Forget what you think you know about experimental electronic music. Forget the polite, chin-stroking stuff you hear in art galleries. “SKINWALKER,” the debut album from Copenhagen’s anarchist Ani Even, is a rock record for the post-everything age. It might be built on synths and fractured choirs, but its spirit is pure resistance.
The mastermind here is Bror Lynge, the man behind the Ani Even mask. This is a solo project, a vessel for one artist’s singular, uncompromising vision. Lynge isn’t simply a button-pusher; he’s a shaman conjuring storms. He’s the vocalist, the architect of the punishing soundscapes, and the nerve at the centre of it all. Hailing from a Danish-Faroese-Greenlandic background, he moulds this multifaceted heritage into a sound that feels ancient and futuristic, like a Viking longship powered by a malfunctioning reactor.
From the very first track, “Be With Me,” the agenda is clear. This isn’t an invitation; it’s a confrontation. Jagged piano lines stab through the silence, and Lynge doesn’t sing so much as tear through the track with a manic mix of spoken incantation and shouted confession. It’s minimalist, sure, but it’s vicious, built on a throbbing low-end that would make any doom metal band nod in respect. This is someone kicking the door in, and you’re the one he’s looking for.
The title track, “Skinwalker,” is where the album truly crystallizes into its monstrous form. Heavy, ritualistic drum patterns slam against warped synths to create what feels less like a dance beat and more like a primitive war chant. Lynge’s voice is like a sermon from some unholy pulpit. This is the sound of transformation, the painful, ugly, and electrifying moment of becoming something else entirely.
Tracks like “It’s A Great Deal” and “Rotten to the Core” are the album’s most overtly chaotic moments. This is where Lynge leans hard into the edges of industrial and new wave. Imagine if early Suicide decided to throw a pagan rave in a strobe-lit basement as the roof caved in. It’s deliberate, controlled, teetering on the edge of becoming a sheer wall of noise—and that’s the whole damn point.
But it’s not all relentless assault. The genius of “SKINWALKER” lies in its dynamics. The midpoint of the record, with “Not my friend” and “Run,” showcases a brilliant balance between attack and atmosphere. The use of space is one of the album’s secret weapons. When the beat drops out and Lynge’s vocals hang in the air, uncomfortably close, it forces you to actually listen. It’s in these moments that the album’s themes—the messy, beautiful, and terrifying terrains of fatherhood, addiction, climate anxiety, and queerness—hit the hardest. “A Boy Who’s Crying” is a standout, a shadowy, late-night track with a deep, emotional exhaustion, proving that the most powerful punch isn’t always a scream.
As the record winds down, it doesn’t offer solace. “Silent Service” feels like walking through a fog of distortion, and “Deep Void Visitor” is a slow, rumbling piece that builds like a storm that never breaks. The closer, “Djævlebørn,” is a seething, ritualistic finale that feels like it was recorded in a cave with a demon grinning at the mixing desk. It’s unnerving, and it leaves you stranded.
“SKINWALKER” is a hell of a trip. Ani Even isn’t trying to be nice or accessible; he’s trying to wake something up inside you. In an era of polished, safe music, this record is an act of resistance. Plug in your best headphones, and let this skinwalker get under yours.