Óminsjá unfolds slowly, built from layers that move with weight and patience. Cello drones, deep bass, violins, and synthesizers form the core, with the breathy tone of the didgeridoo weaving through like an ancient current. Guitars, mostly clean, drift in long tones and subtle patterns, blending into the drones rather than cutting against them. Drums are present but restrained — measured pulses that mark time without pushing it forward.
Vocals surface in different ways — sometimes low and distant, sometimes closer and clearer — carrying traces of the human voice inside the vast soundscape. There are also fragments drawn from one of Dauðaró’s releases, folded into the music like memories resurfacing, blurred until they feel like part of the texture.
Beneath it all lies the sense of something older than the instruments themselves — a resonance that feels unearthed rather than composed. Óminsjá suggests a hidden current, a vibration that predates language, where voices and tones blur into the same echo. It lingers like a shadowed ritual, as though the music was always there, waiting to be uncovered.