ANYX - Starlink

Stars have been shining for millennia, but others cross the sky only because someone decided to put them into orbit. It's by watching the stars, in just this way, that "Starlink" was born, the remarkable solo debut from Anna Lucia Nissen, aka Anyx. It's an album born of this luminous misunderstanding: looking up expecting to find eternity, only to discover another terrible extension of human power instead. Out of this fracture comes a record that searches for beauty within an increasingly artificial world, never mistaking hope for innocence.

After her time with Anchoress, Nissen builds a personal universe through writing that is spare, theatrical and deeply unsettled. Her deep, androgynous voice seems to emerge from a gothic crypt, or from a future in which the body has become memory. Rather than dominating the arrangements, her voice moves through them, shedding its skin, withdrawing and resurfacing like a presence impossible to pin down. All around it are abrasive guitars, harps, keyboards, strings and double bass, assembled with sculptural precision. The production lets details breathe, bringing out hums, percussion and vocal fragments that seem to survive just beneath the surface of the songs.

"Ladybird's Spine" is a statement of intent: a solemn march bursts through a wall of noise, before cracking open to reveal a disarming vulnerability that raises goosebumps. "Window In Your Eyes" instead moves like an urban gothic fairy tale, woven from arpeggios, harp and military percussion. On "Strange Times", funeral bells and barely perceptible drones suspend time, while "Spring Birds" reduces the voice to a whisper, blurring it into breath and birdsong. Out of this intimacy comes "Sucker", where a mechanical pulse slowly morphs into dark, abrasive rock.
Yet the record isn't one long procession into darkness. "Marian" holds a form of resistance, an invitation to imagine a future different from the one imposed by others. And "Relic", its guitars steeped in reverb, lets through an ambiguous consolation, closer to an omen than a conclusion.

“Starlink” is a record steeped in a gentle austerity, but Nissen knows exactly when to let silence become substance. This debut work of hers is decidedly dark yet surprisingly vital, because it speaks to us of identity as a structure built layer upon layer, hollowed out, and yet still capable of generating new forms.
The stars are still there. Sadly, it's the sky that we no longer know who owns.

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14/10/2026