On tiptoeing into the hushed atmosphere of The Lodge in The Deaf Institute on Friday night, one thing was immediately clear. Aga Ujma, the musician who was deftly plucking the harp on stage, sounded unmistakably like Björk. I know it’s somewhat reductive to simply say ‘this artist sounds like this other artist’, but it was too uncanny not to mention. In the pitch, accented delivery, and impressive range of her vocals, I was reminded of those early Björk albums which touched on traditional Icelandic folk. Ujma is Polish though, so I hope I’m not stepping on fragile Poland-Iceland relations here. Anyway, it was beautiful. The songs were delicate and peaceful, and the audience observed in total silence. I strongly suspected this was an indication of things to come.
I didn’t know much about Hinako Omori. From the little I’d heard, atmospheric and ambient electronic music was her bag, so I approached this evening expecting something mellow. As the lights dimmed, a slight figure draped in grey slowly took to the stage. Speaking incredibly softly, Omori declared herself pleased to be here, and would be playing a few old songs then her new album, Stillness, Softness in full. Compared to the city buzz I’d experienced on my walk here, I admired the stillness Omori had carved out in this space. This was respite from the outside world. A soft directive to lean in and listen.
A low electronic tone swelled from the synthesiser in front of her. Blue lights began to glow and pulse slowly. And as Omori began to sing softly, ghostly voices echoed from the speakers in contrast. The effect was ethereal. I felt immersed immediately, and was simultaneously impressed by the crisp sound in this small room.
The atmosphere had been set. Quiet, soothing, peaceful. It was therefore unintentionally hilarious when, during a slight transition between songs, the ceiling began to vigorously shake. And not just a bit either: the fixtures and fittings were visibly rocking. Clearly, whatever event was taking place above our heads was more raucous than this one. Collectively, we looked up, and then over at the bar staff who didn’t look unduly concerned. This, concerningly, must happen all the time. Eyes back to the stage then.
There’s a tension and release with Hinako Omori’s music. Slow, electronic drones would stretch out for what felt like minutes, before Omori’s voice softly came back into the picture. After the third track, with the lights low, the sound of waves lapped from the speakers. It felt like the aim was to aurally transport us away. The effect was somewhat hypnotic. But then we were brought back into the room as blue lights rose, and high piano notes began to play. We went from the ‘Ocean’ to ‘The Richest Garden In Your Memory’ – both tracks from last year’s A Journey. The set felt meticulously crafted with one song flowing into another. And while music in this genre can feel like one long piece of background music, for me, especially at this early point, it felt wonderfully immersive.
I hadn’t previously realised that Omori’s stage was set up with two framed images either side of her, and they began to illuminate as the tempo increased slightly. Bathed in a ghostly white glow, this felt like a moment of transition between the songs. And sure enough, a stark sound – almost like a church organ – signalled the transition into the new album. I was struck by Omori’s precise movements. Whether carefully twisting a desk light from one area of her synthesiser to another, or caressing the keyboard, she acted almost as if nobody else was in the room. Urgent bass tones started to accompany the organ sound as if we were about to experience a religious reckoning. It felt like we’d been building to this point. The slow build up made the increase in intensity more effective, and left me on edge to hear what was going to happen next.
The answer was ‘Cyanotype Memories’, something that sounded more like a traditional pop song than anything previously heard this evening. Omori’s “sometimes I get overwhelmed” opening lyric sounded almost familiar, with an underlying beat adding a percussive element for the first time. Then, unexpectedly, the white lights disappeared and the picture frames turned blood red. Sinister synth tones introduced ‘Epigraph’ and those ghostly voices were back. What was this, a descent into hell? It was a welcome change of mood, a switch between light and dark.
Omori switched between the two in the closing moments. ‘Foundation’ brought bright lyrics that sounded like self-affirmation (“my foundation is stable” repeated, mantra-like). Yet the harpsichord on the following track, ‘In Full Bloom’, sounded incredibly sinister, like the ominous dread in a ‘70s giallo horror film.
My attention started to wane slightly in the closing moments – not helped by the bass humming from above – but the show ended at the right time. Coming full circle, the sound of the waves returned at Aga Ujma came back to pluck her harp gently for the title track. They embraced and graciously acknowledged the crowd before departing. In a chaotic world, this was a beautiful moment of peace. I’ll be heading straight for Hinako Omori’s albums to preserve it for a little longer.
Words by Tom Burrows
Picky Bastards 
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