Label: thanatosis produktion

最古のオルガンと電子音によるハードコアなアプローチ!!2025年にここthanatosis produktionよりデビュー、スウェーデン最古とされる16世紀の"ゲナルプスオルガン"とBuchla 200等のモジュラーシンセの電子音を組み合わせ、崇高なハードコア持続音を紡ぎ出す作家Erik Klinga。1st音源[Elusive Shimmer]は入荷する事が叶いませんでしたが、2026年2nd[Hundred Tongues]の入手に成功。鳥のさえずり、足音、鍵盤の音、水、遠くの群衆の声、ささやき声...、うっすらとした気配サウンドを背景に、ノイズの断片を交えつつ独特の圧力でオルガンを放射する一筋縄でない凄い録音物。





Erik Klinga’s second entry in his Thanatosis trilogy is darker, more dystopian in its bloom. Where his debut glowed with incandescent warmth, Hundred Tongues absorbs the unease of the present and yet throws a flash of light, albeit blinding. Composed at Malmö Art Museum on the 16th-century Genarpsorgan, threaded with his Buchla synthesizer, field recordings from Skåne and Öland, and a deliberate, focused touch, it reads as one long form: episodes that coil, return, and reconfigure rather than resolve.

The record’s opener, “Spring to Mind,” begins with static and the pressure of thin air, as though drawn from the negative space between signals. The noise condenses into a low hum, then clarifies into a foghorn-like tone; tender, wary organ chords arrive and alternate with pockets of interference. From the start the locus is elusive, hovering between a physical space and an imagined topography, and the title hints at emergence: something long lain dormant beginning to stir.

“Opaque Stars” lifts into a crystalline register. The timbre blurs the seam between pipes and circuits; thin veils of chiming chords stretch from a grounded bass to needle-thin harmonics. Upper voices flare and vanish like stars glimpsed through nebulae, and the piece reads as an address to birds, his ornithological ear guiding the brightest frequencies as if renewing an old exchange between human and avian song.

“Conspiracy of Silence” brings the birds further into focus. The collared flycatcher—present in a lively cascade of notes—sings over organ pipes that tremble as though exposed to a stirring wind. The piece offers a communion enacted through listening: the organ sighs like a relic at the end of time, and the small bird becomes a witness to our future. Indeed, this could be Klinga’s own piece for the end of time; early humans may have learned to communicate by imitating birds, and here he returns the gesture by attending to a bird that might outlive us.

The eighteen-minute title piece is at the work’s centre. It opens in ambiguity: crackling that could be leaves or tape noise, clicks that could be footsteps or instrument keys, murmurs that could be water or a distant crowd. Organ and Buchla tones enter almost unnoticed, hovering between noise and tone; high notes rise while deep clusters resonate through the body. In Swedish lore, songbirds were said to have a hundred tongues; the organ, with its hundreds of pipes, also speaks in multitudes, and Klinga unifies these voices so they seem to breathe together. At one point a sustained pitch catches the ear and turns the whole mass toward a hard white illumination. Occasional coughs and chair creaks betray the presence of listeners—reminders that this suite is stitched from live recordings in Skovgaardsalen, Norberg kyrka, and Koncertkirken. It ends not with resolution but with the return of everyday sounds: bicycle wheels, construction, traffic; gradually, we recognise our own world again.

Klinga’s music slows the listener’s internal tempo and recalibrates attention to minute shifts. Pairing one of Sweden’s oldest organs with a modular synthesizer, he bridges centuries. By weaving in birds and environmental recordings, he underscores the fragility of our shared sonic habitats and the kinship between human and non-human voices. Birdsong has inspired music for millennia, yet Klinga’s approach is distinct: he does not simply echo these calls, he stages a dialogue in which pipe, circuit, and birdsong stand as equals. Hundred Tongues honours this lineage and invites us to remember that listening to our surroundings itself may be the origin of music.