The Artist: Phew
Phew is the stage name of Japanese musician Hiromi Moritani, a singular figure in the world of experimental music. Starting out in the late 70s with the Osaka punk band Aunt Sally, she broke away from the scene entirely for her solo debut - and ended up recording at Conny Plank’s legendary studio in Cologne, with Can members Holger Czukay and Jaki Liebezeit as her backing band.
That’s right. A Japanese punk poet, recording with two Krautrock legends in a German studio best known for birthing some of the strangest music ever committed to tape.
The result? A record that feels like it exists in its own vacuum - detached, uncanny and utterly compelling.
The Record: Phew (1981)
This isn’t punk. It isn’t Krautrock. It isn’t minimal wave. It’s something colder. Stranger.
The album opens with Closed - a slow, creeping exhale. Tension in the chords, pulsing synths, a voice caught somewhere between incantation and observation. It sets the tone: eerie, minimal, uneasy.
Signal follows - industrial lurching rhythm and metallic echo. Phew’s voice cuts through the mix like a warning from the future, flat and urgent. You don’t necessarily know what she’s saying, but you know it matters.
Dream lives up to its name. A drifting, slow-motion piano with Phew’s voice sounding like it’s being broadcast from the next room. You can’t quite reach it.
By the time you get to Doze, you feel submerged. It’s sparse, suffocating and strangely beautiful. Like staring at static for too long and seeing shapes appear.
There’s no warmth here. No groove. No hooks. Just atmosphere. Tension. Phew, holding everything together with sheer presence.
This album didn’t chart.
But it endured.
And it only got stranger and more revered with age.
Play Now:
🔊 Spotify | Apple Music | YouTube
Start With:
- Signal – Cold, mechanical, insistent
- Dream – Distant, atmospheric
- Doze – Minimal, hypnotic, haunted
