‘canto oscuro’ by araukaaria

Araukaaria on stage. Photo by Kerttu Kruusla.

ONE THING that has always impressed me about resident Viljandi Argentine musician José Manuel Prieto Garay, better known as Pepi, is his sincerity. It can be disarming at first, it can even make you a little suspicious, put you on guard. For how could a modern person be so sincere? At what point does such sincerity become an act? But his façade of sincerity is so durable and resilient that no matter what you throw at it, it just won’t stick. There’s no winking at the camera here, no hidden double meanings, no metamodernism. Everything is what it is.

This is sort of how I approach the new song by his group Araukaaria, too. “Canto Oscuro” is disarmingly sincere. It has a cinematic quality to it — it would make a good backing track to a montage about a religious pilgrimage. Considering the story behind it — the loss of Pepi’s father, a trip to Palestine — that’s not far off the mark. Pepi recounts a roadtrip between Chile and Argentina before his father passed away years ago in telling the story. His father was very ill at that time, and could barely make the trip. This song, “Canto Oscuro” (Dark Chant) is kind of like the soundtrack to that trip composed after the fact. It passes along like a mountain road at night.

Shadowy, lofty, winding, introspective.

“I think it was clear from the beginning of the song that it was some kind of lament or requiem,” says Pepi of the song. “I wanted to visualise the journey I lived with the music and lyrics.”

Supposedly it takes about 16 hours to drive from Santiago to Buenos Aires. “Canto Oscuro” is only about six minutes long, but it feels like it could be 16 hours long. There’s enough packed in, a flute motif by Rauno Vaher at its opening, atmospheric guitar playing by Viljandi virtuoso Norbert de Varenne, backing vocals by his sister María Julia Prieto Garay and keyboardist Lisanna Kuningas, and solid contributions by Fedor Bezrukov on bass and Johannes Eriste on drums, the rhythm section of an earlier incarnation of Araukaaria. Araukaaria is one of those bands like Nine Inch Nails, that revolve around a principal songwriter and musician, but that have a revolving cast of characters, some of whom return after various scrapes and adventures (Rauno Vaher was the original drummer, and the last time I saw them, he was back on drums).

“I like to work with different people and in particular here in Estonia most of the musicians are involved in three or four projects which makes it hard to schedule and coordinate,” says Pepi. “As the project is quite a live band project, having different people always brings a new flavor.”

One of these players is Lee Taul, also of Don’t Chase the Lizard, Black Bread Gone Mad, and the Songs and Stories from Ruhnu Island project, who provides epic sweep with her violin. And another is — surprise, surprise — Tomás del Real, another Viljandi Latin American musician, this time from Chile, who helps out on something called the charango, a “small Andean stringed instrument of the lute family,” as Wikipedia informs me. He hadn’t played it in years, he says. But here it is, filling out “Canto Oscuro,” fusing Estonian and Latin elements.

“One day I was working on some other stuff and Pepi rang me up and asked, ‘Do you have time today to help me with something? I need you to record a charango in two hours,” recalls del Real. “I hadn’t played in a while but I went over there and we locked in the studio for a little bit and I made what I could,” he says. “I knew that the song was important to him and that Chile in a way plays a part, this connection between his life here and there, so I guess I was one of the pieces he needed for that track.”

As a person who also lives a life bridging continents, I know that sentiment well. At times, in the air between Europe and the Americas, I have often thought of myself as pulling thread with a needle, trying to sew two lives, one here, one there, together. It’s this sense of disorientation, of displacement that lurks in the obscured background of “Canto Oscuro.”

It is felt, even if not expressed.

“Pepi has an ability to put images in music that the listener can understand without even understanding the lyrics,” says Kuningas. “A lot of his lyrics are very visual, and he is able to put these pictures in your mind.”

Most of the song was recorded in one live take, though a few elements — the backing vocals, the charango, classical guitar — were added later. Martin Mänd of Kopi Luwak recorded “Canto Oscuro.” It was mixed and mastered by Mattias Pärt. Animation to accompany the video was created by Pepi’s sister Camila. Pepi decided to release it on February 12, his father’s birthday. “This song is connected directly to my life, my story,” he says. “It’s a snapshot of that period of my life and has helped me to heal and to let go of a very big emotional burden.”

the narva greenland summit

I WAS DISPATCHED to cover the Greenland Summit, which would take place in Narva, Estonia, of all places. Delegates from the Kingdom of Denmark, the autonomous territory of Kalaallit Nunaat, the Republic of Estonia, and the United States of America were to descend on the old castle of Narva to feel each other out. At the last moment, it was announced that Vice President Vance would also be joining the Narva Greenland Summit. I drove up there through the pines of Ida-Virumaa and parked my car at the foot of the ancient fortifications.

But it was here that I encountered Els Stenbock, the poetess and repeat winner of the annual Lydia Koidula Prize, as well as the recipient of much Estonian Cultural Capital largess. She was sprawled out on a knit blanket in the snow by the castle, eating an apple and reading a book, clad in a light blue summer’s dress. “Oh,” she said, cocking an eye at me. Her amber hair was braided and her fair skin shined like the snow. The cold wind lifted her dress. How she wasn’t cold when yr.no, the Norwegian meteorological website, had predicted temperatures of -15 degrees Celsius was hard to understand, but she looked as lustrous as a patch of summer sunflowers. “Come here,” Els Stenbock said. “Let’s read some of Koidula’s poetry together.”

Soon we were kissing, long, sumptuous, lingering kisses. I had forgotten all about Lars Løkke Rasmussen, Marco Rubio, and JD Vance. But Els Stenbock was not satisfied with me. “Next time we meet in Narva, you should really wear some clean socks,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I would wind up kissing the best poetess in Estonia today.” “Mmm,” she said. “But your socks should always be clean, just in case you do.” Didn’t she have a husband? Or at least a domestic partner? But these Estonian women, they knew no loyalties. They were only loyal to their present whims, how they felt at that moment. She felt like this. “Kiss me more,” Els whispered. Her light blue eyes attained a kind of supernatural effect. “More, more, more.”

Supposedly there was also a farmer’s market taking place in Narva, to coincide with the Narva Greenland Summit. But I could not find it. I walked along the river later and turned up a road, but when I got there, I only found dilapidated farmhouses and it was getting dark already. This area by the river scared me, not because of the risk of being kidnapped by marauding Russians, but because it supposedly was stalked by a werewolf of some kind, which had devoured several pedestrians. Up the hill, I saw some lights by the old Lutheran church, and headed up that way, expecting to find the market. Maybe they were also selling Narva Greenland Summit merch? But when I got to the church, it was empty and there was no one there at all. There I stood, watching the flakes tumble down. Slowly, slowly the snowflakes fell into winter bleakness.

At the foot of Narva Castle, Els Stenbock was still waiting patiently on her blanket. She had a little picnic basket with her. Some Russians or Ukrainians were milling around nearby, and so I went over to them and asked about the Narva Greenland Summit farmer’s market. To my surprise, they responded in Estonian, but said it was being held in an adjacent town. Maybe Narva-Jõesuu. I returned to the poetess and lied beside her. “Is it true that you got all of last year’s cultural capital budget?” I asked. “To publish 10 volumes of poetry?” Els looked up at me with her hungry blue werewolf eyes and said, “Shut up and kiss me, lollpea. More, more, more.”

a seat at the table

I HAD A SEAT at the table, but what a table! It was a long, wooden table with smooth surfaces that were almost soft to the touch, unvarnished, the kind of table you might see as the centerpiece in a spread in the Country Living magazine. It was also unusually tall, standing two or three storeys high, at the least. The legs of our chairs also reached down the height of the table, so that if I looked to my side, I could see tiny pedestrians going about their affairs, women walking dogs, boys on bikes, delivery cars arriving. Was that Manhattan down there?

At this table in the sky, there was a kind of supernatural service. A server set down a drink in front of Kerouac. He examined its contents, taking a moment to admire the way the light split and dissolved into it and then breathing in its sumptuous and potent vapors, as if it was a medicinal or even spiritual elixir. Kerouac was wearing a blue suit, which seemed unusual for him, and he had a few white hairs climbing up his sideburns. His brown greasy hair was combed up at the top, and he looked a bit worn, a bit frayed. Kerouac beheld his chosen spirit again and then in an instant, drank the first third of it from the glass. “Ah,” he said. “Ah ah ah.”

To his left sat Riken, the lanky Japanese mountaineer, in full hiking gear. He held some papers in his hand, A7 layout, with neat rows of black printed text, Times New Roman. The title at the top of one of these pages read, “The Adventure of the Snake.” He said, “I’m not sure what I think of it. I’d give it maybe a 3 out of 10. Or maybe a 3.5 on a good day. Three point three? Somewhere in the low threes.” He sighed. “I’ll tell you what I think of it,” Kerouac grumbled. “I think it’s total crap.” “But I was inspired by you, Jack,” I protested. “I’m trying to emulate you.” Kerouac drank down the second third of the drink with a gulp. “Well, kid,” he said. “You could do a better job. You’re not really devoted to your writing. Allen,” he addressed a third man, who was lying across the table on his back, staring up at the sunlight. “What do you think? Allen?”

“What?” Ginsberg turned over on his side, and it was young Ginsberg, with the hair and the oversized glasses that made his eyes look two sizes larger than they really were. “I’m sorry, I was just talking to William Blake,” he said. “Allen, what did you think of his stories?” Kerouac said. “Oh, I loved them, they were fantastic!” “Thank you,” I told Ginsberg. “Actually, I think I was more inspired by you when I was writing them. Surely you can see echoes of Howl in my writing. ‘I saw the best minds of my generation, destroyed by madness.'” “Starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,” Ginsberg went on. “See, Jack, the kid was inspired by me and not by you, by me, not you!” “Your messianic robes don’t suit me,” he said. “What do you say, tomodachi?” Kerouac asked of Riken. His arms were crossed now in deliberation. His craggy, weather-beaten face bore a pensive expression. “I still say 3.3,” he said. Kerouac turned back to me. “See,” he said with a grin and a shrug. “See! Listen to the man.” Then he lifted his glass and drank the final third.

i’m not afraid of fires

THEY TROOPED IN from a party and one of them was just perfect, fuzzy-haired and round, just like a fire spark. I still don’t know her name or who she was, and maybe there’s no reason to. She was probably a nobody with a nothing story. But maybe that was just me trying to write her out of my mind. Maybe she was the most vivid fire starter of all. I’m not afraid to get burned anymore, you know. I’ve got those sous-chef hands. I’m not afraid of fires. I like mine hot. I want my fires hot just like her, plump and flickering, orange, red, yellow and warm, rimmed with gold, and blue at the core, with eyes the same color that wink back to you just like a blueburst flame. Every oscillation is another step out of cold dark winter’s heartache.