Ashbringer
Yūgen

That branch on which she was born and raised had always felt a bit cramped to her, and come to think of it, even the park, although it was one of the largest in the city, didn't seem to hold any surprises for her. Perched on one of the highest and largest branches of the maple, the leaf felt a push for something more: she didn't want to mature her summer and sway to death in the foliage forever attached where she was... And so one morning, taking advantage of a wind stronger than expected, she broke away from her sisters and let herself be carried away: she didn't know where, in the end it was in the hands of the wind, but that already meant experiencing something new. On that spring morning, the air was still fresh and Boston was waking up: the leaf flew among the people: people hurrying to work, people photographing the monuments and following the Freedom Trail, people eating everything already at that hour. The city's scents were already too pungent for her, accustomed to the green park, so she welcomed with joy the decision of the wind to carry her north, along the coast.
Portsmouth was already more livable: fresh, immersed in the scent of salt, fish and wood aged by the sun and seawater, lively as a port must be, young and full of promises and hopes... Unfortunately, her stay was short: the wind suddenly got more pressing, pushing her even further north towards the lighthouses of Maine, and towards black clouds heavy with rain.
When she reached Cape Elizabeth, she impacted forcefully on a rock, and heard her veins crack for the first time: she didn't pay much attention to it, enraptured as she was by the beauty and mysticism that place emanated. It was as if there was a microclimate on the coast, which had generated a thick fog enveloping the lighthouse, which still stood tall and emerged imperiously as a bulwark of the unknown. Following the coast and the rocks, she reached the rocky path that would accompany her to Spring Point Ledge: a lighthouse with the same fate afflicting Cape Elizabeth, this one was possibly even more spectral. The leaf was grateful to the wind when it decided to take her for a spin around the top of the lighthouse: as she turned the corner, she felt pushed by a brutal force, it was the Atlantic winds that for a moment reinforced her loyal guide and were pushing her strongly westward.
The leaf, after so much wandering, finally settled on the gutter of a country chapel: immaculate white, with a pointed red roof, that chapel reminded her so much of those she had seen drawn in the history books of the children who used to read under her maple, in the park, when she was still attached to her branch. She was surrendering to a slight melancholy when she took flight again, this time weakly, fluttering under a covered bridge, beam after beam dancing among spider webs and swallow nests. Once past the bridge and the river, she felt the warmth of the sun suddenly grow stronger: it was as if a season had passed, and the summer was making her veins a bit drier and less elastic, and her fibers more taut. In the end, she didn't pay much attention to it, Wolfeboro was in view, and with it the lake on which it lay peacefully. She fluttered between the roofs of the houses, driven by the fumes from the coffee shops and attracted by the boat about to begin its usual trip across the lake. Tired, she let herself fall onto the bridge to enjoy the calm of the lake, a meditative peace that for a moment made her think that perhaps that would be the right place for her foliage. But no, off she went again: a gust and off to Vermont, where she suddenly realized that this was where every leaf would want to be born, grow, and die decaying at the feet of lush trees and next to rivers and waterfalls. Swanzey was only the gateway to a magical world, where nature reigned supreme, and the fields and woods were full of maples twice the size of hers (which incidentally was old and still a fine tree). Again, a sudden and strong gust of wind made her crash into a rock, and yet more sinister crackles... She was heading back south, it almost seemed like the way home, and instead the hand of the friendly wind, which had suddenly turned colder and damper, carried her into a storm striking the town of Salem. The cold and incessant rain intensified the wind carrying her, which became almost clumsier and more violent, thrashing her about to the doors of houses, shop windows, and cemetery walls. A glance at a shop window revealed to her that she had changed color: the green of her fibers had given way to a brown/red, perhaps a bit dull probably because of the bad weather; even her veins had become dry and brittle, due to too much thrashing about. Luckily, she reached the coast: “Winter Island” she read, and thought it must be a sign. She had had her foliage in flight, now she just had to trust the wind for the last dance, that final spin that would put an end to her wandering. She no longer hoped for it, but the wind was magnanimous and deposited her right on the edge of the Winter Island lighthouse. Up there, once again on the top of her little world, she felt at home again and didn’t even notice that her patterns were slowly dissolving with the rain that had incessantly continued to strike her.
Nick Stanger is the soul and main author of the Ashbringer project, a one-man band (at first) and now a fully-fledged group originally from Minnesota. New England has nothing to do with the music of our Guys, at least in appearance: in reality, the changing landscapes and climate typical of the northeastern USA well reflects the music of the band. With “Yūgen,” the group's second effort, we are faced with atmospheric black metal with acoustic, folk, and epic post-rock insertions: in eight tracks, we have a fresco of Stanger's musical world, which is indeed inspired by the Cascadian side of black, but he also adds much of his own. Ashbringer can be now lashing and impetuous, now sweet, poetic, and poignant, but always original and incredibly evocative.
Not the most recent album, it is perfect for the coming autumn: a recommended listen to best experience a transitional and alas all too brief season.