The source of Fiskur’s sound lies somewhere in Glasgow’s rivers. Lyrics emerge from Ross Clark’s reveries while fishing on the Kelvin. His voice strains upriver from his hometown in Clydebank, flows around rusty-edged modern corners and dwells too long in empty wine bottles. Fiskur beats against the Clyde’s currents, rejoices in submitting to the river’s electric rhythms, flows out to the Atlantic and becomes silver.