The idea that some music exists to sleep to seems foolish until you've heard just the sort of record that does. But at that point, the concept that music should only serve to invigorate, to inspire, to ignite, becomes just as misguided. There's a fine line, here, between melancholy and tedium, between minimalism and silence, but it's a soft line, a forgiving line, and one which inherently blurs further with every drone and tapped piano note. It's an art form, because the variety is simple, subtle, intricate and almost hidden away. If you switch off your analytical side - which you would be well advised to do - you'll miss the layers of gentle picked guitars and glockenspiels on every level but the subconscious. That's how it should be.
Acda's voice whispers and echoes, childlike and serene, painting delicate strokes onto your retina; backed only by the most simple pianos, soft Sigur Ros-style ambience and distant sound effects, these are tales to fall asleep to, to meander with at the slowest of paces and be comfortable that the slowest of paces is quick enough sometimes. Vague outlines of stories and of people in the snow, some falling in love, others being carried away from it, and all of them trying to figure it out. The words are sparse, and the notes are fewer still, but it all sits as a framework, a cradle for your midnight thoughts to rest in. Some of them will grow into dreams, and others will stay beneath the surface. Try not to go looking for them.
