he name of the review copy was Nils Frahm ... Plays Piano, celeste, and reed organ. I thought, “oh no.” This sounded like a vanity project or low-budget new age disk, the kind that sells next to Sounds of the Humpback Whale at the Rite-Aid checkout counter. I was determined not to like it … but then I listened to it. Again and again. I began to realize that I really liked this disk, despite the title. Then I learned that the real title was Wintermusik. (A rose by any other name …) And that Peter Broderick, another artist whose music I admire, was also a fan; and that his reaction to Nils Frahm had been the same as mine. Here’s what Broderick had to say: “I laid back and pressed play, thinking I would fall asleep to the sound of some nice piano music. But the sound I heard was more than just nice. It was absolutely breathtaking, and it kept me awake staring at the ceiling until the CD was finished. Then I pressed play again.” Broderick and Frahm are now touring together, and the songs that Broderick had listened to were re-recorded under Broderick’s supervision and will soon be released on Kning Disk.
Wintermusik might have languished in obscurity as well, if not for Monique at Sonic Pieces, who happened upon the disk, fell in love with it and signed the artist for this limited release of 333. The handmade book binding is stark gray, but elegant, and suits the project well; Wintermusik was initially recorded as a Christmas present for family and friends. This puts the disk in the company of Sufjan Stevens' Songs for Christmas, recorded as a series of personal gifts over the years and finally packaged a few years later as a boxed set for fans. There’s certainly a light-hearted, holiday feeling to the music, especially when the bells join the proceedings; one thinks of happy carolers, wandering from house to starlit house as flurries dust their woolen caps. But this is not to say that one should avoid the disk simply because Christmas is half a year away; nor should one feel that the sounds herein represent any specific religion or creed. This is simply a disk of engaging, well-played music, suffused with a positive vibe.
Richard Allen

Arvo Pärt is a living national treasure to Estonia, and this album reveals such intimate access to his faith, sadness, and humility. Structured in five parts, Alina is a simple, chilling invocation of heartfelt desire comprised of only two movements that alternate with subtle variation. The opening lullaby of "Spiegel im Spiegel" is a gentle and melancholy embrace between Sergej Bezrodney on piano and Vladimir Spivakov on violin, where every note steps gracefully forward, as if ascending a fragile staircase. In contrast, the two movements of "Für Alina" leave a little room for structured improvisation, as the top note in each chord is left for the performer to, as P?rt puts it, "explore within themselves." Thus, Alexander Malter deserves special recognition for breathing such mournful sweetness into these passages through every fingertip; every delicate cluster of notes shines like a distant star through a wintery black night. Malter stays on for the middle section of "Spiegel im Spiegel" and, with violoncello from Dietmar Schwalke, adds a more somber deliberateness to the piece that pianist Bezrodney shies away from in his performances (tracks one and five), instead opting for restrained tenderness. The disc closes much in the same way it opens: as if a prayer of deepest longing were just whispered into the still air. Frequent ECM producer Manfred Eicher calls upon his usual strengths, by letting the instruments speak for themselves in the right acoustical settings -- less is certainly more, and the stark beauty of Alina comes partly from what we hear between the notes: such a rich and gorgeous silence. This is perhaps one of P?rt's finest releases on compact disc, though one of his quietest. These are the tears of ghosts.