Orplid
Nächtliche Jünger

Any form of artistic manifestation is never an exclusively subjective act, but it also becomes the expression of the culture in which the artist's creative self matures. 

It's true that, from post-war times to the present, Western culture has rapidly become uniform, flattening onto the Anglo-Saxon model, while at the same time, local peculiarities have gradually faded: in so-called "commercial" music, the artistic self is thus filtered by pre-existing conventions, schemes, and formulas, while the different national identities often end up as just a touch of spice meant to make an essentially standardized recipe more flavorful.

So much so that, on this side of the world, for many, the place of birth has become a mere matter of record in terms of artistic development.

 This is certainly not the case for Orplid, Germans from Germany, to be counted among the most sincere standard-bearers of the new wave of neo-folk bands that have blossomed in Germany.

Because even more than their compatriots Forseti and Sonne Hagal, Orplid manages to have their cultural identity prevail over everything else.

Evidently, it's not enough for Orplid to adopt their mother tongue and take refuge in an atavistic and exquisitely European folk, nor to camouflage themselves in the majesty of nature or embark on the discovery of rune secrets: Orplid aspires to much more, namely to float and dematerialize in the vapors and effluents of the vast and infinite spirit of Man.

 And here I reconnect to the initial discourse, as an undertaking like this is, in my opinion, to be read as the most typical ambition of a culture that tends towards the Absolute like the German one.

And at this point the discussion becomes complicated, and the risk of lapsing into clichés becomes serious. But let's think for a moment, without great analytical ambitions, about the qualities that the character of an "average German" evokes in us: we will think of a rigid, cold, methodical person, with a schematic, categorical, rigorous, pragmatic mentality, but at the same time a fiery, passionate, universalizing spirit, in perpetual tension.

Well, all these characteristics (for better or worse) can be found in Orplid's music, and rest assured that in this "Nächtliche Jünger" you will not struggle to recognize that mix of moods and feelings that have always permeated German literature, thought, and art, from Goethe, to Hegel, Marx, Nietzsche, Hesse, Herzog, and Wagner (just to stay in the clichés).

And even if I confess to having never fully digested the choice by many German bands to adopt their mother tongue (which, personally speaking, I find harsh, edgy, and in some respects unaesthetic), in the case of Orplid, I realize it could not be otherwise.

 Uwe Nolte and Frank Machau, upon reaching their second album, thus package their masterpiece, demonstrating that miracles still happen (it's 2002), even within a stifled genre like apocalyptic folk.

But what do Orplid have more than the others?

First of all, they know how to play: the acoustic guitar, always inspired, evokes the elegant and crystalline touch of the divine Michael Cashmore of Current 93. The keyboards, always present, accompany the evolutions of the guitar, sometimes merely highlighting the most significant passages, sometimes mimicking entire orchestras, crafting advances so powerful, clear, and well-arranged that make one doubt whether Our Friends have actually used an ensemble of flesh-and-blood musicians.

The professionalism and meticulousness with which everything is crafted only serve to enhance the exquisite contents: 14 mo(nu)ments that form a compact, coherent, rigorous framework, but at the same time composite, rich in well-placed insights and solutions, so that the tension that animates the entire work, like the listener's curiosity, never fades.

This is thanks to intelligent use of electric guitars, which, without contaminating the acoustic mood of the work, go on to color the graceful folkloristic excursions with new hues.

This is thanks to the providential incursions of a sweet female voice, which will delight us (in the true sense of the word) on multiple occasions, sometimes breaking the tension generated by the leaden male song.

This, finally, thanks to the measured use of percussion and samples, which, far from masking any technical shortcomings (which do not exist!), decorate, sometimes soil, a folk that does not entirely disown its industrial origins.

And never mind if the emphasis of the booming voice, at times irresistible, at times (alas) grotesque and over-the-top, may seem excessive: it could not be otherwise.

 A brief acoustic introduction is the worthy prelude to the journey: in it, the cold, epic nature, the tragic and fateful impetus of Orplid's music is felt.

"Erzengel Michael", a powerful opening track, is a folk piece which from the very first notes can capture us and take us far away: the sly arpeggios and the childish tinkles of a xylophone bring to mind the more sentimental Death in June, and even the voice, a firm and unflappable tenor, initially reminds us of Douglas P..
But the evocative chorus, the inspired and tormented song that trembles and quivers from an intimate, uncontrollable impulse, are eloquent signs that we are not witnessing yet another clone entity of Death in June: Orplid's folk is a romantic, fierce, and passionate folk as rarely heard, and this we will have tangible evidence halfway through the song, when the winds and orchestrations explode in a crescendo that will seize your heart violently and tear you away from this world, weeping, among the clouds and the winds and the reckless and solemn flight of the Valkyries. Epochal, universal, eternal: these are the terms to describe visions of truly rare intensity, where the guitars convey the passage of entire eras with passion, where the orchestrations, the rustle of cymbals, the rumbling of percussion destroy the meanness and ugliness of this world, where the harsh and icy thunder of the voice scolds us from on high, beyond the clouds and the winds and the lightning of the sky.
 The orchestras collapse, the voice fades into a distorted cry that seems to fall from the stars, the soliloquy of the xylophone echoes in the void. Silence.

The clear waters of a gentle stream gurgle: it is the sweetness of an "Auf unbekanntem Pfade", a reflective interlude that transports us to untouched and pure lands, a moment of poignant nostalgia (listen to the moving give-and-take between song and counter-songs), a necessary pause to catch our breath after the earth-shaking opening track.

A distorted arpeggio breaks in, the tension rises again with "Später Tag", tainted by the savagery of an electric guitar, which blends well with the acoustic one, nonetheless recalling another "Northern champion": the unforgettable Quorthon of Bathory.

The poetry of the guitars, the solos raining furiously from the sky, then the electricity fades: swaying suspended, we are gently placed on the ground. The title track is a piece for percussion, voice, and organ parts: a solemn and tormented hymn coursed through by a subtle undercurrent of tension, a quivering destined to surface as intense apocalyptic symphonies, where a soprano's voice rises and rises until it dissolves, then collapses back into the nothing from which it came.

"Winternacht", opened with melancholy by an arpeggio that seems stolen from the most inspired Current 93, is a ballad of Morricone-like intensity: seductive strings caress the gentle movements of the guitar, which describes fantastic landscapes, autumnal views over wild and beautiful worlds, while the orchestrations press epic, only to calm and fade gently in the wind's whistle.

A continuous rise and fall, this "Nächtliche Jünger", where tension is often felt without necessarily exploding, like a jolt, a latent energy that surfaces within us, invades us for an instant, irrepressible, only to return to flow into the most hidden recesses of our Being.

 From the silence emerges an arpeggio, the pause of a moment, then the solemn chimes of a piano and the haunting voice of Nadine Spindler reciting the verses of the sublime "Das Mädchen aus der Fremde" by Friedrich Schiller. A passage that undoubtedly stands among the most exciting moments of the work, thanks in part to Spindler's beautiful voice, thoroughly Teutonic, sweeter and more inspired than ever.

We spoke of intelligent use of the electric guitar, so how not to mention the remnants of feedback that tear through "Im Schatten der Queste", or the intense finale of "Stille", where acoustic and electric textures intertwine in goosebump-inducing melodies, amid the oblique collapse of strings and the panting of a restless piano.

"Söhne der Ares" cuts the cord of tension by bursting in boisterously with the brash cadence and bravado of a ballad worthy of a western film (an impression confirmed by the voice, which dares to approximate the epic "baritone" of certain American folk-singers). But if it must be a western film, then it's undoubtedly a western set, not in dusty deserts, but among the ruins and desolation of a Berlin devastated by bombings.

The refined "Abendstern" is the intense continuation of the journey: a visionary folk enriched by pristine electric guitar arpeggios that bring Orplid's music back to the melancholic and intimate mood of a poignant songwriter.

"Maria", another masterpiece of the work, returns to ride the epic moods with which the album opened: in my opinion, the closure entrusted to a delicate piano is thrilling, its notes going to accompany distant female trills, lost among the innocent chirping of little birds.

 In the final glimpse of the work finds space, finally, the more properly apocalyptic soul of Orplid, which brings us back to the atmospheres of the eponymous debut.

"Auferstehung" is a dark instrumental interlude where mighty strings press majestically, rising, among morbid sighs and end-of-the-world choirs, like decrepit monuments devoured by time and the tempests of ice and fire.

"Inneres Heer" concludes our emotional exploration with the martial arrogance of percussion and the tears of electronics that go to soil the restlessness of a menacing, tense ballad, infested with dark and sticky voices like tar.

 As the Great Poet affirms, who comes to our aid precisely when we find no words to describe our feelings, "that the life of man is only a dream has already been affirmed by many, and this feeling incessantly arises in me as well. When I consider the limits within which man's active and speculative powers are confined, when I see that all activity aims at the sole purpose of satisfying needs, which in turn, serve only to prolong a miserable existence, and then understand that tranquility on certain points of our speculations is nothing but fantastical resignation, because we only paint colorful figures and luminous panoramas on the walls within which we are imprisoned, all this makes me mute. I return within myself and find a universe! But formed more of forebodings and dark desires than of images and living forces. Then everything becomes confused before my senses, and I smile and continue to dream in the world."