There’s something quietly sacred about a piano when it’s played like this—deliberately, gently, almost like it’s tiptoeing through someone else’s memories. “Pulsation brisée – Part II” by Tryfon Koutsourelis doesn’t demand attention. It earns it, one delicate keystroke at a time.
There’s no rush here, no need to arrive anywhere. The piece sits in its own stillness, content to unfold slowly, with the kind of grace that reminds me of standing in my grandmother’s living room—sunlight slicing through the lace curtains, dust suspended midair, and silence speaking louder than words. The piano is front and centre, but it’s not showy. It feels more like an old friend whispering secrets you didn’t know you’d forgotten. Ambient textures hover at the edges, like a memory trying not to fade.
“Pulsation brisée – Part II” is part of “C’est beau”, a title that couldn’t be more apt. It’s beautiful in that understated way—nothing grandiose or embellished, just pure, emotional clarity. Where the first part might have stretched wider, this one feels closer, smaller in scale but deeper in mood. Perfect for those slow moments—walking alone at dusk, lying on the floor with your eyes closed, or just staring out the window with a coffee gone cold in your hand.
About Tryfon Koutsourelis:
And then there’s Tryfon Koutsourelis himself—Greek by blood, London-based, and sonically rootless in the best way. His music stretches between Athens, Paris, and everywhere in between, drawing from classical, ambient, and electronic traditions. A composer who doesn’t just score films—he scores emotions. His work always seems to carry a trace of something lived, as if every note passed through a memory before reaching us.
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