A thread of silence splits open gently—not with sound, but with sensation. When the Reign Starts to Fall doesn’t begin like a song; it arrives like a memory, the kind that appears uninvited, yet lands with purpose. Ian Aaberg doesn’t rely on volume or drama to make an impact here. Instead, he traces a delicate path with his fingers, each pluck of the guitar string unraveling like footsteps across dew-soaked ground.
The song’s architecture is deceptively intricate. Beneath its soft exterior lies a complex emotional topography—one where serenity coexists with quiet unrest. As it flows through three distinct movements, Aaberg guides the listener through the illusion of progress and the ache of stillness. A major key introduces a glimmer of optimism, but it slowly dissolves into more ambiguous terrain, and finally, a shadowed return in a minor key. It’s less a twist than a realization—that even beauty carries its own burden.
There is no percussion, no backing wall of sound to lean on. This is a bare stage, and Aaberg fills it with intention. His technique borrows from classical structure, but the emotional tone is uniquely his own. The live-recording process adds to the authenticity—each note breathes, each pause feels necessary rather than calculated.
Aaberg’s influences are present but never overpowering. You can feel the reverence for Led Zeppelin’s acoustic ventures, but this track lives in its own, more fragile realm. There’s no need for lyrics because the melody says what needs to be said: that movement doesn’t always mean change, and sometimes the act of trying is its own kind of heartbreak.
When the Reign Starts to Fall doesn’t ask to be heard—it waits to be felt. And if you’re quiet enough, it answers a question you didn’t know you were asking.
