Vind is an interpretative album of wind instrument music, mainly flute, sax and clarinet, ranging from traditional Norwegian tunes to more experimental original compositions.

Being a fan of traditional and experimental Norse, Scandinavian and Celtic music, I had hoped for something dreamlike and edgy, or homespun and edgy. This album is neither. I suspect the only really appreciative listener might be some exceedingly out-of-touch individual composing New Age poems from the heart by red candlelight. As an only slightly New Age sentimentalist myself, I can't appreciate the synth-heavy tracks. They reference a jumble of inchoate yet tired tropes, and so, therefore, must I.

"Flyr av sted" starts well enough, with fiddles and a simple rhythmic beat. Even the pipes are good; the clapping and pseudo-chant and distortion loops in the background are tolerable also. But then it goes on too long. Way too long. And then track two opens, and all I can think is, Hel [sic], it's Frodo leaving the Shire: the lite version.

The whole album is one long sojourn in a gift shop: "Bolge" is not saved by the guitar trying desperately to keep up with flute, although the thirty-second guitar solo with 'perkusjon' is lovely; "Regnsang" has some haunting front vocals murmuring secrets whilst a predictable Gregorian choral assents in the background . . . secrets tragically lost in vaguely kettle-drumish echoes. "Suser I skog" is a flute-shrill 'rain in the forest' theme plagued by ana-cultural hints of some sort of electro-didgeridoo; "Seil" is a predictable fusion of Northern and Eastern riffs; "Solgangsbris," fair maid loses virginity in wholesome free-for-all hay frolic, ripping off Varttina whilst at it. "Ro" has a haunting pipe and nyckelharpe start which peters off into a non-melody which I forgot even while trying to describe it.

The album Vind is intended to evoke the wind itself, which blows, as Jacobsen writes, 'always, endlessly. It hears everything, sees everything, and brings with it everything that's new.' I'm sorry to say that this album, for me, merely ... blows. That's an obvious shot, and so I add, in Chaucer's blessedly edgy if not entirely new words, my reluctant summary:

The rumbling of a fart, and every soun',
Is but of air reverberatioun,
And ever wasteth lite and lite away.