Hannah Peel has had a varied career. Her hands are in the background of our Facebook header; turning the handle of the music box on which she cranked out covers of 80s synthpop. She has performed with John Foxx as part of The Maths. Whole other audiences know her for Ulster-inspired pop, as a Radio 3 presenter, or as part of The Magnetic North.
Peel’s sweet spot is, increasingly, as a composer for television and film. Her commission for the Netflix film, Midwinter Break successfully sits between the glacial restraint of soundtracks for Nordic noir and the evocative Snow Falling on Cedars. Like both, it leans on atmosphere over incident; teasing memories from the darkness.
Like James Newton Howard’s soundtrack for Snow Falling on Cedars, Peel’s score explores closeness and distance. The cues often feel like they’re tracing something just out of reach. The shapes are hauntingly familiar but far from comfortable.
Midwinter Break is a fine addition to Peel’s show reel, but it also works as music for reflection. Sit still and let this be your mirror.

Like the brain, Hannah Peel’s latest release is divided into two halves. The first follows a poptastic pattern, filled with the folk-frosted, radio-friendly songs that make Peel one of the most compelling artists in Britain today. The other is an intensely personal set of adventurous material, raw to the touch and unnervingly beautiful. The neural pathway linking them is a track inspired by one of Italo Calvino’s postmodern stories.
The suffering of those living with dementia is mirrored by the pain of those close to them. Both sides are reflected in Peel’s material, starting with “Octavia,” a track named for one of Calvino’s cities which happens to be strung over an abyss. In a way reminiscent of Test Dept’s combinations of industrial rhythms and folk songs in Shoulder to Shoulder, “Octavia” pulses and shudders under an angelic chorus. The crackle of electricity and the grinding of gears are straight from Russolo’s musical manifesto on the art of noises, but in Peel’s hands signal empathy rather than aggression; they might be the sounds of urban activity or inner chaos.



