Showcasing an expanded sound, the compositions trace a journey of overcoming the past, unfolding into a seductively unconventional style imbued with hope and a therapeutic quality.
Existing in a liminal space between genres, INTERLUDE, the second album from composer, pianist and now singer HANAKIV, is as mysterious as it is seductively unconventional. Piano—often prepared—is only one element among analogue and electronic textures. Inspired by “those crystallised moments where time almost stands still, pain hasn’t yet fully set in, and happiness is still just a glimpse,” the album ultimately offers hope, suggesting that standing still is also part of living.
In creating INTERLUDE, HANAKIV confronts long-buried emotions: the grief behind the lead single “Sunbeams,” where staccato rhythms punctuate murmured vocals; the eerie innocence of “Lastele,” originally meant as a lullaby for her nephews; and the fragile haze of “May Song.” The album’s range is deepened by collaborators including Portico Quartet’s Milo Fitzpatrick on double bass, who also co-wrote “Intro” and the closing piece “Stillness,” alongside saxophonist Pille-Rite Rei, cellist Joanna Gutowska, violinist Gabriel Green, and drummer PIKE. Together they capture what HANAKIV calls the musical “in-betweens.”
These moments shaped the record: two distant sunny mornings formed the haunting “Hommikud,” while the fragile “Lõpulaul” emerged as what she calls “a breathing organism.” “May Song,” the first piece recorded, revealed an emotional paralysis following a difficult period in her life. “I expected to feel happy,” she explains, “but instead I was ‘in between.’” By revisiting small memories and younger versions of herself, she began to make peace with what had quietly lingered in her subconscious.
A turning point came with “Numb,” when she realised the music wasn’t about stillness but numbness—how easily the two blur. Built around cascading piano lines and uneasy cello swells, the piece reflects her awakening: “I thought I was fine and functional, but I wasn’t feeling. I wasn’t really living.”
That revelation was tied to a physical return to the piano. After studying electroacoustic composition at the Estonian Academy of Music and Theatre, HANAKIV left her instrument behind while interning in Malmö and Reykjavik, and later moved to London just before the pandemic. Lockdowns left her with little more than “a horrible keyboard” in a cramped attic room. When a real piano finally arrived years later, she nearly cried. Being able to play whenever she wanted reignited her imagination and allowed her to record freely at home, often late at night.
While her instincts had leaned toward ambient composition, she began embracing a songwriter’s approach—and singing. The vulnerable pieces “Lastele,” “May Song,” and “Sunbeams” felt too fragile at first, but she ultimately used her voice naturally and expressively, despite having no formal vocal training.
This shift lies at the heart of INTERLUDE, culminating in the final tracks: the gently unfurling “January Song” and the closing “Stillness.” “January Song,” she says, marked the album’s final chapter—“Before, it was like I couldn’t take a deep breath. Now I read a book and I cry.”
Unpredictable, candid and deeply personal, INTERLUDE embraces imperfection and rediscovery. What once seemed like numbness becomes a passage toward feeling again. As HANAKIV reflects, the album holds so much life because it doesn’t end with stillness—it points to what lies on the other side. 🎹
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