Borderlines (Stories, part 1) – Byorn Gold (reviewed by Dave Franklin)

Although Byorn Gold’s approach to releasing the songs that make up his albums as three EPs in advance means that you will already be familiar with the songs, what you won’t have heard are those songs in the proper context. And that is the great thing about finally having them all in one place: you get to experience them in their perfect setting. I suppose it is the difference between sampling an individual dish and the more holistic enjoyment of an evening of fine dining.

Borderlines (Stories, part 1) is where the music of the last few months reaches its destination. Whereas Byorn’s songs are often autobiographical, or at least based on themes and experiences that relate to his own life, here it is to films that he looks for inspiration, usually exploring beyond mere storylines and examining characters and their traits, the protagonists as well as their opposites, finding universal truths and considering iconic archetypes.

The first four songs were packaged as Stories From Before Sunrise, and the opening brace of songs, “Original Sun” and “That’s How It Could Be,” are indeed a nod to 1995’s Before Sunrise. We are greeted by a graceful waltz between fingers and strings, where acoustic melodies drift through a tapestry of cinematic orchestration—lush, poised, and heartbreakingly serene—the perfect sonic companion for songs woven together with love and longing.

“Book of Life” draws its spark from an unexpected but richly layered source—Pixar’s Coco (2017) and is proof that even animated films, even those aimed at a younger audience, have plenty to teach us; here, the film’s heart beats with themes as old as time—family, memory, and legacy. The song taps into that same emotional current. As its refrain gently reminds us, “Everyone has a story to tell,” and it’s in those quiet, universal truths that both film and music find their shared heart.”

“You Are Free” may not pin itself to a single tale, but it walks a well-worn path—the hero’s journey, that most ancient of story arcs. It’s the spine of myth and legend, of Disney dreams and ancient drama alike. A bridge between the earliest campfire stories and the bright lights of the modern stage, this is a storytelling style as timeless as humanity, and here it’s reimagined through a cinematic lens, rich with emotion and quiet triumph.

The middle passage, Stories From the Western Edge, is a series of songs that draws its inspiration from the darker characters of the film noir setting, and “What Side Are You On” opens this chapter of the album not with a bang, but with an unexpected sway. A cool bossa nova pulse sets things in motion, effortlessly drawing the listener in on waves of dusky piano, honeyed guitar licks, and vocals that echo the golden age of ’60s chamber pop.

I was pleased to find one of my favourite films of recent times translated into song, the dark, twisting thriller “Bad Times at El Royale” inspiring a song of redemption via the waltzing wonder of “Let Me Be Absolved.” Its charm is found wrapped in ambient textures and delicate classical strings, adding to the feeling that the track is not just a song, but more akin to a confessional whispered through time. At its core, it’s a tale of redemption — the journey of a man tracing the scars left by his past decisions. There’s weight here, a sense of reckoning, but also the quiet hope that even the longest road can still lead home.

“It’s a Complicated World” speaks softly but carries weight. Built on sparse yet eloquent guitar lines, it allows the space between the notes to convey as much as the music itself. Gentle washes of strings, the ghost of a flute, and the occasional piano shimmer serve only to underline the song’s emotional core. Drawing from Green Book (2018), it captures the quiet storm within Don Shirley’s story—identity in flux, the burden of expectation, and the struggle to be heard as oneself.

“Last Man Standing” shifts the gears and scorches the horizon. It’s a survival tale—whether of flesh or spirit, it hardly matters—and Bjorn paints it in widescreen majesty. Think spaghetti western dust storms whipped up by ’50s twang guitars, intricate acoustic flourishes, Mariachi trumpets crying into the dusk, shimmering percussion, and harmonicas that bleed emotion. At the centre of it all stands his voice—bold, weathered, and unyielding—a rallying cry against whatever comes next.

The final quartet is titled “Stories From the Middle Ages,” and its source requires no further explanation. Warrior” opens with all the grandeur its subject demands—a regal fanfare and sweeping strings announcing the final chapter of Richard the Lionheart’s storied life. But as the song unfolds, it trades its battlefield bravado for something more intimate, adopting the gentle cadence of a medieval troubadour, as the king, now on his deathbed, looks back with quiet reflection on his life.

That blend of old and new continues with “The Monk,” drawn from the brooding, labyrinthine world of The Name of the Rose, another favourite of mine in both film and book form. Its cinematic prelude conjures gothic arches and candlelit chambers—a soundtrack in waiting—before giving way to a darker, more modern undercurrent, showing just how fluid the lines between past and present can be.

“U and Me Tonight” finds two actors entangled in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, their reality blurring with the roles they inhabit. A sleek, soul-infused piece of pop noir, where smooth guitar lines and shimmering synths drift beneath vocals laced with longing and fragile intensity—a love story within a love story, as timeless as the Bard himself.

The curtain falls with “Story Maker,” a graceful, neo-classical ode to the very thread that binds the album together: storytelling. It’s an elegant final act, a sonic epilogue that honours the storytellers—ancient and modern, mythic and mundane. As strings swell and the song builds to its final crescendo, it nods to the towering legacy of Dante’s Inferno, ending not with resolution, but with a reminder of the power stories have to carry us through the dark and into the light—a fitting footnote to a cinematic journey built on sound, memory, and imagination. The credits roll, the lights go up, and the people are ushered out of the cinema!

It’s easy to forget just how vital stories are. Far from being just fairy tales or fireside fables, they shape us—they are us. Stories let us walk in someone else’s shoes, see through another’s eyes, and feel what we might never otherwise feel. Books open minds, songs open hearts, but film cracks open reality, and does so in three dimensions. As this album so vividly proves, cinema doesn’t merely entertain us—it transports us. It’s a portal, a journey, a time machine. It reimagines the past, reframes the present, and prophesies the future, or at least one possible version of it. And if film can do that, then music—pure, resonant, and emotionally direct—does that many times over. It’s not just accompaniment. It’s the story itself, told in chords and crescendos.