Elias Rønnenfelt Aches Candidly on the Unguarded, Mystical Heavy Glory

There has always been a soft side to Elias Rønnenfelt, lingering beneath the cold and sometimes harsh musings and declarations that his band Iceage’s lyrics have possessed throughout their discography. I found this out in 2016, when one of the Danish musician’s other side projects—Marching Church—put out their introspective and more lighthearted, at times, album Telling It Like It Is—giving a more personal and expressive dimension to the musician who can sometimes be coated in mystique and lurking beneath the noisy clash. Rønnenfelt’s debut solo album, Heavy Glory, tunnels deeper into how catharsis is a part of his identity—as an artist, as a human, as a being.

On Heavy Glory, Rønnenfelt takes on an alter-ego reminiscent of what jonatan leandoer96 is to rapper Yung Lean. It’s a stripped-back look into his artistic psyche—his torments, his dreams, his long nights out. He finds existential meaning in urinal perfumes and grocery stores, and by laying himself down and examining what’s inside. Heavy Glory is heart-worn, a trudge through chaos and the beginning of a search to establish Rønnenfelt’s solo sound. He learns how to surrender by creating a work that breaks his walls down, admitting to a figurative lover on the track “Unarmed”: “You besiege me with your charm.” It seems to be Ronnenfelt’s mission statement of sorts, to catch himself, from all angles, unguarded.

No matter what project he’s entering from, Rønnenfelt knows how to grab staggering, spell-like concepts and spin them into eerie, hallowed tales. Over a teetering piano and sputtering guitars, he approaches the songs on Heavy Glory with an avant-garde and gauche take on nu-Americana. “Doomsday Childsplay” is icy and slow-moving on the surface—sounding like something he would perform with Iceage—but squeaky and feverish harmonicas demystify the rigidness by creating an honest confession. He attempts to stray from a love too parasitic and obsessive, as the exhaust oozes out of every muddled sigh and drawn-out phrase. “It’s all too real and hard to shake,” he admits, giving up to the trepidation of letting himself be seen.

Rønnenfelt takes a page out of Leonard Cohen’s songwriting when it comes to earnestness, as his forlorn approach captures a plain-spoken genuinity. “I’m out of control baby, now please just be sweet,” he muses on “Close,” paired with the whispery vocals of UK-based DJ FAUZIA. As proven with Iceage’s 2018 collaboration with Sky Ferreira on Beyondless’ “Painkiller,” and later on in the album with musician Joanne Roberston on “Soldier Song,” Rønnenfelt always does well with a soft-spoken female counterpart contributing to some textural tension from his aching, powerful cries. Down the line, “No One Else”’s scathing, stand up bass line brings up similarities to “Walk on the Wild Side” by Lou Reed, adding on to the Americanized, art-rock influence of it all. “Worm Grew a Spine” also has the same feverish quirks and blown-out vocals as a western tale—begging the question of whether or not Rønnenfelt is trying to borrow too much from these independent solo projects of the past, in the hopes of finding his own stark voice from the inspirational xeroxing.

There can also be a pressure for a songwriter, outside of a band context, to show off their vibrant bag of tricks right away. Heavy Glory is bold and noisy, but Rønnenfelt attempts to balance this out by including two covers—“Sound of Confusion” by Spacemen 3 and “No Place to Fall” by Townes Van Zandt. The split between new material and old showcases Rønnenfelt’s range of storytelling skills: On “Stalker,” originally penned to be a novel, he weaves a dark tale about a grocery store employee’s burdening obsession with a pregnant regular and his disdain for the abusive father. He treats this story with sorrow and care, employing pensive pauses and breaking vocals to express how a winnerless world. “And it all plays out,” he sighs like the tragic narrator he’s become.

As the album reaches a sweltering but still soft conclusion, the “Sound of Confusion” cover unearths religious undertones, hidden until the end, through a post-punkian twist that sounds straight out of Iceage. Rønnefelt pleas with God, voice quivering as he asks Him to absolve his sins, something that makes me wonder if this harrowing struggle with forgiveness would have been more insightful to explore as a throughline earlier in the album’s course. But Rønnenfelt does well with a modern swaying ballad, and Heavy Glory’s multitude of infectious, twangy melodies is a testament to that. Rønnenfelt wrestles with making sense of the fleetingness that surrounds him, in a time of uncertainty that manages to still document his persevering charm with a candid ache.