions, Long avoids the monumental scale often associated with ambient music. Instead, each miniature behaves like a small illuminated manuscript itself: modest in duration, yet packed with microscopic details that only reveal themselves through patient listening.

Track titles such as "Floating Cells", "Empty Buckets Over The Sky", "Fleshy Trumpets", or the wonderfully philosophical "Wonder If It Was Really Worth It To Wonder" suggest surrealist poetry more than compositional roadmaps. Thankfully, the music follows suit. One almost expects Salvador Dalí to wander through a monastery carrying a reel-to-reel recorder. Thankfully he never did. Conservators already have enough nightmares without surrealists introducing magnetic tape into the fourteenth century.

Despite its conceptual origins, "Poulaine" never feels academic. Long's gift has always been his ability to let technical processes disappear behind emotional resonance. The elaborate chain of reversals, stereo manipulations and looping techniques described in the accompanying notes ultimately serves a simple purpose: to create uncertainty. Sounds arrive before they seem to exist, reverberations anticipate events that never quite happen, while melodies emerge like partially remembered dreams whose details dissolve the moment one tries to grasp them.

There is also something quietly touching about hearing this album today, knowing the collaborative relationship between Long and Baquet belongs to another chapter of Celer's history. The record becomes not simply an exploration of medieval art but an accidental portrait of two creative trajectories briefly intersecting before continuing in different directions. Long himself hints at this transient communion, and the music carries that bittersweet awareness without lapsing into sentimentality. Nostalgia here is not polished into something comforting; it remains slightly blurred, as memories generally are once enough years have passed.

Lawrence English's new mastering allows these fragile constructions additional breathing space while respecting the original material's intimate character. Nothing has been artificially enlarged. Instead, the subtle grain of tape, the gentle imperfections and the delicate spatial relationships feel newly illuminated, making this version less a restoration than the careful cleaning of an old fresco whose colours had quietly survived beneath centuries of dust.

"Poulaine" may not possess the overwhelming expansiveness of some later Celer releases, but that restraint is precisely its strength. It captures a fascinating moment when analogue process, personal history, visual art and emotional intuition briefly aligned without trying to explain themselves. Like the medieval manuscripts that inspired it, the work resists complete interpretation. Some margins remain undeciphered, some symbols never surrender their meaning.

Perhaps that is the album's greatest lesson. Not every archive exists to provide answers. Sometimes it simply reminds us that beauty often survives precisely because we never entirely understand it.

There is a peculiar moment that every composer secretly hopes for and simultaneously fears: the instant when a carefully cultivated musical language outgrows its original frame. Some projects become diluted when expanded, like adding too much water to good coffee. Others reveal dimensions that were always hiding beneath the surface. "Dafnie EXTENDED: Live at Moldejazz" belongs emphatically to the latter category.

Danish-born, Oslo-based saxophonist and composer Amalie Dahl has rapidly become one of the most compelling figures in the flourishing Scandinavian jazz scene. After studying at NTNU in Trondheim, she steadily built a reputation through projects such as "Breaking/Building Habits", collaborations with Ingebrigt Håker Flaten and several adventurous ensembles, while her quintet Dafnie established itself as a vehicle where rigorous composition and fearless improvisation coexist without either one bullying the other. Rather than treating free jazz as an excuse for chaos or composition as an exercise in control, Dahl has consistently sought the unstable territory where both impulses strengthen one another.

This live recording documents the world premiere of the expanded twelve-piece version of Dafnie at Moldejazz in 2025, and the enlargement feels entirely organic. The original quintet has not simply recruited reinforcements; it has evolved into something resembling a living ecosystem. The additional brass, electronics, accordion, piano, second double bass and second drummer create an ensemble capable of changing its density almost instantaneously, moving from whispering chamber music to orchestral turbulence with astonishing agility.

The opening "Intro" serves less as a traditional introduction than as the slow lifting of a curtain. Textures emerge cautiously, as if each musician is testing the acoustics of the room before committing to the collective narrative. Dahl's writing often begins with deceptively modest melodic fragments, allowing repetition and subtle variation to generate momentum rather than relying on obvious thematic statements. It is an approach that recalls aspects of minimalist thinking without ever becoming mechanically repetitive.

As the performance unfolds through "Floating" and "Drifting_Turning", the ensemble demonstrates remarkable discipline. Large jazz orchestras often resemble committees attempting spontaneous conversation, admirable in theory, occasionally exhausting in practice. Here, however, every voice retains its individuality while contributing to an unmistakably unified sound. Oscar Andreas Haug's trumpet, Henriette Eilertsen's flute and electronics, Sofia Salvo's baritone saxophone, Lisa Ullén's piano and Anna Ueland's synthesizer continuously reshape the harmonic landscape without cluttering it.

Perhaps the most striking achievement lies in the rhythm section. Having two double bassists, Nicolas Leirtrø and Ingebrigt Håker Flaten, alongside two drummers, Trym Karlsen and Veslemøy Narvesen, could easily produce excessive density. Instead, the quartet functions almost architecturally, constructing shifting foundations that allow the horns extraordinary freedom. Rather than merely keeping time, they generate landscapes upon which the music continually rebuilds itself.

"Parallels" beautifully illustrates Dahl's compositional philosophy. Melodic cells circulate among the musicians like shared thoughts, gradually accumulating emotional weight without ever settling into predictable resolutions. Solos emerge naturally from the ensemble rather than interrupting it, reinforcing the impression that individuality here exists only through dialogue. It is collective improvisation understood not as simultaneous freedom but as mutual responsibility.

The emotional center of the album may arrive with "Slow Motion". Its spacious pacing allows silence to become almost as expressive as sound. Every sustained note seems to carry the memory of the previous phrase while anticipating the next. There is remarkable confidence in allowing music to breathe. In an era where many recordings appear terrified of empty space, Dahl demonstrates that restraint often carries greater dramatic force than perpetual activity.

When "In Flux" finally erupts into dense, energetic passages, the release feels entirely earned. Free jazz energy is abundant here, but never gratuitous. The ensemble doesn't explode because improvisers are contractually obliged to reach maximum volume at some point. It expands because the internal logic of the composition demands it. That distinction makes all the difference.

The concluding "Longing" offers an appropriately reflective ending. Rather than delivering a triumphant finale, Dahl allows the music to gradually dissolve into openness, suggesting that the performance represents one moment within a much longer ongoing conversation. It is an ending that resists closure, inviting repeated listening instead of providing definitive answers.

The live recording itself deserves special mention. Capturing a twelve-piece ensemble without sacrificing clarity is no small accomplishment, and the production preserves both the physical impact of the larger passages and the intimacy of quieter interactions. One can almost visualize musicians listening as intensely as they play, a quality that separates genuine ensemble music from carefully organized simultaneity.

What makes "Dafnie EXTENDED" particularly rewarding is that it refuses to treat scale as spectacle. Bigger does not mean louder, busier or more virtuosic for its own sake. Instead, Dahl uses the expanded instrumentation to deepen her exploration of texture, movement and collective expression. The orchestra becomes less a monument than a breathing organism, constantly adapting while preserving its identity.
There is also something quietly optimistic about this music. At a time when so much contemporary culture celebrates individual brilliance, Dahl places her faith in collaboration. Every musician contributes a distinct personality, yet none dominates the narrative. The result suggests that complexity need not produce confusion and that freedom can flourish precisely because structure exists.

"Dafnie EXTENDED: Live at Moldejazz" confirms Amalie Dahl as one of Europe's most imaginative composers working at the intersection of contemporary jazz and large ensemble improvisation. More importantly, it demonstrates that ambitious musical ideas do not require grandiosity to make their impact. Sometimes twelve musicians can sound less like an orchestra than like a single mind dreaming collectively, discovering, note by note, that expansion is not about occupying more space, but about listening more deeply to the space already there.

For a project carrying such an imperative name, Nicolas Leirtrø's Action Now! displays surprising patience beneath its explosive surface. The title may suggest urgency, but the music reveals something more nuanced: the slow construction of trust between musicians who understand that genuine freedom is impossible without structure, and that chaos only becomes meaningful when everyone agrees where the edges of the cliff are.

Norwegian double bassist and composer Nicolas Leirtrø has quietly become one of the most compelling figures of the Scandinavian creative music scene over the past decade. Whether through the hypnotic grooves of I LIKE TO SLEEP, collaborations with Amalie Dahl, Veslemøy Narvesen, Mats Gustafsson, Ståle Storløkken, or numerous other adventurous projects, he has consistently demonstrated an ability to balance compositional rigor with fearless improvisation. Less interested in virtuosity than in collective momentum, Leirtrø seems drawn toward situations where musical identities remain fluid rather than fixed.

"Entrance" feels like the natural culmination of that philosophy.

The quartet itself almost resembles a conversation between generations of European improvised music. Mats Gustafsson brings decades of uncompromising experience, Kit Downes contributes his uniquely lyrical yet adventurous harmonic language, Veslemøy Narvesen represents one of Norway's most exciting younger voices behind the drum kit, while Leirtrø acts less as leader than gravitational centre. Four musicians with remarkably different histories somehow arrive speaking the same language before anyone has formally introduced them.

That language is built on tension.

The press material references spiritual jazz and Gnawa traditions, and traces of both certainly emerge throughout the album. Yet "Entrance" never attempts stylistic reconstruction. Instead, it borrows deeper principles: repetition as transformation, groove as collective ritual, improvisation as communal discovery rather than individual display.

The opening title track wastes no time announcing the quartet's intentions. Dense bass figures, spectral organ sonorities and Gustafsson's unmistakable reeds immediately establish an atmosphere of restless anticipation. Downes' organ deserves particular attention throughout the record. Rather than functioning as harmonic support, it often behaves like shifting weather, surrounding the ensemble with clouds of resonance that continually reshape the music's emotional temperature.

It is remarkable how frequently the organ sounds haunted without ever becoming gothic.

As though an old cathedral had quietly decided it would rather host free jazz than Sunday mass.

Much of the album's success lies in its relationship with riffs.

Improvised music often distances itself from repetition, fearing predictability. Leirtrø embraces recurring figures instead, treating them as launch pads rather than destinations. The hypnotic bass motifs anchoring pieces such as "Darkness" gradually accumulate weight until Gustafsson's saxophone finds countless ways of circling, resisting and ultimately exploding beyond them. What initially appears stable becomes increasingly unstable, generating enormous dramatic tension without relying on conventional harmonic development.

Gustafsson, unsurprisingly, remains one of contemporary improvised music's most compelling voices.

His playing retains the astonishing physicality that has defined his career, capable of moving effortlessly between lyrical restraint and volcanic eruptions. Yet what impresses most here is not his intensity but his listening. Even during the record's loudest passages, every intervention feels conversational rather than confrontational.

Narvesen proves equally remarkable.

Her drumming avoids both traditional timekeeping and abstract texture for their own sake. Instead, she continually reshapes the ensemble's internal momentum, sometimes driving relentlessly forward, elsewhere introducing subtle hesitations that make the music breathe in unexpected ways. There is tremendous confidence in her refusal to fill every available space.

One of the album's most fascinating aspects involves Leirtrø's visual practice.

His lino-cut graphic scores serve not merely as artwork but as compositional foundations, blurring distinctions between image and sound. While listeners cannot directly observe these visual structures during playback, one senses their influence in the music's architectural clarity. Improvisation here never feels directionless. Invisible frameworks remain present, allowing spontaneity to unfold inside carefully imagined spaces.

The brief solo piece "Shapes of Noise for Double Bass" offers an illuminating glimpse into Leirtrø's personal vocabulary. Rather than showcasing technical prowess, he explores texture, resonance and physical gesture, reminding listeners that the double bass is as much an object of sound production as a melodic instrument.

Then comes "Action Now", perhaps the album's emotional and conceptual centrepiece.

Here everything converges: muscular riffing, ecstatic improvisation, slowly evolving harmonic landscapes and rhythmic propulsion that feels simultaneously grounded and airborne. The performance captures something increasingly rare in contemporary improvised music: genuine collective exhilaration. Nobody appears interested in demonstrating superiority. The excitement comes from watching four highly individual musicians repeatedly discover common purpose.

The closing "End Dance" feels exactly like its title suggests.

Not a triumphant finale, nor a gradual fading away, but a ritual completed. The energy remains present until the final moments, yet acquires unexpected tenderness, as though the quartet has travelled far enough together to no longer require constant intensity.

Throughout "Entrance", Leirtrø quietly challenges one persistent misconception surrounding free improvisation.

To casual listeners, such music often appears entirely spontaneous, almost accidental. In reality, records like this reveal extraordinary discipline. Every explosion depends upon careful preparation. Every moment of apparent disorder emerges from profound mutual trust. Freedom, paradoxically, proves to be the most carefully constructed element of all.

There are countless contemporary jazz records filled with excellent musicians.

Far fewer capture the exhilarating sensation of hearing a band becoming something larger than the sum of its already formidable parts.
"Entrance" is less about crossing a threshold than discovering that the doorway itself was always the most interesting place to stand. It is where certainty ends, possibility begins, and where Nicolas Leirtrø and his remarkable companions seem happiest making noise together.

There is a peculiar sentence hidden in the album's credits. After listing the performers, Dario Calderone offers thanks not only to his fellow musicians, but also to birds, raindrops, foxes, earthworms, radio waves, bushes, fungi, passing cars, memories, dreams, ghosts and meteorological events. It initially reads like the acknowledgements page of someone who has spent perhaps a little too much time listening to the wind. Then the music begins, and one realizes the list is neither whimsical nor metaphorical. Every one of those presences is, in some way, part of the ensemble.

"The Infinite Garden" is less an album than an ecological proposition. It suggests that listening is never confined to performers and audience, but extends toward everything occupying the same moment in time. Nature, technology, coincidence and human intention cease to be separate categories. They simply become participants.

Italian double bassist and composer Dario Calderone has spent nearly two decades immersed in contemporary music, collaborating with many of its most adventurous composers while developing a practice rooted in both rigorous interpretation and exploratory performance. A student of the legendary Stefano Scodanibbio, Calderone has consistently viewed the double bass as something far richer than a supporting instrument. Throughout his career, whether performing with the Nieuw Ensemble, Nieuw Amsterdams Peil, or in numerous solo projects, his work has demonstrated an uncommon sensitivity toward the physicality of sound itself.

That sensibility reaches perhaps its clearest expression here.

Recorded in Amsterdam's Amstelpark during a cloudy January afternoon in 2025, "The Infinite Garden" unfolds as a single thirty-five-minute composition performed by an exceptional quartet: Calderone on double bass, Aurélie Nyirabikali Lierman on voice, Naomi Sato on the Japanese "sho", and Gareth Davis on bass clarinet. Surrounding them is an ever-changing live soundscape captured directly from the park itself, allowing weather, wildlife, distant traffic and the unpredictable movements of public space to become equal collaborators in the musical process. The work reflects Calderone's broader concept of "global listening," dissolving boundaries between performers, environment and audience.

The temptation is to describe this as field recording accompanied by improvisation.

That would miss the point entirely.

The environmental sounds never function as background ambience. They possess agency. A distant aeroplane does not interrupt the music; it alters its direction. A brief gust of wind changes the emotional weight of a sustained "sho" chord. Rain becomes rhythm without ever behaving like percussion. Even silence refuses to remain empty, constantly revealing microscopic layers of acoustic life.

The quartet responds with extraordinary restraint.

Naomi Sato's "sho", an ancient Japanese mouth organ capable of producing luminous clusters of sustained harmony, seems almost designed for this environment. Rather than introducing melody, it suspends time, creating shimmering harmonic fields that merge seamlessly with the park's own acoustic atmosphere. Her decades of work bringing the instrument into contemporary music have made her uniquely capable of allowing tradition to breathe inside radically modern contexts.

Gareth Davis approaches the bass clarinet with similar patience. Known for collaborations spanning composers such as Chaya Czernowin and improvisers including Elliott Sharp and Merzbow, Davis has long demonstrated an ability to inhabit musical spaces where certainty is deliberately withheld. Here his instrument rarely asserts itself. Instead, it emerges gradually from the surrounding environment, sometimes resembling distant birdsong, sometimes a slowly shifting geological formation.

Aurélie Nyirabikali Lierman's contribution may be the album's quiet revelation.

Her artistic practice has consistently blurred the lines between radio art, vocal performance and sound ecology, often drawing upon extensive field recordings collected throughout East Africa, a methodology she has described as "Afrique Concrète". That fascination with transforming lived environments into compositional material resonates perfectly with Calderone's concept. Her voice appears less interested in language than in presence itself, hovering somewhere between breath, invocation and remembered speech.

Calderone's double bass anchors everything without ever behaving traditionally.

Rather than establishing harmonic foundations, the instrument explores resonance, friction and weight. Bowed harmonics dissolve into surrounding air. Deep resonances interact with environmental frequencies until it becomes impossible to distinguish instrument from landscape.

What emerges is not improvisation in the conventional sense but negotiation.

Every sound requires permission from every other sound.

One of the album's most compelling achievements lies in its rejection of hierarchy. Contemporary composition often incorporates environmental recordings as aesthetic material. "The Infinite Garden" instead grants them equal citizenship. Human performers do not master nature; they coexist with it.

There is something quietly political in this refusal.

The project imagines listening itself as an act of inclusiveness. Rather than constructing a carefully controlled sonic object, Calderone embraces uncertainty, accepting that the world outside the performers' intentions will inevitably participate. In an era increasingly dominated by algorithmic precision and digital perfection, such openness feels almost radical.

The result occasionally demands patience.

Listeners searching for dramatic developments or easily identifiable thematic progression may initially find themselves adrift. The composition unfolds organically, more like observing changing light across a landscape than following a narrative. Yet surrendering those expectations becomes part of the experience. Gradually, one begins hearing relationships previously overlooked: how distant traffic echoes clarinet timbres, how birds answer sustained harmonies, how footsteps unexpectedly introduce rhythmic counterpoint.

By the closing minutes, the title begins making profound sense.

Gardens are often understood as carefully controlled spaces where nature is disciplined into pleasing arrangements. Calderone imagines something altogether different: an infinite garden where nothing is excluded, where cultivated and wild coexist, where boundaries remain permeable and every participant alters the whole.

It is tempting to call this ambient music.

It is certainly peaceful.

But peace is not the same as passivity.

"The Infinite Garden" asks something surprisingly demanding of its listeners. It asks them to abandon the comforting illusion that music begins when musicians start playing and ends when they stop. Instead, it proposes that listening has always been larger than performance itself.

Perhaps that is Calderone's most generous invitation.

Not simply to hear more carefully, but to realize that the world has been performing all along.

Nostalgia is a dangerous ingredient.

Use too much of it and music becomes a museum, lovingly dusted but lifeless. Use just enough, however, and memory ceases to be about the past and instead becomes another instrument, capable of playing melodies that never quite existed. Espen Reinertsen understands this distinction remarkably well. "Venus er i håret" is soaked in familiar sounds, yet never settles for mere recollection. It is an album that remembers rather than recreates.

Nearly a decade after "Nattsyntese", the Norwegian composer, saxophonist, vocalist and producer returns to Susanna Wallumrød's SusannaSonata label with a record that quietly expands his already distinctive musical language. Reinertsen has long occupied an unusual position within Norway's adventurous music scene. As a collaborator he has appeared alongside artists as diverse as Jenny Hval, Jennifer Walshe, Toshimaru Nakamura, Christian Wallumrød and many others, moving comfortably between contemporary composition, free improvisation and experimental jazz. His solo work, however, has always followed its own peculiar orbit, one where pop songs behave like dreams and electronic textures seem to possess emotional memory.

Describing "Venus er i håret" simply as avant-pop feels accurate but incomplete.

Its five extended compositions certainly contain songs. They have verses, recurring melodies and lyrics delivered with quiet intimacy. Yet each one gradually mutates into something less predictable. Reinertsen has spoken of his affection for traditional songs that unexpectedly transform into long instrumental passages, "like an animal with different head and body". That image perfectly captures the album's architecture. Familiar forms gently dissolve into drifting instrumental landscapes before quietly finding their way home again.
One immediately notices the electronics.

The press material references vintage gaming consoles, and indeed the synthesizers frequently evoke early home computers and 8-bit sound chips. Fortunately, this never descends into fashionable retro aesthetics. These electronic voices do not exist to remind listeners of childhood afternoons spent staring at CRT monitors. Instead, they function almost psychologically, as sonic representations of memory itself: slightly pixelated, incomplete, emotionally vivid despite their technical simplicity.

It is an inspired choice.

Memory rarely arrives in high definition.

Around these shimmering electronic figures, Reinertsen constructs surprisingly lush arrangements. Flute, bass clarinet, saxophone, trumpet and subtle programming intermingle with Erik Nylander's wonderfully responsive drumming and Eivind Lønning's restrained trumpet work. Rather than creating dramatic contrasts between acoustic and electronic instruments, the trio allows them to dissolve into one another until distinctions become irrelevant.

Nylander's contribution deserves particular praise.

His drumming rarely provides straightforward pulse. Instead, rhythms constantly shift, hesitate and reconfigure themselves, introducing small disruptions that prevent the songs from ever becoming too comfortable. There is movement throughout the album, but it feels dreamlike rather than mechanical, as though each groove were remembering how it used to dance.

Reinertsen's voice may initially surprise listeners more familiar with his work as a saxophonist.

Soft, vulnerable and almost conversational, it carries little of the theatrical flourish often associated with experimental pop. Instead, he sings with remarkable restraint, allowing fragility to become expressive rather than dramatic. His delivery occasionally recalls the emotional openness of Robert Wyatt, though without imitation, while remaining entirely his own. Over repeated listens the voice gradually becomes less a focal point than another carefully integrated texture within the album's unusually rich sonic ecology.

The songs themselves seem deliberately resistant to grand statements.

Reinertsen has suggested that there are no overarching themes beyond whatever listeners choose to discover. Yet recurring images of memory, bodies, oceans and shifting identities quietly accumulate. The remarkable "Muskelminner fra arkanoidepoken" ("Muscle Memories from the Arkanoid Era") perhaps captures the album's emotional core most clearly, intertwining nostalgic electronic timbres with reflections on physical and emotional memory in ways that feel simultaneously playful and deeply melancholic.

It is impossible not to smile at a record capable of making vintage computer sounds feel genuinely moving.

Human beings, after all, possess a curious talent for attaching profound emotions to objects originally designed to produce cheerful beeps while tiny spaceships destroyed geometric shapes.

The closing title track offers perhaps the album's finest synthesis of its many contradictions. What begins as a gentle ballad slowly expands into a luminous instrumental coda where electronics, winds and subtle rhythmic transformations seem to drift beyond the song itself. One senses Reinertsen becoming increasingly interested in atmosphere without abandoning melody, in abstraction without sacrificing intimacy.
Throughout "Venus er i håret", beauty emerges not from perfection but from constant transformation.

Nothing remains static for long. Harmonies bloom unexpectedly before dissolving. Rhythms mutate almost imperceptibly. Familiar sonic references continually acquire new meanings. The album's emotional landscape feels suspended somewhere between waking memory and hypnagogic imagination, where details remain strangely vivid even as their original contexts disappear.

There is also admirable confidence in its pacing.

With only five compositions spread across nearly forty minutes, Reinertsen allows every musical idea sufficient room to unfold organically. Instrumental passages never feel indulgent, nor do vocal sections appear merely transitional. Instead, each piece breathes according to its own internal logic, unconcerned with conventional song duration or commercial efficiency.

Perhaps that is what makes "Venus er i håret" so quietly affecting.

It never insists upon its originality, despite possessing plenty of it.

Instead, Reinertsen simply invites listeners into a deeply personal world where avant-pop, chamber music, folktronica, jazz and dreamlike songwriting coexist without anxiety over categorization. The result is not experimental for its own sake, but exploratory in the truest sense: curious, generous and open-ended.

Venus may indeed be hiding somewhere in the hair.

More importantly, Reinertsen reminds us that sometimes the smallest, strangest sounds carry the longest memories.