Hala Strana
Heave the Gambrel Roof
Music Fellowship, 2007
By Allana Mayer
The biggest fault of Bacchanalian revelries is not that they induce wildness or giving in to temptation — it’s the end of the party, when people fall apart, break down, vomit, pass out, make a mess; and the morning after, when everyone scrapes their dignity off the floor with their soiled underwear and bids their hosts a sheepish farewell. Ecstasy could be more than we mere mortals can handle. Hala Strana’s Steven R. Smith makes sure to draw his songs to a satisfying conclusion, a return to order, before the freedom develops into chaos. The only fault with this is that you’re left wondering how much higher, faster, further, wilder it could have gotten, not interrupted as it is by common sense and good old human fear.
Hala Strana’s self-titled 2003 album was a joyous gypsy hypnotism through song, snatching your gold purse and stealing off through the trees. Heave The Gambrel Roof is darker, more about conjuring up demons than making maidens dance. Some tracks seem recorded in a dusty barn, others in a dripping cellar underground. These sounds create a context without dictating a story — the entire album is more atmospheric than narrative. The picture painted is a rustic, grimy one, somehow ancient and knowing, rather than uncivilized.
Four of the tracks are reworkings of traditional songs from Albania, and the rest are original, but it’s hard to tell where the separation lies. Listening alone makes one conclude that the album must be improvised. It’s impossible otherwise, the way the music forms out of nothing, settles on simple riffs, then progresses again and grows. You can practically feel the fingers finding comfortable positions on the frets, then yearning for a change and getting more daring and adventurous.
Tracks that stand out from this form include “Marl,” which builds to a higher pitch, a fiercer rhythm, and shorter, faster notes before suddenly converging into even 8th notes and fading out. Also notable is “Rat Lines,” which is a particularly slow and moody solo, a mess of reverberated squeaks and long low notes you feel in your belly, with the wheels of a steam-powered train chugging in the background.
The Romanian flavour is tinged with other influences: slightly Medieval, maybe Oriental or Cajun, vaguely extraterrestrial. Definitely not quaint, though Hala Strana’s definition of “Bacchanalian” is a contemporary noise band’s definition of a warm-up. Sometimes it’s simply safer to err on the side of caution.
(I also feel compelled to mention the limited edition packaging of the vinyl release, which has a hand-carved wooden cover, screen-printed and wrapped in felt. Spiffy.)
