A distant place, far up north, Canada, Alaska, or even further, far away from here. The earth: somewhere on its way around the sun, but we don't know where we are. We find ourselves in the snow. And the only thing we know is: summer always sees other places first.

Yet somewhere round here somebody is singing, and so do the guitars, while bellish notes are hit on a toy piano. Moving keys and strings while moving his vocals to the limits, always on the edge of whisper: Matthias Grübel. But here, in the very north of music they call him a different name, they whisper when they say it: phon°noir.

A year now, a little more than a year, one year since Phon°noir tore open the autumn skies above him: Putting holes into october skies, as he would say. Now we are about to meet him again. As we raise our antennas towards the sky, into the snowflakes, somebody is singing, singing through the wires, wires that lead all the way to Gullholmen: Matthias.

This time it is october again, and even if the objects don't need us, Matthias needs them, making use of them with even greater passion. This time he fits more instruments, more twists and turns into his tunes, more rhythms and more voices. We find him duetting with Marie-Sophie Kanske on My paperhouse on fire, Anna-Lynne Williams assists in measuring a future we once had, and Calika sends over some droning chords from the British Isles. While somewhere in the distance we hear the sound of a cello, bowing the cello, acoustic and electric: Fried Dähn.

And through all this, it suddenly seems like the snow is slowly melting as if the music came closer and closer... This is the movement of the new Phon°noir record: closer and closer, through the wires, and into the heart. At first we are far from a world we know, but soon we forget about the distance, we can walk from here. And in the end... in the end we can miss the future. Now we are invisible, the only thing that is not is our ears. Invisible with Phon°noir.