As a solo performer, Ifrit makes use of his voice as a keening, somber instrument that renders haunting evocations of Anthony and the Johnsons or Paul Buchanan—admittedly two of his personal heroes in music. There was never a moment of restraint and moderation; only cabaret transmissions from a mournful elegy sung in confessional, spine-tingling outbursts.
“Anam Kyra,” Ifrit’s debut track finds him unearthing the ghosts of his past, trying to redeem his soul in the many layers of tension and achingly beautiful, orchestral lushness. What stands out about Ifrit is how he was able to evoke fragility even from a neo-classicist standpoint, cutting this close to the bone the moment he opens his diaphragm and lets his soulful lament invade the open air. The last two minutes of the song, is where he loosens up like a primitive shaman mantracizing otherworldly ills with a desire to seek redemption. His voice fills us with hope for better things to come, a languid mediation imbibed with the rightful amount of sadness and divinity.