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Wandering the monochrome woodlands of a cloud lords hazy dreams, comes that peculiar entity of Swedish earthen heritage known only as Wagner Ødegård, whom once, in those early days of its youth, created a host of demo incantations—all aligned with a sonic expression of total folk ambience, not yet stretching claws of raw black metal ministrations, that helmbearer, Magnus Eriksson, would become most infamous for. Nattslingor was the second of these fabled excursions into the quiet greylands of silent riddles and whispered poetics, in which, for the first time, has now been pressed with the finest craftsmanship, into the deep wax grooves of true vinyl artefact, only made possible by the forbidding weald dedication of GoatowaRex iron branch reverence. Adoration of the rusted iron leaves; each twist, and turn, of branch by kiss of wind another blessing lain low from shadows forlorn and forsaken.

Nattslingor is an eerie journey into places that are both familiar, and yet instinctively alien as well—a folkish feeling of deja vu draping itself over the entirety of the experience. What once begins with an almost carefree romp through a forest village, replete with melody of flute and low breeze of wind, a lonely tune to wave farewell as the acolyte experiencing the journey leaves such war amber dreams, and strides forth into a deep dark woodland grove. Here the journey takes a far more sinister tone, in which melody is always distant and only the low howl of an unforgiving black thicket stretches on for an eternity. It is this duality of spells, that of warm campfire memories in the first, and then, silent transgressions of horror in the second, that evokes a true journey into the outer stretches of both mortal and immortal expression. A truly resplendent excursion of folk ambient spellcraft executed by a master craftsman.

Description text scribed by @neheroth