Posts Tagged ‘language’

Hand To Earth – Ŋurru Wäŋa

Posted: 28 July 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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Room40 – 22nd August 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

Sometimes, I will encounter a release, and while knowing that I need to cover it, I find myself paralysed by the discovery that I am completely out of my depth. This is never more common when presented with works which represent cultures from beyond my – embarrassingly small – sphere of knowledge. And embarrassing is the word. Doubtless some would steam in and opinion with an overflowing confidence which presents itself in perfect disproportion to their knowledge, but bluffers inevitably come unstuck sooner or later, and are shown up as the arrogant cocks they are. I’ve always been of the opinion it’s better to be open about those gaps in knowledge, accept that no-one can know everything, and take the opportunities which present themselves to gain some education.

During my first or second year as an undergraduate studying for a degree in English, one tutor commented that I had squandered almost half of the first page on ‘rhetorical throat clearing’ – a magnificent and amusing turn of phrase, which summarises something I’m still guilty of some thirty years later.

Anyway: the point is, when presented with Ŋurru Wäŋa, the new album by Hand To Earth, I find myself swimming – or somewhat sinking – at first. The accompanying notes set out how ‘A search for a sense of belonging is at the heart of what drives Hand to Earth, a group of five people, who come together from different backgrounds, different birthplaces, and different musical approaches to share their songs, and by doing that to create something new.’

Peter Knight (trumpet, electronics, synthesisers, bass guitar) goes on to explain that ‘Ŋurru Wäŋa traces notions of home, belonging, and displacement. In the two parts of the title track, Sunny Kim intones the words of Korean poet Yoon Dong Ju’s poem, Another Home, in counterpoint to Daniel Wilfred’s song, sung in the Wáglilak language. Ŋurru Wäŋa (pronounced Wooroo Wanga), translates as ‘the scent of home’, and as we travel we long for that fragrance, passing the bee, guku, making the bush honey while the crow circles calling overhead.’

The notes add that ‘The music Hand To Earth creates collisions between the ancient and the contemporary; between the ambient and the visceral.’

And indeed it does. Listening to Ŋurru Wäŋa is a transportation, and transformative experience, not entirely similar from watching a documentary soundtracked by the sounds of the peoples being documented. From the very first minutes of the spacious whispers and slow, elongated notes of ‘buish honey (guku)’ the lister finds themselves in another place, another space, another mind. It feels, in ways which are hard to pinpoint, let alone articulate, spiritual, beyond the body, but at the same time closer to the earth – closer to the earth than I have ever been or even understand how to become. I realise I have been, and become so conditioned that such senses are beyond me, likely eternally, but on listening to the ringing sounds – not unlike the droning hum of a singing bowl – and breathy incantations of ‘Ŋurru Wäŋa Part I’ and revisited in the dark, sonorous rumbling of ‘Ŋurru Wäŋa Part II’ which brings the album to a close.

In between, swerving drones and impenetrable utterances evoke another time, another place, far removed, something mystical. It’s the sound of nature, of forests, of grass, of sky, as well as of soul, of heart, exultation, of but also the sound of humanity in a form so many of us have lost, and lost our capacity to connect to. This is the music of life, and it swells and surges, it’s the sound of being alive, and celebrating its magnificence.

Under capitalism, we forget that we’re alive, we trudge along, under duress, hating every day. Making it through a day is the goal for the most part, our ambitions are tied to capital, to the drudge, to the eye on the promotion, but, mostly on the commute, the team meeting, to clocking in and out, to the wage, to the 9-5, the confines of the shift, the need to pay the rent… We are all so numb, so desensitised. We’re not even living, but merely existing. With Ŋurru Wäŋa, Hand To Earth sing of another life – and it’s another world, and one we should all aspire to.

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Kadaitcha – Urban Somnambulistics

Posted: 7 April 2025 in Albums, Reviews
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Ant-Zen – 7th April 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

Kadaitcha’s Urban Somnambulistics was originally released on cassette in 2017, and was lauded for its dark atmospherics and rumbling narrative, spoken in Russian. A lot has happened since then, and the Ukrainian duo have, against all odds, remained active, releasing Tramontane in September 21023, and now a new version of Urban Somnambulistics, with the vocals in English. It’s not only the urban landscape of Ukraine which has changed since the album’s initial release, but the cultural landscape also, and the decision to re-record the lyrics in English was in some ways a reaction to the cultural and political context which has evolved, with Andrii explaining to me that, for him, Russian has become ‘a language of occupancy’.

There had been a shift following the annexation of Crimea in 2024, with some people switching from speaking Russian to Ukrainian, something which became more prevalent following Russia’s invasion in February 2022.

It’s hard to really grasp, from a position of comfort and safety, what it truly means to be an artist in a country which is not only at war, but has now been so for more than three years. The idea of making art under such circumstances seems completely wild, but at the same time, something we’ve learned from the long history of war – and indeed, history as a long thread, riven with tribulation – is that art has always been something we’ve made. It seems as if it’s almost a part of our survival mechanism, and that in difficult times, it’s a compulsion within the human psyche that there’s an absolute necessity to document, to create.

Urban Somnambulistics is dark and intense, and while it’s devoid of beats, it’s far too noisy and gnarly and bears the hallmarks of Throbbing Gristle at their darkest, most experimental best, abrasive, and anything but ‘very friendly’. The vocal on ‘hiding the angel’, while clean but reverby on the original version, is thick with distortion this time around, and significantly darker and more menacing in tone. ‘bushmeat’ is nine minutes of blown-out distortion and fizzing electronics, snapped cables and firing sparks, and it’s not only tense, but intense, not to mention unsettling. It’s a messy noise drift that would work as part of a soundtrack to Threads, a post-apocalyptic drone with the whistle of a bleak wind cutting across a desolate landscape. There is shredding noise, too, metallic devastation: you can almost picture ruined farm buildings hanging on their frames beside cropless fields.

Things really step up with ‘symbiote’, five minutes of oppressively dark industrial grind, before the rather more airy expanse of ‘paninsecta’, a piece that groans and drones, clanks and clatters, cut through with snarls and burrs, distorted vocal utterances just beneath the level of audibility adding an unsettling layer of discomfort. The eleven-minute title track provides the finale, and again, it’s very much in the vein of Throbbing Gristle’s more experimental works – menacing, uncomfortable, unpredictable, and noisy, collaged overlays enmeshing with crunching metal, melting circuitry, harsh drones rising up, a surging sonic tempest.

It’s remarkable that this is an album which was recorded before life in Ukraine changed beyond all recognition, because Urban Somnambulistics appears to convey all the tension and all the devastation of conflict in its presentation of sonic extremities, and its embracing of noise that hits like… like… It has significant impact, and that’s a fact.

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Then Comes Silence – Boxed

Posted: 13 February 2025 in Reviews, Singles and EPs
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Metropolis Records – 21st February 2025

Christopher Nosnibor

If one nation really loves its rock and it’s goth stuff, it’s Germany, and there are a fair few UK bands who, while they fair ok at home, are absolutely massive in Germany: the fact The Sisters of Mercy have continued to headline major festivals there well into the 00s, while at home, apart from Reading in ’91, they’ve never really featured in festival lineups gives a fair indication of the difference. So it should be of no surprise that it’s in Germany that Swedish post-punk/goth act Then Comes Silence grew their fanbase first in Germany, before expanding across mainland Europe after sharing stages with artists such as A Place To Bury Strangers, Chameleons and Fields Of The Nephilim.

Boxed should probably have been retitled Unboxed for this edition, being a digital reissue of tracks included in a limited and long-sold-out box set edition of their 2022 album Hunger, Consisting of two songs in Spanish, two instrumentals, two remixes and one outtake from that album, its reissue lands coincidental with the completion of a US tour in support of their seventh album, Trickery, released last year.

As one may expect from the summary, it’s more of a mixed bag of novel odds and ends than a serious or coherent EP release, and the presence of the songs sung in Spanish remind me of when The Wedding Present released ‘Pourquoi Es Tu Devenue Si Raisonnable?’, a French-language recording of ‘Why Are You Being So Reasonable Now?’ Sung in Gedge’s flat, Leeds accent, it sounds like… The Wedding Present, of course, and I’m sceptical about the translation given just how nearly the lyrics fit the melody.

Anyway. Boxed. The Spanish language versions of ‘Dias y Años’ and ‘Cebo’ are solid, but obviously don’t really bring much to the table, especially for the non-Spanish speakers – beyond a novel spin, that is. But make no mistake the ultra-percussive, stony goth groove of ‘Cebo’ (or ‘Worm’, as it is titled in English) is a killer cut in any language.

The first instrumental, ‘Spökenas Intåg (Walk-In)’, which in fact lifts the curtain on the release, is a somewhat spooky, atmospheric composition, imbued with filmic qualities, and it would sit comfortably on the soundtrack of a movie or maybe even a docudrama about a serial killer or something.

‘We Only Have So Long’ is a thrusting, energetic, guitar-driven song, packing groove and force into two and a half minutes, and while its offcut status is because of how it doesn’t really sit in the framework of the album, it might have made a standalone single, because, why not? It’s certainly not weak.

Although remixes rarely mark an improvement on the original – although there are notable exceptions – the H Zombie Remix of ‘Blood Runs Cold’ does at least bring something different.

The final track – amd second of the instrumentals – ‘Skuggornas Intåg’ bookends the EP and strives to give it some kind of cohesion, some kind of shape, being a clear counterpart to ‘Spökenas Intåg’. It’s atmospheric but inconsequential, and does feel rather like a space-filler or odd-end outro.

Ultimately, this release is simply what it is: a reissue of some bonus cuts for the benefit of the fans who missed out on the limited version of the album. It’ll no doubt make for a tidy addition for the new fans they accumulated on the tour, too, and it’s decent – but by no means their most essential offering.

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Esoterik – Archetypes EP

Posted: 18 December 2024 in Reviews, Singles and EPs
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29th November 2024

Christopher Nosnibor

While the entirely of this EP has already been made available as individual tracks, some of which have made our ‘recommended streams’ pages, songs as standalone pieces are one thing, but understanding them in context can often be quite another.

And so it is that Archetypes ‘explores timeless themes that have shaped societies for centuries. The band delves into the power of language and storytelling, celebrating legends that transcend time and culture. These stories, rich in symbolism and ritual, carry the wisdom of generations and continue to captivate audiences with their enduring lessons and sensational nature.’

Hearing the songs in isolation, the sense of thematic unity which unite them as an EP isn’t immediately apparent, particularly with the visual accompaniments of highly stylised neon-flashing cyber-tinged promo videos. They’re necessary – even essential – tools for grabbing attention in our hyper-stimulated, visually-obsessed world. Post some words, or some audio, and it’s like standing in the middle of a field at night dressed in black and expecting attention – but post an image, or a video, and people notice. It really is that clear-cut. It’s as if people need their media injected directly into their eyeballs, but listening the songs in sequence and only in audio, draws the attention to the music itself.

‘Mentor’ opens the EP, driven by a sturdy industrial groove and some tidy two-way vocals which form a dialogue and pivot around themes of disconnection while pitching a magnificently melodic chorus that really brings all the hooks. ‘Trickster’, the first song to be released from the EP, is bold and energetic, and if the backing is like a pumped-up disco interpretation of Depeche Mode, the belting vocals bring from-the-gut passion. The song’s overt pop sensibilities are enhanced with this raw edge, making it a clear and instant standout.

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As the title implies, ‘Shadow’ is darker, and finds the duo tunnelling deeper into the psyche and troubled waters, and satisfaction – or lack of – bubbles to the surface amidst the lyrics, and what filters through over the course of the EP is that as much as Archetypes is about the power of language, Esoterik are interrogating the shortcomings of language to fully convey complex emotions – the elements of which constitute our very DNA which ties us to those myths and legends of centuries past, and which, ultimately, are the essence of the human condition.

‘Hero’ makes for a strong, bombastic finale, the big drum-fills and powerful snare sound evoking the spirit of the 80s power ballad as they push to the conclusion with a surging chorus. Just how effectively they explore the elements of symbolism and ritual may be questionable, but as a superbly-realised slab of dark pop, Archetypes is hard to fault.

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Mari Boine – Alva

Posted: 11 September 2024 in Albums, Reviews
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By Norse Music – 6 September 2016

Christopher Nosnibor

It was reading Naomi Kline’s Doppelganger recently that I truly came to appreciate the way in which western colonialism has annihilated indigenous cultures. I have no real defence for my ignorance, although it’s most apparent that the version of history we receive from virtually any source you care to name is slanted, skewed, almost to the point of revisionary fabrication. The fact that so many countless indigenous cultures have been erased or so diminished so as to be rendered invisible has become normalised and recounted as a process of ‘civilisation’ or ‘improvement’ renders the wider world oblivious to the brutality of fact.

And so it was that reading the text which accompanies Mari Boine’s latest release struck me with a heightened impact, and it’s worth quoting for context:

‘Like so many people impacted by colonisation which we see throughout the world today and throughout history, the Sámi people of Norway (Sweden, Finland and Russia), have been oppressed and deprived of their distinct indigenous culture and language since the 17th century. Mari’s music aims to convey a sense of oppression and frustration, anger and sorrow, which stems from this history. On Alva specifically, a Northern Sámi word which translates to energy, determination or willpower, Mari’s compelling use of traditional joik singing bores through layers of history, imploring the Sámi people to

‘Bring out, breathe out the stories

that ask to be told

With your light feet

trespass the border of time’

This release, we learn, sees Mari Boine ‘blending ancient traditions and resonating with a message of respect for the earth. Alva is not just an album – it’s a journey into the very soul of Sámi heritage, brought to life by one of the world’s most compelling and visionary artists.’

And indeed it is. The thirteen songs on Alva – which translates as ‘willpower’ – possess a palpable sense of spirit, of – for wont of better words as I fumble around in a weak effort to articulate – heritage, culture. Even where it’s not possible to comprehend the words themselves, the music, and Mari’s voice speak, and do so on an instinctive, human level.

You see, colonialism – and our capitalist society – was / is based on division, a narrative of ‘us’ and ‘them’, with an othering of indigenous peoples as being lesser. The fact the world as is – particularly in the last few years, and particularly on social media, which has increasingly become a cesspit of division and self-centredness – means a lot of us have lost sight of the fact that fundamentally, we have more in common than we have separations, and division is another instrument of control exercised by those who strive to hold power in this capitalist society. When society tells us that the only way becomes dog-eat-dog (and migrant-eat-dog, and cat, becomes a topic in a presidential debate), it’s apparent just how fucked-up things have got, and how far we’ve come from living in harmony with symbiosis with the planet.

Alva doesn’t evoke ‘simpler’ times by any stretch. In fact, I suspect what may prove unexpected for many is just how timeless – and at the same time, contemporary – Alva sounds. ‘Dánsso fal mu váhkaran’ manages to infuse an airy, folksy song with a tinge of funk and a buoyant, almost Eurovision groove, while ‘Várjaliviĉĉet min vuolláneames brings bold, ceremonial beats, and ‘Anárjoh’ gáttis’ is expansive and atmospheric, and again, percussion-driven. But there’s an air of fluidity, of naturalness, of something at once earthy and above the earth which lingers around the delicately-poised melodies.

Alva is graceful, life-affirming, meditative, transportative, and magical.

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