At first glance, Microclimbs by gnomes looks like another quirky Bandcamp EP; maybe lo-fi, maybe about a cat, something like that. But press play, and it quickly becomes clear: this isn’t a joke. It’s four songs of quiet emotional intensity, wrapped in sincerity so sharp it might nick you.
Gnomes, a Berlin-based artist with a name straight out of Animal Crossing, has made something deceptively small that feels emotionally huge. Microclimbs doesn’t chase virality; it just sits beside you, like a memory you didn’t realize meant something until it came back during a thunderstorm.
“Lonely Peaches” opens the EP like a sun-dappled daydream; it’s buoyant, jangly, and just messy enough to feel human. It’s got an Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeroes looseness, like a bunch of friends accidentally wrote a great pop song while passing around a tambourine. The guitar jangles with wide-eyed charm, never too polished, and the vocals don’t so much perform as they hang out; relatable, off-kilter, and perfectly unbothered by perfection. It’s not trying to be deep. It’s trying to be good company. And it is.
“Chilblains” is next, and yes, it’s named after a circulation disorder, because of course it is. It’s cold, slow, and aching in a way that feels both specific and universal; like the sonic equivalent of watching your breath fog up a window you haven’t cleaned in months. But the real surprise is the trumpet. It doesn’t blast in for drama; it sighs. It weaves through the track like someone too tired to be theatrical, adding a worn-out grace that makes everything hit just a little deeper. It doesn’t build to anything, and that’s the point. It’s like listening to someone trying not to cry and almost succeeding, with brass gently patting their shoulder, saying, “Yeah, same.”
Then we get to “Acting Up,” where the EP briefly flirts with a distinctly pop accessibility; enough to perk up your ear, before heading back into its more introspective corner. There’s a soft, shimmering quality here, like Gossamer-era Passion Pit on a comedown, or Oh Wonder if they recorded in a bedroom lit only by fairy lights and unresolved feelings. The guitars don’t explode; they burst. The beat never fully lands, like it’s second-guessing itself and it’s rather charming. It’s a beautifully low-stakes breakdown disguised as a bop.
Finally, there’s “Gameboy, 1998,” a title that teases pure nostalgia bait but delivers something closer to a Noah and The Whale B-side about getting your Gameboy stolen and realizing that’s also a metaphor for longing of nostaligia. The song feels like they’re smiling through tears and every lyric sounds like it was written on the back of a bus ticket. There’s a kind of pixelated sadness here, like blowing into an old cartridge and realizing the game still won’t load. It’s sincere in a way that sneaks up on you, and by the end, you’re not sure if you want to cry or go play Tetris for six hours straight.
The whole thing clocks in at under 15 minutes, which is both cruel and correct. Microclimbs doesn’t overstay its welcome. It doesn’t even really knock. It just shows up, leaves a few thoughts on your doorstep, and quietly slips away before you can ask too many questions.
Microclimbs by gnomes is small, weird, and painfully sincere; it’s the kind of EP that feels like someone whispering a secret they didn’t mean to say out loud. It’s not trying to be cool, and it definitely doesn’t care if you think it is. There are no big hooks or ironic distance here, just delicate, lo-fi compositions that sit awkwardly in their own feelings. Think emotional excavation with a spoon and a flashlight made of vibes. Each track meanders in its own strange way, capturing those oddly specific moods you can’t name but instantly recognize, like realizing you miss someone you never really knew.
This isn’t indie music for playlists or captions; it’s the soundtrack for pacing around your room at 2 a.m., rereading a text you didn’t send. It makes you want to thank a stranger and then walk away before they can respond. Microclimbs doesn’t ask you to feel anything, but somehow you do. A lot. And by the end, you’re not sure what just happened, but you know it mattered.
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About the Author
A tenured media critic known working as a ghost writer, freelance critic for publications in the US and former lead writer of Atop The Treehouse. Reviews music, film and TV shows for media aggregators.
