Manifesting a soporific vision of classic dreampop, Man Rei lands on Glasgow’s Somewhere Press with one of the years most memorably hushed albums; unfolding through an hour of quietly soaring songs that split the difference between Enya, Seefeel and Grouper.

Kristin Reiman, aka Man Rei, elevates and expands the choral tradition of their Baltic homeland with the smudged drift of this quietly epic new album. A moody, dimly lit summoning of ambient music touched by the enduring influence of classic dreampop, it’s a record full of pared-down arrangements and luxurious instrumentation, elevated by goosebump inducing vocals that make the thing so memorable.

The soothing pulse of Kranky's early years (think Labradford or even Windy & Carl) moves with tranquil momentum, playing faded lower-register riffs to accent a pervasive longing in the lyrics. On 'Edge knot city', the influence of Harold Budd and the Cocteau Twins' hangs in the air as Reiman marries muted electric piano with pastoral field recordings. That voice, blurred at the edges to enhance its ambiguity, cuts through the clouds like a knife, inserting a melancholy earworm into wafting ambiance. Even the lengthy 'Intermission', a wordless piece, maintains a masterful balance between emotional weight and atmospheric vapour.

On 'Witless', they bury the fragments of a love song beneath synth distortions, turning pebbly, slapbacked claps into a rickety rhythm on 'The thread', cooing over piano phrases that vanish into the aether until that voice takes over completely. It's gorgeous, restless and confident material that immediately sinks itself deep into the psyche - its familiarity is almost a smokescreen; the closer you listen, the stranger and more beautiful Man Rei’s world becomes.