ISLAJA
Angel Tape
Boomkat Product Review:
Merja Kokkonen's first Islaja album in years is a hypnotic, cinematic set of haunted vocal, piano, organ and synth experiments, inspired by a well-loved tape of church music her mother had played as a child. Fusing lopsided Finnish folk with smudged-out praise music, Kokkonen's arrives on her most defined and emotionally-charged statement yet.
2023 seems to be Finland's for the taking - already we've had a stunning new album from Lau Nau, and the eccentric Paavoharju are gearing up to release another genre-mangled odyssey. It wouldn't be complete without an entry from Islaja, whose '00s albums are still essential texts in here. 'Angel Tape' is her first full-length since 2018's 'Tarrantulla', and unlike that album, it eschews a song-based approach. When Merja was a child, she was entranced by a cassette of church music that her mother played - they called it the "angel tape" because the music, supposedly a recording of praise songs from Kansas City, had been fuzzed-out and distorted by heavy duplication, and the voices sounded inhuman, like angels singing.
We can hear Kokkonen's context most vividly on the title track, a reverb-drenched collage of doomy piano, subtle electronics and indistinct chorals that assemble a tense narrative. She allows eerie piano notes to fall into a pool of precarious synths and rumbling subs, never losing sight of the church's looming silhouette. Waves of distorted, reversed instrumentation suggest the freeform moonlight of Kokkonen's earliest releases, but there's an unmistakable sweetness that pierces the darkness. She blurs powerful pipe organ blasts on 'Pulpit Rising', accentuating the accidental notes and ruffling the phrases into rising, pitch-bent fanfares. In the wrong hands, it could have felt overdramatic, but even when she's crying to the heavens, Kokkonen manages to sound vulnerable, offsetting theatrics with tiny, beautiful flaws and ornate blemishes.
On 'Electus' she whispers over bubbling marshland sounds and faint, distant drones. It's all perfectlty still until booming, ritualistic percussion enters the fray, with Kokkonen's voice transformed into a mantra, curling around the crooked, verdant landscape between crackling log fires. There are plenty of artists trying to pan gold from ASMR's murky waters, but Kokkonen does it almost effortlessly, using brittle, human sounds to offset ecclesiastical themes and root them in history that stretches back further into early history.
Merja loops and layers her vocals into hymns, sculpting the phrases into murky, nebulous passages that sound so visceral you can almost reach out and touch them. And while there's plenty of overtly cinematic experimental music clogging the pipes at the moment, few composers manage to navigate the line between text and abstraction so lavishly.
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Boomkat Product Review:
Merja Kokkonen's first Islaja album in years is a hypnotic, cinematic set of haunted vocal, piano, organ and synth experiments, inspired by a well-loved tape of church music her mother had played as a child. Fusing lopsided Finnish folk with smudged-out praise music, Kokkonen's arrives on her most defined and emotionally-charged statement yet.
2023 seems to be Finland's for the taking - already we've had a stunning new album from Lau Nau, and the eccentric Paavoharju are gearing up to release another genre-mangled odyssey. It wouldn't be complete without an entry from Islaja, whose '00s albums are still essential texts in here. 'Angel Tape' is her first full-length since 2018's 'Tarrantulla', and unlike that album, it eschews a song-based approach. When Merja was a child, she was entranced by a cassette of church music that her mother played - they called it the "angel tape" because the music, supposedly a recording of praise songs from Kansas City, had been fuzzed-out and distorted by heavy duplication, and the voices sounded inhuman, like angels singing.
We can hear Kokkonen's context most vividly on the title track, a reverb-drenched collage of doomy piano, subtle electronics and indistinct chorals that assemble a tense narrative. She allows eerie piano notes to fall into a pool of precarious synths and rumbling subs, never losing sight of the church's looming silhouette. Waves of distorted, reversed instrumentation suggest the freeform moonlight of Kokkonen's earliest releases, but there's an unmistakable sweetness that pierces the darkness. She blurs powerful pipe organ blasts on 'Pulpit Rising', accentuating the accidental notes and ruffling the phrases into rising, pitch-bent fanfares. In the wrong hands, it could have felt overdramatic, but even when she's crying to the heavens, Kokkonen manages to sound vulnerable, offsetting theatrics with tiny, beautiful flaws and ornate blemishes.
On 'Electus' she whispers over bubbling marshland sounds and faint, distant drones. It's all perfectlty still until booming, ritualistic percussion enters the fray, with Kokkonen's voice transformed into a mantra, curling around the crooked, verdant landscape between crackling log fires. There are plenty of artists trying to pan gold from ASMR's murky waters, but Kokkonen does it almost effortlessly, using brittle, human sounds to offset ecclesiastical themes and root them in history that stretches back further into early history.
Merja loops and layers her vocals into hymns, sculpting the phrases into murky, nebulous passages that sound so visceral you can almost reach out and touch them. And while there's plenty of overtly cinematic experimental music clogging the pipes at the moment, few composers manage to navigate the line between text and abstraction so lavishly.
Boomkat Product Review:
Merja Kokkonen's first Islaja album in years is a hypnotic, cinematic set of haunted vocal, piano, organ and synth experiments, inspired by a well-loved tape of church music her mother had played as a child. Fusing lopsided Finnish folk with smudged-out praise music, Kokkonen's arrives on her most defined and emotionally-charged statement yet.
2023 seems to be Finland's for the taking - already we've had a stunning new album from Lau Nau, and the eccentric Paavoharju are gearing up to release another genre-mangled odyssey. It wouldn't be complete without an entry from Islaja, whose '00s albums are still essential texts in here. 'Angel Tape' is her first full-length since 2018's 'Tarrantulla', and unlike that album, it eschews a song-based approach. When Merja was a child, she was entranced by a cassette of church music that her mother played - they called it the "angel tape" because the music, supposedly a recording of praise songs from Kansas City, had been fuzzed-out and distorted by heavy duplication, and the voices sounded inhuman, like angels singing.
We can hear Kokkonen's context most vividly on the title track, a reverb-drenched collage of doomy piano, subtle electronics and indistinct chorals that assemble a tense narrative. She allows eerie piano notes to fall into a pool of precarious synths and rumbling subs, never losing sight of the church's looming silhouette. Waves of distorted, reversed instrumentation suggest the freeform moonlight of Kokkonen's earliest releases, but there's an unmistakable sweetness that pierces the darkness. She blurs powerful pipe organ blasts on 'Pulpit Rising', accentuating the accidental notes and ruffling the phrases into rising, pitch-bent fanfares. In the wrong hands, it could have felt overdramatic, but even when she's crying to the heavens, Kokkonen manages to sound vulnerable, offsetting theatrics with tiny, beautiful flaws and ornate blemishes.
On 'Electus' she whispers over bubbling marshland sounds and faint, distant drones. It's all perfectlty still until booming, ritualistic percussion enters the fray, with Kokkonen's voice transformed into a mantra, curling around the crooked, verdant landscape between crackling log fires. There are plenty of artists trying to pan gold from ASMR's murky waters, but Kokkonen does it almost effortlessly, using brittle, human sounds to offset ecclesiastical themes and root them in history that stretches back further into early history.
Merja loops and layers her vocals into hymns, sculpting the phrases into murky, nebulous passages that sound so visceral you can almost reach out and touch them. And while there's plenty of overtly cinematic experimental music clogging the pipes at the moment, few composers manage to navigate the line between text and abstraction so lavishly.
Boomkat Product Review:
Merja Kokkonen's first Islaja album in years is a hypnotic, cinematic set of haunted vocal, piano, organ and synth experiments, inspired by a well-loved tape of church music her mother had played as a child. Fusing lopsided Finnish folk with smudged-out praise music, Kokkonen's arrives on her most defined and emotionally-charged statement yet.
2023 seems to be Finland's for the taking - already we've had a stunning new album from Lau Nau, and the eccentric Paavoharju are gearing up to release another genre-mangled odyssey. It wouldn't be complete without an entry from Islaja, whose '00s albums are still essential texts in here. 'Angel Tape' is her first full-length since 2018's 'Tarrantulla', and unlike that album, it eschews a song-based approach. When Merja was a child, she was entranced by a cassette of church music that her mother played - they called it the "angel tape" because the music, supposedly a recording of praise songs from Kansas City, had been fuzzed-out and distorted by heavy duplication, and the voices sounded inhuman, like angels singing.
We can hear Kokkonen's context most vividly on the title track, a reverb-drenched collage of doomy piano, subtle electronics and indistinct chorals that assemble a tense narrative. She allows eerie piano notes to fall into a pool of precarious synths and rumbling subs, never losing sight of the church's looming silhouette. Waves of distorted, reversed instrumentation suggest the freeform moonlight of Kokkonen's earliest releases, but there's an unmistakable sweetness that pierces the darkness. She blurs powerful pipe organ blasts on 'Pulpit Rising', accentuating the accidental notes and ruffling the phrases into rising, pitch-bent fanfares. In the wrong hands, it could have felt overdramatic, but even when she's crying to the heavens, Kokkonen manages to sound vulnerable, offsetting theatrics with tiny, beautiful flaws and ornate blemishes.
On 'Electus' she whispers over bubbling marshland sounds and faint, distant drones. It's all perfectlty still until booming, ritualistic percussion enters the fray, with Kokkonen's voice transformed into a mantra, curling around the crooked, verdant landscape between crackling log fires. There are plenty of artists trying to pan gold from ASMR's murky waters, but Kokkonen does it almost effortlessly, using brittle, human sounds to offset ecclesiastical themes and root them in history that stretches back further into early history.
Merja loops and layers her vocals into hymns, sculpting the phrases into murky, nebulous passages that sound so visceral you can almost reach out and touch them. And while there's plenty of overtly cinematic experimental music clogging the pipes at the moment, few composers manage to navigate the line between text and abstraction so lavishly.
Black vinyl LP.
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Boomkat Product Review:
Merja Kokkonen's first Islaja album in years is a hypnotic, cinematic set of haunted vocal, piano, organ and synth experiments, inspired by a well-loved tape of church music her mother had played as a child. Fusing lopsided Finnish folk with smudged-out praise music, Kokkonen's arrives on her most defined and emotionally-charged statement yet.
2023 seems to be Finland's for the taking - already we've had a stunning new album from Lau Nau, and the eccentric Paavoharju are gearing up to release another genre-mangled odyssey. It wouldn't be complete without an entry from Islaja, whose '00s albums are still essential texts in here. 'Angel Tape' is her first full-length since 2018's 'Tarrantulla', and unlike that album, it eschews a song-based approach. When Merja was a child, she was entranced by a cassette of church music that her mother played - they called it the "angel tape" because the music, supposedly a recording of praise songs from Kansas City, had been fuzzed-out and distorted by heavy duplication, and the voices sounded inhuman, like angels singing.
We can hear Kokkonen's context most vividly on the title track, a reverb-drenched collage of doomy piano, subtle electronics and indistinct chorals that assemble a tense narrative. She allows eerie piano notes to fall into a pool of precarious synths and rumbling subs, never losing sight of the church's looming silhouette. Waves of distorted, reversed instrumentation suggest the freeform moonlight of Kokkonen's earliest releases, but there's an unmistakable sweetness that pierces the darkness. She blurs powerful pipe organ blasts on 'Pulpit Rising', accentuating the accidental notes and ruffling the phrases into rising, pitch-bent fanfares. In the wrong hands, it could have felt overdramatic, but even when she's crying to the heavens, Kokkonen manages to sound vulnerable, offsetting theatrics with tiny, beautiful flaws and ornate blemishes.
On 'Electus' she whispers over bubbling marshland sounds and faint, distant drones. It's all perfectlty still until booming, ritualistic percussion enters the fray, with Kokkonen's voice transformed into a mantra, curling around the crooked, verdant landscape between crackling log fires. There are plenty of artists trying to pan gold from ASMR's murky waters, but Kokkonen does it almost effortlessly, using brittle, human sounds to offset ecclesiastical themes and root them in history that stretches back further into early history.
Merja loops and layers her vocals into hymns, sculpting the phrases into murky, nebulous passages that sound so visceral you can almost reach out and touch them. And while there's plenty of overtly cinematic experimental music clogging the pipes at the moment, few composers manage to navigate the line between text and abstraction so lavishly.
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