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HANNE HUKKELBERG A Hanne Hukkelberg song typically begins as a crisp and delicate whisper, just her girlish, conversational voice and a few sparse instruments: an acoustic bass, ghostly keyboards, perhaps a static-laced or softly clattering rhythm. The intimacy is commanding, and these songs present a world of small things that demand attention because, without it, they would risk disappearing entirely. More often than not, the songs open into a slightly larger world with an uptempo chorus, an accordion tango or a distant brass band. Although Hukkelberg is abetted by members of Jaga Jazzist and other fellow Norwegians, Rykestrasse 68, her second album, revels in minimalist restraint and sharply focused textures. Like Matthew Herbert, Hukkelberg is fond of found sounds—a typewriter provides a clicky counterpoint to her tack piano on “The North Wind,” a bicycle wheel whirls on “Fourteen,” a meditation bowl hums on a radical reimagination of the Pixies’ “Break My Body”—and her minimalism is bolstered by a rewarding depth of discovery. Think Vespertine-era Björk or neighboring Scandinavians such as El Perro Del Mar and the under-appreciated Stina Nordenstam. Hukkelberg is one of those aggressively delicate women eager to create otherworldly realities in order to cast a spell. [Nettwerk, www.nettwerk.com] —Steve Klinge
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