Dirk Serries: Infinite And Unbound (Digital)

From Medienkonverter Dirk Serries is an artist who has consistently defied categorization for over four decades – and that’s precisely what makes him so fascinating. It all began in the early 1980s under the name Vidna Obmana in the Belgian DIY industrial scene, somewhere between tape underground, sound experimentation, and controlled chaos. What followed – and I mean this sincerely – is a development rarely seen: from harsh industrial to increasingly refined, atmospheric soundscapes that ultimately found their own unique voice in the ambient and drone realms. With projects like Fear Falls Burning, he shaped the guitar drone, while simultaneously, with Microphonics and later works, he embarked on a path towards improvisation and the avant-garde. And this growing self-confidence is audible in every second of Infinite And Unbound. This isn’t an album by an “ambient producer”—it’s the work of a sound architect who knows exactly when a note is one too many. Released digitally on January 6, 2026, via Projekt Records, Infinite And Unbound sounds almost brazenly minimalist. And that’s precisely what made me chuckle on first listen: While others are plastered with plugins, layers, and production overkill, Dirk Serries picks up an electric guitar, runs it through effects—and creates a space where you can first find yourself. And now comes the point that really hit me: If I hadn’t read the press release, I would never have guessed there was even a guitar involved. Really. To me, on the first listen, it sounded more like a sonic construct somewhere between a synthesizer, a fog machine, and a parallel universe. And that’s exactly where I sat and thought to myself: “Wait a minute… that’s supposed to be a guitar?” —and at the same time: “How the hell do you do that?” And yes—it’s possible. And shockingly well, too. Through reverb, delay, loops, and finely controlled feedback, the guitar is deconstructed and reassembled to such an extent that it almost completely loses its original identity. What remains are floating, expansive textures that are more reminiscent of light, space, or movement than a classical instrument. That’s precisely the moment when I find myself grinning inwardly while listening—because I realize how much expectations are being played with here, without it ever feeling like a trick. In the main part, something happens that I love so much—and yet experience far too rarely: I slow down. Really slow down. So slow that at one point I thought, “Wait a minute… do I even have any appointments today?” These five tracks are consistently incredibly spacey, ethereal, and at the same time so pleasantly chill that they completely bring me down. In a good way. This isn’t “background music,” but rather a state of “I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes staring into nothingness and I’m perfectly fine with that.” What particularly resonates with me is that this music feels almost physical. The soundscapes don’t just glide—they transform the space. Several times I had the feeling that my surroundings were subtly slowing down, as if someone had secretly tweaked reality. And somewhere between these shimmering layers, I think to myself: This is exactly why I listen to ambient music. At the same time, the whole thing never descends into triviality. This isn’t a soundtrack for incense-burned romance or Instagram sunsets. It’s too precise, too deliberately crafted for that. This blend of vastness, tranquility, and subtle melancholy hits the mark for me. Beautiful without being kitschy. Calm without feeling empty. And achieving this balance is harder than many realize. I’ll readily admit: I often tune out of drone and ambient albums at some point—even if they’re objectively well-made. Not this one. Quite the opposite, in fact: I want to delve deeper. Another listen, another step further away from everyday life. For me, that’s always a clear sign that an album works—not because it entertains me, but because it changes me. Nevertheless—and this is part of the equation—as powerful as ‘Infinite And Unbound’ is, I sometimes miss a moment of risk. A slight disruption, a break, something that briefly shakes the smooth beauty. The album is so controlled, so cohesive in its sonic space, that it occasionally lacks precisely this friction. That’s high-level criticism – but also the only point where I would have liked to see a little more courage. What remains is an album that, despite its minimalist approach, never feels empty. On the contrary – something is constantly happening, just on a small scale. This slow blossoming and receding of the sounds, these subtle shifts – it’s so precise and yet so organic that while listening, I keep thinking: This person knows exactly what they’re doing. And if I had to sum it up in one sentence: Infinite And Unbound isn’t ambient music for daydreaming – it’s ambient music for disappearing. Infinite And Unbound is therefore an album you don’t just listen to, but enter. Perfect for quiet evenings, for moments when you want to unwind – or need to unwind. Fans of Alessandro Cortini, Chihei Hatakeyama, or Hakobune will immediately connect with this. Personally, I’ll be honest: This album calms me down so reliably that I’m starting to trust it more than my own evening routine – and that’s precisely why I keep coming back to it.