Given our penchant for referring to Sonic Pieces releases by color, we were happy when label owner Monique Recknagel expressed curiosity about what we might call the hue of Niu. We must admit that it has stymied us, as the closest matches we can find are phrases: magical mauve, mystical mauve and mystic mauve. Those phrases conjure comparison to The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour, while the color yields tinges of lilac, pink and grey. But as it turns out, this chameleonic nature is fitting, as Rauelsson‘s set is more than one thing; it’s modern composition, it’s electronic, it’s poetry. Depending on one’s point of entry, it may seem like different animals when it is instead a single creature. The tapestry of sounds forms a harmonious whole.
Niu ís Rauelsson’s third album for Sonic Pieces, following a grey one (Vora) in 2013 and a green one (Mirall) five years later. Hearing the opener and preview track “Prelude No. 7,” the listener is eased into soft stretches of strings, which are given plenty of room to breathe. If one interprets the cover sketch as feathers softly falling, the image is apt. It will take a while for the composer to return to this particular palette, as he has other hues in mind. “Puzzle Breeze,” the next string-based piece, arrives three tracks later, but the title is indicative of the puzzle of sequencing. Had the composer chosen to go here next, and then to “Podium of Riddles,” the album would have sounded tidy – all like-minded things nestled in their own cabinets – but lost the element of ah.
“Ornamental Eclipse” is the first of the electronic pieces, a subtle surprise, matching in tone, but not in timbre. The introduction of pedal steel lends the piece a dusty Midwestern vibe. “Gardens Unseen” – again, three tracks later – picks up this thread as if it had never been reached the floor, then again, like clockwork, in the seventh piece.
“A Keyhole Shaped Island” includes Heather Woods Broderick on flute and Zinc & Copper (a great name!) on brass. The stripped-down nature of the instrumentation is in sharp contrast to the full sound of Vora; we’ve never heard the composer – who was once a folk artist – do the same thing twice. Halfway through the eight-minute piece, Katrine Grarup Elbo recites a poem by Rauelsson, deepening the mystery of the keyhole. In the closing minutes, there is only voice and static. The next time voice appears is in the phrase, “It could vanish in an instant,” in the track of the same title: a sobering sentiment, driven home by repetition. In this context, the vinyl static implies an underlying presence as well as absence: the durability of the diamond needle in the groove, the filled silence that lies beyond the notes.
“Prelude No. 3” and “Ceramic Swallows, Set of 3” wrap their arms around the internal pieces, like parents allowing their children to play, to explore, to dream. By eschewing bombast for subtlety, this study of contrasts becomes one of integration, a little lilac, a little pink, a little grey: mystical mauve. (Richard Allen)