One of the coolest things about this album is how blue it is. The cover is blue, the Bandcamp page is blue, the vinyl edition is blue and the sound is blue. FLOCK is the bluest release ACL has received since Macie Stewart’s When the Distance Is Blue (2025), perhaps ironically released at the exact same time, corresponding with the spring solstice.
The album is a 40-minute suite, meant to be played as a continuous piece. Each movement shifts to a new set of timbres, while the players remain the same; the Swedish trio is all about transformation. Nothing remains in stasis, not even the mode of composition; after the initial sessions, improvisors were invited to add unpredictable textures. The idea of this music as “porous” allows for great variation, which means the only time the album will be heard in exactly this way is right here, in these blue grooves. Unlike popular music – which attempts to replicate the recorded form in concert (save of course for such famous bands as The Grateful Dead) – Hey Elbow is more interested in where the music will take them than where they will take the music.
The first movement is a lovely, lumbering beast that sounds like a herd of elephants, swinging their trunks slowly as they walk, trumpeting their presence. Halfway between modern composition and drone, this segment is only the baseline for what will eventually become a rollercoaster. Nearly ten minutes pass before the percussion enters, transforming the march into a tribal dance, shifting the project to rock. Two minutes later, onomatopoeic vocals lend the music a feeling of mystery. Is the vocalist leading the music, or melding her voice to the notes? This uncertainty lies at the heart of Hey Elbow, as pulling any individual thread leads only to the discovery of other threads. Big brass sends the music to the stratosphere as it hits the halfway point, the only down side being the need to flip the record. While no full stop is injected, the midsection is reduced to a series of taps and breaths, allowing for a peaceful exit and reentry. The only question is, what will emerge?
The ambient suspension stretches for a few minutes before a new drone develops, more soothing than its predecessor. Surprisingly, in the 26th minute, Julia Ringdahl sings of growing leaves and awakening, channeling the spirit of Louise Rutkowski and cementing the association with spring. For a few lovely minutes, one can imagine that This Mortal Coil is alive and well. But the album still has another shift up its sleeve, as the singer steps out, brass gives way to drums and a synth melody conjures images of a maypole. A jumble of closing vocals – low choir and looped female voice – completes the suite. Everything is still blue, but a different kind of blue: not the blue of shadows on snow, but the blue of clearing skies. (Richard Allen)
a closer listen 