The melodies whisper like common copper butterflies resting on a dwarf birch. Be drawn in and comforted by the forest sunlight only to be suddenly left on the edge of a cliff, naked somehow, wondering how you are going to get home. There you see a gentle giant troll breathing deeply as they run up and down the mountains, overhead you hear layered guitars soar on winds above the peaks in Sermersuuq as toms and cymbals rain from the sky, crashing to the ground. They sound like a live house in Tokyo. Like a Mancunian computer. Like a fjord. Like a log cabin in Colorado.
Wake up. Listen to Mount Forel.