Wednesday Knudsen

There’s something delightfully tectonic about Wednesday Knudsen’s new solo LP. The album moves slowly, delicately; a graceful arc across the sky mirroring the almost imperceptible shudder of the Earth towards it’s new puzzle positions. Atrium deepens the gravity that pulled at the edges of Soft Focus, rooting the listener to the spot, creating a space to exist without the itch of our era insisting itself, at least for an hour or so. It’s a mirror of it’s makings, a part of the woods that wrought it. Knudsen has imbued the record with the soft tick of time as it exists in the Northeast mountains. Her playing, so often complimentary to her many collaborators, can often seek to tear at the seams, but here the goal is not to bend or break, but to mend.

Atrium harnesses its hymns under the canopy of trees, a beacon in the blur of disconnection and disorientation. There’s an image of works of resistance as hackles up and confrontation-heavy, but there’s often just as much subterfuge in a record that clears the constant static so that the heart can be heard. Every corner of the current climate pulls focus like a magnet, Atrium’s buffer from the banter is a much needed respite for regrowth and ultimately, regroup. Built monastically in her corner of the Taconic range here Upstate, the record seeps through the groundwater, quivers on the breeze, and hums softly through the wires until it ignites a necessary thrum for those who seek it.

Support the artist. Buy it HERE.