“Lifandi”, meaning “alive” in Old Norse, is the first live album in Bjørn Riis’s career, yet calling it a live album feels insufficient. It is a document of a moment in which music became the only way for the artist to stay afloat when the world suddenly cracked open beneath him. Recorded on October 16–17, 2025, during the tour promoting “Fimbulvinter”, the performances took place just one day after the death of Ace Frehley — Riis’s idol, his teenage hero, the man who ignited his love for the guitar. This context is not an anecdote; it is the spine of the entire album. It permeates every note, every pause, every phrase that lingers a second longer than expected. “Lifandi” is not a tour souvenir. It is a rite of passage — a musical catharsis that unfolded in front of an audience and was captured without filters, without corrections, without studio polish. This is not an album that was recorded. It is an album that was lived.
Riis is accompanied by the same musicians who have shaped the sound of Airbag and his solo work for years: Simen Valldal Johannessen on keyboards, Øystein Sootholtet on bass, and Arild Brøter on drums. This quartet does not need to communicate — they breathe together, like four natural elements converging in one place. Simen is the mist that softens the edges of the sound; Øystein is the earth, the grounding force that holds everything in place; Arild is the fire, the pulse, the heartbeat; and Bjørn is the air, the space, the breath that binds it all into a single narrative. Released on May 29, 2026, by Karisma Records, available on CD, digisleeve, and a limited marbled vinyl edition, the album pays homage to the golden age of 1970s live records — the ones that weren’t edited, corrected, or sanitized. Riis follows the same philosophy: he lets the music flow, crack, breathe, and remain honest. He does not hide the tremble in his voice, does not mask emotion, does not smooth the edges. “Lifandi” is alive — in every sense of the word.
The opening track, “Gone”, rises like a sunrise over a cold fjord. First silence, then single chords falling like drops of melting ice, and finally the strike — Arild Brøter’s drums holding the pulse like the heartbeat of a giant awakening from sleep. Live, the piece is more raw, more earthly, stripped of studio elegance, as if Riis were playing not for the audience but for someone who is no longer here. And when he enters the solo, he plays it as though it were the last time in his life — full of sorrow, gratitude, and a quiet farewell, illuminated by that unmistakable Gilmour‑like glow that does not shine directly but reflects off the surface of emotion.
“Getaway” is an instrumental escape into light, music that runs and breathes wide, like someone breaking free from darkness. Riis removes the gentle introduction known from the studio version and throws the listener straight into the current, where Simen’s keyboards form a misty tunnel and the guitar leads through it like a spirit guide. It is a piece that does not tell a story — it dreams one. In its live incarnation, it gains momentum, breathes more deeply, and feels as though the band is playing it not from memory but from instinct.
“Where Are You Now” undergoes the greatest transformation — from a rock ballad into an intimate acoustic whisper. The piano falls like raindrops on a windowpane, the acoustic guitar glows like candlelight in a dark room, and Riis’s voice sounds like a conversation with someone who has left but remains present. The absence of the famous studio solo is not a loss — it is a deliberate gesture that makes the piece even more fragile, even more human. It is not a question of “where are you?”, but rather: “can you still hear me?”. In this version, the song becomes less a composition and more a confession.
The closing “Fimbulvinter” is an epic tale of the great winter preceding Ragnarök, performed as if the world were standing on the edge of light and darkness. Riis’s guitar is a snowstorm rising, swirling, and devouring space; Øystein’s bass pulses like the breath of an ancient creature; Arild’s drums sound like the footsteps of gods on frozen ground. And the solo… the solo is like Gilmour playing beneath the northern lights — luminous, spacious, full of breath, carrying that unmistakable Nordic melancholy that is not coldness but reflection. It is an ending that does not close the album but opens a vast expanse. After it fades, silence remains — not empty, but full of promise.
“Lifandi” is not an EP, not a live album, not a document. It is a living organism, pulsing with the emotion of the moment, shaped by grief, by love for live performance, and by a Nordic melancholy that is not sadness but light reflected off ice. It is an album that shows Riis in his purest form: without filters, without masks, without studio perfection — just him, his guitar, his band, and the truth. It is a record that does not end when the music stops. It stays with you. Like light that does not fade — it simply moves elsewhere.
