Clarissa Connelly

So, I was genuinely excited to see Clarissa Connelly live. She’s one of those musicians who’s really pushing boundaries right now – mixing Nordic folklore, field recordings, classical elements, and even the Danish landscape into something that feels completely her own. Honestly, her music isn’t the easiest to pin down. And if I’m honest, I’m still figuring it out. It’s not always instantly enjoyable in the usual way, but there’s something quietly captivating and fresh about it that keeps pulling me back.

Seeing her name on the Norfolk & Norwich Festival lineup felt like a bold move – a sign that her offbeat, boundary-pushing sound is finally starting to reach a wider audience. So I showed up at the Spiegeltent with high hopes. The crowd? Well, much smaller than I expected. Mostly folks in their 30s and 40s, quietly seated or hanging back, like they weren’t quite sure what they were in for. There was this sense of cautious curiosity in the air, which was kind of fitting for her music.

The set opened with pre-recorded church bells tolling eerily through the space. Two musicians appeared on the stage, looking like they’d time-travelled from the grunge era. Then this high, lace-like voice rose from the back of the tent. A few heads turned, a few laughed. For a second, it seemed like someone in the audience was singing along. But nope, it was Clarissa Connelly, emerging like a vision.

If you don’t know her already: born in Scotland, raised in Denmark, and now based in Copenhagen, she’s a composer and multi-instrumentalist with a reputation for blending everything from William Blake’s poetry to French philosophy into her sound. She signed to Warp Records in 2023, which feels like a perfect home for her genre-defying style.

The music itself was this delicate, otherworldly collage. The recorder floated like a ghostly thread through the set, evoking pastoral scenes and ancient rites. The drum kit’s tribal rhythms were like distant footsteps, grounding the sound in something primal. The electric guitar added layers, shimmering one moment, growling the next. But what really stood out was the keyboard, which felt like an extension of Connelly’s voice, echoing its fragile intimacy and soaring outbursts with subtle, spectral melodies.

But it was the keyboard that truly stood out, acting almost as an extension of Connelly’s unconventional voice. Its subtle melodies intertwined seamlessly with her vocals, mirroring their fragile intimacy and soaring moments alike.

There were moments that reminded me of the dreamlike shimmer of Cocteau Twins, with flashes of Cate Le Bon’s quirks or Jessica Pratt’s fragile, whispered intimacy. Critics compare her to Kate Bush, and I get that. The theatricality, the mythic feel, the refusal to fit neatly into any box.

One of the most intense moments came during “Into This, Called Loneliness.” Connelly sat stiffly at the keyboard, snapping her head side to side with each note. I was seated close at a booth, taking notes, when she locked eyes with me, unblinking. The gaze was unexpected, pulling my attention fully into the moment. When the drums kicked in, my heart was already racing.

Before performing “Give It Back,” Connelly told the audience the chorus was meant to be sung together, inviting us into the moment of creation. She changed the lyrics from the recorded version, letting the words adapt to that moment, encouraging everyone to follow her lead. When people finally joined in, the harmonies were tentative but warm. It was one of the rare communal moments in a set that had mostly felt inward, even confrontational. 

She ended with “Mother and Daddy,” a song from 2020. It was simpler, more lo-fi, but carried the same spiritual undercurrent as her newer work. Her sound has evolved, but the bones were already there.

Clarissa Connelly doesn’t just perform, she creates a space: a strange, mythic world full of tension and mystery. Not every moment landed perfectly, but when it did, it felt rare and special. I just wish more people in Norwich had been willing to lean into the peculiar, to show up for something this strange, luminous, and uncompromising.