Leon Vynehall - Rare, Forever (LP)

Leon Vynehall’s Rare, Forever arrived on 30 April 2021 through Ninja Tune, and it still feels like a small shock to the system in the best way. After the cinematic sprawl of Nothing Is Still in 2018, he came back with something looser and more shape-shifting, a record built for curiosity rather than a single narrative. He talked in interviews about wanting to sidestep a concept this time and let the music move like thought does, jumping scenes without asking permission. You can hear that intent in the way these tracks tilt from hush to thump, from chamber-like tones to snarling electronics, often in the space of a minute.

Mothra set the tone ahead of release. It coils around a tense bassline and clipped percussion, then blooms into pads that feel like someone opening the blinds at the wrong hour. It is not a cosy club tool, more a study in propulsion, and it hinted that Rare, Forever would lean into disruption as a kind of pleasure. Ecce! Ego! goes even further, tossing angular synth stabs against a lurching rhythm that keeps shaking off a steady stride. There is a genuine thrill in how Vynehall frames abrasion as something tactile and inviting, not cold.

An Exhale is the fulcrum for me. It breathes in, sits with a phrase, then peels back layers so you start hearing the mechanics of the track, tiny moving parts that give away the hand of a producer who loves detail. That attention to micro texture runs across the album. Little vocal scraps, woodblock taps, string-like smears that might be synthesisers, all arranged with a dancer’s sense of weight and lift. When Snakeskin ∞ Has-Been slinks into view, it feels humid and coiled, the kind of piece that suggests a room more than a melody. If Nothing Is Still built a cityscape with big brush strokes, Rare, Forever pores over the alleyways.

Critics picked up on that shift. The Guardian and Pitchfork both praised the record for its restless imagination and the way it folds club sonics into something closer to modern composition. You can hear traces of his DJ mind at work, yet this is not a set of bangers parked side by side. It is sequenced like a mixtape that keeps catching on unexpected textures. He will let a beat bite for twenty seconds, then pull it away to expose a drone or a piano figure, trusting the listener to lean in. That confidence pays off because the album invites replay. The joins become the hook.

Part of the appeal is how physical it sounds without turning punishing. The low end hits with purpose, the mids are alive with grit, and there is space for quiet passages that feel almost pastoral. Put Rare, Forever on vinyl and those contrasts deepen. The high frequencies soften just enough to make the more jagged edges feel human, while the bass swells with that warm, grounded pressure that suits Vynehall’s production. It is the sort of record you want to cue from the couch, cup of tea on the table, letting side A run while you read the credits, then flipping it and hearing the room change.

If you came in through his DJ-Kicks set or the BYO-stories of his early EPs, this still feels like the same artist, just more willing to leave seams visible. The palette nods to UK club music, ambient drift and a little musique concrète, but it never tips into museum territory. Rare, Forever keeps its eyes on movement and emotional charge. There are flashes of melancholy then sudden surges of optimism, which suits an artist who has always written with memory and place in mind. Even without a set storyline, you feel him arranging fragments of the everyday into something luminous.

For collectors, this one sits nicely next to Nothing Is Still and the singles in a row of Leon Vynehall albums on vinyl. The artwork, the sequencing and the tactile production reward a needle. If you are hunting Leon Vynehall vinyl, or Rare, Forever vinyl specifically, you will find it floating through plenty of shops. I have seen copies pop up in a Melbourne record store or two, and it is easy enough to buy Leon Vynehall records online if you are outside the city. Among vinyl records Australia-wide, this is a modern electronic LP that holds its own on the shelf and on the system.

Rare, Forever is not the kind of album that begs for consensus. It grows through intimacy, small discoveries and that sly grin when a drop sidesteps your expectation. Give it time. Let it surprise you. Then file it somewhere reachable, because it is the record you will pull when you want something alive and inquisitive that still knows how to move.