Have you ever felt a moment stretch so thin that it dissolves into silence? That fleeting pause where the world holds its breath, and for once, you are neither here nor there. Just suspended, weightless, caught between release and longing. That’s where I found myself when I first heard Stina Nordenstam’s And She Closed Her Eyes. And somehow, after all these years, that feeling never left.
I’ve been living with this album like a secret, tucked away in the quiet corners of my mind. I’ve never met anyone who’s listened to it, and I wonder if that’s because it’s not the kind of record you stumble upon. It’s the kind of album that finds you when you’re standing at a crossroads, unsure whether to hold on or let go. This past week, as I played it on repeat while working, I felt its familiar weight settle around me again, a gentle, haunting reminder of what it means to surrender.
The Sound of Stillness, the Echo of Longing
Listening to And She Closed Her Eyes is like walking through a forest after the rain. The air is thick with something unspoken, and every step feels both grounding and otherworldly. Stina’s voice barely rises above a whisper, yet it carries the weight of unsaid things. Her words aren’t meant to be deciphered easily. They drift, like mist, swirling around you until they settle in unexpected places.
“When Debbie’s Back from Texas” opens the album like a half-remembered dream. The melody unfolds gently, wrapping around you like an old sweater that still smells like someone you miss. There’s a softness here, but also a quiet ache, a question lingering in the space between the notes. Are we ever really ready for someone’s return, or do we only prepare for their absence?
“Viewed from the Spire” follows, where Stina’s voice seems to float above rhythmic percussion before melting into a delicate jazz section. It’s the sound of perspective shifting, like standing at the top of a tower and realizing the world looks different when you’re far enough away. The transition into “Crime” feels like slipping into a darker, heavier space. The low, pulsing percussion reminds me of something Peter Gabriel might conjure in the shadows. Here, silence isn’t empty. It’s brimming with things left unsaid.
Little Stars and Lingering Shadows
“Little Star” is the song most people might recognize, thanks to its place in Romeo + Juliet. But even with its quiet fame, it still feels like a secret whispered between lovers. It begins with the simplicity of an acoustic guitar, Stina’s voice threading through like silk, and slowly transforms into something more. A quiet, pulsing jam that never quite erupts but simmers just beneath the surface. And then, just when you think it’s over, a soft choir emerges, like distant stars coming into focus one by one.
But it’s “Murder in Mairyland Park” that lingers with me the longest. It starts off so sparse, like footsteps echoing down an empty corridor. There’s an unease here, an anticipation that builds with every passing second. And just when the tension becomes unbearable, a children’s choir enters, almost imperceptibly, like ghosts singing from the edge of memory. It’s unsettling and beautiful, like staring into a reflection that doesn’t quite match your face.
The Art of Saying Goodbye Without Words
“So This Is Goodbye” feels like standing on the shore, watching someone you love drift away. The shimmering guitars and distorted echoes in the background create a sense of distance, as if the sound itself is pulling away from you. When Stina sings, “So this is goodbye,” it’s not a statement. It’s a question. How do you let go when the thing you’re releasing is a part of you?
The title track, “And She Closed Her Eyes,” feels like the last page of a book you’re not ready to finish. It’s stripped down to its barest form, just an acoustic guitar and Stina’s voice, as fragile as a breath. As the song fades, the sound of rain slowly takes over, washing everything clean. It feels like surrender, like finally letting go of something you’ve been holding onto for too long. And in that moment, silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels full.
Holding On and Letting Go
What makes And She Closed Her Eyes so profound is its ability to exist in that liminal space between holding on and letting go. It doesn’t ask for attention. It waits patiently, like a quiet companion who sits with you in the stillness. While her later albums explored darker, more experimental landscapes, this one remains a moment of suspended vulnerability, a whispered confession that never fully fades.
This album taught me that stillness doesn’t mean emptiness. Sometimes, silence is where the real conversations happen. It’s where we confront the echoes of what we’ve lost and the whispers of what’s yet to come. And maybe that’s why this album stays with me, long after I’ve stopped listening. It reminds me that there’s beauty in surrender, in allowing things to fade without forcing them to stay.
What Are You Holding On To?
If you haven’t heard And She Closed Her Eyes yet, I almost envy you. You’re standing at the edge of something beautiful, about to step into a world where stillness speaks louder than words. But I wonder, what is it that you’re holding onto? And are you ready to let it go?
Stay noisy friends,
xox Saint Virgil
listened to when debbies back from texas and i cant wait to listen to the rest of the album !! and what a beautiful piece of writing <3
"Liiittlllle sta-arr" listened on repeat 5 times floating back to adolescence... then dug into the album which is yes, actually dope. Thank you 🙏