Tag: music review

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Douglas Dare – Omni (album review)

In May 2014, I reviewed Whelm, Douglas Dare’s debut album, and praised it for its sparse beauty and lyrical weight. Now, almost exactly ten years later, I discovered Omni, his fourth and most daring album to date. It was released in May 2024 but had somehow stayed off my radar until recently.

Known for his piano-led minimalism and poetic songwriting, Dare takes a confident leap here. He embraces lush electronics, pulsing basslines and rhythmic tension. Omni is not a record that stays safely in the shadows. It pulses, flickers and invites movement, all while preserving the intimacy he is known for.

As someone whose taste usually leans toward heavier genres such as progressive rock, metal and dense arrangements, what continues to draw me to Dare’s music is not its volume but its emotional weight. There is a complexity in the restraint and a richness in the rawness. Omni feels simultaneously expansive and enclosed, like dancing alone in a dimly lit room while the world fades outside the door.

This is music that leans into sensuality and story. The electronic textures are meticulous but never sterile. There is breath in the beats and skin in the synths. My favourites – Absentia, Sailor, and No Island is a Man – are perfect examples of how emotion can be sculpted into sound. Absentia aches in its pauses. Sailor carries longing like a tide pulling memory and presence into one wave. No Island is a Man is both arresting and tender, its arrangement stunning in both vulnerability and strength.



Compared to the subdued piano ballads of Milkteeth (2020) or the fractured introspection of Aforger (2016), Omni moves with intent. It is bolder, darker in tone, but more fluid in form. It sheds the fragility of his earlier albums without losing the emotional core that defines his work.

Although I only discovered Omni recently, I listened to it all day for a couple of days in a row. It accompanied me through quiet work, restless thoughts, and even the writing of the heavier piece on mental health I shared recently. It held the background gently, anchoring me with its warmth and restraint, just like the best music does.

It is worth noting that Omni is not only Dare’s vision, but a collaboration shaped by sensitive and skilful production choices. The subtle textures and perfectly balanced arrangements speak of a team that knew exactly how to hold space for his voice and message.

Omni feels both nostalgic and forward-looking. It echoes influences while carving its own strange, beautiful path. It reminds me that emotive, art-driven music, whatever its genre, has the power to disarm and hold you still.
It was high time I took the time to write about this little electronic gem.

Find him and his links here: Douglas Dare

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Remembered for a While – Nick Drake


I didn’t know his name. But Nick Drake’s voice stopped me. Still. Fragile. A melody so simple it felt almost private, like a secret shared in the dark. Not loud. Not demanding. Just there. And it stayed. His songs do that. They find you when you need them most, and they linger.


Nick Drake was born in 1948, in a quiet English village. He never wanted the spotlight. He wrote what he saw: beauty, silence, longing. In his short life he left three albums: Five Leaves Left, Bryter Layter, Pink Moon. Few listened then. Only later did the world begin to understand what we had lost.



The first time I heard Nick Drake I was writing late at night, drifting through a playlist with Tim Buckley and Jeff Buckley. Music that feels raw, exposed. Then Pink Moon began.


His music is unlike anything else. Gentle and piercing at once. Poetic words wrapped around delicate guitar lines. He sang about nature, loneliness, fleeting love. Listening to him is like sitting in a quiet room while rain taps against the windows. Peaceful. Reflective. Bittersweet. His voice doesn’t just carry words. It carries emotions you didn’t know you were holding.
Pink Moon was the first. Bare and close, as if he were sitting right beside me. Then Northern Sky, tender as sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. And River Man, haunting, a dream that refuses to let go. These aren’t just songs. They are experiences.


Nick died in 1974, only 26 years old. Too soon, too quietly. After struggling for  years with doubts and depression. Today his work is celebrated, his voice passed on like a secret that endures. His songs remind us to pause. To sit with silence. To feel. It’s the right soundtrack for a quiet day in autumn.


If you want to step closer, the book Nick Drake: Remembered for a While gathers letters, stories, fragments. A portrait of a man who saw more than most, who left behind more than he knew.
What makes his legacy endure is the honesty. He didn’t write for an audience. He wrote because he had to. That’s why his music feels like it belongs to you. Not just something to hear, but something to carry. For me, his songs are comfort and inspiration. Even the quietest voices last, even the quietest voices are remembered for a while.
And that’s something I can relate to, maybe a bit too much.

If you’ve never listened to Nick Drake, let me help you begin. Start here:

1. “Pink Moon” – A hauntingly simple track that feels both fragile and eternal.




2. “Northern Sky” – A love song so warm and hopeful it’s like a soft embrace.




3. “River Man” – Mysterious and poetic, a song that lingers long after it ends.





Nick Drake wasn’t just a musician—he was a quiet genius, a poet who poured his soul into his work. His music isn’t loud or flashy—it’s honest, vulnerable, and profoundly human. I hope his songs find you, just as they found me, and that they stay with you long after the final note fades. Sometimes, it’s the quietest voices that leave the loudest echoes.