Someone's been reading too much Pitchfork...

Late one Friday night a few weeks ago, I stood in the middle of my deserted campus, clutching my phone and glancing nervously toward the 5^th floor offices of our university radio station.

I was crossing my fingers so the DJ on duty wouldn’t hate me for what I was about to do; I needed to rouse him from his peaceful late-night shift of 15-minute-long jazz tracks interspersed with naps. I had to ask him to come down and deliver my CD review to the station, lest I incur the wrath of the Music Directors, because it would have been late for the fourth time.

He obliged, put on a long song, came downstairs. Responded with an indifferent grunt to my thank-you-SO-muches which were actually pleas of oh-gosh-I’m-so-sorry-I-annoyed-you-pleas-don’t-hate-me’s. It’s just my nature to get all bashful in a situation like that—situations that really aren’t all that big a deal.

So imagine my surprise when I drove into the bleak tunnel that is Highway 316 at night and switched on my radio to find that the DJ was not, in fact, denouncing my obtuse and totally unacceptable behavior on-air. Instead he was rewarding me with Hanne Hukkelberg.

Incidentally, Hanne’s 2006 release Rykestrasse 68 was just made available in US stores a few days ago. The Oslo songwriter’s third album, which received a Norwegian Grammy, is my favorite find of this year so far—but don’t get me wrong. This girl is anything but undiscovered. Her official website offers an impressive roster of international praise. 

Yada yada, what does she sound like? A little like the lovechild of Regina Spektor and Cat Power. A little like a dusty box filled with black and white photos of eerily realistic young people, found under your grandma’s bed. A little like an electronic vintage snowstorm, or a gramophone playing your favorite jazz singer from the 2030s.

Hanne's voice is delicate, but captivating; often barely peeking out from behind lopsided instrumentals, bathed in a light haze of antique-y static. Then she'll slip effortlessly into a more modern brand of jazzy sass, and then back, and then forward again, in a haunting little dance that won’t let you decide if it sounds old or new.

The perfect soundtrack for a lonely drive from city to country to city at 1 in the morning. Thanks Mister DJ dude. I’m sorry if I bothered you.

(listen here)