When you first encounter Nomé Naku, what immediately stands out is the unusual blend of dream pop, electronic magic, and cinematic echoes. The project, created by Sierra Bohnet, invites you to spend time in another dimension, where whimsical moods meet a carefully crafted sonic palette.

Her new self-titled album Nomé Naku is quite intriguing in its structure—it seems to be divided into chapters, each telling its own atmospheric story. At times, you catch yourself noticing how one track continues the narrative of the previous one, while sounding completely different. All these references to an experimental approach feel like echoes of a passion for filmmaking. The album’s rhythm alternates between pulsing and deliberately dissolving, making room for close-ups of enigmatic synth patterns.

photo by  Steven Bohnet

Nomé Naku, aka Sierra Bohnet, has vocals that serve as the heartbeat of the entire album. They aren’t loud or forceful—they reach inward, stirring emotions. In some moments, the voice resembles a whisper from hidden corners of the mind; in others, it takes on a tone of majestic strength. Watching these transitions between calm passages and almost ceremonial climaxes is especially captivating.

Nomé Naku reflects a holistic approach to music, where different elements don’t clash but merge into a unified whole. The combination of electronic textures and a melancholic mood creates a euphoric atmosphere that hints at a surreal backdrop — it’s like watching an arthouse film late at night and occasionally forgetting whether it’s reality or a strange dream. Perhaps it’s this combination that makes the album so mesmerizing.

The opening track, “Nomé,” plays almost like a musical ritual. A dark, viscous sound spreads out, as if wrapping everything around it in fog. There are no introductions in the usual sense — the track immediately takes your hand and leads you inward. And at some point, Nietzsche comes to mind: “If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.” That’s roughly how this track works — slowly, inevitably, like a deep breath before submersion.

From there, everything only intensifies. In “Everytime I Cry,” the music gains a powerful pull: a fragile beginning quickly unfolds into a whirlwind of emotional tension. The sound strikes something deep inside, stirring up an inner storm, and you’re no longer sure whether these are her emotions or already your own. “Feel Human,” by contrast, wraps around you. The track is saturated with dark pop undertones and a shimmering melancholy. Every detail in it is polished to a shine — but not the sterile kind you’d expect from a studio gloss. It has the cold gleam of a mysterious artifact. The vocals here draw you in, as if coming from the other side of the mirror.

photo by  Steven Bohnet

“Sing Me To Sleep” is deceptive at first. But then an undercurrent begins to rise. The tone softens, the rhythm sways, and the synths shift into wavering clouds, from which something begins to emerge — perhaps hope, perhaps fatigue. And then comes “Naku” — and everything changes. The sound turns monumental. Swirling synths contract and burst outward, creating an almost physical sense of gravity. “Racing The Sun” shakes things up. Suddenly, guitars appear, the rhythm turns forceful, and the album grows new edges.

The second half of the album opens in a completely different way. “Giver” feels like a long exhale. Light appears — not bright, but warm. This is a track that carries hope, but beneath it lies something ancient and prayerful. “Dunes” is almost its opposite. A low, dry, heavy beat forces you to slow down. There’s plenty of space here, but it’s dense, like night in a desert. The vocals hide between layers of synth, barely touching — but it’s enough to spark unease. And at the same time — a pull. You keep expecting an explosion, but Nomé Naku takes a different route: she plays on the edge, balancing with precision.

And then — the finale. “Drawn By The Stars” closes the album the way one leaves the shore: slowly, with a backward glance. The voice floats over the sonic surface unhurriedly. It’s not a climax — it’s a dissolution. Quiet, almost philosophical. The music fades slowly, leaving behind a warm afterglow.

The album functions as a cycle. It begins in the abyss — and brings you back into the light. But this light doesn’t blind; it simply exists where you’ve remained. Nomé Naku has a way of offering the listener a range of moods: from a light, ghostly haze to almost monumental musical forms. This kind of presentation fits naturally within the concept of merging sound and visual elements — after all, there’s a reason it’s called an “audiovisual project.”

In a strange way, this album touches on things people rarely speak about. Not out of fear, but because the right words are hard to find. And Sierra Bohnet, it seems, didn’t try to find them. She built a sonic architecture where you can simply feel — and everything you need is already inside. In that silent, almost invisible dialogue, Nomé Naku becomes something more than music. It’s like a shadow walking beside you. And even if you don’t always notice where it leads, the feeling of its presence lingers.

*This review was made possible by SubmitHub