If it were possible to make Icelandic music in North America, it would probably sound like Death Vessel’s Island Intervals. The world is still magical, but more anchored in the earth, with the hooves of horses digging in with every step. As with Woodkid, we are in the land of childhood dreams, but less bombastic, more bucolic. It might all be but a memory of a place that doesn’t even exist anymore. Children play in brooks hidden deep in the forest before riding away on mystical creatures right out of a Hayao Miyazaki film as ancestral drums cradle us to comfort.
has an MA in Film Studies and works in contemporary dance. His fiction has appeared in Headlight Anthology, Cactus Heart, and Birkensnake.