Silja Rós sends us “Letters from my past,” and it’s as if one has been handed a velvet pouch of smoothed sea glass, each piece a shard of memory polished by time. Listening feels like sorting through them, the Icelandic musician’s neo-soul and pop songwriting unfurling narratives from what must be deeply personal old diaries. There’s an intimacy here akin to deciphering faded ink in a found notebook – you almost feel you shouldn’t be looking, but the pull is irresistible.
The journey charted across these nine songs, reportedly titled to flow like a chain of thought, mirrors that tumbling internal monologue of love’s complexities: miscommunication, hidden affections, the subtle theatre of unmet expectations. Then, the fracture of heartbreak, leading to the quiet, often bewildering, work of self-repair. Magnus Dagsson’s Rhodes doesn’t just play notes; it sighs, it ponders, sometimes like the blinking light on an answering machine you’re afraid to check. The grounding comes from Kristófer Nökkvi and Bergur Einar (drums) and Baldur Kristjáns (bass), a steadfast rhythm section navigating emotional currents, with Kjalar’s piano adding flecks of poignant colour.
Rós’s rediscovery of her sound feels authentic, her voice indeed a soulful conduit. Bergrós’s backing vocals and the surprising warmth of the brass section (Sigurrós, Guðjón Steinn & Villi Gumm) are less accompaniment, more like encouraging murmurs from the next room, or perhaps the well-meaning, slightly out-of-tune choir of past selves. This isn’t about gloss; it’s about grappling, ultimately finding solace in solitude before blossoming into a rediscovered joy. The album moves from jazz-infused pop introspection to moments that sparkle unexpectedly, like finding a forgotten café that serves precisely the obscure pastry you once dreamt about.
These aren’t just re-read letters; they’re re-felt. Does revisiting the past ever truly mean leaving it behind, or is it just learning to dance with its ghosts?
