Home

[01] SPOKEN · intro

You’re locked into Subwave, and this is the Making Of, where the champagne never goes flat and the stories are always better with a little reverb. Non-stop pop, darling. The party never ends, it just changes postcode. Now, I know what you’re thinking — Cara, love, this is Hania Rani, not exactly a TikTok bop with a dance challenge. But hold on. Because Home isn’t just an album. It’s a sanctuary. A slow-motion sunrise after a night of crying in your designer sunglasses. And honestly? It’s the kind of record that makes you want to cancel your plans, light ten candles, and whisper, “I’m not lost, I’m just finding myself.” Which, by the way, is exactly what Hania was doing. She started writing this back in 2016 — yes, before Instagram made everyone an interior designer and your therapist had a podcast. And get this — Home was supposed to come out before Esja, that icy, piano-drenched dream of hers. But Gondwana Records heard those solo piano sessions from Reykjavík and Warsaw and went, “Nope, this one first,” like a publicist choosing the better filter. So Esja dropped in April 2019, and Home had to wait. But honestly? The delay was a blessing. Because by the time she circled back, Hania wasn’t just writing music — she was building a world. One where voice, piano, and silence all speak the same language. And she wasn’t alone. After years of solo gigs that probably left her emotionally exposed and slightly dehydrated — much like my last festival — she went to see a jazz trio in Gdańsk. Not for the vibes. For the bassist. Ziemowit Klimek. And drummer Wojtek Warmijak. She liked their groove, asked them to jam, and suddenly — plot twist — she had collaborators. A band! Or, well, two very talented men who didn’t run screaming when she said, “Let’s make something that feels like leaving and returning at the same time.” Which, honestly, is the emotional arc of every modern relationship. So welcome to Home. A record about displacement, inner peace, and the fact that sometimes, the only place you can truly rest is inside your own head. And also, apparently, with a Prophet 08 synth within arm’s reach.

[02] SPOKEN · part-1

Let’s start where Hania starts — with Leaving. Not just the opening track, but a turning point. This was the first time she fully integrated her voice into her compositional language, around 2018. And not just as a melody — as a texture, a question, a ghost. She treats her voice like another instrument, which, let’s be honest, is the only way to survive in the music industry these days without crying during soundcheck. The lyrics? They came after the melody, which is the opposite of how most of us learn to write songs in our bedrooms with a ukulele and a broken heart. She starts with sound, then the words emerge — abstract, poetic, like overheard thoughts in a foreign airport. And in Leaving, those thoughts are sharp: Are you leaving? Is there a better place? That’s not just a question. It’s an accusation wrapped in a whisper. And the silence between the notes? That’s the real answer. She recorded the upright piano in her home studio in Warsaw — her preferred instrument, apparently. Which makes sense. If I had a piano I loved that much, I’d probably name it and leave it everything in my will. But here’s the thing — she didn’t just record it. She used five pairs of mics on the grand, four on the upright. Five. Pairs. That’s ten microphones just for the piano. I don’t even use that many filters on my selfies. And she didn’t edit the piano tracks before sending them to the mixer — too complex, too layered. So what you hear is pure, uncut Hania. No autotune, no pitch correction, just fingers on keys and a heart on the line. And the vocals? Processed, layered, reversed — part of her “extreme pitching technique,” which sounds like a yoga pose but is actually her way of warping acoustic samples until they become something else entirely. She’s not afraid of change. She invites it. And in Leaving, that change is already happening. The doors are open. The space is empty. And the silence? It’s not peaceful. It’s loud.

[03] SONG · song-1

• title: “Leaving”
• artist: “Hania Rani”
• album: “Home”
• note: play in full

[04] SPOKEN · part-2

Right. Still recovering from that one. Leaving hits like a quiet breakup — the kind where no one shouts, but everything ends anyway. And now we drift into Nest. And oh, Nest. This is where Hania leans into the idea of home as an internal state — not a place, not a person, but a feeling you build yourself. She sings — or rather, layers her voice into a choir of one — I decided to live alone, there is my little forest home. And yes, the lyrics are a little glitchy. Typed with intention, I assume. My tiny nest is built from dreams, I dreamt a thousand miles from here. It’s like a lullaby written in a dream journal. And musically? It’s minimal. Piano, voice, and that Prophet 08 synth humming in the background like a distant power station. But the magic is in the arrangement — or rather, the restraint. She doesn’t overfill the space. She lets the notes breathe. And the voice — processed, pitched, layered — becomes a texture, not a statement. It’s not about storytelling. It’s about atmosphere. She’s not singing to you. She’s singing around you. And that’s the whole point of Home — it’s not a linear journey. It’s a series of rooms you walk through, each lit differently. Nest is the one with the fairy lights and the books stacked too high. The one where you finally stop running. And fun fact — Hania composes through improvisation. She doesn’t plan. She starts with an image — light, shadow, a building, a memory — and lets the music grow from there. So Nest probably began as a feeling of safety, of retreat. And then she shaped it, like clay, until it sounded like this. No rigid structure. Just emotion in motion. And honestly? That’s how all the best things are made. Not with a blueprint. With a vibe.

[05] SPOKEN · part-3

Now, F Major. And look, I know what you’re thinking — Cara, it’s called F Major. How dramatic can it be? But trust me, this isn’t about the key. It’s about the video. Because this track didn’t just live in the studio. It lived on a snowy Icelandic beach, in a single five-hour window of shootable weather, with dancers freezing their designer knickers off. Directed by Neels Castillon, whom Hania met on Instagram — because of course she did. We all find our soulmates through DMs now. But instead of a thirst trap, they bonded over aesthetics. And then — plot twist — she gave him full creative freedom. Which, for an artist who controls every mic placement and vocal layer, is basically handing over the keys to your emotional vault. The video was shot in one take. One. And originally scheduled for three days. But Iceland said nope, and only the first day had usable conditions. So they got it in one go. And the dancers? They performed with passion, despite the wind trying to steal their souls. Which, honestly, is the energy we all need. Just show up, do the thing, look beautiful while suffering. That’s art. That’s life. Musically, F Major is sparse — piano, subtle synth textures, a pulse that feels like a heartbeat under snow. No vocals. No lyrics. Just space. And that space? It’s not empty. It’s full of intention. Hania uses silence like a composer uses rests — not as absence, but as punctuation. And the mixing? Gijs van Klooster, the main mixer, added subtle sound design elements to tracks like this and Summer, enhancing the atmosphere without overpowering it. He didn’t fix anything. He just made it more itself. Which is the best kind of production. Not correction. Amplification.

[06] SONG · song-2

• title: “Nest”
• artist: “Hania Rani”
• album: “Home”
• note: play in full

[07] SPOKEN · part-4

Alright, we’ve been floating. We’ve been nesting. We’ve been freezing on a beach like extras in a Nordic noir. And now — we come to Home. The title track. The emotional core. And honestly? It’s a masterpiece of repetition and release. She sings — or rather, chants — Home, I feel like home, over and over, like a mantra you whisper when you’re trying not to cry on the train. And the lyrics? They’re devastating in their simplicity. Though nothing is as was before. No words to say, no place to go. This isn’t about geography. It’s about identity. About returning to yourself after being away — from a place, from a person, from a version of you that no longer fits. And then — the chorus. Come back home, come back home. Not go back. Come back. Like you’ve been expected. Like you’re welcome. And the way she layers her voice — sometimes clear, sometimes pitch-shifted, sometimes reversed — it’s like she’s singing to herself from different timelines. Past, present, future. All in one room. All at once. She recorded the vocals at Monochrom Studio in rural Poland — a hilltop studio surrounded by nature, peaceful, inspiring, acoustically natural. Which, let’s be honest, is the kind of place I’d go to write a breakup ballad and eat an entire cake. But Hania? She used it to build a sanctuary in sound. And the rhythm section — Ziemowit on double bass, Wojtek on drums — they appear here, grounding the track with a pulse that feels both human and inevitable. Like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. And the Prophet 08? Still there. Humming. Holding the space. This is the track that had been performed live since 2018, evolving over time, shaped by audience silence and stage lights. And that live evolution? It gave it its emotional arc. It’s not just composed. It’s lived. And when she sings With empty heart and freezing hands, with every start and every end, you believe her. Because she has.

[08] SPOKEN · part-5

And then — Ombelico. Which means “navel” in Italian. And yes, that’s a metaphor. This is the centre. The core. The place where everything connects. And musically? It’s one of the most intimate tracks on the album. Just piano and voice. No bass. No drums. No synth. Just Hania, alone with her thoughts and her upright in her Warsaw studio. And the lyrics? Fragments. There is a place, so tiny though, where dreamers live, when sun is gone. It’s like she’s describing the inside of her own mind. And the way she sings — soft, close-mic’d, vulnerable — it’s like she’s letting you into a room no one else has seen. She’s said that singing her own words made her feel “naked,” even though the lyrics are abstract. But here? The abstraction feels personal. Like coded messages only she understands. And the recording chain? RME sound card, Millennia preamp, DPA 4099 on the piano — possibly with pickups too. And mics. So many mics. But in this track, you don’t hear the technique. You hear the truth. And that’s the mark of great production — when you forget the gear and feel the feeling. She prepared near-final mixes before sending them to the mixer, crafting what she called the “draft atmosphere” of each song. So what you’re hearing? It’s already her vision. The mixer’s job wasn’t to fix it. Just to polish the soul.

[09] SONG · song-3

• title: “Home”
• artist: “Hania Rani”
• album: “Home”
• note: play in full

[10] SPOKEN · part-6

Right. Still recovering. Home doesn’t just end. It lingers. Like perfume on a coat. And now we step into Tennen. Which, fun fact, was written at the same time as Esja — back in 2016. So this album has been gestating for years. And you can hear it. This track has weight. Depth. It’s built on a repeating piano motif, but it’s not static. It evolves. Grows. Like a plant pushing through concrete. And the rhythm section returns — Ziemowit on bass, Wojtek on drums — but they’re not driving the track. They’re supporting it. Like pillars holding up a roof. And the Prophet 08? It’s there, but it’s subtle — a shimmer, a pulse, a presence. Gijs van Klooster added some sound design here too, enhancing the atmosphere without drawing attention to itself. Which is the dream, isn’t it? To be felt but not seen. To support without overshadowing. And Hania’s voice? It appears in fragments — wordless, layered, processed. Not a lead. A texture. A ghost in the machine. This is where her “extreme pitching technique” really shines — taking her acoustic recordings, stretching them, warping them, turning them into something otherworldly. And the whole thing was recorded during breaks in touring — September to October 2019 — which means it was made in the cracks. Between flights. Between cities. Between versions of herself. And yet — it feels whole. Complete. Like a puzzle she didn’t know she was solving.

[11] SPOKEN · part-7

And then — I’ll Never Find Your Soul. Title sounds like a breakup anthem, but the music? It’s not angry. It’s accepting. Resigned. Like you’ve searched everywhere, and now you’re just… tired. The piano is sparse. The bass is deep. The drums are steady. And Hania’s voice — again, layered, processed — sings fragments of melody, like echoes in a cathedral. No direct narrative. Just emotion. And the mixing? Again, Gijs van Klooster brought his quiet magic, enhancing the space without filling it. Because the power here isn’t in the notes. It’s in the silence between them. This track, like Leaving and Home, features both Ziemowit and Wojtek — the rhythm section that reignited her love for collaboration. And it shows. This isn’t solo piano. It’s chamber music with a pulse. Intimate, but not isolated. And the whole thing was recorded at Monochrom Studio — that peaceful, inspiring place in the Polish hills. Where the only sounds are the wind and your own thoughts. Which, honestly, is the best place to write a song about not finding someone’s soul. Because sometimes, the only soul you need to find is your own.

[12] SPOKEN · part-8

Now, Come Back Home. And yes — it shares lyrics with Home. But it’s not a repeat. It’s a reprise. A variation. A coda. And it’s stunning. Just voice and piano at first — her voice layered, harmonised, floating above the keys. And the lyrics — Home, I feel like home — they’re simpler here. More direct. Like a child’s prayer. And then — the rhythm section returns. Subtle. Present. Grounding. And the Prophet 08? It’s there, but it’s warm. Like a radiator in a cold room. This track was mixed by Piotr Wieczorek in Warsaw — not Gijs van Klooster. Which means it has a slightly different energy. Closer. More immediate. And it makes sense — this is the final return. The last step. The door closing behind you. And when she sings I am going now with empty heart, and leaving all the days behind, it’s not sad. It’s peaceful. Like exhaustion after a long journey. And the way the track fades — not with a bang, but with a breath — it’s perfect. Because home isn’t dramatic. It’s quiet. It’s small. It’s there, waiting, even when you forget how to find it.

[13] SONG · song-4

• title: “Come Back Home”
• artist: “Hania Rani”
• album: “Home”
• note: play in full

[14] SPOKEN · conclusion

So that’s Home. A record made in fragments, in stolen moments, in studios across Poland and Iceland, shaped by improvisation, silence, and the courage to sing when you feel naked. It’s about leaving. About returning. About finding yourself not in a place, but in a feeling. And it arrived — May 29, 2020 — just as the world went quiet. Lockdown. Isolation. And suddenly, a record about internal sanctuary became a lifeline. Which, honestly, is the best kind of timing. Not planned. Just true. Hania Rani didn’t set out to make a pandemic album. She set out to make a human one. And she did. With upright piano, Prophet 08, voice, and a handful of trusted collaborators. No strings. No orchestra. Just honesty, layered like reverb. And Zino Mikorey — the mastering engineer, hero to Nils Frahm and Ólafur Arnalds — he gave it the final polish, understanding the emotional intent without overcooking it. Because sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is leave space. For silence. For breath. For home. So thank you, Hania. For building a room we can all step into. Even if we’re just passing through. You’re locked into Subwave, and this has been the Making Of. Non-stop pop, darling. The party never ends, it just changes postcode. Until next time — come back home.