Atanaria
Like a whisper carried on the Nordic winds, Eg Er Framand arrives not as mere music, but as an invocation—an incantation of longing, nostalgia, and spectral beauty. Kathrine Shepard, the visionary force behind Sylvaine, once again crafts a sonic portal between the earthly and the ethereal, where folklore and feeling entwine in an embrace both delicate and immense.
From the very first notes, a hush falls over the world. The air thickens, shimmering with unseen presences, as if ancient spirits have stirred at the sound of her voice. This is the sound of solitude, of the deep woods and the fading dusk, of untamed landscapes where human presence is fleeting, yet memory lingers in the stones and trees.
Her voice—achingly pure, effortlessly haunting—does not merely sing; it reverberates, a thread woven through time, through past and present, through realms both seen and unseen. She is both lullaby and lament, siren and seer, her melodies drifting like mist over fjords, carrying with them a quiet sorrow, an ineffable yearning. One does not need to understand the words; their weight is felt, pressing against the heart, soft as snowfall yet sharp as ice.
The instrumentation is as restrained as a held breath, yet within that restraint lies a universe of emotion. Recorded within the sacred walls of Kampen Kirke, the reverberant glow of church organ, the delicate caress of strings, and the subtle, spectral pulse of guitars and synthesizers create a dreamlike landscape where sound and silence intertwine. Here, serenity and melancholy walk hand in hand, and in their midst, Sylvaine’s voice rises—a beacon in the twilight, a flickering candle in the gloaming.
Each track is a chapter, a spell whispered into the void. Dagsens Auga Sloknar Ut unfurls like the first chill of dusk, its notes floating weightless, suspended between heaven and earth. Arvestykker carries the ghosts of ancestral echoes, a hymn of remembrance, the past breathing through melody. Eg Veit I Himmelrik Ei Borg stands as a solemn prayer, a fragile offering to the infinite, its harmonies shimmering like frost-kissed branches.
And then, Tussmørke—the twilight hour, a liminal space between day and night, reality and dream. A single, looping motif spins like a thread in the loom of the subconscious, a melody so simple yet so hypnotic, it becomes an incantation of its own. It is the sound of stillness made tangible, of forgotten stories humming just beneath the threshold of awareness. One could lose themselves in its quiet infinity, drifting ever deeper into its embrace.
The title track, Eg Er Framand, closes the journey with a final sigh, a farewell murmured against the wind. It is the sound of departure, of footsteps fading into mist, of something both ending and beginning anew. A song for those who wander, for those who have always felt like strangers in their own skin, searching for something just beyond reach.
With Eg Er Framand, Sylvaine does not merely create music—she conjures a world. A world of moonlit clearings, of lost myths and whispered secrets, of the exquisite sorrow that lingers in the spaces between moments. It is an album that transcends, that beckons the listener to step beyond the veil, if only for a little while.
To hear it is to be transported. To feel it is to understand—somewhere, in the marrow of the soul—that beauty and sorrow are but reflections of the same light. And in this ephemeral, breathless moment, as her voice fades into silence, all that remains is wonder.
Bravo, Sylvaine. Bravo.
