Somnia Falls

Biography

In a time when everything seems loud, fast, and temporary, Somnia Falls exists quietly—like the hum of a tape left running, the static between dreams, or a half-remembered memory that lingers in the fog.

Somnia Falls is not a band in the traditional sense. There are no stage lights, no photo ops, no crowds chanting for encores. It is an entity shaped by shared obsessions: nostalgia, shadow, ambient decay, and the beautiful tension between memory and forgetting. Its music lives solely online—an intentional decision to remain untethered, anonymous, and uncommodified. No tours. No faces. Just sound.

The project emerged in the late 2020s as a long-distance collaboration between four individuals spread across Europe, bound not by geography but by the eerie comfort of the internet’s empty corridors. Each member brings a distinct emotional palette and set of references, but all converge in a shared space: a love for sonic storytelling and melancholy atmospheres.

Elis, the romantic among them, draws inspiration from cinematic scores, '80s dream pop, and the synthetic melancholy of VHS-era culture. With a background in writing and film studies, Elis often weaves narrative threads into the band's releases, evoking scenes that feel more like haunted memories than songs. Synth textures, whispered vocals, and fragile melodies are their signature.

Orrin is the cold breath beneath the warmth—a Scandinavian whose roots are buried deep in black metal and Nordic folk traditions. He brings the rawness, the grain, the woods-at-night energy to Somnia Falls. His guitar playing is elemental—layered, slow-burning, often drenched in reverb. A collector of old cassettes and horror zines, Orrin introduces a certain frost into the mix—what he calls “emotional rot.”

Kyle is the architect of the soundscape—the one who assembles and disassembles each piece, searching restlessly for the right distortion, the right imperfection. A devotee of open-source systems like Linux, Kyle builds tracks from scratch using a blend of software tools, field recordings, and resurrected vintage keyboards rescued from popular online marketplaces and brought back to life. For him, music is an act of restoration: breathing life into forgotten circuits, reshaping noise into mood.

Vox is the phantom limb of the project—sometimes present, sometimes just a trace. Their contributions often come as fragments: a voice memo, a distorted loop, a diary page turned to sound. Neither entirely songwriter nor producer, Vox is more of a ghost in the machine, a creative wildcard that keeps Somnia Falls unpredictable and strange.

Despite their differences, what binds them is their rejection of modern musical pressure. Somnia Falls is not interested in virality, algorithms, or trends. Their process is deliberately slow. Some tracks evolve over years. Some never get finished. Others appear suddenly, like dreams with no beginning. Their releases are more like found objects than products.

Each song, each album, is treated like an entry in a personal journal—something vulnerable, something hidden. This is perhaps most evident in the Room 315 Diary, a recurring series of ambient pieces, voice notes, field recordings, and fragments that document the mental and emotional spaces between formal releases.

Their aesthetic leans toward the cinematic and the spectral. They’re inspired by abandoned hotels, half-written letters, crumbling architecture, fog, old computer startup sounds, forgotten RPG soundtracks, analog glitches, lo-fi photography, and the quiet between two rainstorms.

“The less we show, the more they see. The less we say, the more they feel.”
— from the Somnia Falls internal manifesto