Album photography by Anne-Marie Forker
Style: Progressive rock, neo-prog (clean vocals)
Recommended for fans of: Airbag, Steven Wilson, David Gilmour, Lunatic Soul
Country: Norway
Release date: 11 April 2025
What makes a musician in an established band turn towards the path of solo artistry? For many, it is the prospect of complete creative control that draws them in—the lure of making something that is yours and yours alone, without having to compromise with those other people that ordinarily make music with you. But what of those who are already their band’s leader and primary songwriter—those who could already write what they want and have their glorified session musicians bandmates follow along with little issue? Well, in that case, it’s often out of a desire to branch out stylistically in ways that might not make sense in terms of their existing group’s oeuvre. Take Steven Wilson for instance. While he was already the undisputed main creative mind behind Porcupine Tree, his various adventures into trip-hop, ’70s prog pastiche, and electronica likely wouldn’t have happened without starting a career under his own name.
In a possibly similar vein, we now have Bjørn Riis, guitarist and bandleader of Norwegian neo-prog stalwarts Airbag. Less than a year after his main band’s release of The Century of the Self, Riis is putting out a brand new solo release by the name of Fimbulvinter. I’ve been a fan of Airbag and their melancholy, guitar-driven brand of David Gilmour-core ever since I found a YouTube album upload of All Rights Removed over a decade ago, but Riis’ solo career is new to me, despite the fact that he’s apparently been at this since 2014. He’s evidently quite experienced as a solo artist, which seems a positive sign; after four albums, Riis has had plenty of time to solidify a musical identity all his own, purporting to blend the atmospheric, introspective prog that put him on the map with the energetic, hard rock swagger of the bands he grew up with in the early ’80s. Will Fimbulvinter, in its themes of cold, empty isolation, expose new facets of this soulful shredder, or is it just a bag of frozen musical leftovers?
After a quiet, atmospheric intro to ease listeners in, “Gone” ratchets the intensity up significantly, with an insistent, propulsive beat driven by some nicely audible bass. It’s refreshing to hear an artist known for slow-burning, gradual buildups just put his foot on the gas and unleash some good old fashioned rock and roll for a change. As a cherry on top, Riis throws in a killer guitar solo, trading his usual Gilmour-esque weeping tone for a commanding, wah-pedalled wail designed to play out the open windows of a car speeding down the highway. Of course, there’s still a strong dose of that signature melancholic unease, largely present in the lyrics’ vague but deeply insistent themes of wanting to get out, to run away from… something. Riis also is a surprisingly adept vocalist, sounding almost exactly like Airbag frontman Asle Torstrup in places. In fact, almost eerily like him. Hey, wait a minute…
Apologies, readers. I seem to have put on “Machines and Men”, the opener from Airbag‘s A Day at the Beach album, by mistake. And yet, when I put on the actual “Gone”, I find that pretty much all of the prior paragraph still applies. Same driving bass-led beat, similar lyrical themes, very similar wailing guitar solo. To be fair, it’s not complete self-plagiarism: for one thing, the atmospheric intros are different, with “Gone” being preceded by a separate, acoustic intro track (“Illhug”) as opposed to “Machines and Men”, which folds its synthier intro into the track itself. Riis is also a slightly rougher, less polished vocalist than Tostrup, and the lyrics aim for a vibe of disconnection as opposed to paranoia. But the fact remains that the track is, by and large, a retread of territory Riis has already been over. Sure, it’s a good song when taken on its own merits—the energy is infectious, the guitar work gripping, and the melodies nicely emotional. But, the thing is, those aren’t its own merits; they’re the merits of a song released five years ago, and it makes this song’s existence hard to justify.
Alright, let’s not bang on about one track’s self-plagiarism too much. Surely the next song, “Panic Attack”, represents a brand new musical direction for Riis, something we’ve never seen. I hit play, and it’s an eleven-minute slow burn of a track, alternating between soft, echoing passages of understated sadness and big, emotional walls of heavy guitar, which… goddammit, I could be describing a dozen different Airbag songs right now, couldn’t I? Indeed, both it and closer “Fear of Abandonment” feel like B-sides from The Century of the Self, with the latter taking on the “soft ballad that builds into climactic guitar solo” side of the formula as opposed to its more progressively structured counterpart. Again, they’re not bad executions of said formula, with “Fear of Abandonment” in particular serving as a fine example of the sort of soulful Gilmour-isms that Riis can no doubt pull off in his sleep at this point. But they’re not nearly on the level of Airbag classics like “Homesickness” or “Disconnected” either, lacking the oomph of those tracks’ sheer catharsis and suffering somewhat from the absence of Tostrup’s emotive tenor.
When Riis isn’t cribbing from his own work, he’s taking inspiration from the aforementioned Steven Wilson, with mid-album ballad “She” offering a very familiar-feeling mixture of gently strummed guitar and echoing synth pads while the title track is a lengthy instrumental workout reminiscent in places of Wilson’s “Regret #9”. Here, however, there’s a bit more creativity and verve in how Riis incorporates said influence. “She”, though a bit minimalistic and simple in its lyricism, grows into a genuinely lovely, gentle tug on the heartstrings, thanks largely to some brilliantly warm layers of synths in its second half that wrap around its anxious electric guitars like the comforting hug of a loved one and form a welcome respite amidst the album’s otherwise dreary mood. And yes, “Fimbulvinter” is a bit overlong and inexplicably bitcrushes its rhythm guitar track to the point where it sounds ripped from the original Doom soundfont, but it also manages to throw in an entertaining variety of styles in an admirable attempt to fill its nine minutes. From wintry atmospherics to stately synth leads to even some Black Sabbath-style tritones, it manages to be the most unique track here, if nothing else.
And yet, despite all this, I can’t shake how generally inessential Fimbulvinter feels as an album. Not bad, not pointless, not really even boring, just… not something that I’d ever recommend anyone actively seek out unless they’ve already heard Airbag‘s entire discography and simply must have more. It’s got its fair share of musical highlights, and overall serves as a somber yet decidedly pleasant listen with few noticeable flaws. Yet it doesn’t offer much that hasn’t already been offered by Riis’ influences, as well as his own band, in a dozen other albums. For those who love music that trends toward the cold yet wistful, you could certainly do much worse than Fimbulvinter. But unlike a snowflake, this is an album whose shapes have been made many times before.
Recommended tracks: Gone, She, Fear of Abandonment
You may also like: Dim Gray, Jonathan Hultén, Alex Carpani
Final verdict: 6/10
Related links: Bandcamp | Spotify | YouTube | Official Website | Facebook | Instagram
Label: Karisma Records – Bandcamp | Facebook | Official Website
Bjørn Riis is:
– Bjørn Riis (vocals, guitars, bass, keyboards)
With:
– Henrik Bergan Fossum (drums)
– Arild Brøter (drums)
– Kai Christoffersen (drums)
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