Forklift Lullaby by Sawmild

We try to make sense of things here, in the cold air, with these worn hands. *Forklift Lullaby* is what came out. It's about how sometimes, your name, your self, it gets chipped away, worn down like a tool. And what it takes to put it back together. When we started this, recording in the actual mill, letting the 50 Hz hum of the mains be our root, it wasn't just for atmosphere. It was because that hum is part of us. It gets under your skin. We wanted to make music that felt like work—honest and heavy, but also gentle. Like the rhythmic clatter of a three-hammer cadence, or the quiet patience of fixing a stripped thread.

The whole album is a journey. From the hazy "Sumuvuoro" of a new shift, where promises are whispered like breath fogging in the air, to "Nimikyltti," where you watch old names fade and feel that quiet ache of a legacy wearing thin. We use the bowed saw's mournful cry, the bolt-laden floor toms thudding like a press, not just for sound, but to tell that story with our hands. Mid-album, with "Sulake," we invite you into the ritual. Bring your broken things. We’ll find that fuse, replace it with shaking fingers, and when that machine hums back to life, its drone will join ours. It’s a real promise, ‘we fix your name,’ because that hum, that repaired thing, it becomes part of the song. It becomes part of you. The hydraulic squeal, the forklift beeper—these aren’t just noise. They’re tuned, they’re signals, part of a language we’ve learned from the mill floor.

Then comes the core, "Armosointu," the mercy chord that lands at bar five every time, a soft weight that lets you exhale. And in "Koneen Nimi," we build identity like a motor, piece by careful piece, with quiet stories whispered over the turning gears. It’s an intimate repair, a rebuilding of trust. The climax hits hard with "Anna Nimeni Takaisin." Everyone holds their breath, then that roar comes, a shared cry that leaves you weak-kneed, but in a good way. It's not angry, not violent. It’s the release of years of holding on. It’s the moment you feel your own life returning, warm in your chest.

And finally, in "Jälkikäynti" and "Hiljaa Käyntiin," the hum settles. The one you brought, the one we built together. It stays with you. We write a new name, by hand, on a fresh badge. It’s not about perfection, but about continuity, about knowing that repair never truly ends, it just changes form. That feeling, that quiet, steadfast tone – it sticks. This isn’t just an album of songs. It’s an offering, a hand extended. It’s the sound of working through things, together, until everything runs quiet. We’re turning the sweat and grime of the shift into something like liturgy, a ritual of care and paced repair that anyone can take part in.

We hum the mill's slow drone. Kantele, bowed saws, Finnish chants. Heavy mettle from tired hands, cold shifts.