Released by Flak Records
It’s rare for a song to feel both timeless and fragile, like it might shatter if you hold it too tightly, but KOWARI’s “Mori” walks that line beautifully. This track—a quiet storm of folk, classical, and electronic influences—feels like stepping into a memory you’re not sure you’re ready to revisit. There’s an ache here, a kind of bittersweet pull, like when you breathe in fog and it makes your chest feel heavy and light all at once.
The violin work by Damien Chierici is the centerpiece, its tone raw and human—like it’s weeping for something it lost but can’t quite name. Every note feels deliberate, like it’s searching for the words that Benni’s lyrics so hauntingly suggest: that unspoken hope to return to a relationship you know you shouldn’t. It’s a strange comfort to hear that longing mirrored so clearly in sound. And then there’s Louan Kempenaers’ piano, soft but deliberate, grounding the track with a steady pulse, like footsteps on those tarnished stairs. You can almost see the streaks of color returning as the tears dry.
What really sets “Mori” apart, though, is the subtle electronic undertow. Jean Vanesse’s production doesn’t overpower the song’s folk roots—it just adds this shimmering texture, like sunlight breaking through the fog. The blend of organic and synthetic elements feels effortless, almost cinematic, which makes sense considering KOWARI’s origin in film scoring. It’s the kind of song that would sit perfectly over a scene of quiet devastation—a character standing at a window, maybe, watching the world move on without them.
What I love most about “Mori” is how restrained it is. It never tries to do too much, and because of that, every moment lands with so much more weight. It’s not a song that demands your attention—it waits for you to come to it. And when you do, it’s like opening a diary and finding your own thoughts written there in someone else’s hand.
The themes—hope, regret, love that shouldn’t have been but somehow still lives in the cracks—feel universal, but they’re not spoon-fed. The beauty of “Mori” lies in its ambiguity, in the space it leaves for the listener to fill with their own feelings and stories. It’s music that meets you where you are, whether you’re mourning something lost or quietly hoping for something to return.
If KOWARI’s upcoming album holds more moments like this, it’s going to be one of those records you keep coming back to, especially in quiet hours when you’re feeling reflective. “Mori” is a stunning introduction to their cinematic, deeply emotional world—a piece of art that lingers long after it ends.
Perfect for fans of Sigur Rós or Max Richter, Mori is the sound of sadness being carried on the wind, of something breaking and healing all at once. It leaves you breathless, in the best way.
So, if you’ve got a few minutes to slow down, let this song wrap itself around you. It’s worth it.
