Tor Lundvall – A Dark Place

DAIS Records (DAIS110), 2018

A new Tor Lundvall album is always an intriguing mystery. His discography runs the gamut from instrumental ambient to vocal synthpop to a combination of the two, but the albums slip between the conventions of genre – a fine fit, considering the shadowed and ghostly template that pervades the music. There has always been something compellingly uncertain about Lundvall’s music; a large part of the listening attraction, as the listener is presented a landscape in which to roam, free to discover secrets and details present only in her or his head.

When word emerged that Lundvall’s new album would mark a return to his vocal style, I’m betting eyebrows were raised. I know mine were. Not in a disappointing way, mind you, but as it had been nine years since the last album in this format, Sleeping and Hiding, the news was a surprise, especially considering that Lundvall had entered new territories of his trademark spectral-minimalist instrumental ambient. I must also confess that I have always preferred Lundvall’s music to his vocals, with the exception of the sublime Yule EP, so when A Dark Place arrived, I approached it with the slightest edge of hesitation.

My concerns quickly evaporated. A Dark Place is not only the best of Lundvall’s vocal work, it is the most emotional music he’s ever produced, and it is a refined display of his amorphous ambient style. In describing the album, Lundvall says:

Finding the words to describe this album is almost as difficult as the past couple of years. There is a lot of pain, fear and sadness wrapped into these eight songs. More so than usual, I think. The loss of my father in 2015 and coping with his absence certainly hangs heavily here.

This is a welcome insight, especially considering Lundvall’s traditionally reclusive nature, and it sets the mood for what is to come.

Lundvall’s lyrics have taken on a new sophistication. They are delivered in rhyming couplets drenched in reverb, and are given ample space by the music. Lundvall’s high voice follows delicate melodies with confident ease; he has never sounded this comfortable. As Lundvall is also a practiced painter, there’s a stark visual quality to his minimal poetry, often using motifs of color and light. However, there’s an added layer to A Dark Place: it appears that in some cases, the words are spoken by one who has lost someone dear, while in others, the spirit itself is the one mourning. The split nature of the ghostly face gracing the album’s cover – Lundvall always creates the art for his albums, and sometimes his paintings influence his music – seems to support such a duality. Whether the face is half Lundvall and half Lundvall’s departed father is open to interpretation, but this two-sided theme is strongly apparent throughout A Dark Place.

Compared to Lundvall’s ambient-leaning work (Empty City, The Shipyard), A Dark Place is much more structured. An unobtrusive beat sets the tempo, plodding away thoughtfully, and Lundvall surrounds it with the vaporous synth washes and odd bits of samples that have always defined his music. The music is more focused and grounded, as it is the foundation for the vocals, but it’s immediately obvious that A Dark Place owes a great deal to the recent albums The Park, The Violet-Blue House, and Rain Studies. The same hazy sense of place and half-lit atmosphere is present, but Lundvall builds on these tropes with electric guitar – a surprise that is included thoughtfully and naturally – and an increased but gentle presence of processed noise (most prevalent on “The Moment”). From the perfectly paced bassline, crackling static, and synth tones of “Negative Moon” to the open pastoral night-space of “Haunted By The Sky”, Lundvall’s music is as evocative as ever.

A Dark Place belies its title. Even when Lundvall sings about “pale fingers sharp as knives”, the music never revels in its darkness, always reaching out from the shadows. Lundvall’s music has been called cold and impersonal in the past, but these critiques cannot be applied to this graceful album. Structurally, it’s a culmination of what has given Lundvall’s music its unique sound; it acknowledges the past while remaining experimental, and has found an ideal balance between music and voice. The poignant longing of “The Next World” would seem to be voiced by both the living and the dead; it’s a celebration of life from the perspective of what comes after, and I’d argue it’s the most touching song Lundvall has ever written. The track is a fitting closure to what is, ultimately, as moving a portrait of loss as we’re ever likely to hear. A Dark Place is a reminder that there cannot be dark without light, and Lundvall has crafted a guide for acceptance.


Tor Lundvall – Rain Studies

Dais Records (DAIS 089.3), 2016

Rain Studies, the second all-new album contained in Tor Lundvall’s 2016 box set, Nature Laughs As Time Slips By, is something of a culmination of styles. While it’s not as cohesive in concept as The Violet-Blue House or Night Studies – the former (also contained in the box set) being the soundtrack to a specific locale while the latter (from Lundvall’s previous box set Structures and Solitude) portrayed the nocturnal identity of a single town – it remains a focused collection of music that’s also a showcase for how Lundvall’s curious and mystical style of ambient composing operates.

Rain Studies is not merely “Tor Lundvall backed by the sounds of rain”, although such examples do exist: “Girl Through Rainy Window,” “Music in the Walls,” “Pastel Sky.” Such tracks typify the recent direction Lundvall has taken: hazy blooming drones and minimal loops that are neither overly dark nor too flighty, and always with one eye fixed on the shadowed realm of the imagined.  His work – both his music and his painting – are haunting without morbidity, mysterious without dread; his music is sometimes labeled “ghost ambient” for good reason. Lundvall has always excelled at evoking the waking dream and the drawing forth the unusual, and he has proven throughout his discography that he has a talent for doing this via the sparsest of frameworks. If the entirety of Rain Studies followed this structure, it would be remarkable, but Lundvall moves beyond his own established concept.

“City and Sea”, with its lonely tapping percussion and vast atmosphere, recalls the parallel-world urban setting of Empty City; so does “Clouds Over Town,” painting the skies with heavy skies that are as beautiful as they are imposing, while the city sprawls beneath, full of people and industry. The metallic loops of “Clouds Over Town” also bring back elements of The Shipyard, one of Lundvall’s most enduring instrumental ambient albums; indeed, traces of that album run strong throughout Rain Studies.

But again, Rain Studies is an album that surprises as often as it satisfies. The music-box melody of “Rain Song”, fringed by calm rain and one of Lundvall’s strange trademark voice-like samples, breaks up the ambience with elegant pacing; it’s a mid-point interlude, a trace of Lundvall’s earlier and more melodic work. The sublime piano of “Blue Glass” combines this with his recent flair for the ambient, and the icy-yet-warming “Melting Snow” could have fit on the Yule EP comfortably and naturally. The subtle drama of “Overlook” and “Distant Silver Light” are reminiscent of the sense of place that has always marked Lundvall’s work, with the album The Park – also included on CD in this box set – being perhaps the best example of describing a setting through music that he has yet achieved. “The Shipyard in Rust” closes Rain Studies on a high note, with the distant hints of machines emerging slowly through tinted haze; it revisits The Shipyard with a welcoming ear.

One detail that occurred to me while listening to Rain Studies is how often Lundvall includes colors in the tracks of his titles. Indeed, five of the thirteen tracks contain a color; six if you consider “rust” as a color. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a connection between his painting and his music; there would certainly appear to be, with one format feeding the other. Lundvall’s music is a soundtrack to his art, and his art gives shape and form to his music; it’s something of a symbiotic relationship, and while Lundvall’s art graces his album covers, you don’t necessarily need to observe both in order to appreciate one or the other. They are related, but live in separate spaces. Rain Studies is an experience that works its way into you slowly, nestling with a sigh into your subconscious, and makes you see the world through its eyes. Such is the effect of Tor Lundvall, who continues cementing his place as one of the quiet geniuses of ambient music.

Tor Lundvall – The Violet-Blue House

Dais Records (DAIS 089.2), 2016

At an initial glance, Tor Lundvall may not be a prolific artist, but he is a dedicated and thoughtful one. As the year closes, Dais Records has once again released a five-disc box set of Lundvall’s curiously hypnotic creations: Nature Laughs as Time Slips By. In the spirit of his previous set, 2013’s Structures and Solitude, this newest release contains a first-time CD version (The Park, a previously LP-only album from 2015) and an expanded version of earlier work (Field Trip, first released on cassette in 2011), but this time, there are three discs of all-new material. Lundvall has been hard at work.

The first of these is a second collection of early ambient material, titled Insect Wings, Leaf Matter, and Broken Twigs, the first volume of which appeared in 2009. The final two albums of Nature Laughs are new, containing the most recent of Lundvall’s themed instrumental music: Rain Studies and The Violet-Blue House.

If this review was to properly explore all of this material, it would be quite a weighty read. (I have already reviewed The Park, which was my Album of the Year in 2015). The Violet-Blue House seems to be something of a centerpiece for this set, as there is a promotional video for it, as well as unique oil portraits inspired by the album available with the set on a very limited basis, painted by Lundvall himself. (Hard at work, indeed.)

Like most of Tor Lundvall’s instrumental ambient, the music of The Violet-Blue House is deceptively simplistic. Taking cues from The Park and Night Studies, the electronic tones, gentle passes of noise, and sparse rhythms are stripped down, when compared to earlier albums such as Empty City. And yet, Lundvall’s ability to create a unique sense of space continues to develop.

The Violet-Blue House is, in a sense, a guided tour of the house itself. And this is a deeply odd and surreal place, existing on the border of dream and reality. Lundvall’s music has always defied easy categorization; while its effect is certainly ambient, its form is elusive. Most of the tracks are around three minutes in length, and many feature loops of keyboard tones and percussive taps, with the calls of eerie voices and whistling drifting phantom-like through the atmospheres that spill from Lundvall’s imagination. The mood is utterly unique: simultaneously detached as if viewed remotely, and deeply immersed. This house is not a dark place, but it is a shadowed one, rife with secrets in every corner and behind every door. It is a place that invites wandering, and we can only guess at its nature and origins.

We approach along a “Garden Path”, accompanied by an analog bass sequence and looped taps that impart a sense of motion. We hear a distant voice, perhaps beckoning us inside the house itself, and the furtive rustles of something unseen. “Her Shadow” is an example of Lundvall’s ambient skill at its height, creating a vivid mental portrait of something intimate and mysterious; twin tones mesh with distant muffled metallic clinks and whistles, building a mood that’s thick and compelling without being ominous. “Night Breeze” provides a glance outside, to an empty porch where wind chimes are disturbed by a stray gust of gentle wind. The footstep-like taps and whistled half-tune of “Wanderer” resolve themselves into the signs of someone in the house; perhaps it is us, perhaps not. “Soft Colors” and “Lavender Twilight” display the half-lit hues Lundvall has draped over the album; the house is in a place of perpetual dusk, comforting and unreal.

The final two tracks, “Paper Hearts” and “Moon Worship”, show Lundvall experimenting with his usual template. Each track runs past the ten-minute mark, aiming to deepen the immersion through drawn-out tones and reduction of momentum. Lundvall has tinkered with longform before, and is skilled in the format; here, his created shadows lengthen to reach beyond the walls of the house, into the uncertain country beyond. Length aside, the tracks follow the same structure as the rest of the album, providing us ample opportunity to remain in one place and drink in the strange and lulling aura enveloping us.

The Violet-Blue House is both warmer and darker than Lundvall’s recent work. It’s easy to apply the “haunted house” template, but Lundvall’s ghosts aren’t harmful, just very, very unusual. The observational portraits of albums like Empty City and The Shipyard have been replaced by an exploration of a place that’s very much unreal; while The Park teased with this dreamlike border, Lundvall has entered this surreal haven fully. He seems at home here, among the apparitions and specters that roam the halls and rooms, and thanks to the depth of his conjuring powers, so do we.

The Best Dark Ambient Albums You Might Have Missed In 2015

Fans of dark ambient are no doubt aware of the “biggest” releases the genre saw this year. If this end-of-the-year list was to include those, it would ignore the smaller albums that, in some ways, were just as good. Rather than embark upon the nigh-impossible task to rank and compare all of them, I have decided to adopt a different track: these five albums here are ones that even fans might have missed, but each is well worth your time. Several of them are available for free via netlabels, too.

There are, of course, many, many releases out there, so even in the process of tracking these down, you might find something you didn’t expect. That’s exactly how I discovered these – while searching for something else.

Grove of Whispers – The Wind From Nowhere (Buddhist On Fire)

Here’s an example of an album of such focused and singular power, it’s almost overwhelming. John Tocher’s synthetic hurricane seems ripped from the most alien of shores. Its lack of subtlety can become numbing, but at its apex, the album creates a cosmic sense of awe with enviable ease.

Seetyca – Nemeton (Winter-Light)

On the other end of the spectrum from, you’ve got Nemeton, a meditative collection of melancholic and reflective drones, finely tuned by the prolific Seetyca. Never one to stay quiet for long, the elusive German soundsmith’s discography is a bit uneven, but when it all falls into place, there’s few artists who can match his unfolding sense of the mystic. Calming and visceral, Nemeton is a wondrous journey through a fantastic realm of dreams.

Bleak Fiction – Ghost Picture (m.i.s.t. records)

Ezequiel Lobo is relatively new to the scene, but he’s broken in with a bang. This album is a practiced display of aesthetic noise; not many artists reach this level of careful attention to detail and songwriting aplomb, but Bleak Fiction has already done so early in his career. A surreal collection of haunting distorted dronework that moves in gradual and unexpected ways, Ghost Picture is one of the most satisfying albums I heard this year. Held back only by technical limitations that I’m sure are temporary, Bleak Fiction is a name to watch.

Flowers For Bodysnatchers – Aokigahara (Cryo Chamber)

Cryo Chamber has garnered something of a reputation for releasing dark ambient soundtracks to non-existing films. While this has, to date, met with varying levels of success, this album blew my expectations out of the water. Duncan Ritchie’s second release as Flowers For Bodysnatchers is inspired by the so-called “Suicide Forest” in Japan where an unusual number of people travel to contemplate ending it all. While this is an intriguing concept on its own, Ritchie examines it by focusing on traditional instruments like piano and violin that enhance his electronics, and creates a stunning and unique atmosphere along the way. Also featuring measured drumming and sampled Japanese vocalizations, Aokigahara is perhaps the best example of “cinematic dark ambient” style that Cryo Chamber is becoming noted for. A fascinating, unexpected experiment that is a mournful and touching tribute to the confusion felt by those visiting the forest, Flowers For Bodysnatchers has crafted both an album of accomplished music and one of powerful atmosphere. Don’t let the odd name or the lack of history mislead you – this album is legitimately great.

Tor Lundvall – The Park (Dais Records)

OK, so the esteemed Mr. Lundvall might not exactly qualify as “undiscovered.” He still doesn’t have the reputation he deserves. The Park is his first new instrumental album in three years, and it was worth the wait. Lundvall has always been able to blur the lines between our world and the one he sees, and his ability to do this has increased. Simultaneously stripped down and deeper, The Park is both a refinement of Lundvall’s combination of strange ambiance and sparse percussion, and a new level of aesthetic excellence. Inspired by the real-life parks he frequents, this Park exists solely in Lundvall’s eerie yet familiar territory, and he has invited us to visit. All we need to do is listen.

Tor Lundvall – The Park

Dais Records (DAIS 068), 2015

On The Park, his newest instrumental ambient study, Tor Lundvall takes the tiniest of steps into the world we all share. This is somewhat significant, as much of Lundvall’s previous work has dwelt purely in space of his own devising. Prior efforts, such as The Shipyard (2012) and Night Studies (2013), have revealed places only Lundvall can see, and his music serves as a bridge between him, the tour guide of sorts, and us, the visitors.

The Park, however, is somewhere anyone can go to, at any time. Lundvall even lists the locations that inspired him on the LP’s package (Dais Records has also generously included a download code), so for the first time, we can experience these places for ourselves. This seeming down-to-earth and proximal nature is reflected in the music too; Lundvall’s work has always been masterfully sparse, but here, the surreal edge that dominated past releases has been blurred. There’s an increase in traditional instrumentation – pipes in “The Park,” guitar chords in “Slate Blute” and “Open Spaces” – and the noticeable presence of field recordings (birds, rain, wind in trees, scattered voices), sourced from the real-life locales. The analog tones and light percussion that are Lundvall trademarks are still here, as are the slightly eerie atmospherics, but these have taken a back seat. This park is not a strange place – at least, not entirely – but a place for quiet observation and reflection. With its march-like metallic tapping, “Nature Trail” carries a strong sense of pace, undoubtedly intended to convey the hiking experience, while “Rest Area” is formless ambiance, allowing the mind to drift while the body is in respite.

Lundvall’s work has always had a narrative undercurrent, and it’s developed intentionally here, providing the listener with a clearer passage of time and place. We move through the various locales, through a heavy layer of “Humidity” (which shares much, in terms of structure and odd distant mechanical echoes, with The Shipyard….perhaps those selfsame docks are within earshot?) until “Late Afternoon” descends with a sampled sing-song that recalls the chiming of a public clock (and again, the nebulous dreamlike mood is instantly reminiscent of Night Studies). It is time for us to make our way out, and we do, via a “Woodland Path” that is gradually becoming thick with shadow, with the tiniest dollop of tension carried by the echoing loops, strange animal-like calls, and persistent percussion. It’s here that the old surreality begins to show itself; who can say how the park might transform when empty, and what may roam these same paths and fields under the veil of night? We are left to wonder. “Closing Time” ups the ominous factor, with more bits of audible strangeness reaching our ears from the now-dark park interior, the slightly unnerving tones and measured drumming giving us the sense that we’re leaving behind a place that we may have visited, but we barely understood: we saw only the surface.

Only time will tell, but The Park bears the hallmark of a transitional record. Neither as dark in mood nor as experimental in structure as previous releases, and communicating a greater range of mood, it’s a fascinating record that shows Lundvall attempting to shift his established palette. While it’s understandable that some may not welcome his new approach, it’s an experiment whose success far outweighs any perceived inconsistencies. The Park is not as cohesive as, for example, Empty City or Yule, but it’s not intended to be. The more you listen, the more the subtle differences stand out. Partly a place of meditative solace, partly a place of deep velvet mystery, partly a place of things unseen, The Park is undoubtedly worth exploring.

Tor Lundvall – The Shipyard

Dais Records (LP, DAIS 031), 2012, (CD, DAIS 052-4), 2013

In the sea of ambient sameness, there are plenty of reasons to appreciate Tor Lundvall. Subscribing to no tradition or genre besides his own expression, he has carved out his own corner in the realm of electronic ambiance, and it’s a place uniquely his. Lonely without being depressive, personal in spite of its apparent coldness, powerfully illustrative, and possessed of a depth that belies its minimalistic design, Lundvall’s work consistently excels, and he’s one of the few artists whose new releases I seek immediately, without a second thought. The world he shows us is our own, but from an alien perspective – or perhaps, a perspective without preconceptions It’s a place we may have visited, but have never seen in quite the way Lundvall does, and he’s presented his interpretation for us to ponder. Throughout his vast discography, his powers of insight and transportation have remained steady, and it’s his instrumental work, like The Shipyard, where his unique brand of ambient is most effective.

The Shipyard was originally released on vinyl in 2012 from Dais Records, and was later followed by a digital release, as well as a CD as part of the Structures and Solitude limited box set on Dais in 2013. Like previous efforts, The Shipyard isn’t really “true” dark ambient; Lundvall’s music has been called “ghost ambient” for its haunting quality, but the music moves between various shades of gray without giving in to full-blown anxiety or profound despair. In Lundvall’s vision, there is strong mystery, which may very well cause unease, but he never shows us the source directly; all he tells us is there might be something over there you’ve never seen. And the strangest part is that he does this to places we find familiar.

Of course, the inspiration this time is obvious: the docks and wharfs of an everyday, normal harbor, but filtered through Lundvall’s ever-so-slightly distorted lens. The sounds of industry churn and crank in the distance, but it’s up to our imaginations to discern the actual work being done. Compared to prior releases, The Shipyard is a bit more mechanical and measured, but that’s by design, given the topic. It’s pleasantly minimal and old-school too; the looped clanks and sonar-like tones are reminiscent of a much less aggressive Nitzer Ebb or Suicide Commando. There’s little percussion here, but plenty of gentle rhythm; you get the sense that this shipyard is being observed from a distance, with only echoes of the vessels and the various tools maintaining them managing to reach your ears. The fog is eerie and thick, and the shapes within are uncertain and wavering. And yet, the detachment is oddly soothing, as if the distance between provides solace while the great outlines of the ships loom through the mist beyond.

The album flows beautifully, moving from space to space with easy washes, chimes, reverbed tones, a few lonely string-plucks, and far-away keys. “Angels at Sea” is a bit of a departure, with twin loops of a plaintive human voice and a winsome horn, but it’s well-placed, changing up the pace just enough without upsetting the balance. The two closing tracks, “Blue Rain Ships” and “Grey Rain Ships,” are companion pieces, each lasting well past the Lundvall-standard three-to-four minute running time, and are the closest to traditional dark ambient, with a darker atmosphere, heavier feel, increased focus on looped samples, and a greater abstraction in structure. The tracks play off each other wonderfully, and are two of the darkest and haunting pieces Lundvall has produced. Also included is an unreleased demo track that was not on the original LP, and it is interesting to see how it influenced the album’s identity.

Tor Lundvall is quietly accumulating an impressive body of ambient work. There are few ambient artists I hold in such high regard. While he’s still relatively unheralded, his music is unique, highly immersive, and provides just enough outline to engage the listener’s imagination without revealing too much. As always, his own acclaimed artwork decorates the album, and is the perfect visual companion to the sounds within. Carefully arranged, with no sound superfluous or out of place, conceptually solid while retaining an experimental edge, The Shipyard is further evidence that Tor Lundvall remains one of ambient music’s hidden masters.

Tor Lundvall – Yule

Strange Fortune (SF4), 2006

Painter and musician Tor Lundvall turns his thematic talents to the holidays on Yule, an album which examines the tradition of Christmas from a decidedly off-kilter urban perspective.  Lundvall has a keen eye and a keen ear, and through his trademark “ghost ambient” style of music, imparts his unique edge to a cultural holiday phenomenon that has a unique feel throughout the world.  Yule is unfamiliar, however, in a way that only Tor Lundvall can produce.

Lundvall’s albums often lean heavily upon theme; the source of his inspiration is rarely in question.  What makes his music particularly compelling is the strength of his vision and how effectively he gives it voice, while giving us vague yet appropriate vestiges of connection to the central concept.  “Busy Station,” for example, is not a light-hearted, artificially optimistic portrait of the holiday bustle, but carries an edge of uncertainty so common to Lundvall’s work.  A single looped keyboard chord is surrounded by light noise passes and measured tapping, with a high-pitched whistle wandering to and fro.  It’s oddly calming and deeply alienating at the same time, as if the person in the station is simultaneously part of the crowd and utterly alone.  “The Train Home” increases the tension minutely, with its mysterious chords, strange distant noises, chimes, and metronome beat.  It’s as if the train-traveler isn’t particularly thrilled about the journey, but knows it must happen, and in the back of his/her mind, perhaps it will all turn out just fine eventually…..perhaps.  The anticipation is heavy despite the minimal structure; this is familiar territory for Lundvall, and it’s clear he’s been honing his craft over his many releases.

The tone shifts on “Christmas Eve,” a song fraught with tremulous magic, as delicate and captivating as a snowflake.  Faint noise structures resolve into a rhythm, juxtaposing with a music-box melody and Lundvall’s plaintive vocals telling of a lonely girl at night alone in the glowing lights of her room.  It’s starkly vivid and surprisingly poignant; this is one of Lundvall’s best songs to date.  The holidays aren’t always about the joy of family; sometimes it’s moments of isolation that provide the strongest memories.

“12:00 AM” loops jingle bells, but with fringes of noise leaking at the edges; it’s the moment of Santa Claus’ arrival, yes, but it’s also the dead of night.  “Snowy Morning” reduces the unease a bit, with looped flutes and warm keys that contain the soft reflected light of new sun playing on the face of flawless snowbanks.

“Yule Song” is another triumphant vocal piece, with Lundvall’s high voice drifting among guitar chords and the strange near-organic cries that often appear in his music.  It’s calming, but the peace is an alien one.  “Fading Light” belies its title with uplifting wordless song and soothing bells; it’s a celebration of approaching darkness, or perhaps a fond farewell to the beauty of the day.  The slow light keys and lonely lyrics of “January” poetically describe the details of a city of rain-soaked melting snow, and “White on Grey” is full of sampled static and distant effects; it’s reminiscent of Lundvall’s album Empty City, but here, the focus is on a quiet city buried in snowdrifts, to the point that electricity has begun to malfunction.

All of these tracks are less than four minutes in length, but Lundvall has a surprise in store with “The Falling Snow (Full Length Version),” a twenty-minute track that showcases his ambient talents with panoramic excellence.  One of, if not the, longest track Lundvall has ever released, “The Falling Snow” allows his minimal style to unfold unhurriedly, and the results are stunning indeed.  I’d always wondered what Tor Lundvall could do if given some elbow room, and he’s got more than enough space to roam here.  Centered around a low repeating wind-loop, Lundvall experiments with distant chords, whistles, crackles, chimes, echoes, wisps of melody; all of it emerging from and fading into the gently drifting flakes like the wandering specters that have populated Lundvall’s music since his first release.  “The Falling Snow” is both beautiful and haunting, grounded and floating, but remains between the two extremes, each bleeding into the other with delicate grace until there’s little (if any) distinction.  Lundvall may never release an album in this vein, but perhaps he doesn’t need to; this track is as carefully executed and perfectly balanced as any ambient piece I’ve ever heard.

Tor Lundvall is something of a hidden genius.  His music consistently dwells in its own places, comfortably between genres, and always recognizable.  He doesn’t bash us over the head with technical trickery or dr0wn us in pretension.  What he gives us is a glimpse into the world as he sees it –  comfortable yet oh-so-slightly unsettling – and in doing so, lets us ponder the nature of everyday things, and urges us to wonder what might lie just beyond our perception.  There are things behind things; even something as sacred as Christmas has buried secrets.  Yule is a holiday album, but it is not an album of too-bright lights, superficial cheer, tired cliche, and crowded gatherings; it’s a holiday of glimpsed dreams and hidden shades, invisible in plain sight.