
Rock, You Can Fly, the second solo album from Danish singer-songwriter Lise Westzynthius, is a record full of the coolly affecting ambient pop that has become increasingly identified with Scandinavian artists. It is lovely, bearing traces of the vastness of Sigur Rós, the pulsating warmth beneath the layers of tundra that Björk has mastered, the spacy synth echoes of Air, and the claustrophobic restraint of Portishead. Weszynthius’s icy, breathy soprano hovers like ether above arrangements of strings, keyboards, and guitars. Every track is as brittle as a snowflake, intricately constructed but immediately melting upon hitting the surface. If there is one drawback to this album, it’s that the songs are a bit too uniform, all sounding as if they were part of the same wintry dream. Rock, You Can Fly is so polished, it makes you curious as to what would happen if Westzynthius was anything less than perfectly tasteful. Still, the album is strong and worth listening to for the closer, “Dead Angle,” alone. It’s a funereal dirge as luminous as beams of sunlight breaking through clouds. Cold rarely feels this inviting.
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Caroline Bermudez