Rypdal's most openly schizophrenic yet satisfyingly ambitious work in many years.
In February 1996, Terje Rypdal assembled a septet in the studio with a particular sound in mind—one that would push beyond the guitarist's usual territory. The lineup was carefully chosen: Palle Mikkelborg on trumpet, Terje Tønnesen on violin, David Darling on cello, Christian Eggen at the keyboard, and a dual percussion approach with Paolo Vinaccia and Jon Christensen on drums. That combination of horns, strings, and dual timekeeping creates immediate textural possibilities that a trio or quartet simply cannot touch.
What emerged from those sessions was something restless and contradictory in the best way. AllMusic reviewer Thom Jurek heard the album's tension clearly, describing it as Rypdal's most openly schizophrenic yet satisfyingly ambitious work in many years. The seven players occupy different harmonic and rhythmic spaces simultaneously—the cello and violin don't always move with the trumpet, the percussion layers suggest multiple tempos at once. It's not fusion in the electric-funk sense. It's more like chamber music that refuses to sit still, kept alive by the presence of Rypdal's guitar steering and refracting the ensemble's energy.
This record stands somewhere between Rypdal's earlier exploratory work and his later output, a moment when he seemed genuinely interested in how much complexity a small group could hold without dissolving. If you know his work and want to hear him thinking openly about texture and space, Skywards rewards the listen. It's not the easiest entry point into his catalog, but it's where his restlessness paid off.