Violins. Cello. Piano. After a much acclaimed debut in 2007, Icelandic composer Ólafur Arnalds has assembled the world’s most tristful instruments into a well contemplated comeback. Only this time, different elements seem to unintentionally interrupt the atmosphere; crusading against the very core of every tingle it inflicts, the electronic-driven static operates a Morse code of maudlin emotions, constantly undermining each quiver, shudder, tremble, and all variations of feelings residing on the edge of sudden and involuntary reactions.

I remember it well – I asked you not to go but all I heard was the screaming silence of the wind, and just like the wind will always blow through the leaves, I will always remember this as our last lost chance – a mechanical voice enclosed within the delicate notes mutters, and its intermittent sobbing seems to carry over for 21 minutes, subtly swirling in a continuous transformation and becoming the musical leitmotif Variations of Static is built upon.

Particularly unusual, the five tracks remain quiescent; there is no disturbance, no unforeseen crescendo, and not even a noticeable gap between them. Sitting through it offers no gratuitous loophole, but is also lets you peep through the void locked in your own confinement – the EP manages to pay off in a rather distinct manner. In many ways, the music stagnates, and that would make a good reason to launch criticism, if it weren’t for the perpetual change in sentiment it conveys. For once, instruments don’t need to evolve in order to make a difference, this being Ólafur’s major accomplishment – the bare simplicity of music in its wholeness becomes unrelenting.

The universe would most definitely crumble, should all musicians rely on transmitting sheer passion without a solid compositional ground. Impressively enough, Iceland’s boy wonder manages to steer clear of that and delivers an utterly complex piece. From its inception to the very last second, Variations of Static explores basic human perceptions, the changing qualities of the most common sounds, and raw sensations, musically recreating scraps of an imaginary impressionist painting. Under the siege of strings, the world slowly becomes a skinless place, like a wide steppe safely pinned to the big bones of separation.

-Diana Sitaru