Lilliput by Riverrun: A Sonic Dive into Ambient Chaos (2018)
Alright, let’s get this straight—Lilliput isn’t your run-of-the-mill ambient album. It’s not here to lull you into some peaceful trance or soundtrack your yoga session. Nope. This is Daniel Land losing his damn mind in the best way possible, and we’re all invited to the chaos. Released under Hinney Beast Records in 2018, this UK-born beast of an album punches through the generic electronic haze with something that feels raw, unfiltered, and almost confrontational.
First off, the tracklist reads like a fever dream. You’ve got “Lilliput Part I,” “Part II,” all the way up to VII, plus the standalone “Lilliput.” It’s like he couldn’t decide where one piece ended and another began—or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, it works. The repetition becomes hypnotic, but not in that lazy spa music kind of way. More like…you’re stuck in a loop, and you don’t hate it.
Now, I gotta call out “Lilliput Part III” because holy crap, this thing hits different. It starts off slow, teasing you with these soft pads that feel like they’re creeping up on you. But then BAM—a distorted synth line crashes in like a sledgehammer, and suddenly you’re not sure if you’re relaxed or ready to punch a wall. That contrast sticks with me. It’s beautiful and brutal at the same time, which is what makes it unforgettable.
And how can I not mention “Lilliput Part VI”? This track is pure mood. It’s darker, grittier, like someone took the light from the rest of the album and flipped it off. There’s this low-end rumble that feels like it’s vibrating in your chest, paired with these glitchy little bursts that sound like a broken machine trying to breathe. Honestly? It’s unsettling as hell, but in the best way. It’s the kind of song you listen to when you’re feeling too much and need something equally intense to match it.
Daniel Land wears all the hats here—producer, performer, editor—and honestly, dude deserves props for pulling it off. He didn’t phone this one in; every layer feels intentional, even when it sounds messy. And yeah, sure, the whole thing could’ve used a bit more variety, but screw that. Sometimes monotony is exactly what you need to make a point.
So, what’s the takeaway? Lilliput isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t try to be. It’s weird, abrasive, and oddly mesmerizing—all qualities that make it stick in your brain long after the last note fades. If anything, it reminds me that sometimes art doesn’t have to be polished to be powerful. Or maybe it just reminds me that my headphones are probably broken because this album keeps messing with my head. Who knows.
