Let’s talk about albums that aren’t made for blasting, big speakers. Sometimes, all you need is to sit in your room, plug your earphones, and listen to something like Connie Lansberg’s newest album, Aeroplane. Not for fun, not for vibes, but definitely for meaning.
Melbourne-based jazz vocalist and songwriter Connie Lansberg is back with a 7-track album Aeroplane, recorded in a single day together with guitarist Brad Rabuchin, the last guitarist to tour with Ray Charles. There are no retakes, no overly-processed output, just two musicians collaborating and capturing something raw and human.
When an album starts with a sound like Aeroplane, you’ll know you’re in for something real. Every touch on the string felt like a borrowed feeling you’ve been trying to avoid. And once Lansberg sings “I forgot who I was for such a very long time,” it immediately takes you back to a version of yourself you couldn’t recognize anymore. There’s no angst, no overly dramatic set, only a distant feeling that lingers — you’ve never really lost your wings, you just wandered far enough to even feel them.
Broken Doll followed the same route, but dusted with gloom and a quiet weight that feels a little more fragile. The guitar plays like it could break anytime, yet never gets there, briefly switching into something hopeful before sinking back again. Lansberg delivers lines with a bit of everything, from sorrow, care, empathy, and vulnerability that feel too raw and human.
Everything Ends Up In The River might seem like some old, cliché preach about life but it’s far from that. Its mellow and slow ambiance lingers not because of peace, but from uneasiness of what’s beneath her words. It’s the kind of track that leads you to branches of meaning instead of telling you what to feel.
If a defense mechanism has a sound, it’s probably Heart of Stone. There’s restraint and firmness in each note, as if passing through was never possible. As the song progresses, you’ll realize that it was never a confession but a decision to protect, sung by someone who chose stability over collapse and control over emotions.
The album ends with You Don’t Know Me and feels like a song you’d want to get lost in because it creates a space that blurs reality and memory. At first, it feels like a conversation between two different people until the boundary quietly dissolves into a single voice that is trying to understand itself.
Some albums’ rawness feels forced or lacking, but this one felt complete and intentional. It doesn’t appear unpolished or unrefined; it just feels honest.
But what makes Aeroplane stand out more as an album is the way it’s written. It’s the kind of creativity you’ll only get from someone who has spent time watching the world, finding meanings before letting it all out. Her songwriting doesn’t really fit into one single genre, like a true artist who mastered the art of letting whatever flows simply be what it is.
Alongside her storytelling is Rabuchin’s guitar that does much of the work as its lyrics. It’s such a wonder how the strings speak just as deeply as Lansberg’s emotions. Despite this project being done in a single day, their harmony and chemistry felt like years of familiarity.
If your day calls for slowing down, or for artists like Norah Jones and Melody Gardot, you’ll definitely find yourself drawn to Connie Lansberg’s Aeroplane—because sometimes, a voice and a guitar are all it takes to feel again.
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