Automatism’s Sörmland, their fourth full-length and first in five years, arrives with the air of a record that needed patience to exist. Recorded in a former chapel in Södermanland, Sweden, the album absorbs the space around it—its vaulted ceilings and resonant acoustics are woven into the fabric of the music. That sense of openness is everywhere: this is psychedelic rock not as bombast, but as atmosphere, leaning into drift, repetition, and subtle interplay rather than climaxes.
Opener “Video” is the outlier, a playful, riff-driven piece that brims with krautrock propulsion. It hints at a rock-forward journey that never fully materializes, though its melodic buoyancy makes it one of the record’s most immediately engaging cuts. From there, Automatism ease into a slower current. “Honey Trap” is gorgeously suspended, a meditative groove where acoustic and electric guitars converse in long arcs, the rhythm section restraining itself to keep the mood fluid and unhurried. It’s here that the chapel’s natural reverb becomes a fifth instrument, allowing notes to hang and dissolve like mist.
The album’s heart lies in its two covers, each refracted through Automatism’s prism of restraint. “Laura Palmer’s Theme,” their homage to Angelo Badalamenti and David Lynch, is reverent but not imitative. The band stretches the melody into near-silence, letting small harmonic shifts conjure unease, like shadows crossing the walls of a half-lit room. It carries both menace and beauty, and in the context of Lynch’s recent passing, resonates with quiet poignancy. Their version of Kraftwerk’s “Neon Lights” is the opposite: subdued to the point of fragility, shedding the original’s sleek shimmer for something candlelit and languorous. It may be the least assertive track here, but it underscores the album’s commitment to stillness.
All roads lead to the 12-minute title track, where Automatism allow themselves a longer canvas. Built on shivering guitar textures, soft percussion, and the late entrance of a tenor saxophone, “Sörmland” is expansive without ever raising its voice. The sax, whether played by a member or guest, adds a Floydian tint, its lines drifting like smoke above the band’s meditative pulse. The piece doesn’t build so much as deepen, evoking the slow burn of a candle rather than a firework display.
If Immersion (2020) found Automatism still tethered to the more kinetic aspects of Scandinavian psych, Sörmland embraces the drift wholeheartedly. Fans of Causa Sui, Papir, or Khruangbin’s dreamier side will find familiar pleasures here, though Automatism’s voice is distinct—patient, unforced, and rooted in the landscape of their home. It is not an album of instant gratification; its rewards come with surrender, with letting its repetitions work as a balm rather than a provocation. In that way, it feels less like a collection of songs than a place to linger.
Automatism haven’t reinvented themselves so much as refined their focus. With Sörmland, they deliver a record that captures the essence of psychedelic rock as meditation: spacious, contemplative, and quietly transformative.
