Ani Glass (Cardiff-based artist Ani Saunders) has always looked like an outlier in Welsh pop. A former Pipette with a taste for 1980s synth maximalism, her debut album, Mirores, was a meticulous, self-produced affair full of crystalline melodies and polished electronics. It was ambitious, occasionally a little too clean, but undeniably the work of someone determined to take control of her own musical path. That path led to Mirores winning Welsh Language Album of the Year and being shortlisted for the Welsh Music Prize.
Phantasmagoria, her second full-length, comes weighted with heavier context. Just before Mirores was released in 2020, Saunders was diagnosed with a benign brain tumour. Recovery and survival inevitably shape the music here, and yet this is no maudlin, confessional record. Instead, she doubles down on her fascination with futuristic pop, building a lush, spectral world where endings and beginnings blur into one another. Self-released, and supported by PRS Foundation’s PPL Momentum Accelerator Wales programme, Ani Glass also commits to presenting deaf-friendly performances with British Sign Language, captions and visuals. Taken alongside her use of Welsh and Cornish lyrics, it reads less like a side-note than a philosophy: a reminder that pop, at its best, is not exclusionary but expansive, a shared space rather than a closed one.
The parallels with Gwenno (another ex-Pipette who also records in Welsh and Cornish) are obvious, but largely superficial. Where Gwenno often takes language into cosmic abstraction, Ani Glass’ vision is rooted in lived experience: survival, renewal, and the daily work of holding things together. Musically, Phantasmagoria has more in common with the shimmering synth pulses of Giorgio Moroder, or the sweeping atmospherics of Jean-Michel Jarre. Occasionally it echoes Arthur Russell’s melancholic experimentalism. (Russell, incidentally, inspired Saunders to learn the cello, which she threads subtly through the album.) Some moments you even expect Alison Goldfrapp to glide into frame, but Saunders’ sound remains distinctly her own: sleek electronica brittle enough to let the fragility of human experience shine through.
Opening with the title track, Phantasmagoria establishes the palette in bold strokes: airy vocals floating above steady synth pads. Persistent drum machinery that supports layers of choral harmonies. Co-producer Iwan Morgan’s synth and Laura J Martin’s flutes bloom around the arrangement, as Saunders sings “I’m the prophet of sleep and silence/Phantasmagoria/We’ll rest until summer.” The song rises, anthemic, and then falls with grace like silk sheets drifting slowly down to earth. ‘Arnofio’ has more of a gothic heart, its dark synth beats and close harmonies shading the edges before a beautifully lilting chorus frames the line “ma popeth yn anofio” (“everything is floating”). It’s an idea central to the record: the future pulls like an ocean, leaving us to float or to sink.
From there ‘Now You Know’ breaks the surface, a bubbling three-and-a-half-minute pop nugget straight out of Vince Clarke’s songbook. It’s so direct and catchy it feels beamed in from 1985. Its stripped-back lyric has a disarming honesty, set against production that glitters with retro-futurist charm. It’s the album’s most unabashed pop moment, proof that Saunders’ songwriting instincts are as sharp as ever.
Elsewhere, she weaves in new, organic sounds. ‘Y Bore’ (“the morning”) layers vintage synths with cello, showcasing her vocal range, while ‘The Dust Settled’ builds on the idea, flirting with madrigal-like phrasing and baroque pop. ‘Kosel y’wn Mor’ (“the sea is safe”) and Rhwng Yr Ynysoedd (“between the islands”) lean into maritime metaphor. Waves and currents seem to carry her voice, binding the album in water imagery. ‘Meanwhile, Acwariwm sparkles with the melodic genius of Abba yn Gymraeg: bright, irresistible, an earworm that burrows deep.
There are occasional slips. ‘O’r Diwedd’ has a gorgeous, bittersweet chorus, but its shuffling, glitchy beat nearly trips over itself, distracting from the vocal clarity. Closer ‘Like Waves’ makes up for it: a dusk-lit lament with just whirling organ and voice, cresting into a glowing swell of synth pads that gradually swallow her vocal whole. It’s one of those rare endings that feels both final and suggestive, like a horizon that keeps expanding.
Whether you fall for its melodic hooks or its shifting textures, it’s Saunders’ voice that carries Phantasmagoria. Clear, emotive and unwavering at the centre of each song, it gives shape to the album’s swirl of languages, references and moods. It steers the record with quiet assurance, and when everything else drifts or dissolves, that voice remains: steady, human, true, and the element that keeps Phantasmagoria from floating away.
‘Phantasmagoria’ is released on 26 September.
