Music For Nations / Sony – 24th January 2025
Christopher Nosnibor
While studying English Literature at university, I undertook a module on Anglo-Saxon literature. It was fascinating to learn the etymology of certain words, and the way in which commonplace phrases came to be, and one thing which struck me was the reverence the Anglo-Saxons held for the bear, with not only words like ‘berserk’ deriving from a fierce, angry bear, with armies placing their berserkers at the front of their lines, foaming at the mouth and gnashing their teeth on their shields to strike fear in the hearts of their opponents, but the phrase ‘lick into shape’ came from the belief that bear cubs were born as balls of fur, and their mothers would literally lick them into the shape of a bear. In so many aspects of life, through history, humans have aspired to be like bears.
It is this which provides the central theme of Wardruna’s sixth album, as the accompanying notes expand upon:
The bear frequently figures in the oldest myths of mankind in the northern hemisphere, and many indigenous people still regard this animal as a totem, honouring it with rites and songs. It was once our respected guardian, our guide to edible plants and berries, a creature we both feared and admired. Although the bear from the very beginning has constituted a threat to our own lives and those of our livestock, humans have always identified with the bear in various ways. If you skin the animal, its body underneath the fur strongly resembles that of man, which may be a reason legend has it the bear in fact originated from humans, and for thousands of years we have strived for its strength and wit. In some cultures, “treading the path of the bear” means pursuing what you’re truly meant to do in life.
Because this is a Wardruna album, it taps into ancient mythologies on a level which goes far deeper than some kind of conceptual cosplay or superficial skirting around the subject. Wardruna has a way of tapping into a spirituality which resides in our very bones, our DNA. Their music resonates, powerfully, in ways which are hard to articulate beyond the fact it stirs something deep inside. Birna is more than an album, it is a force of nature distilled in musical form.
‘Hertan’ begins with a thudding rhythm like a heartbeat which provides the backdrop to a spoken word introduction and, suddenly, a swelling surge of sound, clattering wooden-sounding percussion and bold choral chants. Immediately, it evokes images of a primal heritage, of rituals performed on moorlands around open fires, animal skins, ceremonies exulting pagan spirits, and a connection with the earth which transcends words alone.
The title track is simply immense, a colossal, powerful blast of sound, which conveys the strength – and also the gentleness – of the she-bear. It’s perhaps here where they most successfully articulate the appeal and fascination of the bear, a creature capable of the most divergent behaviours, so caring to its cubs, but would absolutely annihilate anything when threatened. There’s a reason why you don’t, as they say, poke the bear.
The fifteen-and-a-half-minute ‘Dvaledraumar’ (Dormant Dreams) enters rather more ambient territory, lunging into slow droning darkness after a hooting call like that of a conch shell being blown, or similar. Along with ‘Jord til Ljos’ (Earth to Light), it forms ‘a two-song meditation creates a joint hibernation between animal and listener’. It’s somewhat sad, that we haven’t taken cues from the bear to hibernate. It doesn’t feel natural to drag oneself out of bed and trudge to work in darkness, when it’s often cold, wet (or snowy, depending on geography), and windy. Before industrialisation, before electricity, working hours were limited by daylight, and in feudal times, serfs would effectively hibernate, unable to work the field during the winter months. I’m certainly not saying that this was a golden age of any kind, but capitalism and technology have certainly failed to deliver the lives they promised with a wealth of leisure time.
Sitting and reflecting on this, the rippling, repetitive melodies of these two tracks washing over me, I once again find myself envisaging dense, expansive woodlands, a habitat thick with vegetation, and sparse with population, a world before humans lost touch with nature and even humanity, and fucked everything up so badly. And I suppose it’s this desire to rewind the clock, to unfuck the planet, to undo centuries of mistakes to rediscover that which lies subconsciously in our hearts, which Wardruna connect with so perfectly.
Following this extended hibernative segment, they return first with ‘Himinndotter’ which evolves from being sparse and folksy to a frenetic frenzy of tribal percussion and a powerful choral refrain. ‘Tretale’ presents a haunting rumble with a breathy, hypnotic vocal. It’s built around a low, deep-lunged organ-like drone, but cuts back to some hypnotic passages where the insistent beat stands almost alone.
The eight-and-a-half-minute ‘Lyfjaberg’ brings the album – which is epic in every way – to a close with a slow, hypnotic beat and repetitive instrumentation and vocal chorus. It draws you in in such a way as to suspend time and space: it’s hard not to get lost in the moment, but also, ultimately, in time. I suspect I’ve described Wardruna’s music as ‘transcendental’ before, and more than once… but is the word which most accurately describes their music. Yes, THE word – and perhaps the only one. Because this… this is something else.
AA
Aural Aggravation 