When Carlos Niño sits behind an arsenal of percussion instruments, he isn’t there to create pockets, lay down grooves, or keep a strict meter; he’s laying out a billowing textural blanket for other instruments to settle upon. “I’m going to have a lot of bells,” he once told me, “a lot of metals, plants, wood, wind. I’m gonna open it up like it’s a little forest.” If he does create a pulse, it’s reminiscent of the way cicadas’ buzzing can sound like an LFO filter sweep, or how toad calls can sync with firefly illuminations on a warm summer evening. His playing expands and contracts at an intuitive pace, helping guide other players further into the moment and listeners further into themselves.
On a day off from tour in November 2025, Niño ambled down to pianist and composer Duval Timothy’s studio in the light London rain. The two had been fans of each other’s work for years, and initially met by trading Bandcamp messages. Timothy has a buoyant, circular approach to the piano, piling clusters of chords together and letting them dissipate in the air before moving on; he’ll often land on a simple, angular melodic figure and repeat it like a worry line. Tape-delay saturation and field recordings smudge the edges of his compositions, evoking both the comfort and the anxiety of nostalgia. It’s gorgeous and probing work.
Despite operating in similar musical worlds, Niño and Timothy had never worked together, so when the opportunity presented itself, they spent a serene gray day improvising a soundtrack for the drizzly weather. Back in his home studio in Topanga, California, Niño performed a few nips and tucks, wove in some archival recordings, and overdubbed new parts from himself and others in his & Friends universe. Timothy added a few layers of keyboards and additional piano here and there, and the resulting album, rain music, is a small, contemplative wonder that feels expansive within its minimal parameters.
The combination is a natural fit. While Timothy’s expressive playing is captivating on its own, it sounds best when a little blurred, and Niño’s shakers and cymbal swashes lend a suitable amount of haze. At its most sweeping, like on the spiritual jazz of opener “assata’s rain” or the ambient wanderings of “ideations on rain,” both of which feature regular Niño collaborator Nate Mercerau, rain music gestures towards the widescreen new age music he often traffics in. It’s a quieter, indoor take on that sound, though, more solitary daydreaming than collective bliss-out. Some of the album’s strongest moments come when Timothy’s at his most orthogonal, elbowing through Niño’s atmospheric drift. Take “loopy,” for instance: Living up to its name, Timothy repeats phrases as if hitting buttons on a sampler while Niño creates long-tailed wisps with gongs, chimes, and what sounds like dried palm fronds. The song achieves a mesmeric quality that feels unique, a result of Timothy and Niño listening to one another so intently.
Supporting contributions from Merceraru, Laaraji, or Aaron Shaw, lush as they are, only bolster that main connection. In a slightly unexpected but welcome turn, the duo invites rapper Navy Blue to appear on “beautiful, tender, colours.” As on “loopy,” Timothy enters a locked groove, while Niño shakes sleighbells and other percussion in a way that feels more locked in than it is. Navy Blue’s flow sits comfortably atop the gently rollicking piano, sometimes filling in the spaces Timothy leaves, other times finding inverse rhythms. His writing is lovely, assigning the colors of a sunset to memories and feelings, but you’ll find yourself more drawn in by Timothy and Niño’s strange metrical interplay. The musicians feel inextricable from each other here; Niño’s reedy noise floor needs to brush up against the sturdy tone pillars Timothy constructs, or else it might disappear. It’s similarly true for Timothy—he grounds into each note but sways with Niño’s windstream, allowing himself a bit of give. Without that constant swish surrounding him, it’s easy to imagine his piano feeling too stoic, too brutalist.
In a couple of moments they get a little too free, like the atonal noodling throughout “bumpy” and in certain parts of “reallyfeelingthis,” which are probably more transcendent to play than to hear. But by the end of the record, they seem to have found the right balance of amorphous and structured. It closes with “birds, shells, rivets, keys,” which is barely, beautifully there for over six minutes. Timothy ballets around an elegant, slightly mournful chord progression while Niño picks up one instrument at a time, finds its voice, then sets it down again. An occasional synth note mushrooms into view. A strong breeze gusts against a microphone. A bird chirps in the final second, as the rain dries up and the sun glints off the puddles and dripping leaves.
