ātamōn, the first full-length release from Swedish composer Amina Hocine, was born from a foghorn organ built by the composer herself, made from everyday objects taken from hardware stores. Listening to ātamōn without any context, it would not be immediately apparent that the music was made utilizing any acoustic instruments, let alone one so rudimentary. The most immediately noticeable aspect of ātamōn is how icy and synthetic its drones sound, almost feeling like a digital condensation of Harry Bertoia’s sound sculptures.
ātamōn was recorded in an abandoned iron mine in rural Sweden, a process reminiscent of Pauline Oliveros’ cistern experiments, but the record doesn’t sound anything like her Deep Listening-era work either. On those records, the reverberations of the cistern have such an impact on the sound that it almost feels like it should be credited as a musician, manipulating the sounds in real time and creating a natural delay effect that hypnotically blurs the distinctions between the different sound sources. ātamōn absolutely has a psychoacoustic effect, but every sound feels laser-precise and intentional. The tension between these two elements – the ethereal, transcendental qualities of the music and the stark form in which it’s presented – makes for a compelling listen, but with some drawbacks.
It often feels as though every other week, another boilerplate drone record that lets the drone do all of the heavy lifting while the music descends into sonic mush gets churned out. ātamōn is definitely not one of those records. There’s an immediacy to ātamōn that is deeply striking; it feels as if the music is facing the listener close up. That feeling of intensity reflects a clear sense of sonic craft in Hocine’s material, and it sets her work apart. But this immediacy also sometimes clashes with the piece as a whole. The record was inspired by foghorns, but the image of sound guiding travellers through a dense and treacherous landscape doesn’t come across on a piece where everything feels so crystal clear. It feels as though there was a lot of potential in the sonic materials that wasn’t fully explored.
ātamōn is also intended to take on a spiritualistic sonic dimension, and there’s definitely something enthralling in the contrast between the slow, processional first part and the blissed-out static of the second part. However, the sheer coldness of ātamōn puts a degree of distance between these aspirations and the music itself. The title is an Old High German word meaning “to breathe,” but ātamōn feels more like the sound of a machine than a living entity. There are plenty of captivating moments on the record, and it’s easy to imagine Hocine channeling these elements into something really powerful. But as it stands, ātamōn is a deeply intriguing record that doesn’t quite feel fully realized.
