While listening to The Silicone Veil, I'm travelling to the outskirts of Sydney, from Norwegian winter to Australian summer. I'm in a run-down industrial suburb, a ramshackle Australia. The old warehouses remind me of ruins with their windswept concrete walls, dirty grafitti, and flaky paint. They glow in the desert red afternoon sun.
The light and the ruins set the scene for The Silicone Veil, or is it the other way around? From the ashes of Rome to the hidden domes, from Sundfør's golden voice and the warm vintage synthesizer arpeggios, I hear ancient, open, glowing brushstrokes.
There is something unpretentiously goth and romantic to the album - but while goth artists tend to hide in a haze of mystery, Sundfør is accessible and vulnerable. She looks straight at me with her voice, eyes open, closer to Joy Division than Bat For Lashes. My eyes are my sanctuary, she sings towards the end of first single White Foxes while I wait for my plane to take off from Kingsford Smith Airport. The sun is setting behind the terminal building. I close my eyes. The beat continues, and the voice repeats the words like a flickering light across my face.