Start with Supersilent, because that's where most people meet Storløkken. The band doesn't write songs so much as grow them in real time — no setlists, no rehearsed heads, just four musicians (later three) listening hard and building something out of thin air. Storløkken's role in that mess is the keyboard and organ textures that hold the low end together while trumpet and electronics swirl above. It's not flashy playing. It's architectural. He's the one deciding whether the room feels like a cathedral or a basement.

Before and alongside Supersilent, he came up through the Trondheim scene, which has quietly produced a disproportionate number of interesting Norwegian improvisers. He played with Terje Rypdal, soaking up that guitarist's love of long tones and slow-building dread, and that influence shows in how patient Storløkken can be — he's comfortable letting a single chord sit for a full minute if that's what the moment needs.

What makes him interesting isn't technical fireworks. He's not trying to out-solo anybody. His instrument of choice tends to be the Hammond organ or an array of analog synths, and he treats them less like a piano substitute and more like a weather system — something that can thicken the air, drop the temperature, or suddenly let light in. Fans of fusion keyboardists looking for Herbie Hancock-style virtuosity might find him frustrating at first. He's doing something else: texture over technique, mood over momentum.

He's also turned up in a string of smaller, equally strange projects — duos, trios, one-off sessions with drummers and horn players across the Norwegian and European improvising scene — almost always in service of mood rather than melody. If you want a way into his world, don't start by expecting songs. Start by expecting atmosphere, and let it work on you slowly, the way fog does.